Season 1 Episode 10: Umi Da

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, nee protector and 600 million yen man.

You wake in a clean, white room under clean, white sheets. The recirculated hospital air smells faintly of lemons and bleach.

Your vision crossing and uncrossing, doubling and undoubling, you squint underneath the bright fluorescent bulbs and look across the room. Ms. Carte sits at a small table, eating a papaya. She uses a paring knife to cut chunks from the fruit's succulent flesh and pop them into her waiting mouth.

When she notices you looking at her, she puts the knife and papaya down on the tabletop, swallows, and smiles warmly.

"The dead has arisen," she says.

"That isn't funny," you grouse.

Ms. Carte laughs and wiggles all ten of her fingers in front of her as if trying to tickle the air. Dropping her voice an octave, she says, "It liiiives! Arise, my minion! Arise!"

You sit up in the hospital bed, propping some pillows by your coccyx.

"Yesss!" Ms. Carte bellows. "Yesss!"

You toss a spare pillow at her, growling your frustration. She bats it away, laughing.

Composing herself, Ms. Carte stands and strides over to your bed. She sits on the edge. She runs a warm palm across your damp forehead.

"I missed you," she says.

You kiss her deeply, savoring the sugary residue of papaya in her mouth before pulling back. "How long was I... you know..."

"Two days," she says.

You look down at your hand, flexing and unflexing it into a fist. "I feel..."

"It takes getting used to. You feel like you're bigger than you really are, right?"

"Yeah. And-- and tingly, especially in my arms, like I'm hanging on the edge of a cliff."

"That's normal. It passes." She strokes your forehead again, pulling your mussed up hair from your eyes. "You're my best work yet," she says. "But you have a lot of people to thank for that. Not just me."

"I know," you say.

A brief silence settles over the room. You take the moment to readjust yourself to your own body. You feel alien to yourself, altered. You're crawling in your skin. You're afraid to ask her the full extent of the changes.

"I don't get it," you finally say. "I don't feel the sum of human knowledge pulsing through my brain. You could make Vivian the world's biggest genius but not me?"

"What are you talking about?" Ms. Carte asks. "I never tinkered with either of your brains. There was no reason to."

"Wait. So you're saying Vivian--"

"Vivian's just an incredibly smart little girl. She always has been. She was visiting UC Berkeley to speak to an admissions rep when the accident happened. And as for you -- your brain came out of the fall bruised, but intact. You're incredibly lucky."

"Am I-- still human?"

Ms. Carte leans in close, frowning.

"What kind of question is that?"

"Please just answer me. I can't take this."

"Don't go all Vivian on me now."

"It's just--" you start.

"Listen here, you little buttmonkey. I fixed you. I made you better. And that's it." She raps you lightly on the forehead. "You're a real human being. So is Vivian. If anyone tells you otherwise, punch them in the fucking face."

You close your eyes and swallow hard.

After a moment, you ask, "where are we?"

"Belau hospital, Koror. Nation of Palau." Ms. Carte smiles and folds her arms.

So you really made it.

"Where are the others?"

"They went on ahead to Gustav's. It took a lot of convincing. They wanted to stay around for the big moment."

"When can we go?"

"If you feel up to it, we can go now. But--" she points across your bed, to the space between your bed and the window. "There was one person who refused to leave. We might want to bring her along, too..."

You turn, glancing over the edge of the mattress. Splayed out and sweating on top of a sleeping bag, half naked, you see--

[X] Cerise

[ ] Mom

[ ] Rose

[ ] Vivian

[ ] Whitney

You reach down to brush the hair from her face, but it's tamped down by humidity and sweat.

She snores, her mouth hanging slightly open. You let your fingertips roam the delicate contours of her face, until suddenly she jolts awake.

Sitting up, she looks left and right, dazed. Her tee lies crumpled beside her on the ground. All she wears is her white cotton bra and white cotton panties.

"Whozzat?" she slurs.

"Good morning," you say.

Cerise glances up. Her face goes through several permutations: surprise, elation, then false apathy. She averts her eyes, trying to seem aloof.

"So you finally woke up..." she says. "Took you long enough."

"I know you like to bitch at me, but bitching at me for being dead is a new low."

"Maybe you shouldn't have died!" She springs to her feet. "Did you ever think of that?"

"I promise not to die again," you tell her. "At least for the foreseeable future." You hold a hand to your heart and your other one flat in the air as if swearing an oath. "God as my witness," you say.

Cerise surprises you by hugging you tightly. Her sweat-pearled skin sticks to your hospital gown as if you've been glued together. "Never do that to me again," she says.

When you're ready, Cerise and Ms. Carte help you out of bed. Your gown is split up the back and you become acutely aware that you're naked underneath.

But -- it's nothing they haven't seen before.

You ditch the gown and change back into your street clothes in front of them.

"My, my," Ms. Carte says. "Aren't you forward."

As you change, you take a second to check your body. You detect no obvious cosmetic differences, except for a patch of discolored skin where Dalton impaled you. When Ms. Carte sees you examining Alabaster Jr., she steps forward and cups you lightly in one hand.

"He still works, too," she whispers. "I can show you when we get back, if you're skeptical."

"Eugh," Cerise says. "Gag me."

You finish getting dressed and step into the hallway with them.

Sitting in a chair outside the hospital room is Mom.

"Mrs. Soliloquy...?" Ms. Carte says. "I thought you went back with the others--"

Mom ignores her, jumping to her feet and latching onto you like a woman possessed. She showers you with kisses on your cheek and forehead. You feel yourself pushed back against the nearby wall as her luscious body presses against you insistently.

"Geff offffa meee-" you groan, your voice muffled under her lips.

"You idiot! You stupid, horrible, awful idiot!" she cries. "You're the worst son in history!" Her hands hold you around the back as she pecks you over and over. You sense passersby watching.

"You know, I'm pretty sure Palau has laws against incest..." Cerise grumbles.

"I don't care!" Mom says.

Finally, you get wedge your arms between your bodies and push her away. "Nice to see you, too..." you say, grimacing. "But let's save it for when we get back. I'm sure everyone else is waiting, too."

Together, the four of you head out.

Ms. Carte's contact in Palau lives on an island in an archipelago. The archipelago is tucked into the island's interior, to the southeast.

You pile into a beat-up pickup truck in the parking lot of the hospital. Ms. Carte drives.

Space is limited, and Cerise selfishly calls shotgun, so you have to sit in the cramped cab with Mom on your lap. The roads are well-paved and well-maintained but the terrain is natrually bumpy, and she bounces up and down on your lap as the vehicle rumbles onward.

Ms. Carte drives past a long suspension bridge on the way. Cerise points it out, informing you that it's the Japan-Palau Friendship Bridge. "We moved to a country of weebs," she says. "Joy."

The truck hits a small tree branch and the cab heaves upward. Mom's body bounces wildly, her breasts jiggling obscenely.

You get the sense that if she really didn't want to, she wouldn't be jostling around nearly as much.

Still, with her body pressed against yours -- and given how long it's been since you had any form of release -- it's hard not to react.

"Hmm-- this truck rides a little rough doesn't it?~" she says. She looks over her shoulder at you, smiling.

All the while her plump ass -- covered only by a pair of stretched denim jeans -- grinds tantalizingly against you.

[X] Hey, are you doing that on purpose?

[ ] Ignore it.

Cerise stares disinterestedly out her window, watching the emerald palms and low-growing bushes whizz past. Ms. Carte keeps her eyes firmly on the road. Neither seem to be paying attention to the stealth lapdance Mom is giving you in the back.

You put your chin on her shoulder. Short of breath, you pant: "are you doing that on purpose?"

"Hmm? I have no idea what you're talking about..." she murmurs. She pushes her ass against your crotch with extra oomph as if to underline this obvious lie.

"You're trying to tease me," you breath into her ear.

This makes her lips curl into a sly smile. "You perverted boy."

"It's hardly perverted if you're the one doing it to ME--"

She snakes her hand down and molests you through the crotch of your pants, still rubbing her body unashamedly against you like she's in heat.

"Your perverted body makes me do it," she says. "I can't help myself."

You say a silent prayer of thanks for the loud hum of the truck's A/C, preventing this lascivious conversation from reaching the ears of Ms. Carte and Cerise.

Her hands grope and feel you up, making your muscles tense in need and anticipation. Ms. Carte wasn't lying: you're fully functional and anatomically correct. Your rock-hard dick strains against the confines of your jeans and begs to be released.

"Scootch forward a bit," you command.

"Mm?~ Like this?~"

Glancing to the front of the truck to make sure neither of the others are looking, you unzip your pants and unleash your oozing cock.

Mom settles back against you, trapping your shaft between her butt and your stomach. You stifle a satisfied sigh. Your erection pulses and throbs, pleasure coursing through it as she lets her weight settle against it.

"What is that, I wonder?" she says, playing coy. "It's warm..."

"Why aren't you moving like before?" you whine.

"Well-- you didn't seem to like it..."

You grab onto her pliant, fleshy shoulders and push her down, then release her. In this way, you force her to grind against your horny cock, controlling her humping motions.

"I knew you were a pervert," she says. Her voice has an obscene huskiness to it, laced with incestuous lust. "Using your own mother to masturbate... you're unbelievable.~" She brushes your hands off her shoulders and takes control. She humps herself against you in a long, slow, semicircular rhythm that drives you wild. It takes all of your willpower not to push her off you, tug her pants down, and fuck her brains out.

"You can use me to cum," she says. "Cum as much as you want on Mama."

That does it. You grab a handful of her hair and wrench her face around to kiss her, not caring who sees. Ms. Carte and Cerise look up, watching in the rearview as you give her a delicious, wet, sloppy French kiss and blow creamy ropes of cum all across her plush ass.

Ms. Carte's friend meets you by the docks. His speedboat is ready and waiting to ferry you across to his private island.

"Gustav!" Ms. Carte cries, throwing her arms open and embracing the squat, balding man.

His dome glints redly under the tropical sun and his push-broom mustache wiggles like a dead caterpillar caught in a breeze. He kisses Ms. Carte on either cheek. Ms. Carte returns the gesture, pecking him twice with wet 'mwah' noises.

You would feel a twinge of jealousy if he weren't so old and hideous. But he's no competitor.

"Zis must be the boy you vere telling me about," Gustav says, indicating you. His voice has a nasal curtness to it.

"Yes. This is Alabaster. I'm afraid I've gotten him and his loved ones into quite a bit of trouble..."

Gustav elbows Ms. Carte in the ribs, grinning at her. "You told me he vas young, but you didn't say ZIS young. Since when vere you a robber of cradles?"

Ms. Carte's cheeks take on a pinkish cast. "Gustav, you're terrible!" she laughs nervously.

"And zis is... Frau Soliloquy? And the lovely daughter?" He kisses their palms in turn. Mom fidgets uncomfortably, fully cognizant of the cum plastered across her ass.

"Come!" Gustav says.

"Wh-what?" Mom stammers. "T-that's not--"

"Come! Let us go to the place where you vill be staying. I have prepared rooms for you all."

Inside Gustav's spacious and tasteful living room, the rest of the girls are waiting for you, all decked out in swimwear. You'd ask where they got these clothes from, but they're too busy smothering you in an orgy of hugs for you to get a word in edgewise. Whitney wraps her arms around your neck -- Rose around your midsection -- and Vivian, sitting on her knees, nuzzles your thighs.

The only one in the room who doesn't leap up to swaddle you is your father, who's busy reading a copy of Palau's national paper, the Island Times.

Mom hurries off and quickly changes her clothes. She returns in a rather revealing bikini of her own while you're still in the midst of being cuddled half to death.

Through the pile of flesh surrounding you, you see Mom whip her hair back into a ponytail, tying it off with an elastic band. She shakes Gustav's hand.

"Thank you so much for having us," she says. "Please, allow me to cook for you and the others."

"Vell, I vould not be averse--"

"Wait," you say, extricating yourself from the group hug. Whitney and Vivian pout, Rose watches on with her lips pursed in catlike interest.

You clear your throat. "There's something I want to say."

You didn't plan your words beforehand and now with 12 expectant eyes set on you, you feel somewhat abashed.

You decide to keep it short and to the point.

"I'm an asshole," you tell them.

"We gathered that, dear," Mom says.

"Yeah, you're not exactly shocking us here," Whitney says.

You notice that Whitney has a thick gauze bandage wrapped around her leg and that she's standing awkwardly, keeping her weight off of it. Rose's onepiece has a bulge in the tummy that you suspect is another, similar bandage.

You swallow hard and continue.

"I love all six of you," you say. "So... just keep that in mind."

"I love you, too!" Whitney chirps. "Always have, always will!"

"My feelings are much the same," Vivian murmurs, blushing and looking away.

"You're not half-bad for a lowly dog..." Rose says. She trails off, rubbing her elbow.

"You're an awful brat and I love you with all my heart," Mom says with a grin.

"Even though you're a pain in my ass, I guess you're not so bad. I mean, I don't HATE you," Cerise says. She looks you in the eye and pecks you on the cheek. "But-- don't make promises you can't keep. Once an asshole, always an asshole."

"I never said I'd stop," you say. "But as long as you're a bitch, I think we're even." You kiss her back.

Dinner that night goes a lot more smoothly than the first time you all ate together. Gustav is a wine aficionado, apparently, and he keeps the Cabernet Sauvignon flowing like water.

"If zere's one zing you filthy French get right," he says, "it is vino. God bless you frogs."

The alcohol keeps all of you feeling pleasantly warm in the balmy night air.

Over a leathery, overcooked slab of steak, you point your fork in Rose's direction and ask, "so are you staying here, too?"

Rose shrugs. "I guess so. Darkbloom probably wants me dead, too."

"What about your parents?" you ask.

"I guess I should call them at some point, huh..."

"Are we gonna live here forever?" Whitney asks.

No one seems to have a proper answer for this. You glance at Ms. Carte, but her eyes are fixed firmly on the newspaper in Dad's hands. She seems to want to get ahold of it.

"You are all velcome here as long as you like," Gustav says. "Make yourselfs at home. The data I can pull from you and Vivian is vell vorth the trouble."

"Gustav, I told you these two aren't your guinea pigs," Ms. Carte says, annoyed.

"It's all right," Vivian says. "If it helps in any way against my father, he can study me."

[X] He can study me too.

[ ] Vivian, we don't have to worry about that stuff anymore.

Vivian gives you a wan smile. Just the barest hint of her thin lips turning upward is enough to melt your heart.

"Wunderbar!" Gustav says, pounding the table with a palm. "Vonderful, vonderful. Tonight ve can begin vith just some vitals and such. Simple. Zen you can go to bed and rest."

Following dinner, you accompany him, along with Vivian and Ms. Carte, down an elevator and into an underground lab that reminds you eerily of the facility at the Darkbloom mansion.

Gustav explains that he used to work there with Ms. Carte and that he based the design of this lab off of it.

"A little too closely..." you grumble.

Gustav puts up a silk privacy screen and has you take off your shirt. He holds a cold metal stethoscope to your chest and listens to your breathing. On the other side of the screen, you see the shadowed form of Ms. Carte doing the same to Vivian.

Images of Ms. Carte playing nurse with Vivian's flat, bare-chested body play through your mind as Gustav does other rudimentary checks -- blood pressure, reflexes, and so on. He hooks you up to a few biometric scanners, the purpose and design of which totally escape your understanding.

"Ahn~" Vivian sighs on the other side of the screen. "Please, not so roughly..."

"Shh..."

"Ahhhh---~~~"

You can't tell what's happening over there, but that just makes you imagination fly into overdrive.

"You are as healthy as a horse," Gustav says finally. His breath smells of medicated cough drops -- perfectly vile. "And as strong as one too, I zink."

He roots through a cabinet and hands you a solid steel I-beam. It's about a foot in length. "Bend zis in half," he tells you.

Skeptical, you grip either end and push.

The I-beam buckles and folds in on itself like a piece of flimsy cardboard. You gawk at it.

"Renee did a number on you," he says. "Your older sister, also."

"Cerise...?" you say, looking up. This shocks you more than your newfound strength. "What does she have to do with this?"

"On-ze-fly modifications to the Viv-tan's integrated circuit system -- in the middle of a turbulent helicopter ride, no less -- truly quite remarkable, I have never seen anyzing like it. Do make sure to show your sister some gratitude, young man."

He tosses you your T-shirt and you hastily pull it back on.

You think about those words for a long time as you and the others head back up to the ground level and you saunter off to bed.

Your room is cozy and plushly carpeted, just like any decent bedroom back in the states would be. But the house's central air conditioning can't do much against the oppressive tropical atmosphere. You lie naked on top of your covers, tossing and turning, and sweating. The buzz of insects outside doesn't do much to lull you, either.

In the darkness, you hear your door click open and see a shadowy form slink inside.

"Are you awake?" comes Ms. Carte's voice.

"Yeah," you mumble.

She comes over and lies in your bed with you, uninvited. Not that you mind. She runs a hand idly up and down your bare chest.

"You're all sticky," she says. "You didn't start without me, I hope."

"It's the humidity..." you say.

Ms. Carte leans forward and in the moonlight, you see her dart out her tongue. You hiss in surprise as she runs it across your nipple, the wet surface as smooth as the inside of her pussy. She teases your nipple to hardness, savoring the thin coating of sweat on your heaving chest. You hold the crown of her head in your hands, enjoying the strange new pleasure.

Finally, wordlessly, Ms. Carte takes your hand in hers and guides it to her crotch. You realize that she isn't wearing anything below her blouse. Your fingers brush against the damp landing-strip of neatly-trimmed hair above her cunt. You sweep your fingers back and forth, tickling her, and eliciting low giggles. She moves your hand lower still, and your fingertips come into contact with the soft, warm, inviting wetness of her labia.

"Fuck me," she whispers directly in your ear as you finger her sloppy pussy. Your scalp tingles from the warmth of her breath against your eardrum.

You roll over, straddling her. You kiss her, mashing your lips to hers, merging your mouths into one. But just as you seat your cock inside of her and she gasps in sudden pleasure, your door opens again -- and Whitney enters the room.

"Tch-- geez, Ally!"

You groan, fucking yourself in and out of Ms. Carte's lewdly squelching cunt. Even being caught like this, you can't stop. You grip Ms. Carte's ass and spread her cheeks as she buries her face against your neck and bites her thumb.

"H-hi," you stammer. "Want to join in?"

"Of course I do, you stupid jerk! You should have invited me before starting!"

She climbs onto the bed, waddling across the mattress on her knees, to peer lovingly at the spot where your genitals are mated wetly with Ms. Carte's. She runs a palm up and down Ms. Carte's madly humping ass -- and then, without warning, she gives Ms. Carte a sharp spank.

"Ghh--!!" Ms. Carte chokes, but her pace quickens against you. Her roiling pussy clamps down around you and sucks your pulsing cock almost to her cervix. You turn your head to the side and suck one of her nipples into your mouth, nipping at the tender, delicate pink nubbin with your teeth.

"Nnngh--" Ms. Carte chokes, again. She's being overwhelmed, her pussy stuffed full of your hard, raw dick, her ass getting molested by Whitney's pervertedly curious hands, and your tongue swirling around her nipple. Only recently she was a virgin, and now she's getting worked over like a trained whore.

"Let's see how you like this," Whitney purrs. She jabs a thumb into Ms. Carte's cute little asshole and then twists it.

"Ugggfff--!!" Ms. Carte is delirious now, pain mixing with pleasure. You hug her curvy body close and jackhammer her cunt with deep thrusts. Your bed squeaks and your skin slaps against her as you bottom out inside her deepest parts.

"No fair," Whitney pouts. "I need some relief, too..."

"Come here," you beckon. She gets the message.

She circles around. You push Ms. Carte upright as she wiggles out of her bikini bottom. Swinging one leg over your head, Whitney straddles your face. Your nose fills with the tangy musk of her arousal. Her wet, horny pussy drips its love on your forehead, cheeks, eyes, and lips.

And then Whitney slams down, rubbing her slimy pussy directly against your face. Your let your mouth hang open and collect her nectar on your tongue as she rides you.

"Fuck, fuck!" she pants. She interlaces her fingers with Ms. Carte, keeping the two of them steady as they use you to get off. Ms. Carte grinds against you, taking you all the way, as Whitney luxuriates in the decadent pleasure of your lapping tongue.

You can't see it, but you can hear the wet, muffled mewls of Whitney and Ms. Carte sucking on each other's lips, violating each other's mouths.

Sweat, drool, and sexual emissions coat all three of you in various places as you lewdly mate, getting closer and closer to orgasm. Ms. Carte's hot cream coats your balls and pools on the sheets under you, ruining them. And Whitney's cream coats your face, pouring out too much for your overtaxed mouth to drink down. It runs in tiny streams down your temples and cheekbones. So too do Whitney and Ms. Carte's mingled saliva drips down in viscous ropes against your chest.

Neither of them have any shame as they soil you, your bed, your body.

Whitney's engorged, puffy labia begin to quiver and she cries out: "Ohhhh-- Oh fuuuuck!" She throws her head back and cums all over your face. This sets you off. You blow a thick load inside Ms. Carte's mature, spasming womb.

"Is he cumming? Get pregnant!" Whitney shouts. "Let him knock you up!! Let Ally knock you up!" All Ms. Carte can do in reply is cry out her own orgasmic delight. Whitney kisses her again as you empty every ounce of cock-juice you have inside that tight, hot, slutty hole.

You wake up a little bit past 10 AM, limbs entangled with Ms. Carte as she snores and snoozes. You try to nudge her awake, but her sleep is the sleep of the dead. She won't move an inch.

Her cunt is still milky with your cum.

Extricating yourself, you root through the dresser in your bedroom and find several pairs of clothes -- including some comfy swim trunks.

You pull the trunks on and wander out onto Gustav's little wooden patio that faces toward the sea. The morning is bright and suffused with seagull call.

The only other person who seems to be awake is Whitney. She's changing the oil in Gustav's speedboat over by his private dock, a few dozen yards away.

You walk over, calling out to her. "Hey," you say. "What's up?"

"I think I'm going into town," she says, pouring the viscous amber liquid through a funnel. "Rose isn't in our bedroom and the other boat is gone. She was saying something about going to town yesterday before you got back..."

"You and Rose share a bedroom?" you ask, incredulous. "She actually went along with that?"

"Went along with it? She asked for it..."

[X] Well, let's go see what she's up to.

[ ] Let me know if you find her. I'm going to enjoy the ocean.

As Whitney climbs aboard the boat and sits in driver's seat, you notice a limping gait to her step that concerns you. You worry what the long term consequences of that wound will be.

Whitney fires up the motor and pulls away from the dock. As you zip between islands and across the tranquil, azure waters, you can't help but marvel at her skill. "How did you learn to pilot a speedboat?" you shout over the roar of the engine.

"Rose showed me," Whitney replies, pulling on a pair of sunglasses. "Yesterday. Her family's fucking loaded so of course she knows how to drive these things."

You watch the turbulent spray of water all around the boat, and the foamy white wake it leaves behind. You grin. Whitney has no head for school, but she's almost supernaturally adept with anything mechanical. After only a couple hours of practice, she's a pro.

You lean back in the white faux leather seat beside her and enjoy the ride.

Sitting beside Whitney in Gustav's truck, the ride into Koror is quite short. Palau is not a very large place.

"This car is in terrible shape," Whitney complains. "You'd think for an eccentric millionaire, this Gus person would have better vehicles..."

"It seems fine to me. What do you think is wrong with it, exactly?"

Whitney gives you the kind of pitying look people give the mentally deficient. "Just from the way it rides, you can tell the tie rods are all fucked up-- the pinions are probably shot, too-- and the way it chugs, there's gotta be something wrong with the fuel pump. Not to mention the wicked bad knock in the engine... I mean, can't you hear that?"

She pauses, but you don't hear anything. "I hear it," you lie.

"No you don't," she says. "Anyway, it could be almost anything. Wouldn't be surprised at all if it seized up completely." She drums her fingers on the steering wheel. "And that's just for starters. This thing is a certified fuckin' jalopy."

You shrug. "Fix it, then. It should give you something to do if you're bored."

Whitney throws on the A/C, clicking her tongue in frustration. "You know," she says, "you really should learn a bit about working on cars, too. It's kind of sad that your girl knows more than you do."

"You focus on cars," you say. "I'll focus on literally everything else."

Whitney slugs you in the shoulder. "Jerk," she says, smiling warmly. "Don't think you're getting out of this. I'll make a real man out of you yet, just you watch."

Neither of you are sure where to look for Rose first, but she solves the issue for you: as you drive past an open-air flea market, you see her sitting at a booth, offering pamphlets to apathetic passersby.

Whitney slams on the brakes when as you pass Rose's booth. Traffic backs up, eliciting angry honks.

Whitney rolls down her window and flips the bird to the angry motorists as she pulls a highly-illegal u-turn and parks alongside the curb.

You get out of the truck, but Whitney doesn't seem keen on the idea of walking: "I'll wait here, she says." She watches as you jog across the street toward Rose's booth.

"Hello ma'am," Rose says to a passing woman. "I'm trying to start a society-- ma'am? I have some literature here-- ma'am?"

"What are you doing, Rose?" you ask, disapproval in your voice.

She looks up at you, scowling. "Shut it! I'm trying to effect some very important social change in this-- hey, I didn't give you permission to take a pamphlet!--"

"Society for the Prevention of Violence Toward Women," you read aloud. You peer at her. "Really?"

"This is important, you pig. One in every three Palauan girls is sexually assaulted by the age of 20! That's a fact! I read it online!"

You continue reading: "For the edification, education, and empowerment of underprivileged women. Rose Mallory, President."

You grin. "Are you sure this isn't just your way of making a replacement for the student council? You can't stand one second out of the spotlight, can you?"

A man passes by, holding his young daughter by the hand. "Sir?" Rose says. "Sir, I'm trying to start a new-- sir?"

"Doesn't look like they're taking the bait," you say.

"They don't seem very receptive to the message... I only want to help them, but they don't care..."

"Ahh, the white woman's burden. Keep at it, maybe you can Christianize these savages yet." You toss the pamphlet back at her, whanging her in the face. She swats it down angrily.

"Fuck you, Alabaster. I swear to God, I will rape you half to death."

"Maybe that should be the slogan of your little society."

Rose tries to stand, glaring at you menacingly. But she suddenly grows woozy, and stumbles back.

Reflexively, you reach out to catch her fall. You sweep her into your arms, holding her around the waist and head, just like that famous photo of a sailor kissing a nurse in Times Square.

"Hey--" you say. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine, it's just-- I'm still a bit messed up from all the blood loss."

"You lost that much blood from a little scrape?"

Rose gazes at your with her lapis-blue eyes. She seems on the verge of saying something important. She prevents herself from doing so, whatever it was.

"You're the worst prig I ever met," she says, still swooning from the blood deficiency.

"Be careful who you insult. I could drop you if I wanted to."

"You won't drop me."

You don't.

Rose wants to stay and peddle her silly little pamphlets, so you decide to leave her to it. But before you head back to the idling truck, an adjacent booth catches your eye. A native is selling handmade trinkets. One of them, a gleaming white necklace made from tiny shells, makes you think of a certain someone.

"How much?" you ask, pointing at the necklace.

"Two dollars," comes the man's gruff reply.

"You take American?"

He looks at you like you're a moron, so you assume that means yes. You pull out your wallet and fish out two crisp dollar bills. Handing them over, you take your prize.

"Can I get something to put this in?" you ask. For another fifty cents, he hands over a tiny teak jewelery case.

This will do quite nicely. You can't believe you almost forgot what today was. Of course, it wouldn't be the first time.

"Who's that for?" Whitney asks as you climb back into the truck.

"Oh, no one," you say, smiling.

"Pfft. You didn't get anything for ME--"

You reach your hand over, snaking it across her inner thigh.

"You got something for someone else, but not for-- oh. Ohhh--" Whitney squirms and purrs as your rub your fingers inside her pussy.

"Here's something for you," you say, your smile taking on an evil cast.

She drives you the ten kilometers back to the dock as you finger her and rub her clit, bringing her cute little cunt to three or four wet, squishy orgasms. Her juices darkly stain the seat in front of her. The plush interior of the truck will smell like female sex for weeks after this.

The other motorists have no idea what obscenity is happening so close to them. Except for Whitney chewing madly on her lip, they can't see anything out of the ordinary. "Make me cum," she hisses over and over. "Ohhh-- fuck yes!" She mashes her thighs together and traps your hand in place.

Life in Palau isn't so bad.

On the boat ride back to the island, Whitney says: "so when are we gonna fuck Cerise?"

"Wh-what?"

"I'm getting kind of tired of waiting for us to fuck Cerise. I mean, honestly."

You shake your head.

"Come onnnn," Whitney goads. She pounds her fist against the dash of the speedboat. "I know you two have been jerking off together. She told me so herself! How much worse is it to just go ahead and stick it in her?"

"You... you didn't say that to her too, did you?"

"Of course I did!" Whitney chirps. "GOD, what is this hangup you two have? Fuck your sister already!"

You massage the bridge of your nose. "When the time is right," you tell her, "MAYBE."

"Pussy." She pulls down her eyelid and sticks her tongue out at you.

Back on Gustav's private beach, Whitney waddles into the water and gets into a splash fight with Mom.

You'd join in, but you get more pleasure as a spectator, watching Whitney's nubile form clashing with Mom's well-developed one. They both seem to be having fun, even if the battle is heated.

Cerise is lying on her stomach on a towel, underneath the shade of a beach umbrella, also watching. You sit down beside her.

"You could use some sun," you say. "The umbrella sort of defeats the purpose..."

"Please," she groans. "I'm not a fan of melanoma. No thank you."

"Just saying," you laugh. You poke her fleshy butt with an index finger. "You're kinda pasty, is all."

She slaps your hand away. "You're one to talk!"

Your conversation stops short as a frisbee whirs past, curving perfectly around the metal pole of the beach umbrella.

"Yo, brah, catch!" you hear from your left. You look up: it's Spancer. Only... not Spancer. Not the Spancer you're used to, anyway. He's smiling, first of all. And wearing swim trunks.

Then you look over to the person he's playing with. It's also Spancer. Blank-faced and robotic and leather-clad as always. He plucks the frisbee from the air.

"Nice catch, me!" Spancer says. "Toss that shit back!"

Spancer tosses the frisbee. Spancer dives for it, but the momentum behind it knocks him out of the air, onto his back. He wheezes.

"N-nice throw, man..." Spancer heaves. Spancer nods in acknowledgement. Walking over, Spancer reaches down and helps Spancer to his feet.

"Thanks, Spancer," Spancer says.

You lie back on the sand and think of less complicated times. "I'm missing so much anime right now..." you complain.

"Yeah, well, join the club," Cerise says. "And that's not the worst of it. In case you forgot, your stupid ass got our house burned down. My figmas, my manga collection..."

"My blu-rays..." you add.

"My furbies and circuits..."

"My porn..."

"My toys..."

You share a pained moment of silence in memory of the things you lost.

As you lie on the beach beside Cerise, you feel a shadow pass over you. Looking up, you see Vivian. She has what looks like a metal detector in her hands.

"Alabaster Soliloquy," she says.

"Vivian, I think we've been through enough that you can just call me Alabaster."

She blushes.

"Ahem," she coughs, covering her mouth daintily with a fist. "Alabaster. Please perambulate along the shore with me. I am searching for hidden treasure."

[X] All right.

[ ] I'm fine here with Cerise, thanks. We can hang out later.

As you walk along the shore, Vivian turns on the metal detector. It instantly lets out a shrill whirm that signals nearby treasure. Vivian's eyes widen -- a rare glimpse of childlike enthusiasm -- and she drops to her knees, digging at the wet sand. But she comes up empty-handed.

"How odd..." she mumbles.

"What kind of treasure do you think we'll find out here, anyway?"

"All kinds," Vivian avers. "Palau was part of the Pacific theater in the second World War. Who knows what the Japanese concealed from the allies on these islands?"

She flips on the detector again, and once more it whirs. Vivian sweeps it around in a circle, but the whirring doesn't stop. She waves it around the air, and still it thrums incessantly.

You see Ms. Carte approaching from the house, wearing a bikini of her own. Her top is a size too small, you think -- not that you're complaining about how the fabric clings and digs into her well-proportioned breasts. You believe this is known as 'skindentation.'

"I believe this device is broken," Vivian says.

"I think it works just fine," Ms. Carte says.

Vivian turns, noticing Ms. Carte for the first time.

"You and Alabaster have-- a lot of metal components inside of you, remember," Ms. Carte says.

Vivian's eyes glimmer with recognition. "Oh," she says flatly. You sense dejection in that. She drops the metal detector in the sand, not even looking down at it.

You glance around, trying to think of something to cheer her up. "Hey--" you say. "I haven't been swimming yet. You want to test the water with me?"

Vivian looks up at you. "Test the water..." she repeats. Then she shakes her head curtly. "I apologize. I am unfamiliar with the mechanics of treading water."

You gawk at her. "...You don't know how to swim?"

"Correct," she says.

You sigh. But glancing back at Gustav's house, you notice some bodyboards propped up against the wall.

"That's no problem," you tell Vivian. "I'll take you swimming anyway."

Vivian lies prone on the pink bodyboard you select for her. You hold her, one hand on her little butt and one between her shoulders, as you guide her into the ocean.

Vivian winces as the water rises around her and flows over the underside of her belly. Her onepiece becomes sodden and clings to her pale skin.

"Please don't let go of me," she says, voice trembling.

"I'm not going to let go..." you grumble. "Geez."

Ms. Carte walks beside you, petting Vivian's hair to encourage her.

"What's up with the two Spancers, anyway?" you ask, jerking your head back toward the beach where Spancer 1 and Spancer 2 are still horsing around.

Vivian dogpaddles weakly against the surface to no discernible effect. All she manages to do is kick up a few tiny splashes. "Mmph--" she hums, struggling. Her cheeks puff out in a cute pout.

Having waded out until the water reaches your knees, you and Ms. Carte stop. Vivian floats between you, immobile.

"One is Spancer, and one is a model Gustav made," Ms. Carte says. "Like a male Viv-tan."

"So... which one is the real Spancer?"

"That's a question for the philosophers, I think."

"Mmmph," Vivian pouts. You look down at her. "Why has our progress ceased?"

You grin with a sudden mischievous impulse, and pull the bodyboard out from underneath her. Her face slackens with terror. But at the very same instant, you sweep your arm under her, keeping her from falling into the water.

You pull Vivian upright and against your body. She's so thin that you can feel her little ribcage against your fingers as you hold her.

Ms. Carte grabs the bodyboard before it floats away, and holds it by her side.

"What are you doing?" Vivian demands.

Keeping her held tight, you back away, deeper into the cool sea, the water slowly submersing you to the waist. The warmth of Vivian's body translated through her slick swimsuit is heavenly.

"Alabaster," Vivian says, kicking her feet underneath the water. "I-- I admit to being rather terrified at this juncture."

"Why are you scared?" you ask. "I've got ahold of you."

"Please don't let go."

"You're like a broken record, you know? I'm not going to let go of you."

"Not ever?"

"Well," you laugh cruelly, "I can't promise THAT much--"

"Alabasterrr--" she whines.

You nuzzle the top of her head to let her know you're joking. She sighs sweetly.

"Just so you're aware," Ms. Carte says, "I recommend against vaginal intercourse. For a number of reasons. First of all, we don't know what kind of effect it will have on either of you. Secondly--"

Ms. Carte sighs as she watches your mutual nuzzling become a deep and tender tongue-kiss. You and Vivian stare at one another with heavily lidded eyes.

"Well, I guess you're going to do what you want to, huh?" Ms. Carte says. "Just try not to cause Armageddon. And don't say I didn't tell you so."

She turns and wades back to the shore.

"Intercourse..." Vivian repeats, pulling back from you. "Should we...?"

"Well-- if you want," you tell her.

You rub her board-flat chest through her swimsuit, teasing her nipples to hardness. She oohs and aahs at your touch, lips contorting into a lustful grimace. You nibble on her tiny earlobe.

"There are-- others, nearby," Vivian says. And she's right. There are plenty of people around now. Cerise is still sunbathing, Mom and Whitney are still tussling in the water a couple dozen yards away -- the two Spancers are playing around on shore, Ms. Carte is conversing with Gustav -- even Rose is returning to the island from her little excursion. All around you, the beach buzzes with activity.

"It's fine," you whisper. "No one can see what's happening under the surface."

You step out of your trunks, reveling in the sinful feeling of being a skinnydipper. Your hot cock presses insistently against Vivian's bottom. She chews on her lip and flushes, turning a shade of crimson.

"What do you want?" you ask, running kisses up and down her face and neck, groping her lasciviously. If anyone from civilized society saw you right now, they would certainly brand you a molester -- after all, that's exactly what you're doing -- but here in this island paradise, it doesn't matter. Underneath the surface, Vivian rubs her legs against your thighs and her feet against your knees.

"I-I want..." she stammers. "S-sex."

"What was that? Didn't quite hear you."

"I w-want you to please... have sex. W-with me."

"Hmm, I'm not sure how to do that. What does that kind of thing involve, exactly? Be specific."

Vivian cranes her head back, straining to look up into your taunting eyes. "I want you to take your-- your penis-- and then..."

She trails off, blushing.

"My penis, check," you say. You thrust your cock in between her thighs, rubbing it against her darling cameltoe. "What should I do with it?"

"I-inside," she says. "Inside of me."

You turn her around in your arms so that she faces you. She braces herself against you, palms flat against your chest, as you reach down and tug her onepiece to the side far enough to permit entry.

"Here?" you ask, rubbing your thumb against her puffed-out, pulsing slit. "Inside your cunt?"

"Y-yes," she says, nodding. "Inside my c-c-cunt." She stumbled adorably on the profane language.

You pull her close. She hugs you, her spindly arms linking together across your back. You grip your cock by the base and guide it home, rubbing your head against her impossibly small pussy lips.

"This might hurt," you warn her.

You thrust.

"Ah!" she moans. Even though only the head is in, she registers pain at the sudden invasion. She locks her legs around your waist and hunches up as if trying to curl into a ball around you, as you tear away her virginity.

You push forward, meeting rubbery resistance as inch by agonizing inch of your cock shaft slides into the suckling tightness of her insides. Her walls cling against you, stretching to their very limits. It's almost painful even for you.

You aren't halfway in before your cockhead hits the hard nubbin of her cervix and can't progress further.

You begin to pull out, but she stops you, tapping you on the back. You stare into her eyes.

"More," she tells you. "I want all of you..."

You marvel at this tiny, birdlike creature in your arms. "Are you sure?" you ask, feeling her cunt muscles contract around your dick -- your dick that is much, much too large to be raping itself into such a small body.

"All of you," she repeats.

You thrust forward again. This brings a new round of pained mewls from poor Vivian. She digs her fingernails into your back but endures it as your force your cock past the ring of her cervix and forward, forward into her very womb. Her uterus balloons out and expands to grip the head of your dick, like a tiny little onahole, but the position still leaves a couple inches of your shaft outside of her body.

"More..." she pants. "All of it..."

You push forward, completely violating her virgin body. Her womb expands and stretches to accomodate your fuck-shaft.

When you're fully inside of her, you allow her a moment to adjust. She squirms and wiggles, impaled on you.

"It feels--" she begins. She looks up at you. "It feels good."

"Really?"

"It feels very good. Very... mmm~... very good. I'm full with you. I'm completely full with you."

"Oh God, Vivian, if you say things like that--"

"It's okay," she says. "You can ejaculate inside of me whenever you want. My womb is made to hold your sperm."

"Fuck, Vivian..." You pull out and thrust into her, jostling her small body, causing her teeth to clatter. "Fuck. You're so tight. You're so little..."

"Yes," she agrees. "Then -- please accept me as your little cum receptacle."

"Fuuuck," you groan. Her womb, cervix, and pussy spasm all around you. It's hot, snug -- and so incredibly nasty. You lay your cheek against her head and fuck yourself in and out of her child-sized hole to your heart's content.

You could break her, completely ruin her, and she wouldn't mind it at all.

"Say that again," you tell her.

"Please use me as your little cum receptacle."

You rub her clit with a thumb as her reward. "I love you," you tell her.

"I... love you, too."

"I'm going to cum inside of you. I'm going to let all of my cum out inside of you."

You pound yourself into her three more times, each one harder than the last. Slam-- slam-- SLAM-- and then you drain your aching balls into her little loli fuckhole, her little quivering womb that exists only to hold your cum. Your cock spits and spews and blows rope after slimy rope of cum inside of her, marking her as yours forever.

You kiss her, and she screams her own orgasm into your mouth.

GIRLS FUCKED: 4/6

As you go back inside, Vivian trails behind, rubbing her cum-filled belly with both hands. "It's so warm inside of me..." she says.

She heads toward her room to rest, and you figure she's earned it. The idea that she will drift to sleep with your cum sloshing around inside her womb is a nice thought, anyway.

As you pass by the bathroom on the ground level, you see Rose through the open door, sitting on the edge of the tub. She's looking into an adjustable mirror propped up on the ground and tugging uncertainly at the hem of a broad gauze bandage wrapped around her left side, where Dalton slashed her.

"What are you doing?" you ask, stepping inside.

She glances up at you. "I have to dress the wound," she says.

"Let me help," you offer.

"Oh, please. I don't need YOU to--" but you're already on bended knee and tugging back the bandage.

Rose tilts her head up toward the ceiling and closes her eyes. "It needs antiseptic and a fresh bandage," she tells you. Using a forefinger, she indicates the supplies sitting at the foot of the tub.

"On it."

You peel back current bandage. Her wound is a long, vaguely S-shaped slash running from her navel to her armpit, just barely having missed the bottom of her left mammary. The cut looks moderately deep, but not very wide.

Rose keeps her eyes clenched shut as you dispense a dollop of the foul-smelling iodine onto a washcloth. She gulps audibly.

"Please be quick..." she begs.

You rub the solution into her wound.

"Thhhhh--" she hisses, drawing a sharp breath through gritted teeth. Then: "It hurts! It hurts it hurts!"

"Don't be such a wuss," you chide jokingly.

"Fuck you, Alabaster! Ohhh-- ow, ow!"

You try to make the process as quick and tender as possible, but it's no use. Finally the terrycloth completes its transit to Rose's armpit. You cap the iodine bottle and begin to apply the new bandage.

"Why are your eyes still closed?" you ask after a few moments. "It doesn't still hurt, does it?"

"I-- really don't want to see, if I don't have to." She peeks at you through one eyelid. "Is it very bad? Is my body ruined forever?"

"It's fine," you say. "If there's a scar, it'll be hardly visible."

Rose breathes a sigh of relief. She opens her eyes. She smiles in a way that indicates she's trying to stifle it and it won't stay back.

"Of course," you add, "I'll still know about it. And I can still tease you about it..."

"You fucking pig!" she shouts, and punches you in the side.

"Hey!" you say, laughing, but then notice a bandage in the crook of her elbow. "What's this?" you ask, taking her arm in yours.

She jerks it back. "It's nothing," she says. "Mind your own fucking business, you-- fucking, chauvinist-- body shaming-- piece of, piece of shit--" she stammers and stutters her insults, even as you finish applying the bandage.

[X] Push the question.

[ ] Drop it.

"I told you, it's nothing!" She tries to stand up and stomp off. You grab her by the wrist, wheeling her around to face you.

"Don't lie to me," you say gently, and peck her on the forehead. "You didn't become a heroin junkie in the past 48 hours, did you?"

"I told you already," she says, looking away. "I lost a lot of blood..."

"Through a cut in your arm? What happened?"

"It's not a cut," Rose says. She peels back the transparent adhesive tape and pulls aside the blood-dabbled cotton swab so you can see the little borehole in her arm.

"You have AB blood..." she says. "And-- I have AB blood..."

You blink. "You donated blood to me?" you say.

"Rather a lot, I should think."

"Oh Jesus," you say, the full understanding finally hitting you. If she's still woozy from it two days after the fact, it must have nearly killed her.

"What on Earth was I supposed to do?" Rose says, her voice at once tender and frustrated. "I couldn't just sit around while you died."

"Rose."

"I'm not going to give up a pet like you so easily, Alabaster. I still haven't broken you yet--"

"Rose." You clasp her chin in your hand and stare into her eyes.

You kiss her, and she returns it eagerly. She has to stand on tiptoes to reach your mouth.

"You owe me," she says.

"What do you want?"

She trails off, thinking. Then she pounds a fist lightly against your chest. "As much rape as I can handle!" she says.

"Hmm," you muse. "Going in which direction?"

She looks genuinely confused. "...Does that really matter?"

You kiss her again.

Dinner is a completely mangled surf-and-turf dish with a deliciously smooth white wine to help you all force it down. After two straight nights of mangled haute cuisine, Gustav helpfully offers to resume his duties as the house cook, but Mom won't hear a word of it.

"I'm your guest," she insists. "I should contribute!"

"Ah-- but-- you see, ze zing is--"

"No! Stop with that nonsense this instant!"

It's kind of awkward, frankly.

And yet -- as always she redeems herself with the dessert. This time it's some sort of papaya-based pastry dish that you've never seen in your life and find it hard to fathom she could have possibly known about all these years without sharing it. Wrapped inside a flaky, buttery crust is a fruity filling with the consistency of jam that melts in your mouth and coats your tongue.

You think at least a few of the girls have micro-orgasms as they demolish the sweet treats. Ms. Carte's little hiccups of delight certainly aren't chaste. Neither is Cerise's animalistic moan whenever she takes a bite of hers.

After dessert, Mom begins to clear the plates from the table. You stand, stopping her. "Let me help," you say.

She stammers, looking side to side at the other dinner guests. "I-- I don't need any help," she says.

"Maybe not. But it's nice to have help sometimes, anyway."

You begin gathering plates, too.

You and Mom stand side-by-side at the sink, scrubbing dishes.

"I don't know what you're playing at... but it won't work!" she huffs.

"Geez. I can't just do something nice for you?"

"A twerp like you?" she laughs. "Let me fall over dead!"

You take the spray nozzle from the back of the sink and, with a flick of your wrist, nail her with a quick blast of warm water.

"Alabaster--!" she shrieks. Looking down at her soaked-through bikini top, her angry expression turns to a devious grin. She feints to the side, distracting you long enough to snatch the nozzle from you, and blasts you back in kind.

Dripping wet and annoyed, you barrel into her, tackling her to the ground. She cries out, laughing, as you you pin her under you.

"You brat!" she squeals.

"Be quiet, hey--" you grab both her wrists in one hand to keep her from hitting you. Reaching into the pocket of your swim trunks, you produce the teak jewelery box.

"For you," you say.

You lean back and let Mom take the box in her hands. She goes completely silent as she sits upright, examining it.

Her fingers are trembling as she opens the lid.

"You remembered..." she says.

"So how old are you today?" you ask. "Like 104 or something, right?"

Mom reddens and kicks you in the shin. "You're unbelievably crass!" But then, pulling the necklace from the case and holding in front of her: "this is beautiful..."

"Sorry it's not something more. Short notice-- I swear I had something much fancier hidden under my bed before the house went up in smoke..."

"Yeah right," she says. She unclasps the necklace and strings it around her delicate throat.

"Is it okay?" you ask.

"I love it."

She fixes you with a dewy gaze. "I know this isn't proper-- but-- can I sleep with you tonight?"

"--Excuse me?"

"O-only because your father's snoring keeps waking me up! That's all!"

"Don't slander my father. He sleeps like an angel."

Mom grouses, looking away.

"Let's go. The dishes can wait for tomorrow." You take her by the hand.

You drift wordlessly to your bedroom together. Her quivering, dainty hand is warm in you palm.

There's something freeing about dropping the facade. As you patter softly across the carpet of your bedroom and lie down, you both know what's about to happen, and neither of you are putting up fake insults to resist it.

You lie down. She curls up beside you.

"You've been having sex with other girls in here, haven't you," she says. "It's in the air..."

"Yeah."

"And with Vivian earlier today, too... in broad daylight, no less."

"Yeah."

"What am I going to do with you? A girl that young has no idea what she's doing."

"Well, that's sort of the appeal..."

She clucks in disapproval.

You run a hand through her hair and pull her in, kissing her on the lips. And there's something to be said for the methods of an experienced woman, too. Your nostrils fill with her flowery scent as her tongue dances across your mouth. Your past month or so of experience -- while extensive -- can't compete. She has you completely outclassed, so you decide to surrender to her while you can. Her lips, tongue, and even the pace of her breath, ravish your pliant mouth. She does exactly what she wants with you.

"I've waited so long for this..." she sighs, finally and completely honest.

You slide a hand under the straps of her bikini top and pull them down. She helps, wiggling out of the garment and letting it bunch around her belly. You admire her round, full, heavy breasts with their firm dark nipples, so tender and soft.

"You can... suck on them-- i-if that's the kind of perverted thing that excites you..."

You cusp one of her breasts lightly and draw the nipple into your mouth, pulling on it with forceful suction. It's warm and tantalizing against your roaming tongue. You half expect -- and sort of want -- her milk to pour down your throat. It would be warm and sweet like sugar, but nothing comes out despite your best efforts.

She reaches down between you and pulls at the hem of your trunks.

"Let me see it..." she purrs.

Just as she helped you, you help her, kicking off the nylon swimwear. You roll onto your back, lying before her, completely naked and painfully hard.

Mom props herself up on one elbow and stares admiringly at your member. It twitches and drools a tiny strand of precum on your stomach.

"It's so big," she says. "My son's manhood..."

She reaches out and clasps it in her hand, tugging the foreskin deliciously back and forth, smearing the glans with the slimy precum. Involuntarily, she licks her lips.

"Can we..." she starts, but trails off.

"You're the birthday girl," you say. "And besides, you're supposed to be showing me how it's done, right?"

Mom smiles. She pulls down her bikini bottom. But instead of throwing it aside, she holds it up, dangling it in front of your face. The crotch is sodden and darkly stained. You can smell her special scent -- it's like a combination of your own genital musk and your sister's, fittingly enough. It's intoxicating. It makes your eyes cross.

"Look," she says. "Look how wet you made your mother... you make me this wet every single day. That's not fair, is it? You need to treat me better."

She sets the bikini bottom aside and rolls onto you, straddling your waist.

It feels different than you expected as she rubs her cunt lips against your swollen cock. You look down, and your jaw hangs open in surprise.

"I did that for you," she says. "Do you like it, darling?"

Her pussy is shaved completely bare -- it's as smooth as little Vivian's was. Her pussy lips in all their pink glory wrap wetly around your member, gliding up and down with barely any friction.

"It's--" you choke.

She reaches down and takes your hands in hers. Kissing you in the precise opposite way a woman should kiss her son, she allows her saliva to mix with yours and her tongue to once more explore your wanting mouth.

"Perverted woman," you say.

"So you like it, then?" she asks, rubbing herself against you indecently, her arousal coating your dick.

"It's great ...You're great."

She smiles.

"This cunt is yours now," she says. You inhale sharply at these words. "Use it whenever you want. Please-- use it every day..."

She slides up the length of your cock so the head is positioned at her welcoming entrance. And then, cooing wantonly, she fucks your prick inside of her, taking the entire length in one hard thrust.

You grunt. Her hands clasp yours tightly and she nuzzles your neck.

"Mmm-- we fit together so well... don't you think?"

"Yes," you moan. The folds and crevices of her interior walls perfectly cradle your churning cock. You pump as she bounces atop you, stirring up her lewd insides. Her firm calf muscles and belly strain with the exertion. Sweat coils down her body.

"Am I better than those other silly girls?" she asks.

You shower her with open-mouth kisses and tender groans of affection, but she presses the issue. With her cunt rhythmically massaging your aching, needful cock, she asks again: "am I better?"

"Yes... yes, you're better... you're the best--"

"Alabaster!" she cries, cumming herself. "I love you!"

"I love you, too--"

"Cum inside of me! I want all of it inside of me! Ahhhnnnn~~"

You clasp her soft, pliable butt and force her down, holding her in place. She bites her lips so hard they bleed and wags her hips back and forth like a fucking dog as she orgasms around you, again and again and again.

"Mom--" you pant. "Mom, I'm gonna--"

"Do it! Do it!"

You cry with sweet release as your cock flexes, pulses, and ejaculates inside your mother's hot cunt. You fill her with your incestuous seed. You cum with such force that you can actually hear the muffled spurt of the creamy explosion. The cum dribbles out around you, all over her pussy lips and your balls, as you share a deep, dreamy, loving kiss.

GIRLS FUCKED: 5/6

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!

You wake to the obnoxious squawk of seagulls and the glare of tropical sun streaming through your sheer satin curtains.

The one saving grace is Mom's arms and legs wrapped snugly around you, cuddling you close to her warm and buxom figure. You could lie against that softness forever.

Like Cerise, she has a bad habit of kicking you in her sleep, but you're slowly learning to sleep through it too.

Whitney is sitting in a wicker chair in the corner when you come to.

"Incest is wrong, you know," Whitney says, smiling.

"So is coming into someone's room unannounced. How long have you been there?"

She shrugs. "About an hour. You Soliloquys sleep so late. I came here for a midmorning quickie but you were so cute all cuddled up with Mrs. Soliloquy like that, I figured I'd watch you for a while. It's peaceful."

You pull away from Mom's sleeping form and sit up in bed.

"Do you think I'll have a body that rockin' when I'm 97, too?" Whitney asks.

"One can only hope."

Whitney looks down and grabs her mosquito bites in either hand, pushing them together and creating a rather pitiful faux cleavage in her bikini top. "I wonder if these will grow once I'm pregnant."

"Once you're--" you sputter.

But Whitney changes the subject before you have time to object. "You keep breaking rule 1..." she pouts, looking back up at you. "...Oversexed motherfucker."

You doubt she even realizes her pun. "I never agreed to your rules," you say.

"Well, I'm making one more," she says. She stands up. "Rule 5: no rules."

"You're not very bright, are you?"

"But-- only with us-- err--" she stops to count on her fingers. "--Only with us six. No holds barred. And I'm changing rule 1, too. You have to let me join in whenever I want. No questions!"

"Allow me to reiterate: I agree to nothing."

"It's settled, then." She climbs onto the bed and looms over Mom, shadowing her.

"Ally, let's give her a massage."

"We aren't fucking her if she doesn't want it," you warn Whitney as she takes Mom's fleshy calf in her palms.

"Oh please. I'm not some kind of sex pervert. Besides...." she trails off and grins dreamily. "I jilled off in that chair a few times thinking about you two fucking each other, so I'm set for now."

"Not a sex pervert. Right."

Mom snaps into consciousness from Whitney's ministrations on her calf muscles. She sits bolt upright, looking down at Whitney's dextrous hands and impish face.

"Good morning, Mrs. Soliloquy."

"W-what are you--" she says. You quickly position yourself behind her and grip her at the union of shoulder and neck, pressing your thumbs into the bundle of muscle fibers that you recall from anatomy as the superior trapezius. See: cramming for quiz bowl can pay off.

Mom's face melts, her lips going all trembly and her face slackening from the dual sensations of you and Whitney double-teaming her. Looking over Mom's shoulder and down to her pale crotch, you can see her cream-spattered pussy begin to glisten with arousal.

"Your muscles are really tense, Mrs. Soliloquy. Are you stressed?"

"Y-you awful children are-- you're assaulting me-eeee--" she moans.

Whitney works her wandering hands up and down, exploring Mom's fleshy thighs, bulging calves, arched feet, and pear-shaped hips. She doesn't seem to have a definite pattern to her massage and probably doesn't know how to properly administer one. No matter. You're no maseuse, either. This is all just a pretext to lovingly grope her, anyway.

There's something deliciously perverted about molesting your mother with your girlfriend joining in. So sure, Whitney is a sex pervert -- you wouldn't have her any other way.

Mom throws her head back, cradling the back of her head against your shoulder. Her silky hair tickles you all over as you work her shoulders, neck, and back.

"S-stop-- stop--" she pleads powerlessly, but there are no brakes on this train.

Whitney's fingers draw nearer and nearer to Mom's cum-filled cunt every time she reaches the upward apex of her massage.

And then suddenly, despite her promise not to, she buries her face in her pussy. Her nose touches Mom's fat clit and you can hear the sound of her wagging tongue siphoning your cum from Mom's ravaged body. Mom bites the side of her hand to keep from squealing.

"Alabaster--" she groans, but doesn't finish the thought.

"Your pussy's so warm, Mrs. Soliloquy..." Whitney purrs. "Ally, turn her over."

You guide her down so she lies on her stomach. Mom's fat bottom and barest hint of lovehandles are somehow even lewder in contrast to Whitney's boyish figure. Whitney climbs onto her, lying tummy-to-back, and spreads Mom's luscious ass cheeks as wide as they'll go. The look on Whitney's face when she reveals her pulsing rosebud is like a little kid given a lifetime supply of candy.

Whitney dives in in and suckles, poking her slimy tongue into a probing tip. She moans sensually to herself as she orally molests her. She laps at her ass, perineum, and the bottom of her sopping pussy in long, slow, drooling strokes. Mom bites her pillow and tries to squirm away, but Whitney has her pinned.

"Mmmmf--" Whitney heaves, licking and sucking hungrily. At random intervals, she slaps Mom's ass. You watch the flesh of her butt jiggle with milky waves every time it happens, the surface slowly turning red under Whitney's assault.

You can't help yourself. You grip Mom by the hair and turn her face to the side, rubbing your horny cock against her flushed cheeks and full lips.

"Your dyke girlfriend is raping me..." she says. "Aren't you going to do something... ungf~... about-- unnnn~~"

She gulps hard as ripples of pleasure course through her.

"You like it, don't you? We can stop if you want."

"T-that's not the point-- you... you s-stupid..."

Even despite her weakening protest, she reaches out and takes your throbbing dick in her hands. You let go of your shaft and let her soft, damp palms work you. She jerks you off against her sweat-sheened face as Whitney's tongue works its magic on her from behind.

Maybe it's hereditary. You climax at the same moment she does. Mom practically shrieks as she cums herself silly, her jaw hanging open and making the perfect target out of her warm, inviting mouth. You push forward and lay your cockhead against her tongue, grunting as she milks rope after rope of semen directly into the back of her throat. She swallows it like ambrosia, savoring the taste. A few stray strands land on her chin and lips, which she dutifully scoops up and licks down as well.

There are few sensations better than relieving yourself in your own mother's mouth.

Whitney pulls Mom onto her back and shares a long, passionate kiss with her. A kiss Mom returns. Whitney's tongue roots around in her mouth as if trying to lick up the vestiges of your essence from here, as well. At the same time, Whitney paws and fondles Mom's enormous breasts. So much for this massage being chaste.

Whitney leaves Mom a twitchy, shuddering mess by the time she heads out to enjoy some sun on Gustav's beach.

You stay behind for a several more minutes to pick up where Whitney left off, tonguing wetly with Mom on your bed. You can taste the faintest hint of yourself in her mouth, but it's not unpleasant: it just adds to the wanton sensation of taboo. You lie atop her, practically smothered in her breasts and fleshy body, nursing on her tongue. Your still erect cock is nestled against her tummy, drooling precum into her navel.

And hey -- the massage actually worked, after all: Mom's muscles are loose and limber now. She lies limply on the bed, hardly able to move, and certainly not able to stand. Her pussy is engorged and coated in Whitney's thick saliva -- her inner thighs and ass, too. You know from experience how obscenely sloppy Whitney's blowjobs are, and her muff-diving isn't any different.

You finally stand. You walk to the window. From the bed, Mom stammers: "y-you'll be doing that again, right? -- N-not that I enjoyed it! I just... I just need to know so I can prepare myself for your awful abuse in the future..."

You grin. "We'll be doing lots more together."

Behind you, Mom whimpers.

Outside, Whitney is sitting in the sand with Vivian, helping her construct a sand castle. You figure Rose, Cerise and Ms. Carte are probably still sleeping in their respective rooms, and Gustav should be in his lab. The two Spancers are playing in the ocean, far away -- two white specks you can hardly make out. It's a Saturday, so the town should have interesting things going on, too. And there's lots of other things to do besides.

So:

>What do you do?

[X] Visit Rose.

Gustav's living room is enormous, the ceiling double tall. As you pass through, you hear a strange sibilant hiss above your head. You look up.

Smatters is gliding in languid circles, near to the ceiling, jet thrusters swiveling this way and that with tiny bursts of blue-and-yellow flame to stabilize the flight path. He (she? it?) seems to be nibbling on some sort of leafy tuber.

Finally, Smatters comes to rest atop a crystal chandelier, wiggling its fluffy butt around to get comfortable. The chandelier sways from the sudden force of Smatters's landing, swinging back and forth like an enormous pendulum.

You smile to yourself. You had assumed Smatters perished in the house fire.

But -- right now, you have more than bunnies on the mind. You hurry toward Rose's bedroom.

Rose is lying in bed, gazing out her window, when you enter.

Her head whips around to regard you once she hears the shuffling of your feet. Her surprise gives way to a cute little pout. "Oh. It's you."

She tries to prop her weight on her elbow, but this clearly causes her pain. She winces and falls back against the mattress, clutching at the bandage wrapped around her torso. She grits her teeth to keep from crying out.

"Ha. I have you right where I want you," you say, play-acting at menace.

Rose rolls her eyes. "Don't think just because I'm hurt that I can't fuck you up, Alabaster."

You look more closely at her bandage. A curving streak in the shape of her wound has formed on the surface, yellow-red with seeping iodine and blood. It looks agonizing, and not exactly hygienic.

"Is your wound all right?" you ask.

"I have to change the gauze every morning and evening. Otherwise it gets like this."

>How will you handle this situation?

[X] Change her bandages for her.

You approach her bed. Rose rolls onto her side and bares her teeth, apparently ready to fight back if you try anything sketchy. But in her weakened state, it wouldn't be much of a fight anyway.

You sweep your arms underneath her and haul her up, cradling her like a groom with his bride on the wedding day. With your newfound strength, she seems to weigh almost nothing.

"Let go of me, you fucking creep!"

She kicks weakly at the air but doesn't gain any traction against you. You do an about-face and carry her gently out of the bedroom, down the hall, and to the bathroom.

You set her on the edge of the bathtub. Finally, she seems to get the idea.

"You don't need to do this every time," she says, trying to give her voice its old hostile edge.

"What if I want to?"

Rose can't formulate a response to this. Her facial muscles twitch, oscillating between a smile and a sneer.

"Besides," you say. "It's pretty obvious that you need a strong man to protect you."

"You are such a fucking chauv-- ahhh--" she sighs in sudden pain as you peel back the gauze. The thickly weaved cotton sticks to her wound as you pull on it. The inner layers are sodden with blood.

"Is the wound getting worse?" you ask with concern.

"It bleeds a lot more at night, that's all... I toss and turn a lot."

She closes her eyes and lets you work, hissing and tensing at even the tenderest touch. You slowly unwind the bandage, revealing the deep, unsightly gash in her porcelain skin.

You remember that this wound exists because she was protecting you.

Even though you try to make it easy on her, she isn't taking it well. A lot of her suffering seems to be psychic -- she's afraid of pain way more than she's actually experiencing it.

"Please don't hurt me..." she begs in a tiny, trembling voice.

"I don't want to hurt you," you say.

You say it before you can think about it. Rose's eyes pop open and she looks down. You stare at one another for a few long, wordless moments.

"I'm going to put the iodine on now," you say. Rose curls her toes, bracing herself for the new ordeal.

Getting an idea -- completely selfless, you swear -- you coax her butt forward to the edge of the tub so you can pull down her panties.

She opens her eyes to slits and watches. You puff a few hot breaths on her puffy labia with its bright pink clitoral hood.

"What are you doing..."

"Focus on the pleasure, all right?"

You open wide and envelop her pussy completely. You snake your tongue out and wiggle it into the soft folds of her vulva. At the same time, you work the antiseptic-coated washcloth up her torso.

"Ala-- Alabaster--" she says, her voice breathy and quiet.

You stare into her eyes. Her face is deeply flushed and caught in flux between ecstasy and agony.

Her pussy is sweetest you've tasted. The warm juices coat your tongue like a sugary drink. They flow to the back of your mouth, down your throat. You drink her greedily as you service her: your reward for a good deed. Your fingers trace the contours of her wound, disinfecting her, as you bring her to a shuddering orgasm.

"Alabaster-- I'm-- I'm cumming! Ohhh--!!" Her breaths are shallow and ragged. Her cute tummy heaves with the effort of climax. Her pussy ripples and cums in your sucking mouth. You tease her clit with the tip of your tongue as her cream pools under your tongue.

When she loses consciousness, you spring to your feet and catch her, keeping her from falling head-first into the tub.

She wakes up as you're finishing with the new bandage.

"How do you feel?" you ask.

"Better. Shaky."

You help her to her feet. She stands several heads shorter than you, and you muse on how adorable her compact yet still fully developed form is.

"This isn't fair," she says, glancing around the green tiled room. "You promised me rape..."

You shrug. "Are you strong enough to take it?"

"Take it?" Rose says, looking up at you. Her eyes simmer. "Who said anything about taking it?"

>What do you do?

[X] Pretend to be raped

You grin broadly, ear to ear.

"I'm not going to let you win just because you're putting up this damsel in distress act," you say. "What do I look like, an idiot?"

"As a matter of fact, yes..."

Rose darts for the sink on still-wobbly legs. Opening the cabinet underneath, she produces a pair of stainless steel handcuffs. She slaps one of the bracelets around your wrist, latching it in place.

"What the hell--" you say. She pivots around you and tugs your other arm back, cuffing you.

You could fight her off if you wanted -- you can break these cuffs -- but you're interested in seeing how far this goes.

"Why the hell were you keeping those things in here?" you ask.

"After you changed my bandage yesterday... I thought you might be stupid enough to do it again today. I was a girl scout, you know. I'm always prepared."

You make a show of pulling against your restraints. Rose grins smugly when you can't break free.

"Come with me," she says. Then, standing on her tiptoes to whisper in your ear: "you're my prisoner, now..."

She brings you back to her shared bedroom. Laying you on her bed, she tugs down your swim trunks.

"You bitch!" you say, pretending to struggle and playing up the anger. "I'll make you pay!"

"Shut up, you fucking dog," Rose says. Her voice drips with loathing but is still weak.

"I'm going to fucking RUIN you--" you begin.

She slaps you across the face. And even though you're a lot stronger now, you're not immune to pain. It stings like hell and leaves a nasty red welt behind. The sudden violence startles you enough to distract you as Rose momentarily uncuffs your wrists.

She tosses you a sheer sundress and matching bra and panties from her dresser. The underwear is dark black, lacy and slutty. The dress is white, practically transparent, and whorishly short -- especially for a person of your height.

"Put that on," Rose commands. "Or I'll beat you bloody and put it on for you."

>Will you put the outfit on?

[X] Yes, but no.

"Like hell," you stammer.

This time your resistance is genuine. You're willing to give Rose a lot of leeway after everything she did for you, but this is too much. You're not gay, for godsakes.

Rose tries to smack you again, but you sit up and grab her wrist, stopping her mid-swing. She looks at you with wild eyes. Panicking, she tries to smack you with her other hand. You grab that one, too.

Wrenching her arms apart, you say firmly, "that's enough. I'm not wearing a dress."

"Oh yes you are!" she insists.

She headbutts you.

You involuntarily release her as you fly back, knocked prone against the mattress. Rose grabs the bra and straddles you as she tries to force it on. You push her arms away every time she makes the attempt.

You really don't want to hurt her, but she's getting carried away.

"Fuck you!" she shouts. "You promised!"

"I didn't promise you THIS! Get off of me! I'm warning you--"

"Put it on! I'm your mistress and I'm ORDERING you!"

"Arrrg--" you heave and push her back, off of you. She falls prone as well, her body pointed in the opposite direction to you, panting and heaving, clutching at her wound.

"Goddamn it," you say. "I didn't want to do that..."

You sit up. Reaching over, you try to help her. But she waves you off.

Clambering to her knees on her own, she looks at you with fiery eyes.

"Put it on."

"No. There are other things we can--"

"Put it on!!" she yells.

You feel yourself blasted back by some powerful, alien force. Your spine and arms are pinned against the headboard, immobilized. You try to move but it's no use.

Rose isn't even touching you -- how is this possible?

You begin to feel genuine fear.

Rose's shocked expression says she understands what just happened as little as you do.

"Alabaster?" she asks. "Are you all right?"

"I-- I can't move--"

Rose grins. "How sweet of you..." she murmurs to herself. She must think you're acting again.

"No..." you say "Rose, I'm serious. I can't--"

Rose ignores you and loops the bra straps over your shoulders, securing the garment in place against your flat chest. You think it looks ridiculous on you, but Rose coos in delight when she leans back to admire it.

"Rose... for the love of GOD..."

"Shut up." She takes the panties next, holding them by her thumbs and hiking them slowly up your straining legs. No matter how you try, you can't make yourself so much as budge an inch.

Next comes the sundress. You groan with humiliation as she forces it down around you. The fabric is light and airy, barely-there, and yet at the same time it clings persistently to your skin. The underwear is plainly visible underneath.

"So cute," Rose says. "You're such a cute little slave."

The hem of the dress barely covers your ass as you sit there pinned against the headboard. You could just about die from embarrassment and shame.

But then, as suddenly as it came, whatever magic force has you held in place dissipates. You fall forward, doubling over.

"Look..." Rose says. She directs your attention to a mirror mounted on her dresser. Clasping you by the hand, she helps you to your feet and makes you look at yourself.

Cute...?

You look like a complete fucking tramp.

Rose hugs you from behind, running her hands up and down your stomach as she admires your reflection.

"The perfect outfit for my perfect pet," she says. She really means it, you can tell.

You grimace.

But even though you're free now, you don't take it off.

"See?" Rose says. "You're so hard..."

You glance down. And it's true. Your dick is fat and throbbing, straining against the silky fabric of the panties. You can see the bulge it makes in your dress. You feel your crotch slowly wetting the girly outfit with precum.

"You'll lie back down, right? You won't fight me anymore, right? This can be fun for you, too..."

Well. You're already wearing the damn thing. You might as well go with it, right?

Besides, if you resist, who knows what crazy Carrie shit Rose will pull next.

This is the rationalization you tell yourself, anyway.

You lie back on the bed. Rose secures the handcuffs a second time, looping the chain through a wooden slat in the headboard, your wrists resting on the crown of your head.

"Wait here," she laughs, her voice low.

You watch, growing anxious, as Rose roots through the nightstand. Her fleshy little butt sways this way and that, straining against the confines of her bikini bottom, as she searches the drawers. After a few moments, she finds what she's looking for.

With a triumphant laugh, she produces an enormous, flesh-colored, two-sided dildo set in a black harness.

The rubber toy's business end is fat and real-looking, covered with veins and topped by an angry crimson head. The dildo's other side is smaller. Squatting down on her heels, Rose inserts this smaller end inside herself, sighing with perverse contentment as the appendage penetrates her sopping cunt.

She wiggles her hips in an obviously masturbatory way for about half a minute, before finally reaching back and securing the harness around her waist.

The dildo is an almost perfect match for her milky skin tone, and when she stands, arching her back just a little bit, it looks like she has a real, pulsing cock of her own.

"What are you doing?" you ask, but you're at least 95% certain what the answer is.

Rose saunters over to the bed and props one of her feet on the mattress, leaning in to rub her new cockhead against your face. You grimace, shutting your eyes and turning away, but Rose is persistent. She slaps your cheeks over and over with her dick, making wet little plops.

Rose's cock smells just like her pussy does. Whitney must have used the toy on her very recently, you realize.

The scent of Rose's arousal coating the fleshy tool in your face makes the illusion that it's a real penis all the more convincing. You can feel your brain slowly turning to mush inside your head.

And yet -- you can break free anytime you want. If you just pulled hard enough, you could stop this... why aren't you stopping this?

Staring down at you, Rose is the perfect image of depraved sadism.

"Lick it," she commands.

You lick it. You can taste her on it, the same sugary taste as before, and it isn't unpleasant. If you close your eyes, you can almost pretend you're eating pussy instead of sucking cock. But as Rose pushes herself past your teeth and to the back of your throat, that illusion proves short-lived. You gag around her, choking and sputtering. Drool runs freely down your chin.

"That's right-- suck it," she grunts. "suck it. Suck my fucking cock, you whore."

You can feel every vein, ridge, and curve of Rose's cock with your lolling tongue as she rapes your gagging throat. You can can feel the piss slit and the fat tube on the underside that cum would pump from, if it were real.

Rose runs her fingers through your hair, pulling you closer, burying your nose against her pubis. Her cock bends to the shape of your tightening, asphyxiating throat.

Is this what it felt like for her, when the roles were reversed?

You hate this -- you hate everything about it -- but at the same time you can't deny the spreading warmth in your chest, or the small pride you feel every time she sighs and moans.

All things considered-- being Rose's personal cocksucker is oddly satisfying.

She pulls away from your mouth. Your cheeks and lips smack lewdly as she does so, a streamer of saliva linking your mouth to her cockhead. She puts a pinky to her mouth and winks.

"Thanks for getting it ready," she says.

"W-what?"

The old terror comes back as Rose climbs onto the bed and circles around to your feet. You kick weakly at her, but for reasons you still can't understand, you put no force behind it. Rose slaps at your kicking legs, laughing cruelly. She grabs your ankles and slings them over her shoulder to pin them in place. Using her free hand, she reaches past the hem of your sundress and grips your panties.

"Stop--" you plead. "That's enough-- that's enough... s-stop..."

"Shut up," she says. "You want this. You're fucking ASKING for it... it's your fault for getting me so horny..."

With a single savage motion, she tears your slutty underwear away, shredding the fabric. The elastic band hangs uselessly around your waist, covering nothing.

Rose spreads your legs and scootches her butt forward, her glans poking at your asscrack. She hunches over you, her giant, soft tits smushing opporesively against your chest.

She kisses you, her mouth hanging open, and lets her intoxicating saliva flow into your waiting mouth. Swiping a strand of hair behind her ear, Rose murmurs tenderly, "I'm going to fuck you."

"N-no-- don't--"

"You're a man, aren't you? If you want me to stop, then stop me!"

She leans back and grabs a bottle of baby oil from the nightstand. Uncapping the lid, she dumps a generous amount over her dick and into the crack of your ass.

"Well?" she says. "If you don't stop me, that means you must want it."

"Rose..."

"I'm going to fuck away your manhood, Alabaster. You'll be my little sissy whore..."

Rose draws one of your legs up, holding it perpendicular to your body and grabbing it for support.

And then she surges forward, raping away your virginity forever.

"Ah--!!" you cry, choking on your pain.

She holds on tight as she humps herself into your quivering asshole. Inch by inch the cock disappears into your anus.

"Slut," she grunts through gritted teeth. "Little fucking faggot. You took it on the very first try. Don't pretend you didn't want it."

Rose gyrates her hips, burying herself to the hilt and riding out her own orgasm. Your anal muscles loosen and suddenly you feel a delicious tickling sensation from deep inside -- Rose's dick scraping against your prostate.

You can't help yourself. You moan, high pitched and girlish. Your precum leaves a huge, dark stain on the fabric of your sundress. The entire room stinks like cock now. You feel close to fainting.

Rose reaches into the nightstand drawer and pulls out a short tube connected to a rubber bulb. She secures the open end of the tube to the base of her raping fuck-shaft, smiling evilly.

"What... what is that?" you ask, watching through slitted eyes.

"Mm, this is a deluxe model. It can ejaculate~"

Your breathing goes erratic and -- even though you don't have a pulse -- you can feel the flow of your blood increase. Your whole body feels warm.

"Of course," Rose says, "I would never cum inside you if you didn't want me to." She licks your face in one long, nasty motion. "That would be rape, after all."

You stifle a groan of frustration. Rose fucks herself in and out of you with a quickened pace, still hugging your leg for support.

"But--" Rose continues, panting with exertion, "if you asked me to... that would be a completely different story, wouldn't it?"

You whimper pathetically. Your ass stretches around her cock and produces lubrication of its own, like a little pussy. The head of Rose's dick rubs back and forth across your throbbing prostate, milking a steady stream of translucent precum from you. You wish you could reach down and jerk yourself off to a mind-breaking orgasm, but all you can do is lie there helplessly as Rose has her way with you.

Soon, all you can think about is the image of Rose emptying herself inside of you, pumping you full of her girlcum. You feel yourself losing your grip on sanity. You feel yourself surrendering to the violation.

You feel yourself becoming a girl.

"A-all right..." you say. "I-if that's what you want... c-cum inside of me..."

"Uggh!!" Rose cries in triumph. She squeezes the bulb, and you feel a surge of warm, viscous liquid pouring into your abused boy-pussy, washing over your twitching prostate. She howls, and her entire plump body trembles with her climax as she squeezes the bulb again and again. Her cum spurts into you like a dribbling hose.

When it's over, Rose pulls out of your ass with a sick squelch. A rivery deluge of thick white cream pours out after her. Your gaping ass oozes with her cum.

"Look at that," Rose sneers. "Forced to wear a dress, pumped full of jizz by a woman... and your dick is still so hard... you're a fucking mess. Absolutely pathetic."

"Please..." you beg, all of your pride and dignity destroyed. "Can you let me cum, too?"

"Welllll--" Rose puts a finger to her lips, pretending to mull it over. After a moment, she says: "since you've been such a good pet, I guess you deserve a reward."

You sigh with relief.

"But," she continues, "you have to ask the proper way." She tugs on her cock, smearing the cum and ass juices all over, making the fleshy shaft gleam in the sunlight. "You have to say: 'please let this pathetic cumdump piggy have an orgasm.'"

She stares at you, waiting for you to reply, stroking languidly on her still-leaking cock. Her enormous tits, wide hips, and hard, cummy cock -- she's like some ancient goddess of sexual pleasure gazing down at a puny mortal.

For now, for better or worse, you are Rose's plaything.

You swallow hard and close your eyes. "P-please-- please let this pathetic, c-cumdump piggy have an orgasm... please, mistress, please let your slave cum..."

She never told you to say that last part.

Rose claps her hands together and practically swoons she's so delighted. "Very, VERY good," she says. "For that, piggy gets to cum today."

Rose hikes your dress up and holds her mouth open over your twitching cock. She lets herself salivate freely, drenching your already well-lubricated dick with her drool. The sight of it is obscene and incredibly erotic but offers no relief.

She lets this continue for a minute, two, ten. You start to go out of your mind with need. She doesn't so much as lick you in that whole time-- she just lets the warm liquid flow over you, your shaft, your balls, you ass. And you really are a mess: a squirming, fucked-out, wet, lewd mess.

Finally Rose takes you in her mouth, raking her searing hot tongue over the head.

You cum almost immediately, your ass clenching, feeling oddly empty. You blast your cum into Rose's mouth in burst after deliciously agonizing burst. Her eyes bulge, but she doesn't pull away until you finish emptying yourself inside her of her completely.

When she pulls back, she licks her chops. "Good piggy," she says. "You're such a darling cunt, Alabaster."

Rose follows you like a hurt puppy as you pace around the bedroom, tossing off the tattered remains of your clothes and stepping back into your swim trunks.

"You're-- you're a rape person!" you stammer. "You're a person who does rapes! That is not okay!"

"What's gotten into you?" Rose asks. She sounds sincerely confused. "I thought you wanted it--"

"What part of 'no, stop' don't you understand? No means no!"

"But you're stronger than God now. If you really wanted to stop me--"

You gesticulate wildly. "I couldn't move! I told you that!"

"...That was for real?" Rose shakes her head, jaw slightly open.

You head toward the door, but Rose is standing between you and the threshold. You nudge her aside. She wheels around, reaching out for you. "Wait," she says. "I'm sorry!"

You ignore her, going out the door and down the hallway. Your step has a slight limp to it for reasons you'd rather not get into. Behind you, Rose's footsteps follow. She catches up and grabs you by the hand.

"I'm sorry!" she says again. "Okay? Please believe me!"

You turn and make your voice low so no one will overhear. "I trusted you," you spit.

"I didn't mean to hurt you. If you want to punish me-- all right? You can! Do whatever you want!" She draws your hand to her tummy, pushing it to the soft, cool cotton of her bandage. With her other hand, she curls your fingers inward so they form a loose fist.

"Y-you can hurt me as much as you want..."

You pull your hand back. "I already told you. I don't want to hurt you."

Rose's lips tremble. She covers her face with both hands, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms. Her knees knock together. She falls to her butt, legs splayed to either side.

She starts to cry.

"I'm awful... I'm the worst ever..."

"Rose--"

"I'm sorry!-- I'm sorry... I'm sorry, I'm sorry--"

She repeats the apology over and over until the syllables become blurred together, unintelligible.

You sigh.

You help her to her feet and lead her back to her bedroom.

You sit her, still sobbing, on the edge of the bed. You get down on your knees in front of her so your faces are level. You hold her by the shoulders and stroke them until she can bring her crying under control.

"We need to lay down some ground rules," you say.

Rose sniffles. "Like what?"

"First of all, no more putting things in my butt. My butt is off limits. It is not a repository for objects of any make or model. Am I getting through to you?"

Rose wrings her hands in her lap and stares at them ashamedly.

"Second of all, we need a safeword."

Rose looks up at you, her face still wet with tears, but her expression is suddenly a little hopeful. "Why?" she asks.

"So no can mean yes, and the safeword can mean no. Try to keep up."

She sniffles again, thinking. After a moment, she says: "how about 'green'?"

"What? That's stupid."

"--Excuse me? What's so stupid about that?"

"First of all, what if one of us happens to say it by chance during sex--"

Rose cuts you off. "When the hell would you ever say the word 'green' during sex?"

"It happens more often than you think! And besides, 'green' means go, not stop. If anything it should be 'red'."

"You're way more likely to say the word 'red' during sex!" Rose says. All her contrition is gone, replaced by annoyance.

"What? Why would you say 'red'--"

"Why would you say 'green'?! Red is a more sexual color, and way more likely to come up!" Rose gestures with her hands, acting out hypothetical play-rapes: "'I'll beat you red,' 'I'll choke you until you turn red'--"

"That's stupid. No one talks like that."

"Fuck you! Maybe I talk like that!"

"If you talk like that, you should stop."

"God. You are such an asshole. I don't need you mansplaining to me--"

"Oh my sweet Jesus," you groan.

"Fine," Rose says. She folds her arms and kicks her feet impatiently. "No colors. What, then?"

"How about 'Stackleford'?" you ask. "That's got to be the least sexual word in history."

Rose dry heaves. "Oh God," she says. "If I heard that fatso's name during sex I think my pussy would dry out forever."

"Stop being such a fat-shamer," you say.

You think for a moment.

"Tenderness," you say. "The safe word should be 'tenderness.'"

Rose blinks. A warm smile slowly spreads across her face. "Tenderness," she repeats. "I like it."

A few moments later, Rose sniffles back the last of her tears, wiping her face with the back of her wrist.

"...Do you mind if I ask why are you're just sitting there?" she asks.

"Err-- my butt kind of hurts. I'm resting."

A silence settles over the room.

"And why are you just sitting there?" you ask back.

"My wound hurts. I'm resting..."

You lean your forehead against her knees and stay there like that for what feels like a long time.

When you finally have the strength to go out on the beach, Vivian and Whitney are still working on their sand castle. The structure is intricate, mind-bogglingly so -- featuring spires, domes, and minarets almost as tall as you, the entire thing looking more like a sand metropolis than a sand castle. Vivian and Whitney, using toothpicks, carefully carve windows into a cathedral. Their knees and stomachs are flecked with grains of wet sand: they've been working hard.

Cerise is fueling one of Gustav's motorboats. Her black two-piece is conservative, for a bikini, but accentuates her voluptuous form. The deep black makes a stark contrast to her near-albinism.

It's hard to think of your sister, petulant Cerise, as a woman -- but she certainly is.

Through the window of Gustav's kitchen, you see Ms. Carte and Mom speaking to one another. Ms. Carte leans against the counter, arms folded, wearing a lab coat over her swimsuit: an odd combination. Mom is wearing an apron and not much else. The two women seem to be getting along -- for now.

Rose is still resting in her bedroom. The strain of raping you made her wound open up a little bit. Karma.

Gustav, apparently, is servicing one or both of the Spancers down in his lab. Or maybe they're servicing him. You noticed several issues of bodybuilder magazines in his living room and you somehow doubt pudgy Gustav reads them for exercise tips.

Dad is in the living room as well, reading the paper, passive as usual.

>What will you do?

[X] Go see Cerise

You head over to the docks and ask Cerise what she's doing.

"Going into town," she says, screwing the cap back onto the bright red gas can. She hands it off to you, pushing it unceremoniously into your hands. "You mind bringing that back to the boathouse over there?"

"Oh, sure. No problem. Quick question, though: when did I become your maid?"

"The day you were born. It's the younger brother's duty to serve his older sister. Haven't you learned anything yet?"

You grumble, setting the cannister down on the weathered wooden dock. "Anyway-- I'd like to come with you. If her highness doesn't mind, that is. I sort of need to get away from this place for awhile."

Cerise quirks an eyebrow. "I'm just going to the grocery store for a few things. I'll be gone for a few minutes, tops."

You climb aboard the boat and sit in the passenger seat. "Let's go, then."

Cerise gets in as well and turns the key in the ignition. She pulls a sunhat from under the driver's seat and puts it on. The floppy brim waves in the wind as she spirits you to the main island.

"Let me guess," you say as Cerise secures the boat to the dock at your destination. "Rose taught you how to drive that?"

"No, Whitney did," she says. "I try to stay away from Rose. Bitch gives me the heebie-jeebies."

You walk side-by-side down a sandy footpath, sticking to the cooling shade of the surrounding palm trees where possible. When you reach Gustav's pickup in a nearby parking lot, you realize that you don't have a licensed driver with you, even though Cerise has the keys. Town is a couple kilometers away -- bit of a walk.

>What will you do?

[X] Carry Cerise

You walk down the highway together, following the curve of the road around the island.

Your tropical dreamscape quickly becomes oppressive. The sizzling tarmac sucks in heat like a magnet, and you no longer have access to the cover of palm trees. The cloudless summer air is stagnant and sticky with humidity, cloying. Your body quickly becomes drenched with flowing beads of sweat.

Augmentations or not, 100 Fahrenheit at 80% humidity is still awful.

Cerise is having a much worse time of it, though. Her pace becomes sluggish and adopts a drunken swagger. Her entire body glistens with perspiration and her face is ruddy from the heat.

"This... really... really... REALLY sucks," Cerise pants, summing it up.

You can see the edge of town on the distance now, but you still have a kilometer or more to go and Cerise seems close to fainting. She may be suffering from a low-level heat stroke. You do the only thing you can think of: you sweep her into your arms and carry her.

At first, Cerise is so delirious from the sweltering heat that she doesn't seem to realize she isn't on solid ground anymore. Her feet sway back and forth in the air as if she's still trying to walk. Finally, she glances around, gathering her bearings again.

"I don't need any help," she says. Her voice is weak and slightly hoarse.

"Yeah. Sure. Weren't you just complaining that it's the little brother's duty to serve his older sister?"

"Well-- yes, but--"

"Then shut up and accept my service."

You grab her on either side of the waist and haul her higher still, lifting her over your head with ease.

"Whoa," Cerise says, despite herself. "You're strong--"

You park her butt on your shoulders. When you release her, she wobbles a bit before grabbing frantically onto your head for support. You hook your arms over her soft thighs and piggyback her down the road.

"This is lame," Cerise complains. "This is so unbelievably lame. What am I, six years old?"

"You act like it sometimes."

"Tch-- you're one to talk."

As you walk, you're acutely aware of Cerise's sweat-damp crotch pressing warmly into your head. You can feel the softness of her mound against you. In only swim trunks, you try your level best not to let yourself become aroused.

"...Thank you," Cerise says, quietly, after a lengthy silence. She squeezes her thighs against your neck in the best imitation of a hug she can give from this position.

"Do you like it here?" you ask.

You feel her shrug. "I could learn to live with it. It beats being hunted by a billionaire. And I think I'd be happy as long as I'm with--"

She coughs and trails off.

"Love you too, Cerise."

She raps you on the top of your head with her knuckles.

It isn't long before you arrive. The main stretch of town has a number of businesses. These include restaurants, gas stations, massage parlors, and -- of course -- the supermarket. There are some stray specialty businesses, too: a pet shop, a gift shop, a comic book store, and others. A sign points the way to Koror's public park and another points the way to Koror's largest public beach. The Japan-Palau friendship bridge is visible to your right. It leads to the less populous north island and has some comfortable-looking shade underneath the trusses.

>Where will you go?

[X] Japan-Palau Friendship Bridge

"Let's rest for a second," you tell her, taking cover in the bridge's shadow.

"Only for a second," Cerise allows. "Until I catch my breath again."

Underneath the bridge, there's a patch of cool-looking grass and a local vendor selling ice cream from a pushcart. You carry Cerise to the cart first and look over the laminated menu taped to its front.

"So? What do you want?" you ask Cerise.

"Nothing," Cerise says. "We're supposed to be going to the store, remember. Don't start treating this like some kind of date--"

"A bottle of water," you tell the vendor. "And two soft-serves."

"What kind?" he asks gruffly.

"We prefer vanilla."

You pay the man. You hand Cerise the water and she sucks it down greedily, draining 500 mL in a few sucking gulps. When she tosses the bottle away, you pass the waffle cones up to her for safe keeping.

You take her to the grassy knoll and set her gently down. When you sit beside her, she hands you your cone.

Cerise leans back, running her free palm through the damp soil and enjoying the view of the ocean this vista affords. She licks lazily at her treat, drawing swirled tracks through the cream. Her way of eating is lazy, like a kitten, as she enjoys this dessert she insisted she didn't want. The low sloshing of waves against the shore and far-off cries of birds are the only sounds.

"How do you feel?" you ask, biting into your cone instead of savoring it the way Cerise does. You were never one for patience.

"I think I'll be okay." She grins at you and runs an index finger down the slope of your nose. It comes away with a dollop of stray ice cream that had been smeared there. She sucks her past her lips and licks it.

"You've got cream on you," she says sarcastically, now that it's gone.

In retaliation, you smush the tip of the cone lightly against her nose. She jumps from the sudden shock of cold against her skin.

"You've got cream on you," you say.

"Asshole!" she laughs, swatting you on the shoulder.

"I'm getting that a lot recently," you say. You repay her earlier gesture in kind, wiping away the soft-serve and licking it from your thumb.

Cerise makes a sour face that soon unfurls itself into a devilish grin.

"Look over there!" she says, pointing. And you fall for it, like the sucker you are.

Having suitably distracted you, Cerise pushes her ice cream cone to your face -- directly against your lips.

"What the--" you stammer, looking back at her.

Cerise leans in, supporting herself on one hand, her chest hanging over your lap. "You've got cream on you," she says.

Cerise presses her mouth to yours. You tense, then relax, and Cerise's searching tongue laps up the sugary cream. Her tongue is small but it warms your chilled lips, wetting them. You hug each other, and you can feel her ice cream cone pressing into your bare back, melting and leaving a sticky trail, as Cerise loses herself in the kiss.

You don't mind. You lose yourself in the kiss, too. Cerise's mouth is tender, and a perfect fit for your tongue.

It occurs to you how strange this is, to display this level of affection -- in public no less-- with your own sister. But it feels right. Under the shade of this monument to Japanese friendship, you mingle tongues with your onee-san and nothing in the whole wide world could be more perfect.

You kiss for half an hour or longer, swimming in waves of pulsing pleasure as your hum and moan and caress each other.

The sun starts to dip lower in the sky, and you remember yourselves. when you lean back, Cerise's eyes are slits and her mouth hangs open, strands of spittle suspended between her teeth.

Your ice cream cones are completely melted by now -- nothing more than a runny white goop in between your fingers. You and Cerise toss the cones away. Acting wordless but in tandem, you put your fingers into each other's mouths.

As your push past Cerise's full, plump lips, you prod around with your forefinger, feeling the delicate texture of her swirling tongue and her pouting cheeks. She closes her eyes and enjoys the sensation of your curious fingers. Her pearly teeth scrape just so slightly against you.

At the same time, Cerise scissors her fingers inside your mouth, splaying them at various angles to allow your tongue access to all the nooks and crevices between them where the ice cream seeped.

It feels like you're taking possession Cerise's body, completely, and she of yours -- each claiming the other for your own.

Her fingers are small and spindly. Your sensitive tongue can feel the ridges of her fingerprints, can taste the hint of her salty sweat hiding beneath the saccharine cream. You suckle and nurse on her fingers like it's the last little bit of sustenance you will ever have.

"Alabaster," Cerise whines when you pull your hand away from her mouth. Her voice drips with need and frustration, but also trepidation. "I-- I don't want to-- I mean-- not here-- a-and we should really be going--"

You pull her hand from your mouth and audibly kiss each of her dainty knuckles in turn. She moans and arches her back, whining once more: "We should go to the store... they're waiting for us back at Gustav's--"

>What will you do?

[X] Go to the grocery store

"We can go," you say. "But-- I'm kind of..." You glance down at your crotch, directing Cerise's view there as well.

"I see," she says, staring down at the sizable bulge. You both watch it for a moment, as if it's a lurking monster waiting to strike.

Finally Cerise grins up at you and pecks you on the nose. "My pervy kid brother..." She takes off her sunhat and hands it to you.

Walking down the busy main road in Koror, trying to look natural while holding a sunhat to your crotch, is... a bit embarrassing, to say the least.

It takes a lot longer for your erection to subside than it normally would, with Cerise's warm hand nestled inside yours, your fingers clasped tightly together.

The supermarket is blessedly cool. You sigh with relief as you step through the automatic doors, a pressurized blast of central air conditioning washing over you.

Cerise grabs a tiny cart and pulls a folded piece of paper out of her cleavage, damp with sweat. She unfolds it, revealing a shopping list in Mom's curly-cue handwriting.

Unfortunately, as modernized as Palau is, it's still a remote island in the south Pacific -- the selection isn't that great and the prices are obscene. As you walk the aisles up and down, Cerise complains: "they don't even have half the things on this list..."

You make do with what you can find. Surprisingly, the fresh produce section is the most robust, with bins full of lime, lemon, avocado, carrots, and others. Though half of the refrigerated produce stands are dominated by a single type of leafy tuber you've never seen before. Signs advertise: "Taro. 4 corms $1"

By far, it's the cheapest item in the store.

"What the fuck is corm?" Cerise asks.

"I don't know," you admit.

"I thought you were the quiz bowl genius here."

You pick one up. It's hard and lumpy like a potato. "They must be local grown. It wouldn't hurt to try a couple," you say. "Besides, we can feed the leaves to Smatters."

You put a few corms in the cart and move on to the next stand, which holds cucumbers. Now these, you're familiar with. You grab a nice fat one and wave it around in front of Cerise's face.

"If you've been missing your toys..." you say suggestively.

"Oh my God, Alabaster. You're so fucking juvenile."

You chuckle cruelly and set the cucumber down again.

But Cerise murmurs, "...I didn't tell you to put it back..."

You gawk at her, surprised. She blushes and looks away, rubbing her elbow.

"Well-- which one do you want?" you manage.

"Erm..." she shifts her weight to the sides of her feet. "Compare them against yourself, I guess."

You examine the cucumbers and pick the one that you figure most closely mirrors your own dimensions.

The odd perversity of this -- choosing a sex toy for your older sister that feels most like your cock -- makes you require the cover of her sunhat again.

As Cerise, still blushing, pushes the cart down another aisle, you happen to notice a poster on the far wall, next to one of the fruit stands.

>PALAU INDEPENDENCE DAY CELEBRATION!

>OCT 4. 10 AM - 10 PM

>KOROR PUBLIC BEACH

>10 AM: Parade

>12 PM: Dedication of Roman Tmetuchl Memorial Statue -- Presidential Speech

>2 PM: Ms. Palau Beauty Contest

>4 PM: Windsurfing Competition

>6 PM: Independence Day Feast

>9 PM: Fireworks

October 4th is four days from now. You make a mental note of the upcoming festivities.

The beauty contest in particular seems interesting, but you're not sure who you know, if anyone, you'd want to compete.

Glancing away from the sign, you look down one of the aisles, toward the head of the store, and see Cerise at the checkout stands.

>What will you do?

>12 PM: Dedication of Roman Tmetuchl Memorial Statue -- Presidential Speech - Rose

>4 PM: Windsurfing Competition - Whitney

>9 PM: Fireworks - Cerise

You know that Rose will enjoy the Presidential speech -- maybe if you're suave enough, you can sneak her backstage to meet the President himself, and make her feel important. It might heal some of the rift that recently developed between you.

Whitney would love the windsurfing if she competed, but you'll have to convince her to take part -- she doesn't seem too hot on sports these days.

And of course, the night's final event is a no-brainer.

The other events, you're not certain about, and need to mull over.

Who will you take to the parade?

[X] Vivian

[ ] Kaa-san

[ ] Ms. Carte

Who will you take the feast?

[ ] Vivian

[X] Kaa-san

[X] Ms. Carte

Who will you suggest participates in the beauty contest?

[ ] Vivian

[X] Kaa-san

[X] Ms. Carte

[ ] Whitney

[ ] Rose

[ ] Cerise

[X] You

After Cerise pays for the groceries, you step outside with her and hail a cab. It drives you back to the docks where Gustav's boat is parked. From there, you make the journey home.

When you pull up to the private island, the beach is empty. All that remains as evidence of the day's activities is Whitney and Vivian's incredibly complex and humungous sand castle. The tide is getting depressingly close to it -- it will be gone in just a few hours. What a shame.

You take the gas canister from earlier and haul it to the boathouse where it belongs as Cerise gathers up her shopping bags from the back of the boat.

The tiny shack is musty and filled with various tools resting precariously on old wooden shelves. Motes of dust spin complexly through the air, illuminated by sunlight streaming in through slats on the roof.

You use your foot to slide the gas can underneath one of the shelves, next to a tightly coiled garden hose. As you do so, you hear the boathouse door creak open and then closed again, then the rustling noise of plastic bags being set on the wood floor.

You turn around. Cerise is standing before you. She's holding the cucumber you picked out for her.

"Is this... really like yours?" she asks.

"Pretty close," you say, feeling a thrill of adrenaline course through you.

"It seems so much bigger than I remember... fatter..." Cerise says. She cocks her head and stares at it from the side, transfixed. "Holding it in my hand like this is-- different, somehow."

Despite how dusty this little cabin is, you can actually smell her growing arousal, mingled with the slightly sour odor of her sweaty body.

>What will you do?

[X] Compare and contrast

"We could do a side-by-side comparison if you want."

Cerise's eyes sparkle in the dim half-light of the boathouse.

"H-here?" she says.

"You're the one who came in here asking about it," you say. "And you closed that door for a reason, didn't you?"

Cerise twists around to look at the closed boathouse door. "I guess I did," she says, turning back to face you.

"Go on, then," you tell her. "Take a look."

Cerise approaches you. Her hand is trembling as she reaches out and hooks a finger in the elastic of your trunks. The back of her hand brushes against your hips as she tugs the shorts slowly down. The contact tickles. And knowing that it's her hand -- thinking about what's going to happen -- makes your member twitch, filling with blood.

The trunks slide past your rapidly hardening penis. Free of its confines it springs up, bouncing obscenely in the warm air.

Cerise gasps when she sees it, holding her hand to her mouth. Your shorts crumple around your ankles and you step out of them, pressing your body to hers. Both of you are slick with sweat.

"I showed you mine..." you say. You undo the string on her bikini. She stands rigid as the garment splits apart and falls to the ground.

The tiny boathouse reeks of your collective horniness. The musk of your cock mingles with the womanly scent of her leaking pussy and makes a heady odor that almost overpowers you.

You hold her by her slender shoulders and kiss her -- not the gentle kiss from under the bridge, but forcefully, roughly, forcing your tongue into her mouth. She accepts it all, breathing in your passion. You pet her lustrous hair and cradle her delicate neck. She sighs in pain as your hand rubs against a raw spot on the back of her neck -- the beginning of a sunburn.

Cerise goes to her knees. She lays one palm flat against your calf, and with the other she juxtaposes the cucumber to your pulsing shaft.

Her eyes dart back and forth between the two.

"I think I did pretty good," you say. "Don't you?"

Cerise takes her free hand and runs a forefinger across the length of your cock. You revel in a delicious but frustratingly brief burst of carnal pleasure.

"It even has the same little curve to it," she says. Her breath comes out hot against your aching cock.

"I... want to test something..." she says. She leans her neck way back, baring the tiny, vulnerable, and pale hollow of her collarbone. Opening wide, she slides the cucumber past her pink lips and into her yawning mouth, coating the vegetable with her saliva. She pushes it back, inch by inch, as far as she can take it. She makes it about two thirds of the way, until she begins to gag and sputter around it. Her narrow throat bulges from the invading object.

When she pulls it out, it makes a delightfully nasty wet squelch.

You run your hands once more through her jet black hair, rubbing her from from forehead to crown and back again. She stares up at you, waiting for what comes next.

"I-- I think I'm losing my mind..." she says.

"Me too..."

You buck your hips forward, touching your cockhead to her lips. She parts her mouth and lets you in.

The warmth and wetness sends shudders up your spine. Cerise's mouth is better than a million cocksleeves, better than any mouth or any pussy you've ever had. Her saliva, her limber tongue, her smooth cheeks -- and her eyes that never, not for a second, look away from yours -- it's paradise.

You let Cerise control the pace, simply petting her as she does the work. She bobs her head, taking you in slowly, almost agonizingly so. At the same time, you see her reach down and rub the cucumber against her sopping pussy, letting her the cream from her labia run down its length.

When Cerise has your shaft as deep as she can tolerate, your glans resting against the back of her tongue and her clenching gullet, she rises to her haunches and penetrates herself with the makeshift toy.

"Mmfff~~" she moans around you, the vibration traveling through your manhood in ripples. She wags the tip of her tongue, just barely brushing it against your balls, as she humps herself against the cucumber that has become the vehicle of your ersatz incest.

There's something lovably perverted and yet heart-rendingly pure about this. Cerise's needful cunt makes an audible sound -- 'schlick' is an appropriate onomatopoeia -- as she slides it in and out of herself at an increasingly erratic pace. So too does her cocksucking produce truly filthy noises that make you grit your teeth and grunt as she violates her own throat with your leaking prick.

But the way she stares into your eyes, as if looking into your very soul -- there's something still sisterlike underneath the animal desire, a bond between the two of you different from anything else. You love your older sister. She loves her younger brother. And because of that, you're about to cum directly in her throat.

Who said you're not a romantic?

"Cerise!" you cry. "Cerise, I'm going to cum!"

"Mmf-- mmff!" she mumbles. The tone sounds like encouragement, and her eyes smolder impishly, so you decide this is the all-clear. As Cerise vaults off the cliff and into her own messy orgasm, spraying her juices all across the ancient wooden floor in geyserlike blasts around the fucking cucumber inside her, you paint her throat with every drop of semen you have. You cum inside of her, completely, in her mouth, down her throat, into her stomach. You empty yourself inside of her as you hold her by the ears and gaze longingly into your eyes.

"I love you!" you yell. "I love you!"

And her mumbled grunts are not intelligible as English speech, but you know she's saying the same thing back to you.

You fall back against one of the shelves, you knees slightly bent, as Cerise stands up. She pulls her bikini bottom back on. Wrapping the soiled cucumber in a spare plastic bag, she hides it amongst the rest of the day's shopping. Her kneecaps are scuffed and scraped from the unforgiving floor.

"Alabaster... has anyone told you..." she pauses, trying to find the right words.

"What?" you pant, still out of breath.

"That-- your dick is perfect. I mean, bizarrely perfect." She licks her lips. "It really is like a drug, or an addiction... the smell, the taste... shape, everything... it gets inside my head... it makes me feel like I'm falling."

This pleases you at first, but then it kind of disturbs you.

Does she love you for you, or for whatever crazy sex hormone you produce?

You wonder about that as you head back to Gustav's house together.

Once inside, Cerise goes to the kitchen to put away the shopping. Mom is also there, busy making dinner -- Gustav also, trying futilely to assist despite her protests. Ms. Carte is in the lab, according to Vivian, who's lying on her tummy in the living room. Her chin rests in her hands and she kicks her stockinged feet in the air, watching Palauan TV.

"What about Rose and Whitney?" you ask her next.

"Whitney is in her bedroom with Rose. I believe Whitney said something about tending to Rose's wounds. In as many words, that is."

>What will you do?

[X] Visit Ms. Carte

You descend the elevator and arrive in the underground facility. Most of the lights down here are off, casting the space in eerie shadow. At the end of a short hallway, one of the labs is aglow with amber light, and you figure that must be where Ms. Carte is. You step inside.

Ms. Carte has Spancer on a cold metal slab -- which of the two Spancers, you're not certain. His chest cavity is splayed open. She tinkers with his steel endoskeleton.

"Hello Alabaster," she says, not looking up from her work.

"Hi," you say sheepishly. You feel like you just walked in on something delicate and private, but Ms. Carte doesn't seem to mind. She still wears her odd lab coat and bikini combo that somehow makes her body seem even more tantalizing than usual.

Inching closer, you peer at the nasty business going on inside Spacer's chest. He lies there motionless -- turned off?. His insides are a bizarre mishmash of high-tech gadgetry and real, gory human innards.

"Is that what my insides look like, too?" you ask.

"Hmm?" Ms. Carte finally meets your gaze. "Sort of," she says. "Yours is slightly less extensive than Spancer here. A lot of your bones have been replaced, and some of your organs... I would say you're 40% synthetic."

"Which one is that?" you ask, motioning to Spancer.

"The original. The one you know best."

"Did-- did Spancer consent to this?"

"I'm afraid no one had any say in the matter. Darkbloom burned down his house just like he did with yours. Only Spancer and his family didn't make it out so safely. It was my fault, for getting him involved... I did what I could to save him."

She pinches Spancer's cheek. "Fun fact:" she says, grimly sarcastic. "You know that cyberskin stuff they use in your weird jerk-off toys?"

"How do you know about--"

"Spancer's skin is made from that now. His old epidermis was 99% burn tissue when I got a crack at him."

"HOW did you get a crack at him, anyway?"

"You do this sort of thing long enough, you learn how to rob morgues..."

Ms. Carte pulls her hands from Spancer and sets her tools on a nearby tin. She peels off her bloodied latex gloves and tosses them in a bin.

"I'm fine with you hanging out down here," she says, leaning against a benchtop, "but you seem weirded out."

"Obviously I'm weirded out," you say. "I mean, you just had your fingers playing ten-knuckle clusterfuck all up in my classmate's chest--"

"No. I mean in general. Is there something the matter?"

>What do you say?

[X] Ask about inability to move with Rose and about addictive cum

"This is kind of sensitive," you say. "But-- well, Rose raped me."

Ms. Carte shrugs. "Yeah. She's a rapey gal, that one. It'll happen."

You sigh and reformulate your words. "It's just that, when I tried to stop her-- I couldn't. I couldn't move at all. She pinned me against the wall without even touching me."

Ms. Carte blinks.

"Do you know what might cause that?" you ask. "Does my new body have some kind of override or something?"

Ms. Carte pulls a pack of cigarettes from her breast pocket and lights up. You quirk an eyebrow.

"Nervous tic," she says, shrugging. "It's been a long day." She crosses and uncrosses her ankles. She arches her back, blowing smoke lazy tendrils.

"No, Alabaster, your components have no external overrides. Certainly none Rose could activate without putting her fist down your throat, or up your ass, or something."

You grimace.

"So if she did anything at all," Ms. Carte continues, "it was simply scare you. Whatever paralysis you're describing would have to be purely psychosomatic."

"It was not psychosomatic," you insist, gritting your teeth. You feel yourself growing angry over the implication of weakness. "I know when I'm in control of my body and when I'm not."

Ms. Carte shakes her head and snubs her cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. "Well, that's the only rational explanation. There's no such thing as magic, Alabaster."

"Yeah? And what about my cum? That's pretty magical, isn't it?"

She narrows her eyes. "Not at all," she says. "I told you--"

The anger grows and coalesces inside of you, bubbling to the surface. You cut her off. "Do ANY of you-- you, Whitney, Vivian, Rose, Mom, Cerise... do any of you actually care about me, or are you just addicted to my semen?"

"I told you already. I chose this. And I warned you that you might wonder about these things when you found out the truth--"

"What about the others? Are they just addicts?"

"There's no such thing as magic and there's no such thing as psychic powers," Ms. Carte says. "What the others feel about you is something only they can tell you."

"But--" you start. "But you really love me."

"With all my heart." Her voice drops to a near-whisper, suddenly tender. "I've been watching you for years, you know. I think I loved you from the moment I saw you."

"I love you, too," you tell her, your voice catching with a new wave of emotion. You step forward, quaking with insecure need. You grab her roughly by the waist. She startles, throwing her hands back and clutching the edge of the benchtop for support. Her fingernails clack against the white polyurethane surface, and she lets out a little yelp of surprise. Nipping at her neck, you pull aside the tails of her lab coat and embrace her warm body.

"I love you," you repeat, kissing her up and down her neck. She cranes her head back to gives you better access as you bite and suck on her.

"Alabaster--" she groans, cupping your cheek in her hand as you suckle on her. "Alabaster, this isn't really the proper place-- OH!" she cries out and tenses as you give her a particularly hard nip.

"It has to be here," you breathe. "Right now. I need you. Right now."

Ms. Carte rocks back and forth on her heels. You can feel her trembling against you -- her taut stomach, her full breasts, her birdlike neck -- every part of her is shaking with trepidation and anxiety.

You pull her bikini bottom down. You slide her breasts free of the bikini top. They hang, round and slightly jiggling, perfectly smooth, right in front of your face. You suck her nipples into your mouth, each in turn, teasing them to hardness.

"Okay," Ms. Carte sighs, her tone filled with the sweet relief of relent. She kisses and nibbles on your ear, the only part of you that her searching mouth can find. "Fuck me. If you need me, fuck me. Make me yours. I need you, too."

You tug your cock free of of your shorts but don't bother pulling them down. With a low growl, you hunch yourself forward and seat your dick in the velvety folds of her pussy. You and Ms. Carte both let out a simper of ecstasy that echoes off the tiled walls.

You pump yourself inside of her, frantic and rough -- rougher than you've ever really been with her. You molest her tits, squeezing and plying them, running your hands across the underside, pushing them together, watching them bounce. You grab her cheeks in your hand and turn her face this way and that, planting wet kisses wherever you feel like. You push her tailbone against the hard edge of the benchtop and hump her with jackhammer thrusts. She does nothing to resist: she's like putty in your hands, giving herself to you completely.

Her pussy milks and massages you from the inside out. In the past month or so of enjoying her body, she's trained herself to please you with expert finesse. Her cunt is permanently embossed with the shape of your dick, and your dick only. It spasms and twitches all around you, a perfect, snug fit.

"That's right," you tell her, kissing her on the lips, thrumming your fingertips on her neck. You're out of your mind with crazed lust. "You're mine. You're mine, you're mine... only mine..."

"Cum inside me," she begs.

"So you are addicted to it--"

"No-- I'm addicted to you-- I'm addicted to YOU--" she runs a hand across your forehead in a maternal gesture of reassurance, still humping back against you. "And-- and I want you to cum inside of me..."

"Here it comes," you grunt. "Take it!!"

You fuck into her so hard that the force of it lifts her dainty feet from the floor. She stays there, pinned in midair between your erupting cock and the benchtop, as you pour her womb full of hot cum.

"Ahhh--" she sighs, her voice trilling from low to high and increasing in volume as her orgasm races through her. Eventually the orgasm becomes a senseless scream: "aaaaahhh--- aaaaaaahhhh--!!"

Your mouth clamps down on her neck and you gyrate your hips. Ropes of milky cream seep out around your member as you spurt and spurt endlessly into her cunt. She holds your face in both hands and accepts it all, the anger and love, the need and passion.

You want to take Ms. Carte to bed with you and retire early, to lie with her in the moonlight, just the two of you, but she insists on finishing her work with Spancer. She goes upstairs to shower and then right back to the basement lab.

You sit in the living room, still a little dazed, watching television. Whitney is sitting in a recliner here, and her breath smells suspiciously like Rose's special scent, even from a distance. The wolfish smile on her lips tells the story, too.

Gustav's doorbell rings, startling you from your reverie. You hurry to the foyer to answer the door -- so does Mom. You open the door first.

Standing there, of all people, is Rose's mother. She appears to be alone.

"What are YOU doing here?" Mom asks. There's a tone of disdainful recognition in that.

"Where is my daughter?" she asks.

"How--" you stammer. "How did you find--"

"Where is she?" Mrs. Mallory demands again.

>What do you do?

[X] Ask her to wait

"P-please wait here--" you stutter. "I'll, uh, go get her."

Whitney and Vivian watch with interest from the living room as Mrs. Mallory steps into the foyer. Mom shuts the door behind her.

"So you're Rose's mother," Mom says. "I should have known... oh God, my son is sleeping with a Mallory..."

You turn on your heels and speed-walk down the hall. Your head is swimming. You hear the murmurs of conversation between Mom and Mrs. Mallory through Gustav's wall. Mom's voice grows in timbre quite quickly as they speak, but Mrs. Mallory's remains firm and level. You can't make out any words.

Rose is lying on her bed when you burst through the door. She bolts upright, wincing in pain and clutching at her wound.

"What's going on?" she asks.

"Your-- your mother--" you begin, incoherent. "Your mother is here..."

"Oh Jesus. How on Earth did she find me?"

"That's what I was hoping you could tell ME. You didn't tell her that you're here?"

"Of course not!" She pounds her fist against the mattress. "I didn't tell anyone..." she looks around, growing nervous.

"Do you want to go see her?" you ask.

"NO-- I mean-- well, yes, of course, she's my mother, but... I just spent the past couple hours eating pussy and my stomach is slashed all to hell. I'm not really presentable, in this state..."

"Well she's kind of frantic, you know? She wants to see you right now."

Rose's brow furrows with worry.

>What do you do?

[X] Get her cleaned up

You root through Rose's dresser as she stumbles awkwardly to her feet. You can't find anything in her drawers that will cover her midsection, but in Whitney's dresser you find a tanktop and some spats that should work for your purposes.

Still, it would be better to dress her in two layers. Without thinking about it, you grab the soiled sundress from earlier as well.

Balling up the clothes under your armpit, you grab Rose by the wrist and tug her squealing through the hall, into the bathroom.

You toss the clothes on the ground and root through the medicine cabinet. You pull out a bottle of Listerine, unscrew the cap, and fill it with the mentholated green liquid.

"Gargle," you say, pressing the lid to her lips.

"Whuh-- pfff--" she grunts as you force the liquid into her mouth. She swills it back and forth, each cheek puffing out in turn.

Meanwhile, you rip off her bikini and try to pull on the spats. Rose spits into the sink and takes another dose of the mouthwash as she steps into each leghole. You tug the spandex garment up, but it's small on her, and the going is difficult. Her thighs bulge and look fat in the clinging material. Rose gropes for her toothbrush as you force the spats to her waist.

"Arms," you say. Rose stops brushing long enough to raise her arms over her head. Her mouth is foamy with toothpaste. You force the tank on first -- which covers practically nothing, tented out by her obscenely huge tits -- and then the cummy sundress.

"Thif iff thtained," Rose mumbles through her sudsy lips.

"Hold on," you say. You grab the shower head from the wall in the tub and turn the water on full blast.

"Wait!!" Rose cries. Too late. You blast her. She stands there shivering as you hose her down, cleaning the dress as best you can. She finishes brushing, pouting and shivering, as you do.

"Are we good?" you ask.

You spray some water into her open mouth so she can rinse the toothpaste out. She spits.

"I've been better," she says.

"Good. Let's go."

You lead the way down the hall. Both of you walk on tiptoes, sneaking, and listen to the growingly heated conversation in the front entryway.

"--should have known that you would be involved--" comes Mrs. Mallory's voice. "I knew that that Alabaster boy was bad news the second I saw him." Her tone is controlled but definitely angry.

"Excuse me? What did you just say about my son? That boy is a SAINT."

"A saint? A boy who slithered out of you is a saint? Excuse me while I die of laughter..."

"What the hell?" Rose murmurs, looking up at you. "Your mom and my mom know each other?"

"I guess," you say.

"Alabaster, I'm-- I'm a little nervous," Rose says. "What should we do?"

>What do you do?

[X] "Take my hand. It'll be okay."

"Take my hand," you say. "It'll be okay."

Rose looks up at you. "You promise?" she asks.

"I said I'd protect you, didn't I?"

You lace your fingers through hers. She clasps you tightly with her clammy hand, as if holding on for dear life.

"Alabaster-- I love you..." She flexes her little hand in yours, as if drawing courage from you by osmosis. "Whatever happens, I won't let her take me away."

"All right. Just try to keep calm. Remember that I'm here with you."

"Always?"

"Always."

Hand-in-hand and walking confidently, you step out into the foyer.

"Rose!" Mrs. Mallory cries, falling on bended knee and embracing her daughter. She tries to pull Rose away, but through all her tugging and pulling, Rose refuses to let go of your hand.

Finally, Mrs. Mallory relents. She leans back, looking Rose in the eye. "Are you all right?" she asks. "Are they hurting you?"

"I'm fine, mother--"

"Wait-- nevermind. Tell me at home. We can go right away."

"I am not going."

"--We can catch the first flight back. I already have your ticket. Your father will pick us up at LAX and--"

"I am not going," Rose says firmly.

Awkward silence.

"W-what are you saying?" Mrs. Mallory asks. "Your father and I have been worried sick. You can't just... just run away, for goodness sake. Think of what you're saying."

"I have thought about it." Her hand squirms, gripping yours more tightly. "I want to stay with these people."

"And you're just going to stay with them forever? What about your schooling? What about student council, what about Berkeley? Your father didn't donate $50,000 to the board of control for the hell of it. You're going to break his heart. Over some-- some whim--"

Rose glances away, unable to look her mother in the eye.

"You leave Rose alone!" Whitney yells from her seat in the living room. "She made her decision! Fuck off if you don't like it!"

You make a face at Whitney that tells her she isn't helping matters.

"Let's get away from these people for a minute," Mrs. Mallory says. "There's something we need to talk about in private. All right?"

"Can't you just let me be happy, for once in my life?" Rose asks, still not looking her in the eye.

"I want nothing less. But there are some things you need to know-- things I put off telling you for too long--" She looks at you, then back at your mom. "Give us five minutes alone. That's all I ask."

>What will you do?

[X] Ask Rose

You ask Rose how she feels about this.

"You won't change my mind," Rose tells her mother, by way of answering you.

"Then you have nothing to lose, do you?" she replies.

Rose lets go of your hand. "Five minutes," she says. "Then if you don't change my mind, you promise to leave me be?"

"Yes."

The two Mallorys step into the den, shutting the door behind them.

[ ] Listen in on the conversation.

[X] Talk about the situation with Mom and the others.

[ ] Custom.

"So you-- you know this woman?" you ask Mom.

"Yes," Mom replies, never taking her eyes off the door to the den. "Sara is my cousin."

"...Your first cousin?" you ask.

"Yes."

"Oh my God. So that means Rose is-- she's my--"

You pause, darting your eyes this way and that, trying to mentally map the family tree. "...Wait, what does that make Rose to me?"

Confused glances all around.

"Your second cousin," Whitney pipes from the living room. "Geez, is everyone here stupid?"

Even though you elected not to listen in, you do catch confusing snippets of a heated conversation from the other side of the door. Rose's mother says something about "looking for ages ... a crying spell (?) ..." to which Rose yells in a shrill voice, "enough with that bullshit!! How did you really find me?"

"She went over to the dark side," Mom continues. "Marrying a Mallory-- honestly, how could she?..."

"The Mallorys wield a considerable amount of political power in the state of California," Vivian offers. "Their activism has done much social good. I would hardly call them the dark side."

"That isn't the point!" Mom shouts. "They're evil! Totally irredeemable!"

"This is some Hatfields and McCoys shit..." Whitney murmurs, and you're surprised she knows enough history to make the reference.

"Why do you hate the Mallorys so much?" you ask.

"It's every Soliloquy's duty to hate the Mallorys," Mom says. "We're natural enemies, like cobras and mongoose, or wolves and sheep, or geese and dogs."

"--Geese and dogs are enemies?" Vivian asks.

"That's not the point!!" Mom yells. "Don't lose the script. Sara betrayed the Soliloquy clan by marrying into that family. Obviously her daughter has more Soliloquy in her than that skank ever did, which is why she was attracted to us..." [1]

"Don't flatter yourself," you say, smirking. "She was attracted to me, not you."

"That's not the point!!"

"How long does this feud go back?" you ask.

"Oh-- as long as anyone can remember, I suppose."

"Why?" you ask. "What started it?"

"That's not the--"

"Right, right. Not the point. Geez."

From the other side of the door, you hear snippets of Mrs. Mallory's impassioned pleas: "...before you had the chance to express ... exacerbated by proximity ... this Alabaster boy is the worst ..."

This entire situation is -- highly irregular. And it makes you feel anxious.

Rose and her mother exit the den, both of them visibly shaken by whatever conversation transpired between them.

"It's in my bedroom," Rose says. "Just down the hall, third door on the right. I put it in my nightstand. Bottom drawer."

Without further conversation, Mrs. Mallory heads toward the bedroom that Rose and Whitney share.

"Hey!" Mom calls. "Get back here, you tramp! Who said you could--"

"I did," Rose says, very quiet.

"What's going on?" you ask.

"She'll be leaving soon," Rose avers.

"You're still staying with us, right?" Whitney asks, unable to hide her concern.

"Yes," Rose says. "I just need her to look at something first..."

You hear the sound of her bedroom door open and close as Mrs. Mallory enters.

>What do you do?

[X] Talk to dad

"Excuse me," you say. "I-- I need to go talk to someone."

You head down the opposite hall. There's a small study here you know Dad has been using as a hideaway.

You step into the musty room, taking in the heady smell of old tomes. As expected, Dad is sitting on a plush leather recliner, feet resting on a settee, reading the paper.

"Dad," you say uncertainly. "Do you know what's going on out there?"

No response. You continue, "I know we don't talk much anymore... I guess we've both been so busy the past couple years... but I really need your help."

No response.

"That Rose girl who I'm seeing -- well, she's a Mallory. Her mom is here right now. I didn't know you guys had this beef with them-- and when I asked her, Mom was kind of hedgy about it. You know how she can be..."

You pull a hard wooden chair away from a nearby desk and sit down. You cross your legs and cradle your head in your hands, thinking.

"You see, I've kinda gotten myself into a-- I guess you could call it a predicament. You know, a romantic predicament. Because even though there's all this bad blood between our families, I do care about Rose, regardless--"

You scratch the back of your head. Your dad turns the page.

"And I'm in a relationship, you know, with Whitney. She really likes Rose, too. And then there's Ms. Carte... and Vivian -- err, she's more mature than she looks, honest -- and-- well, other girls are involved too-- I won't bore you with all the details of my romantic life... but things are really complicated right now."

"..."

"The point is, I'm not sure what I should do. I mean, first of all, I guess I want your blessing to stay involved with Rose."

"..."

"--Err, actually, you know what? No. I DON'T want your blessing. Uh, no offense. But I don't need it."

Dad turns the page.

"Yeah. That's right. I don't need your blessing. I'm my own man. And who cares if there's a feud or whatever? I didn't even know about it until three seconds ago. I'm not going to let it affect me."

"But-- there are some other problems too."

You furrow your brow and try to find a diplomatic way of putting this.

"There's another girl I really like. A whole lot, in fact-- maybe even more than anyone else-- and would you believe I haven't even been intimate with her? I know she feels the same way I do, but for some reason we've both been so reluctant to take it to the next level."

You shuffle your feet. You're not sure why you're talking about this when there are other pressing matters, but it's been on your mind for awhile and you want to get it off your chest.

"Maybe part of why I'm so reluctant is because if I do get involved with this-- this person, whose name doesn't really matter-- I want our first time to be special, not some kind of weird kinky experiment. I want a deeper connection, or something, I guess."

Dad turns the page.

"And to make matters worse, I have to manage all my other relationships, and... you know, I'm young, I want to sow my wild oats and all that-- but it's like, wow, how do I juggle all of this?"

You listen to the sound of birdcall out the shaded window. It's a peaceful afternoon.

"Mom always said you were a cassanova when you were my age. I guess maybe I want some tricks of the trade."

"..."

"I just keep remembering all the stuff you said to me when I was younger. About how even the strongest man ever is always going to be scared and unsure inside, how what separates the strong from the weak isn't that the strong always know what they're doing but how they always LOOK like they know what they're doing."

You stand up, pushing the chair away with your foot.

"That's the kind of man I want to be. But I don't know how to get there. I feel like I keep taking all these wrong turns and fucking up."

Your dad turns the page.

"When I almost died, I had a kind of revelation... I realized how hurtful I've been to the people I care about. And I want to fix it, all of it, but how? How can I?"

"Then I also keep remembering how you'd tell me it's important to always go after what you want, 100%... but what do you do when you don't know what you want? I can't keep going after things half-way, I have to commit to something, right?"

"..."

"Wait-- remember how, when you'd take me and Cerise to the park, you'd always say -- 'go on now, you're young, have fun'?"

"..."

"Maybe that's it. Love should be fun for Godsakes, right? Maybe that's the solution to this problem, and the Rose problem, and all the rest of my problems. We should all forget about the drama and just have some goddamn fun, for once. Right?"

"..."

"It's not much. I don't know, maybe it isn't anything. But it's a start. It's something to latch onto. Something to pursue... yeah..."

You look at dad with a smile.

"Thanks, dad. You're the best!"

You run off feeling a hundred times better. As you do, your dad turns the page.

Mrs. Mallory is back in the foyer when you return.

"An entire unit," she says to Rose. "It's impressive, I have to admit. Are you sure you can manage on your own if I leave you here?"

Rose nods but says nothing. Mrs. Mallory hugs her. The two of them exchange words of affection, apparently reconciled.

"Tell the bastard you married that the Soliloquys send their regards," Mom says as Mrs. Mallory turns to leave.

"Saul is a wonderful man," Mrs. Mallory says, setting her jaw. "You don't even know him. And I'm not going to stand here and debate the legitimacy of my marriage after you kidnapped my daughter--"

"KIDNAPPED? She came of her own free will--"

"--After you kidnapped my daughter!" She stomps her foot. "This is ridiculous. For the love of God, S--"

"I will NOT be insulted like this--"

"You won!" Mrs. Mallory yells. "You won, okay? Learn to take yes for an answer. Good lord. Just..."

Mrs. Mallory trails off. Her eyes glimmer in the sunlight streaming through the transom. "Just treat my daughter right, okay? I guess she really is more Soliloquy than Mallory, after all."

Mom pokes her chin up and folds her arms, but after a lengthy pause, she finally says: "I'll treat her like my own daughter."

Mrs. Mallory breathes a sight of relief. Turning, she steps outside. Mom closes the front door behind her.

You suddenly think of something you want to tell Mrs. Mallory. You rush past Mom, swinging the door open again. But when you step out onto Gustav's front patio, she's nowhere in sight.

The time has come. After Mrs. Mallory is gone and dinner is over, you decide to get a jump on telling the girls about your plans for Palau Independence Day.

Drinking a glass of juice, you watch out the kitchen window as Whitney limps along the shoreline, backlit by the setting sun. Ms. Carte is sitting on the dock, kicking her feet in the water, looking pensive. Mom works hard next to you, scrubbing dishes, and Vivian is back in the living room watching TV. Cerise is snoozing in her bedroom -- or maybe playing an otome, you're not sure.

Who do you discuss things with first?

[X] Whitney

You catch up with Whitney on the beach.

"Ally~" she says, smiling. You keep pace with her as she strolls barefoot along the edge of the ocean. Walking appears to be a bit painful for her, even still. You try not to make your worried glances at her bandaged leg too obvious.

"Rose's mom is sort of a cunt, huh?" she says.

"It must run in the family."

Whitney laughs. "Which one?"

"You're not calling me a cunt, are you?"

"And your sister, and your mom... buncha cunts, all of you." She grabs you by the arm, leaning against your shoulder.

"Well," you say, "everyone knows you love cunt, so..."

Whitney slugs you in the chest. Even after the augmentations, that smarts.

"There's a holiday coming up," you tell her. "Palau independence day. They're having a bunch of events in town."

"Mm," Whitney murmurs. She doesn't sound enthused. This is what you were afraid of.

"They're doing a windsurfing competition. I signed you up to compete."

"You WHAT?" Whitney says. She stops dead, and you continue a couple steps more before realizing it.

You thought your lie about signing her up would give her incentive to compete, but now she just looks upset.

"I've never windsurfed in my life," Whitney says. "And... my leg..."

"It's not for four more days. Do you think you'll be in better shape by then? I could help--"

"You don't understand," she says. Her voice is beginning to tremble. "I can't. Okay? I just can't."

"What's gotten into you?" you ask. You step forward, but she steps back, as if avoiding you.

"Look at this," Whitney says. She sounds on the verge of tears now. She plops down on her butt in the sand, drawing up her knees. You watch as she unwraps the gauze around her leg, revealing a nasty-looking and partially healed-over dimple on either side of her otherwise unblemished calf, like two impact craters on the surface of a virgin planet.

It's obvious just from looking that Dalton did permanent damage to her muscles and tendons.

"Renee says a soccer career is completely out of the question. Other competitive sports, too." She laughs ruefully, leaning back, supporting her weight on both palms. "Isn't it hilarious? I stop caring about sports when I'm still well... but then when I can't play anymore... somehow, it hurts..."

She doesn't sob or heave, but bitter tears begin to come. She lets them spill silently down her cheeks in twin rivulets.

"And who would want to see me, anyway?" she asks, sniffling. "With my leg like this, I'm disgusting."

You kneel and run a hand over her injured calf. You examine the wound in her leg. It has the shape of a blooming dandelion, soon to become scar tissue. You raise her calf and hold it to your lips, kissing her squarely on the blemish.

"It gives you character," you say.

"Yeah, well." She pauses, thinking, tears still flowing. Then: "You were always into fucked-up shit like that. I'm not surprised you're a cripple fucker, too. You're hardly the best judge."

"Hey-- that's not fair. You know, I'm a cripple too now. And Rose also-- we can all be crippled perverts together."

"YOU are not a cripple," Whitney says. She looks you in the eye and smiles sweetly despite the tears. "You're like some kind of inside-out Tony Stark now."

You crawl across the sand, lying over her, and kiss her on the lips. She opens her mouth to yours, and you enjoy her taste as your tongues wrap around one another's.

"Renee made me an offer..." Whitney murmurs. "I could... I could be like you..."

"What?" you ask, your stomach lurching.

"Remember when I said I'd be your bodyguard? I kind of failed, didn't I? And now you're so much stronger than me-- so I could never protect you even if I tried."

"It's fine," you say, kissing her again and again. You kiss her on her cheeks, lips, nose, and forehead, running your hands up and down her shoulders and arms, trying to force this dangerous thought from her head. "Stop talking like that. It's fine. You don't need to--"

"I do need to. It's-- it's WEIRD, okay? The way things are, it's so weird."

"What does that mean?"

"You're my Ally. Aladorkster. Dorkus malorkus, world's biggest gaylord. You can't be stronger than me. I should be the one who protects you, not the other way around. And if I do this, I still can. I can do it right this time. Renee said I could be better than Spancer. She said I could be better than 20 Spancers--"

"You don't have to do this," you say. "I love you just for who you are--"

"And this is who I am. I'm the woman who protects you."

[X] If this is what you want, go ahead.

[ ] I can't let you. I love you for you, and I can't let you change yourself for my sake.

"You're not going to end up like Spancer, right?" you ask.

"That was my first question," Whitney says. "Getting ripped as fuck is one thing, but what's the point if I can't enjoy it? She said it would be like your operation. You're still you, right?"

"And when would she do it?"

"If I'm going to be in shape for that windsurfing thing-- I guess I'd better go see her tonight, huh?"

You gulp. That's a bit sooner than you expected. "What would she do to you, exactly? What would change?"

"Muscles, skeleton, some of my vital organs... all completely new, and 100% better. Gustav has the parts just lying around, apparently. First time I've ever been happy to hear about a guy keeping body parts in a fridge in his basement..."

You lean back, sitting on your knees in the cooling sand. The sun is an orange half-disc at the bottom of the pink sky. Whitney glows red in the twilight.

"I still don't know about this," you say.

Whitney clicks her tongue in admonishment. "Same Ally as ever," she says. "You think too fucking much."

Still lying on her back, Whitney hooks her thumbs under her bikini bottom and pulls it down, wiggling her shapely butt.

"C'mon," she purrs. "Last chance to fuck me before I'm a robot."

You embrace Whitney, wrapping your arms around her back as you lie atop her. Whitney thrills to your touch, her rhythmic heartbeat quickening beneath her tiny breasts. You hold your hand against her chest and feel her pulse through the palm.

"Pervert~" she coos. "Molesting me like some common--"

You look up, meeting her gaze. "Tell her not to take out your heart, okay?"

"Huh? Gustav has a special pump we can install that's way better than a normal--"

"Don't let her take your heart. Do whatever else you want, but keep your heart."

Whitney entwines her legs in yours and kisses you on the nose. "You're a real idiot for a super-genius, you know? Fine. If it means that much to you--"

You kiss her deeply. She surrenders to it, arching her back as if offering her body up to you. Reaching behind her, you untie her top and toss it aside, baring her perfectly formed breasts -- barely A cups.

The past months have taught you to appreciate busts of all varieties, but nothing beats the old standards. Whitney's chest is perfect. Two little mounds that fit perfectly in your hands. You hold them, rubbing the tender flesh in circular motions. You rake your thumbs over the nipples.

This indecent groping elicits a sensual moan from Whitney. She arches her back even farther, so that her belly goes taut and her calves strain. You hunch forward so that you can kiss her up and down, from her delicate neck to her navel and then back again. Her entire body is yours for the taking. You can do whatever you want with it.

"What are you waiting for?" Whitney whines. "Don't make me wait. Please..."

You rub her inner thighs. They're already slick with desire. You run your searching hands higher still, toward her bare mound, and finally swipe a forefinger across her dewy slit.

"Ally-- fuck, fuck-- PLEASE--"

You free your straining member from your trunks and pull her into another kiss to silence her moans. She forces her tongue past your lips and her eyes droop dreamily as you writhe around in the sand with her. And then you push yourself inside.

"Ally... Allyyyyy--" the syllables of your name become an incoherent sigh of pure pleasure as her silky, milking pussy envelops you. She humps herself against you as you pump inside of her. Your lovemaking is not gentle. Your flesh slaps wetly together, echoing against the sea's stillness. You pant like animals in heat as you relieve yourselves.

Her engorged labia rub against your shaft, sucking inward and smearing you with commingled fluids. Her muscles tense every time you bottom out inside her, and she bites her lips so hard you think she'll bleed. Her little hands grip your shoulders as if holding on for dear life, and she rides out climax after shuddering climax against your fucking cock.

"I'm cumming!" she cries. "I'm cumming in you! Can you feel it?"

"Yes," you groan. Her inner walls contract and spasm around you in fluttery ripples, like a warm wet mouth suckling on your cock. The velvet softness and perfectly snug shape that conforms like a glove to your manhood makes you delirious with lust.

Your fucking becomes less fluid, more uncoordinated and spastic, as you stab into her again and again, luxuriating in the tingly sensation of impending orgasm.

"I'm going to cum inside of you," you tell her through gritted teeth.

"Do it! Fuck me full of cum!"

"Ugff-- fuck!" you hiss. You let go of your load, throwing your head back in delight as your cock twitches and pulses and sprays a creamy mess in Whitney's cunt. You mash your lips against hers and breathe in her scent as you fill her with your seed.

After getting dressed again, you and Whitney visit with Ms. Carte, who's still sitting on the dock. She smiles coyly as you approach.

"That's quite a show you two put on over there," she says. "I could hear it from over here. Whitney's like a dog in estrus sometimes."

"I-- don't know what that means," Whitney says, smiling.

"It was our last chance to be together before you do the operation," you say.

"Oh?" Ms. Carte hums, turning to Whitney. "So you decided to get augmentations after all?"

"Can we start tonight?" Whitney asks. She stands on her tiptoes, clearly excited.

Ms. Carte nods. "If you want. The procedure should take about three days. You'll be anesthetized, of course."

"Err--" Whitney begins.

"Asleep," Ms. Carte explains. "You'll be asleep."

The three of you head back to the house. Ms. Carte confers with Gustav. Heading down to the basement laboratory with him, she begins the necessary preparations.

The soonest they can start is in a few hours, so that leaves Whitney with a little bit of time to kill. She decides to spend it with Rose.

"I'm gonna fuck her brains out!" Whitney chirps. "I don't know if she told you, but I've been keeping a wicked strapon in our bedroom..."

"I... think she might have mentioned something about that, yeah..." you murmur, glancing at your feet.

"So I'll see you in a bit, I guess. Unless..." Whitney smiles seductively, "you want to join in?"

"Ah-- that's okay," you say. "You two have fun."

You sit down in the living room, taking a moment to rest. Vivian is still here, lying in front of the TV and watching a movie. You watch her for a few minutes as she stares at the screen.

"That stuff will rot your brain, you know."

"My brain is in peak condition."

"Stop what?" Vivian asks, turning. Her eyes widen and she tries to roll away, but too late. You already have hold of ankles, tickling the bottoms of her stocking feet.

"I've always wondered," you say, grinning cruelly, "are cyborgs ticklish too?"

"Stop!" Vivian shrieks, clawing at the carpet in front of her and trying in vain to squirm away. "If you want-- hahaha-- if you want to-- hahahaha! STOP!-- if you want to know, tickle yourself!"

"It's not possible to tickle yourself," you say, still tormenting her. Her feet are so tiny that you can easily hold both ankles in place as you run your fingertips across the well-defined arch of her soles.

"S-shtoppp!" Vivian begs, slurring it through her peals of laughter like she's drunk. "You know I'm-- hahaha-- HAHAHAHHH-- shhhhhtoppp-- you know I'm ticklish now-- SUH-TOP!!!"

You wrench her legs back, tugging her across the carpet. Releasing her feet, you grab hold of her wrists, and pin her to the ground.

"You're a beast," Vivian pouts, still panting for breath. "This mistreatment is completely unacceptable."

"Shush," you tell her. You have to tuck your chin in to your chest just to see the top of her head.

"Unhand me," she says.

"Do you want to go out somewhere?" you ask, ignoring her demand.

"Do you mean-- on a date?"

"There's a parade in town on the 4th. I thought you might like it. If you want to call that a date, then I guess..."

"I see."

She says nothing more for a minute or so, lying motionless beneath you. You listen as her breathing becomes normal again.

"I will accompany you," she says, "but only if you admit that you are asking me on a date."

"So you still have some smugness in you after all. Who says I need you to keep me company? I've got five other--"

"Kukuku~" she laughs, and it actually comes out sounding exactly like that. "I know you want my company," she says. "I've had you under my spell from day one."

"I think you've got the roles reversed," you say. "You're the one who's addicted to MY semen--"

She begins to wiggle her pantied butt against your crotch, purposely egging you on. "But YOU'RE the lolicon," she says. "You can't hope to resist me..."

"Well," you say, hiking up her skirt, "if I can't resist you, then you can't blame me for what's about to happen."

Vivian's superiority dissolves in an instant. "Alabaster," she says, a worried catch to her voice. "This is not an ideal location--"

"It's fine," you insist. "No one cares where we fuck. If someone walks in, let them see. And you need a dose, right?"

"Well, yes, but--" she squirms a bit against your grip.

"No 'buts'. You told me just the other day that you'd be my cum receptacle. Don't back out now."

"Unf--" Vivian half whimpers and half gulps as you remind her of her words to you.

You reach underneath her and tug down her panties. Her puffy slit is sticky with arousal already. Whatever she says, her body tells the truth: it aches for your seed.

You release her wrists and allow her the opportunity to free herself, but she doesn't take it. Instead, she looks back at you with wide eyes.

"If-- if you want me to be your cum receptacle, I suppose I'm not... averse... to that..."

That's all you needed. You spread her plump ass cheeks wide, and surge yourself forward. Vivian's taut little stomach bulges as you fill her with your cock. Her pussy twitches around you, stretching to accommodate your member.

No longer worried about harming her after your first encounter, you hump her to your heart's content, raping her womb full of hot cock. Vivian's satisfied mewls and murmurs underneath you drive you to be rougher and rougher with her, but she doesn't seem to have a limit.

"Please cum," she says. "Please cum please cum please cum--"

"You want it that badly?" you ask, still pumping her. Her little uterus shudders with wanton desire.

"Please cum please cum please cum--"

She can't say anything else as you rail her. She just balls up her little fists and tightly closes her little eyes and stutters the same two syllables over and over. With her shameless begging and slippery onahole cunt gripping you, you blow your load rather quickly.

"Ahhhh---!!" Vivian sighs as she feels your hot cum pouring into her. You arch your back and push against her little loli butt as hard you can to seat yourself as deep as possible, and paint her deepest parts with semen. The tightness of her pussy clamping down around you draws your orgasm out. Cum trickles from your cockhead in a slow stream for minutes on end.

Done with your orgasm, you begin to pull out of Vivian's sucking cunt, but she reaches out to stop you. She grabs you by the wrist and pleads: "no... I want all of it..."

"What?" you say, confused.

"Please..." Vivian murmurs. "Your ejaculate isn't the only bodily fluid that contains X-11." Her eyes shimmer as you piece together what she means.

"Alabaster--" she says. "Please-- use me as a urinal..."

You turn her over so she lies on her back, your cock still mated to her. Cum seeps out from around her deliciously overstretched pussy lips and down the contours of her ass. Her belly pokes up where your dick is raping into her.

Vivian stares up at you with droopy eyes, her expression completely fucked-out and delirious. You reach out and probe her mouth with your thumb. She lets her jaw hang open and her tongue loll out to accept your violations.

You fishook her cheeks and spread them apart. You squeeze and pinch her tongue. You reach down to the very back of her throat with your fore and middle fingers. She does nothing to resist any of it. She just drools around you and gags slightly on your invading fingers. The inside of her mouth is as as soft and velvet-smooth as her cunt, and even wetter.

"Pleashe," Vivian says around your probing thumb, "ushe my toiret womb to relieffe yourshelfff--"

You flex your abdomen and force out a steady stream of piss into Vivian's undeveloped pussy. Her belly starts to inflate, like a water balloon, before she can't hold anymore. The searingly hot liquid pours out of her cervix and all around your dick, pooling underneath her. Her cunt spasms and milks your piss from your bladder.

You work your fingers in and out of her mouth like a second cock, keeping her jaw pried open to allow access. She chokes and sputters obscenely around you as you fill her with your urine. Her orgasms turn into full body convulsions, the pleasure overriding her nervous system's ability to keep herself under control. She shakes and trembles like a seizure victim, so full of cum and piss that she looks six months pregnant.

"You're a fucking wreck," you tell her, still pissing into her. "As usual..."

"Pleasshheee--" she begs around your probing fingers, "Messsh me uppp-- mmmmf~~... ruin me..."

You finish emptying yourself inside her and pull out with a nasty plop as you stand. Like a bursting dam, Vivian's cunt unleashes the pent-up semen and piss, pouring it in a milky, amber, steaming puddle all over Gustav's expensive carpeting. Without your fingers to gag her, Vivian gags herself, jamming practically an entire fist down her throat as she coughs and chokes around it. Her own bladder releases too, and her mess joins yours. She writhes side to side, cumming obscenely, her face smeared with spit and mucus. Her clothes are completely ruined and caked with filth.

"Thank you," she moans over and over as you prod her with your toe. "Thank you for making me your toilet..."

Even though Vivian insisted on trying to lick it up, you pulled her away from the wet spot on the carpet long enough to get Mom on the scene for emergency cleanup.

Now, she kneels over the stain and scrubs it with a bristle brush, using a bucket of hot sudsy water to aid her. A second brush bobs on the surface of the water.

Vivian, naked and splattered with filth, sits pouting in the corner. She's refusing to take a shower -- you think she's probably waiting for you to join her, but she won't admit it.

"HONESTLY," Mom says, "You're an animal. A complete animal. Raping a little girl in our host's living room and then urinating all over the floor--"

"Don't call it rape. She asked for it. Didn't you, Vivian?"

"Hmph," Vivian says, folding her arms and looking away.

"The thought of you forcing yourself on poor Vivian like that makes me quiver!" Mom says, pushing against the brush with all her weight.

"Why? Because you didn't get to see it?"

Mom blanches.

"Listen," you say. You get down on your knees and take the spare brush from the rinse bucket. "This might be a bad time to bring it up, but... there's this Independence Day thing happening in a few days. I thought maybe you'd like to come with me."

Mom pretends not to be interested as she focuses on cleaning the carpet, but you can see her ears perk up. You start scrubbing alongside her.

"There's a beauty contest," you continue. "Open to any and all."

Mom stops. She looks up at you. "You-- do you mean to say you want me to--"

"Sure. It'll be fun, don't you think?"

"B-but... I'm just an old lady. I could never compete against all those younger women--"

>How will you respond?

[ ] Tsuntsun

[X] Deredere

"Please," you say. "Just because you remember the dinosaurs doesn't make you OLD..."

She slaps you on the shoulder with her yellow-gloved hand, a foamy string of bubbles springing from the fingertips. "You're awful!" she cries. "You're the worst, most misbehaved son--"

You take her hand in yours. She freezes up, going silent and rigid.

"You are not old," you tell her. "And if you sign up, you'll blow those Palauan skanks clear out of the water. Koror won't know what hit them."

"Alabaster..."

You peck her on the forehead, chaste as can be, but she responds by kissing you on the mouth, parting her lips and pushing her tongue against yours. Her breasts heave up and down as she breathes and purrs around your lips.

"You really think I have a chance?" she asks.

"Absolutely. You'll be the top contender. The swimsuit contest alone--"

"Ha!" comes a derisive snort from the entry to the hallway. You look up. Ms. Carte is standing there.

"Go away, Renee!" Mom shouts. "I'm having a tender mother-son moment here!"

"Yeah-- whatever, you cow. If you think I'm going to let you compete unchallenged, you're sorely mistaken!"

"Wait--" you start. "No-- I was planning to take you to--"

Ms. Carte holds a hand up to silence you. "Let me give you a taste of my curriculum vitae. I won three beauty contests when I studied at CalTech! I was voted prettiest researcher at Darkbloom Enterprises three years running! I was the wet dream of every male student at North High! My elan and grace are unmatched! If anyone thinks she can beat Renee Denise Carte, let them try!"

Mom leaps to her feet. "You're on, you snotty little bitch--"

They approach one another, butting foreheads and baring their teeth, like two primates in a battle for dominance.

"I'll crush you!" Mom snarls.

"The bigger they are the harder they fall," Ms. Carte sneers. "Looks like Palau's going to be under a tsunami warning after I'm finished with you."

"Fuck you!"

"Eat me!"

You sigh. This could be... troublesome.

You sit on the edge of Whitney's bed, legs splayed, as she sucks your cock.

Standing on the mattress, Rose straddles your face and humps her cunt against your lapping tongue. Her fleshy little mound presses insistently against your nose, and your brain is overloaded with her honeydew scent.

This is the last chance for the three of you to enjoy some quality time together before Whitney has her operation. You intend to make the most of it.

Rose's nectar is delicious and warm, pooling on your tongue in wet dollops. Even more thrilling is the magic of Whitney's cocksleeve mouth. She chokes down your entire length, burying the head of your dick deep within the confines of her gullet.

With her nose buried in your pubes and her cheeks puffed out obscenely, she swallows. Her entire throat, from uvula to esophagus and in all 360 degrees ripples and pulses as she gulps around you. She wags her tongue against your balls, coating them in saliva, as she swallows again and again, massaging your aching fuckmeat to relief with expert precision.

You try to stare up at Rose's face, but all you can see is the underside of her massive udders. You trace your fingers across and then around her fleshy thighs. Without forewarning you plunge two fingers past her pale butt and into her asshole. Rose tenses, half-shrieking. Her knees go wobbly. You use your free hand to prop her up by the belly so that she can't get away from the abuse. As you service her cute pink pussy, you savage her tiny asshole. Caught between pain and pleasure, Rose can only whimper.

It isn't long before you blow a creamy load down Whitney's constrictive, gurgling throat. With almost supernatural acuity, Rose senses this. She leaps from the bed, turning 180 degrees in midair, and tackles Whitney to the floor with a thud. She forces her mouth against Whitney's, their lips parting as if yawning into one another.

Rose groans like a bitch in heat as she sucks your cum out of Whitney's mouth. Her pink tongue swirls around, coated the half-translucent white slime, as she siphons it all up. But Whitney isn't in the mood to share. Her tongue slides over Rose's, claiming your semen once more for herself.

This battle of tongues turns sloppy, and leads to a messy overflow. Your cum drools out from their mouths in viscous strands. Delicate strings of it spiderweb between them, but the bulk gets smeared all across their lips, cheeks, noses, and chins. They lick it off of one another, snowballing it back and forth, their fight transforming into more of an exercise in bonding with every moment.

You watch the show approvingly, your still-dripping cock hardening once more. Whitney's tanned, toned, thin body lies pinned beneath Rose's pale, pliant, plump one. They form their legs into twin V's and force their cunts against one another's, rubbing each other off as they lick and slobber.

Whitney coos devilishly and suddenly spits a cummy gob of seed directly into Rose's open mouth. Rose is only taken aback a little. She swills it back and forth, grunting with lust, before spitting it back.

The two start spitting back and forth now, like animals, coating their faces so completely with slime you'd think twenty men just unloaded on them. They use their fingers to smear it in to each other's skin. Meanwhile they continue to mash their engorged clits together, leaking girlcum all over one another and mewling in delight.

You fall to your knees and plant yourself in the first warm hole your dick can find: Whitney's ass. She gasps in shock, and Rose takes the opportunity to snake her searching tongue down Whitney's throat.

Whitney's asshole is like silk, almost unbearably hot and so small you could mistake her for Vivian. Just as with her pussy, Whitney can rhythmically flex her anus to massage your cock like a milking machine. Even with Rose violating her, Whitney has the focus to service you with her ass like this, the way she spent so many years practicing.

As you fuck her, you think about how long Whitney has been at it, that practice -- since the very first day she met you, apparently -- years and years of nights spent up late, vegetables and hairbrushes and other foreign objects stuffed painfully inside of her, training her muscles to be the perfect conduits of pleasure. The image of a young teenage Whitney training her body for you makes you moan, loud and unashamedly, enough for the whole house to hear, as you pump her ass full of cock. For the fourth time in a little over two hours, your feel a delicious tingling course through your spine as you drop a load directly inside one of your lovers.

You slump back, your cock sliding out of Whitney's gaping hole with a slurp. Your twitching dick still rests obscenely against Whitney's crack. Rose twists around, pulling herself into a 69 position with Whitney, and buries her face in Whitney's ass and cunt. The two girls rim each other out. Rose, cumming herself silly, sucks your semen out of Whitney's ass and off of your oozing cock, alternating between the two. The noise of it is like someone drinking the last dregs of an icy soda with a straw. Rose guzzles it all down, just like the filthy fucking cumpig she is. You couldn't be happier.

After Rose and Whitney finish, Rose helps Whitney clean up. You share a three-way kiss that feels oddly chaste -- perhaps only by comparison the debauchery that just went down in this bedroom that still reeks of sex.

"I'll be back and better than ever before you know it!" Whitney promises.

"...you better be," Rose grumbles.

The three of you say your final pre-surgery farewells and Whitney leaves for the basement laboratory. Rose, wiping her own face clean and sitting down on her bed, sighs pensively.

Rose is the last person besides Cerise who you've yet to tell about the plans for Palauan Independence Day. And you still haven't gotten the full story about what happened with her mother.

You decide to try approaching the latter issue in a roundabout way. You sit next to her and -- without consciously intending to -- you lay you palm on hers. You both startle at the intimate contact, but neither of you pull away. You settle down again, looking away from one another.

"Your mom is... interesting," you begin.

"Mm," is all she'll say in reply.

"I can't believe she let you stay," you say. "She seemed really close to losing her head for a second there."

"I don't want to talk about it," Rose says. "I'm already so worried about Whitney and the extra stress might trig-- I mean, it really upsets me, all right?"

>What will you do?

[X] Invite Rose to the President's speech

You run your hand up Rose's back and to the crown of her head. You let the strands of her flaxen hair fan through your splaying fingers. Rose bristles to your affection, turning a deep shade of red.

"Alabaster," she says, gritting her teeth. "I told you not to do that. It's incredibly patronizing."

"You're cute when you're embarrassed."

"I am not-- your fucking pet--" Rose stammers.

"Whatever you say, pet."

Rose gives you the evil eye, but makes no attempt to stop your aggressive hair ruffling.

"Listen," you say. Her hair is like silk in your hands as you slowly continue to pet her. "There's an Independence Day celebration on the 4th. The President is supposed to make some kind of public speech. Do you want to go?"

Rose looks up at you. "Why would you--" she begins. She swallows hard, trying to compose her thoughts. "Together, you mean?"

"You are still interested in politics, right?"

"On the small scale, sure..." She wiggles a bit under your petting, her redness abating-- but now replaced by a strange shyness in her tone. "Identity politics-- and local issues-- things like that. Nothing on the large scale."

"Palau is pretty local," you say. "Even though it's the President, this country smaller than most cities-- he's basically an overblown Mayor."

Rose shrugs.

You pull your hand away and look her in the eye. "Besides, your interest in politics can't stay local forever."

"W-what do you mean?"

"You used to say you wanted to be President of the USA. Isn't that right?"

Rose's jaw hangs open. "How could you possibly know-- I mean, that was YEARS ago... I was a little kid, for goodness sake--"

"Crazier things have happened to us these past couple months. I wouldn't be so quick to shelve the concept. Just saying."

Rose's eyes twinkle like a flame rekindled.

You give her a reassuring nudge. "What do you say? Do you want to go? I could even sneak you backstage for a one-on-one."

Rose stares at her feet. You think she's considering the proposition. But after a few moments, she snaps her head up and cries out, suddenly indignant: "Tommy Remengesau is a crook and a phony! I would never meet with him!"

"--Huh?"

"The Palaun President is a criminal. Not to mention a chauvanist pig! Haven't you read any news since we got here?"

She pushes herself off the bed. Getting on hands and knees, she pulls a shoebox out from under her bed, full of news clippings and printouts. You watch, stunned, as she shows you select articles, filled with her own margin notes and highlights.

"Palau is FILLED with cronyism and corruption and nepotism, through and through... it's disgusting--"

"Sounds a little bit like a certain student council I could name," you say.

Rose glares at you. Then, rifling through the shoebox again, she continues: "Remengesau is the worst of the worst. He's GARBAGE. Just last year, he signed a bill to cut funding for social services so his corporate buddies could--"

You hold out a hand to stop her fishing through her little dossier. "So you do care after all," you say.

"Well -- how couldn't I?" Rose snaps. "Anyone with half a brain would care."

"Then come with me and give him a piece of your mind on the 4th."

Rose's mouth twitches. Despite herself, a grin forms on her lips.

---

MEANWHILE...

"Clothes off," Ms. Carte says curtly, stepping up to the sink at the back of the operating room. She washes her hands with diligence and care, rinsing each in turn with high-grade antiseptic. Behind her, Whitney obediently strips naked.

As Whitney sheds the last of her skimpy clothing, she can hear the clattering sounds of Gustav and Spancer in the operating room's annex, selecting the proper components. They will be assisting Ms. Carte over the next few days, working in shifts. The idea of these two men seeing her naked body makes Whitney blanch. Then again -- knowing that one is gayer than the 1890s and the other is an unfeeling cyborg helps.

Ms. Carte turns around. In the harsh fluorescent lighting, she can plainly see the glistening trail stippled down Whitney's inner thighs.

She approaches Whitney, hips swaying. The power dynamic is completely inverted, now: Whitney is vulnerable -- cold, naked and shivering, very much frightened; Ms. Carte is in her element, fully clothed in surgeon's scrubs and completely confident.

She eyes Whitney. She grins. "You're not clean," she says.

"Err-- Ally and I fooled around some more-- you know, for luck, or something?"

Ms. Carte chuckles at Whitney's discomposure. With uncharacteristic boldness, she runs a finger up one of Whitney's muscled legs, daubing up a bit of the cream. For all surgeons, the godlike sensation of being in the operating room is transformative -- and this is true for Ms. Carte as well. Whitney's skin turns to gooseflesh along the path Ms. Carte traces with her finger.

"Naughty girl," Ms. Carte purrs. She licks her cum-spattered finger, slow and luxurious, savoring the musky taste of it. She knows this means she'll need to wash her hands again -- no matter.

"Do you like it when Alabaster cums inside you?" she demands.

Whitney's teeth are chattering now. "O-of course," she manages.

"Wonderful. I'd like to see him do that to you."

Whitney blushes and Ms. Carte frowns playfully.

"There's a shower across the hall. Soap yourself down and clean up that mess between your legs. You need to be as sterile as possible for the procedure. And use the toilet there if you need it, too."

Whitney nods her understanding. Naked, she steps out of the room.

Alone for the moment, Ms. Carte sits down on what will be Whitney's operating table. She glances at the pile of clothes Whitney has left discarded on the green tile floor. Grinning pervertedly, she reaches over and takes the panties. They're stained white and still wet with the combined sex fluids of three different people. With neither shame nor dignity, Ms. Carte holds the garment's crotch to her nose, breathing in deeply. She darts out her tongue and tastes the gooey filth as she listens to Whitney showering.

All surgeons have a ritual to calm their nerves before a procedure. Compared to smoking, this seems much less dangerous. She thinks she may adopt this in the future, as she twirls her tongue through Whitny's underwear, licking the soiled fabric and inhaling the heady aromas of teenage lust. Her cunt is so wet she may go insane.

---

"Cerise."

You nudge Cerise's shoulder. She snores and rolls over to her other side, her limbs a gangly tangle on the bedsheets. You shake her more insistently.

"Cerise. Wake up. Christ."

Cerise's eyes flutter open. For a split second you think you see an honest-to-god bubble form and then pop in her left nostril. She wipes her nose with the back of her palm and sits up, her hair all mussed, her face pale and puffy from too much sleep.

"You look like shit," you tell her, smiling.

"Ugghh," Cerise moans. She sounds like a wounded animal. She rubs her temples. "I drank too much last night..."

"You don't say. Gustav was throwing a shit-fit earlier this morning about someone getting into his vintage Grand Cru. I didn't even know someone's face could be red and green at the same time. You drank $13,000 of wine in one go."

Cerise's face turns even paler than it already is. "D-did I?" she asks, aghast. "I was only drinking beer-- at least, that's what I remember--"

"You must have blacked out. On the plus side, it's not entirely your fault."

Cerise gives you a skeptical look.

"Ms. Carte's the one who actually raided Gustav's wine cellar last night. Celebration for finishing Whitney's augments, I guess. You just helped her go to town on it."

You climb across the mattress on your knees and draw the blinds. Cerise winces, shielding her eyes from the harshness of morning's glare.

With another groan, she flops back against the pillow and rubs her face. "I think I vaguely remember-- something about... sea shanties?"

"I'm so embarrassed..." Cerise says, still hiding her face. She gropes blindly in front of her, her hand playing across the wrinkled sheets in wide spastic arcs. Finding a spare pillow, she brings it up to her face and hides beneath it.

"You should be embarrassed," you say. You try to tug the pillow away from her, but she grips it tightly, refusing to let you take it. You scuffle playfully for a few seconds but finally let her have her way.

"You're lucky," you continue. "Ms. Carte has it worse. She's not even lucid yet."

"Neiffer amf I," comes Cerise's muffled reply.

"Not as bad as her. She's gonna miss Whitney's great awakening. After all that work--"

Cerise tosses the pillow aside and sits bolt upright. "Is it today? When is it?" she asks, suddenly sounding alert and enthusiastic.

[ ] It's right about now. Hey, I thought you hated Whitney.

[ ] It's right about now. Get up already if you want to be there.

[X] TIE VOTE

"It's right about now. Are you coming down with the others or not? Get up already if you want to be there."

Cerise stumbles out of bed. She sways side to side, threatening complete collapse. Finally she braces herself against the end table for support. She blinks, hard and slow, trying to regain her equilibrium. When she can stand on her own without tottering, she tries to pull on a pair of pants over her underwear. The results are predictable. Raising one leg and trying to loop it through the pantleg, she falls ass-over-teakettle and whangs her head against the bedframe.

"God FUCKING damn it," she says, writhing side to side and rubbing at the bump on her skull.

You stand over her. "Need a hand, oh sister of mine?"

"I'm FINE," she says. "Give me a second, will you?"

"You seem excited. I thought you hated Whitney."

Cerise gets on all fours and uses the bed to help haul herself up. This time, she manages to put on her jeans without murdering herself.

"Whitney is-- all right," Cerise says, shrugging.

You frown. "'All right'? That's it?"

"Well, she's not the worst."

"Admit it. You were worried about her."

"Don't push your luck, Alabaster," Cerise says, breezing past you. "I'm too nice to YOU as it is. I don't need to be nice to your lesbian concubine, too."

You follow close behind her, playfully poking her in the back and forcing her to quicken her pace. She's still not well-coordinated and it makes her stumble a bit. "You like her," you taunt. "You didn't sleep at all the night I told you that she was having that operation."

"I have insomnia sometimes!" Cerise insists.

"Yeah? Is crying like a scared little girl one of the symptoms of insomnia now?"

"Fuck you. Just, fuck you. I'll cry whenever I want to!"

You smile to yourself. Together, you and Cerise head down to the basement lab.

"Oh, if it isn't vine drinker number two," Gustav says gruffly as you and Cerise come into the lab. Vivian, Mom, and Rose are already here, standing around Whitney's bed. Whitney herself is wired to a number of beeping monitors and dripping IVs, unconcious. "Vill vine drinker number one be joining us?" Gustav asks.

"Dead as a stone," you say.

"Vell, ven she wakes up, tell her zat she owes me thirteen thousand American dollars. And not a penny less!"

"When is she supposed to wake up?" Cerise asks, impatient.

Mom answers. "It's supposed to be any time now. Gustav stopped administering the sedatives at 5 AM."

You approach the bed. Whitney's face is smooth and placid, peaceful. You watch her breathing for a few moments. "I hope she wakes up soon," you murmur. "She'll miss the--"

Whitney's eyes shoot open, as if in response to your voice. The first thing she sees is you. "Ally~" she coos.

"Hey there, Rip van Winkle. How do you feel?"

Rose rushes to the bed, gripping the railing on the opposite side. "Are you okay?" she demands. "Does anything hurt?"

"I'm fine," Whitney says. "Actually--"

She sits up. Gustav reaches out to caution against haste, but ironically, he isn't quick enough. Whitney rips the IVs from her arms and pulls off all her monitors.

She scoots to the edge of the bed and stands on her own two feet. She doesn't seem at all abashed that the slit of her hospital gown reveals her bare ass.

"I'm better than all right," Whitney says. "I feel like a million bucks!"

Rose grabs Whitney by her cheeks and latches onto her lips like a lamprey. It's cute, if strange. When Rose pulls away, you take her place, giving Whitney a long and passionate kiss. Even Mom and Vivian kiss her, though those are a bit more chaste than the ones you and Rose administered.

Finally, Whitney looks at Cerise, the only one besides Gustav who hasn't greeted her. Whitney gives her a winning smile, but Cerise blushes and looks away, seeming unsure of herself.

>What do you do?

[X] "You know Whitney, she couldn't sleep at all last night because of you"

"You know, Whitney," you say, nudging her with your elbow, "Cerise couldn't sleep at all these past couple nights because of you. She's been worried sick."

Cerise's face, neck, and shoulders turn almost purple she's blushing so hard.

"Is that true?" Whitney asks.

Cerise folds her arms and twiddles her fingers agains, still looking at the ground. "So what if it is true?" she snaps.

"Aww, that's so sweet," Whitney says. "You're as big of a dork as your brother, aren't you?"

Cerise looks up, indignant. "What did you just say to--"

Whitney cuts off the tirade before it can even begin. She wraps her arms around Cerise's midsection and plants a kiss directly on Cerise's full lips. Cerise goes bug-eyed.

"Mmff--!! Whff fff, mm fff mf!!" Cerise tries to protest, but her words unintelligible as she speaks directly into Whitney's mouth. Whitney hums with delight.

Finally Whitney pulls back. With an index finger, she boops Cerise on the tip of her nose. "I'm glad you care about me," Whitney says. "I care about you, too."

Cerise is like a deer in headlights with everyone in the room waiting for her response. She can't say anything, but merely stands there, her breath uneven and shallow.

"I-- I need to go do something," she says. She turns and briskly leaves the room. But the grin on her lips as she hurries away says it all.

Whitney spins on her heels and pounces you again, drawing you into a bear hug. She grips you so tightly it actually hurts.

"Jump!" she cries, looking up at you with bright eyes.

"--Excuse me?"

She steps back. "I said, jump! I'll catch you. I want to test my strength."

Now the expectant eyes are on you. You shakes your head and sigh. But what do you have to lose by appeasing her? You glance back at Gustav to make sure it's all right, and he just shrugs, which is good enough for you.

You rear back and make a little hop toward Whitney. Nothing too forceful or quick. She throws her arms wide and pulls you into her embrace, supporting your entire weight without any apparent difficulty.

"Rawrrr!" She cries, princess carrying you in a small circle. Then she adopts the valiant tone of a comic book superhero: "Whitney Price, world's strongest girl! Don't worry, Alabaster, I'll protect you--"

You swing your legs around, touching your feet to the floor again and getting off Whitney's wild ride. "Thanks," you say. "Really."

"Wait--" Whitney says, grinning like a lioness. She drags you by the hand to a small card-table at the back of the room. Sitting down in a metal folding chair, she beckons you to sit across from her. "One more test of strength," she says. "Let's wrassle."

She props her elbow on the table, inviting you to arm wrestle her.

"Whitney--"

"Come on. Come ooonnn," Whitney goads. "What are you, chicken?"

"I just don't think that so soon after your--"

"Bawk bawk! Bawwwwk bawwwwk!"

[X] You're on.

[ ] That's enough.

You sit at the table and take Whitney's hand firmly in yours, palm-to-palm. The others crowd around the small table to spectate.

"Fuck him up!" Rose hoots.

"Show her how a real man does it!" Mom cries through cupped hands.

You flex your palm repeatedly to psych her out, wiggling your eyebrows at her. She grins toothily back.

"On three," she says.

"One--" you say.

"Two--" she says.

"THREE!" you shout in unison.

Pushing against Whitney is like trying to topple a brick shithouse. Impossible. There's no give whatsoever as you strain your neck and heave, your biceps bulging. For her part, Whitney grunts and pants, gritting her teeth, but she isn't gaining any purchase either.

"Come on, you PUSSY," she hisses. "You can do better than that--"

"Take this!" you cry, surging with a burst of energy, but you remain locked in stalemate.

The table underneath you begins to creak and groan. So do the legs of your little metal folding chairs.

"Zat's quite enough--" Gustav cautions, but no one pays any attention.

Suddenly, the table gives. It breaks in two along the middle, across a previously unseen fault, and collapses to the ground. Your hand remains locked in Whitney's, your forearms entwined and perspiring in midair.

"HAAAAHH--" is all either of you can manage by this point.

Next go the chairs. They snap in half underneath you and Whitney, almost simultaneously, sending you spilling to the ground. You both lunge forward so that you land on your stomachs and can continue the battle from a prone position. When you land, the tile cracks underneath you, noise like the snapping of brittle glass.

"Murderize her! Murderize her!" Mom calls, getting too into it.

"Kick that little faggot's ass!" Rose counters.

"Please be careful," Vivian murmurs.

You try to regulate your breathing and focus on the fight, but Whitney is beginning to wear you out. You decide to try a little bit more of the psychological tack.

"You're a hundred years too early to defeat me!" you cry. Your elbow grinds a borehole into the tile floor as you struggle against her, and the friction is so great that you can actually feel the linoleum beginning to melt a bit around the edges.

"Is that so?" Whitney says. "Looks like I have no choice, then. I have to use that!"

"--That?"

Whitney lets out a beastly howl. Her eyes momentarily glow red and fiery, and you feel a dark strength course through her that even you can't hope to counter. In the blink of an eye, it's over. She forces your arm down, slapping the back of your palm against the ground so hard it sends one of the floor tiles airborne. It careens in a parabola, terminating at a cabinet on the other side of the room, where it embeds itself like a throwing star. It just barely misses poor Gustav's mustached face.

"Booyah!!" Whitney cries, hopping to her feet. Gracious in victory, she reaches down and helps you up.

You stand, massaging your shoulder and rotating your arm in its socket. "I think you fucked up my rotator cuff," you whine, grimacing.

"Oh, don't be a baby. You're fine. Except maybe your ego..."

You sigh. "Congratulations," you say.

Whitney kisses you, rubbing a soothing palm against your hurt shoulder. "Sorry," she whispers. "I don't know my own strength."

Gustav stomps out of the operating room in a huff. "Alvays destryoing my thinks," he grumbles, but you pay him no mind. You kiss Whitney back, nuzzling her.

"You'll make a good bodyguard," you say.

Whitney purrs, grinning like a spoiled kitten.

Upstairs, Vivian goes to her room and slips into her Sunday best. You don't know why she insists on wearing such a baroque and oppressive dress in this heat -- no one is going to judge her if she wears a swimsuit to the parade. But she won't stand for anything else.

"So what do you say?" you ask Whitney as you lounge together in the living room, waiting for Vivian to finish dressing. "Do you feel up to windsurfing now?"

"I've never really been..." she says.

"Watch some videos online. I'm sure you'll pick it up. You've still got--" you check the time on your cell. "--six hours. That's more than enough time. Rose will buy a board for you when we're in town."

Whitney demurs.

"Come on," you say. "What do you have to lose? You're not... you're not chicken, are you?"

Whitney kicks you in the shin from the other side of the couch. "Don't turn my words against me, you-- you-- you word turner againster."

Battles of verbal wit with Whitney don't tend to be very taxing, apparently even after her augmentations.

She hasn't changed at all.

You catch a glimpse of Ms. Carte stumbling across the adjoining hall, trying to straighten her hair at the same time as she applies mascara. It isn't working out that well for her. Her oversleeping means she has less time to prepare for the beauty contest than she would have liked.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck--" you hear as she stomps down the hall, her voice bouncing away like an echo inside a cave.

"You snooze, you lose!" comes Mom's chirping voice from the hallway bathroom. "Let that be a lesson to you!"

You hear a loud thud against the bathroom wall -- Ms. Carte throwing something at Mom, you surmise -- and Mom's cruel laughter in return.

Glancing back to the other end of the living room, you notice Cerise sitting glumly on the recliner. She seems sad.

Vivian arrives, dressed to the nines, looking almost albino against her dark black wardrobe. "I am ready to depart," she announces.

"You look like you're ready to depart for good," you say. "You're going to a parade, not a funeral. You do know that, right?"

"Please, let's hurry. It should be starting any time now."

You glance worriedly back at Cerise. "One second," you tell Vivian. You approach your sister and kneel beside her, but she won't even look at you.

"What's up?" you ask.

"All these dates..." she mumbles. "Parades and wakeboarding and who knows what else... I'm not jealous or anything. But-- what about me?"

"What about you?" you ask. Cerise winces, so you pet her cheek with the back of your palm. "Here's what's about you. Meet me under the Japan-Palau Friendship Bridge at 8:45 PM tonight."

Cerise glances at you, narrowing her eyes. "Ice cream isn't going to cut it," she says.

"Then it's a good thing I've got more planned than ice cream," you say.

Cerise looks at you strangely, but says nothing more. Standing, you stretch your back and hold out your hand for Vivian. She takes it. Her fingers feel tiny and fragile in your grip.

"I'll see you tonight," you tell Cerise. And then, to Whitney: "I'll see you in a few hours."

Stepping out into the already blazing heat of morning, you walk with Vivian to one of Gustav's watercraft. It's time for your big day out. First stop: the Independence Day parade.

On the main island, you dock the speedboat and help Vivian step out. But of course, you face the same issue you had when you came here with Cerise: neither you nor Vivian is a licensed driver.

"It's not a problem," Vivian says. "I am fully capable of operating a motor vehicle."

"Can you even reach the pedals?" you ask. You indicate the height disparity between you and her with your hand.

Vivian blanches. "Do not mock me, Alabaster Soliloquy."

"I'm not mocking you. I'm just saying--"

"If we wish to arrive on time, there is no other viable solution. Now, please kindly continue to the parking lot where Gustav keeps his vehicle. I will chaperone you."

>What will you do?

[X] Lewd things with Vivian in Gustav's truck

In the parking lot, you find Gustav's pickup amidst the dozens of other autos and step inside the sweltering driver's seat.

"What are you doing," Vivian says flatly. "That is the driver's seat."

"I know," you say. "Hop in."

"You cannot drive a car. I know for a fact you cannot drive a car."

"Right. And you can't reach the pedals. So this will work out pretty well, don't you agree?"

Vivian makes an angry puff of air through her nostrils. But she obeys. She hikes up the lacy hem of her hoop skirt and steps into the truck. You pull her the rest of the way in, sitting her on your lap, her springy little butt squarely on your crotch. You hand her your key from your jeans pocket, and she fires up the engine. It rumbles to life.

"Just tell me when to go," you say.

Vivian throws the car into gear. "Go," she says.

You press down on the gas, and the car rockets out of its space. Vivian, panicking, cuts the wheel. The tires screech against the asphalt as the car peels around in a 270 degree spin.

"STOP!!!" she cries, closing her eyes. You jam on the brakes just before you crash into a parked sedan.

Vivian stares at the ceiling and sighs. "This is not going to work out," she says.

"Shush," you say. "Once more. With feeling this time."

Vivian puts the car into reverse. "Go," she says. "But softly."

You gently accelerate. Vivian pulls the steering wheel back to the customary 10-and-2 position, straightening the truck out. "Stop," she says. Then, putting the car in drive again: "go."

And you're off.

The ride after that is smooth. You keep the car at a relatively constant speed while Vivian manages the steering. The winding roads of Palau are no match for your one-two driving combo.

Of course, the bumpy roads have another effect. Vivian's butt keeps bouncing against you, and your body's reaction is inevitable.

The beast is awakened. You can't help yourself. As Vivian navigates, you reach up, running your palms along her sides. She's thin enough that you can nearly encircle her waist with both hands. You rub her up and down, the velvet of her gothic-style dress soft and warm in the sunlight streaming through the windshield.

"Mmm~" Vivian can't stop herself from letting out a sensual little moan. She quickly composes herself. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," you lie. You rub her board-flat chest in lazy circles.

"This is preposterous," she says. "We're supposed to be paying attention to the road."

"You are," you say. "I'm just the pedal-pusher." You turn your face down and nuzzle her neck.

Vivian startles in your lap when you begin to suckle on her, and the car lurches to the left as she momentarily loses control. "Alabaster..." she whines, growing desperate.

"Focus on driving," you say. "I'll just be back here, playing with you..."

You reach around her front, pushing your palm beneath the tight collar of her dress. The fabric clings to your hand like a form-fitting glove as you rub her bare chest. She isn't busty enough to need a bra, so you can fondle her to your heart's content.

Her nipples are like two tiny stones, erect and firm between your fingers. You can feel her ribs underneath, and still further down, her flat tummy. You suck salaciously on her neck as you molest her fragile body. Vivian raises her chin and arches her back to give you better access, gyrating against you, getting into these violations in spite of herself.

"Jerk me off," you say, voice low with lust.

"Alabaster, we can't. We can't."

"I don't care. Jerk me off."

Vivian gulps audibly. She takes one hand off the wheel and reaches down between the junction of her legs, pushing aside her dress to reach your crotch. She unzips your jeans, and fishes out your pulsing cock. It stands proudly at attention, jutting up almost to the base of the steering wheel.

Vivian's grip is weak and her palm isn't even enough to completely envelop your shaft, but the forbidden nature of the act makes it all the sweeter. You inadvertently speed up as Vivian tugs on your drooling member and you give her a series of wet hickeys.

"Fuck, that feels so good..." you tell her. "Just like that. Make me cum."

Your fun doesn't last long. Suddenly, you become aware of a police cruiser behind you. Your heart sinks. Worse still, it pulls into the adjoining lane, speeding up to pull alongside.

This is bad. How much prison time is it for letting a minor drive while she gives you a sloppy handjob?

You reach up and put your hands on the steering wheel, pretending to be the vehicle's main operator. You hope that's enough to fool the cop if he glances over.

But what you can't hide is your throbbing cock, or Vivian's continued tugging on it. You want to tell her to stop, but the delirious sensations of pleasure coursing through you are too much.

She must know the risk, too, but she can't stop either. Vivian masturbates you shamelessly.

The cruiser is right beside you. You glance out the window. The officer glances back at you. And as he nods, smiling warmly at what appears to be a loving brother letting his little sister pretend to drive, you blow a smelly, creamy load in Vivian's tiny palm.

Your jaw hangs slack and you throw your head back in ecstasy as you orgasm. Luckily, the cruiser passes before the officer has a chance to see that as well.

Vivian licks up your slimy cum, slurping it from between her fingers, as you arrive at your destination.

You step out of the truck, your knees weak and wobbly. You take Vivian's hand again and walk with her along a promenade that borders Koror's public beach. With the festivities in full swing, parking is a nightmare, and you have to walk half a mile before you get to the parade grounds.

The narrow streets of Koror are packed, men, women and children in floral regalia and patriotic dress. Others lean out of open windows in apartment buildings up and down the avenue. It isn't quite 9 AM, but it's already 95 degrees, and humid. You're sweating like a fiend. You can only imagine what Vivian's poor body is going through underneath that dress.

"Alabaster," Vivian says. "I can't see."

"There's nothing to see," you reply, craning your neck back and forth to survey the cordoned-off street. "It hasn't started."

"Help me up. I don't want to miss it when it does start."

You look down at her, smiling. "So you're saying you want upsies?"

"Do not infantilize-- hup!" Vivian gasps as you put your hands under her armpits and haul her up. You plop her on your shoulders.

"Can you see now?" you ask.

Looking up, you see Vivian nod curtly. She turns her head this way and that, perched high over the crowd, waiting with anxious excitement. You can hear the far-off sounds of brass instruments and booming drums rehearsing, but the marchers aren't anywhere to be seen.

Apropos of nothing, Vivian says: "the team should be having their next match right now. It's still Saturday morning in California."

"What made you think of that?"

"I'm... uncertain. I think about it sometimes. Can they win without us?"

"They should be okay. Hank and Paula know a lot, just between the two of them."

"And yet... there's no chance of them proceeding to the national competition now that we're gone."

"Aw, who cares about that?" you ask, trying to sound chipper. "Why would anyone want to go to Boise, of all places?"

"I wanted to go. It sounded -- fun."

"More fun than Palau?"

Vivian doesn't respond.

The parade begins. A float in the shape of a giant brown head -- a paper mache monstrosity in the depicting some figure from Palau's republican history, though you can't say who -- rolls down the street, heading up the procession. A man and a woman stand atop, visible only from the waist up, their bottom halves concealed inside the giant head. It looks rather macabre.

The woman is wearing a sash that says "Ms. Palau."

She looks about 20, mocha-brown, not a blemish on her. An elegant dress accentuates a supermodel's wafer-thin figure, and when she smiles, two dimples form in her cheeks.

Stiff competition.

"That woman looks like a harlot," Vivian says. This makes you feel a bit better.

Behind them, a pep band -- teenagers in red marching suits with frilled epaulettes -- marches in military formation. One of them carries Palau's flag, and they play what must be the National Anthem, judging by the number of people with their hands to their hearts.

Vivian holds her hand to her heart, too, in solidarity.

The next float that passes represents Palau's armed forces -- all twelve of them, apparently -- marching alongside with guns that obviously aren't real. It's kind of sad, frankly.

After them comes a group that makes Vivian so excited, she can't help kicking her feet a couple times when she sees them. It's a group of men and women in traditional tribal dress, grass skirts and tops. Some of them spin fiery batons, twirling and skipping as they do, dazzling the crowd with their dexterity. The ones along the perimeter toss handmade bead necklaces to the crowd from burlap sacks.

"I desire one of those," Vivian says. Despite the grownup phrasing, her voice drips with childlike glee.

You're at the back of the crowd, and everyone is packed in like sardines. Getting to the front in time is no easy proposition.

>What will you do?

[X] "BOOSTO!"

You push your way through the crowd. "Boosto!" you say. You part the assembled onlookers like Moses at the Red Sea.

"Please do not say that," Vivian sighs.

"Boosto!" you shout, even louder.

"I'm sorry--" Vivian says for you, glancing back and forth between the people you're shoving aside. "Terribly sorry-- excuse us-- sorry -- please forgive us -- apologies--"

"Boosto!" You hold your arms in front of you, imitating a jet, to amp up Vivian's mortification.

You come to the barricade and stop. Vivian waits patiently for a necklace to come her way, but one never does. Soon the group is passing you by, and a float representing some sort of political party is rolling up to take their place.

Vivian looks on the verge of tears.

You turn and follow the parade route, pushing yet more people aside, to keep pace with the fire-dancers as they continue down the street.

"Wave at them," you tell her. "Get their attention."

"That's juvenile-- hup!" You speed up, cutting her off.

"Boosto!"

"I asked you not to say--"

"If you want to stop the boostos, get yourself a necklace!"

Vivian, dithering, finally gives up on dignity. She flails her arms wildly as you speed alongside the marchers. "Here!" she cries. "Give me one! I desire a necklace! You, with the face! Please!"

A fat man in a green skirt looks over and grins approvingly. He reaches into his bag and tosses three necklaces Vivian's way. She nearly falls from your shoulders reaching out to catch one.

Looping it around her neck, she coos with delight, and the fat man continues on. Palaun Santa Claus, that guy.

"It's a shark's tooth..." Vivian says happily, fiddling with it.

"I don't think it really matches the outfit..." you say. Vivian gives you a little kick to show her disapproval at your opinion.

"So, how about now?" you ask. "Is this better than Boise?"

Vivian thinks.

"In all likelihood, yes. Thank you, Alabaster."

The parade ends with an enormous rolling float adorned with tropical flowers and a banner that reads, "Palau: Peace - Progress - Prosperity."

You identify the man at its head as Tommy Remengesau, the President. He wears a gauche, ill-fitting suit and bizarrely tiny rectangular glasses. He looks less like a head of state and more like a Polynesian Doogie Howser.

As he waves to his adoring constituents, you wonder if he knows the world of hurt he's due for in less than an hour.

After the parade is finally over, you take Vivian, sweating and exhausted, to the shade of a cafe's veranda. She drinks a milkshake to cool off, sitting at a chair too high for her feet to reach the ground.

"Will you be okay hanging out here until the beauty pageant?" you ask.

"Yes."

"Good. I'll be right down the street if you need me." You point toward the city park, where Remengesau is due to give his dedication speech, and where Rose is no doubt already waiting. "I'll see you in a little bit." You turn to leave.

"Wait."

You glance back at her.

"Alabaster Soliloquy," Vivian says. She sounds unsure of herself. She rotates her ankles, swiveling her feet in nervous circles, and fiddles some more with her shark tooth necklace. "Alabaster Soliloquy..."

"What is it?"

"I love you."

She stares madly at the table in front of her, blushing.

You peck her on the forehead. "You're not half-bad yourself."

She looks up. "You love me too?"

You poke her cheek with your forefinger. It's adorably squishy. "I love you. You little twerp."

Rose also overdressed for today's events. She wears a conservatively lengthy skirt that comes past her knees, long stockings, and a blouse that leaves everything to the imagination.

This is Rose in full StuCo mode.

"There you are," she says as you sidle up to her. The turnout at the park is rather small -- less than fifty, you estimate. People variously stand and sit in the cool grass, facing a makeshift wooden stage draped in Palau's colors. A podium stands at the center, and officials mill about. Some of the crowd snap photos or film video on cell phones.

"Is he late?" you ask, checking the time.

"Of course he's late. Probably snorting cocaine in a bathroom somewhere."

"If that's the case, do you need a bump too?"

"Hardly. I don't use substances, thank you very much."

"Sure you do. Don't you think a little cum would give you the pep you need--"

Rose sighs loudly.

"Don't give me that," you tease. "I could pin you down and fuck you right here in front of God and everyone if I wanted to--"

"Oh? Maybe I could do the same to you," she threatens. She hardly even glances at you as she speaks, instead keeping her eyes peeled on the stage, and her lips curled into a phony grin.

"Did you buy a wakeboard?" you ask.

"Yeah. Whitney's practicing with it as we speak."

Good news. She'll compete after all.

"Do you know how expensive those things are?" Rose asks. You shake your head. "Let's just say it's a good thing my parents haven't frozen my personal accounts. Oh, and I paid off Ms. Carte's little debt too."

You whistle. "Thanks," is all you can say.

"Don't thank me," she says, finally looking you dead-on. "I didn't do it out of the kindness of my heart, after all. I now consider myself the owner of that debt. And she will pay me back in full, one way or another..."

You raise your eyebrows. "Don't hurt her," you say firmly.

"Oh, I'd never think of doing that," she says. "But I wouldn't mind testing out that mouth of hers."

You can't say you hate the idea.

Minutes pass. Most of the small crowd appears to be growing restless, but Rose remains perky and at-attention, hands linked in front of her. You notice she has her shoebox of news clippings and cataloged corruption with her.

Finally, a band on-stage begins a sour, out-of-tune and out-of-sync arrangement. Tubas bellow and trombones trill impotently. Drums syncopate without discernible rhythm. It sounds like the theme song of a hot air balloon deflating, or clown's funeral dirge. It's certainly not the pomp and circumstance befitting a head of state. But sure enough, onto stage waltzes Tommy Remengesau, President.

Despite the anticlimactic entrance, Rose seems to have the wind knocked from her at his appearance. You sense that she may be having second thoughts.

"What's wrong?" you ask her.

"I'm not sure I can do this," she whispers back, as Remengesau holds up a palm to quiet the band.

There's a smattering of applause from the crowd, but most of the assembled citizens seem preoccupied with their own murmured conversations.

"SILENCE!" Remengesau yells, microphone feedback screeching. The crowd obeys.

"What do you mean you can't do this?" you hiss. "Don't give me that loser talk. Be the change we can believe in."

Rose, eyes on Remengesau, swallows hard. Remengesau pulls a piece of paper from his breast pocket and unfurls it against the podium. He clears his throat and reads aloud: platitudes about growth and progress, and the legacy of Roman Tmetuchl, the man whose statue he is here to dedicate. The statue in question sits in waiting underneath a white sheet beside the stage.

"I was going to confront him publicly," Rose says. "Now-- I don't know. Dealing with students at North High is one thing, but this man is a career politician. He could probably run rhetorical laps around me..."

[X] Do it. Believe in the me who believes in you.

[ ] I'll take you backstage after the speech, and you can confront him one-on-one.

Rose rolls her eyes. "Are you quoting your fucking cartoons at me? That sounds like one of your cartoons."

"Jesus," you say out of the corner of your mouth. "All right, let me put it like this. Don't be such a wuss. How's that?"

Rose rolls her shoulders instead of her eyes this time. She looks indignant at that one -- but also fired up.

At the end of Remengesau's tedious speech, he unveils the statue. More muted applause. He smiles a broad, phony smile.

Rose takes a deep breath and steps forward.

"Excuse me," she says. "Excuse me, President Remengesau?"

He peers over his gaudy sunglasses at Rose and decides to ignore her, turning back toward the statue. But Rose is insistent. "I just wanted to ask a couple questions," she says.

"This is not a question and answer session," Remengesau replies. He sounds much less formidable without his voice booming over a loudspeaker.

"Please," Rose says. "I'm a student from America and I came all this way just to see you. I have an interest in politics and wanted your advice..."

Rose takes on that same sweet, innocent tone that you've seen sucker countless people in the past. That smile of hers could melt the heart of Rei Ayanami herself. It's Rose's deadliest trick.

Remengesau glances side to side, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. The remaining audience members watch with renewed interest, obviously on Rose's side. "Let her talk!" one of them says. "Don't crush the poor girl's dreams!" another adds.

The President, obviously reluctant, motions for someone to hand him a mic. He forces a pained smile of feigned congeniality and says, "of course. We in Palau care deeply about Americans and always want them to have their way. Please speak, little girl."

Rose takes her shoebox under one arm and approaches even closer to the stage. No one seems worried and you're surprised at the total lack of security.

"What does it take to succeed in politics?" Rose says.

"Good question, little girl--"

"Rose."

"Good question, Rose. Well, as I always say, it takes a lot of perseverance. A lot of perseverance. And you need good people skills, of course--"

"Hmm," Rose interjects. "Does that entail loosening financial regulations so your country can launder the proceeds of organized crime syndicates? Is that 'good people skills'?"

Remengesau blinks. His microphone makes a small feedback squeal that heightens the awkward silence.

"I'm sorry?" he says.

"Does it entail handing out no-bid construction contracts to Chinese corporations for public works projects, coincidentally just weeks before you buy a new yacht?"

"...Much fire--" Remengesau says, senselessly. He clears his throat, making weird phlegmy noises. "You have a lot of fire, little girl--"

"Rose."

"A little girl such as yourself should be more concerned with your studies--"

"I'm just trying to understand," Rose insists, smoothing out her blouse and smiling smugly. "Did your success require you to short funding for maintenance on the Koror–Babeldaob bridge, even though it collapsed once before? Do you need to put the lives of your constituents at risk to succeed, or is that just for fun?"

"He's cutting funding for the bridge?" an audience member asks, incredulous. "My cousin almost died when it collapsed!"

"Now, now," Remengesau says, trying to control the situation. He dabs his sweaty face with a handkerchief and appears to be going through palpitations. The crowd is murmuring excitedly. "These accusations are baseless. Totally baseless."

"Not at all," Rose insists. "I have documents here to prove it. It's all on the public record." A few of the more engaged onlookers approach, and Rose hands them some printouts from her shoebox. They read, growing angry.

Remengesau stammers. "Little girl--"

"Rose."

"--I want only for Palau's success and well-being. I want ONLY--"

"Is that why you keep cutting social programs and infrastructure funding for rural islanders, even as you add to your millions? Can you tell me how that adds to Palau's well-being?"

Remengesau clutches at his stomach and almost doubles over. "Who put you up to this?" he demands. He points at Rose with a trembling forefinger "Was it that bastard Sugiyama? Tell me!"

"When are you going to pay your back taxes?" Rose asks.

Remengesau surveys the jeering crowd before him. They bray and boo. Someone throws a plastic bottle, and it hits him in the chest. He stumbles back.

"You're not half the man Roman Tmetuchl was," Rose says. "He'd roll over in his grave if he knew you were dedicating his statue. Tmetuchl fought against colonialism. What do you do? You're inviting it back."

Remengesau vomits. He falls to all fours and loses his lunch all over the base of statue. And Rose, seeing this, cackles. The rest of the audience laughs, too. An aide ushers Remengesau away, both of them stumbling and swaying.

"That girl is the devil," you hear faintly over the microphone as they flee the stage. "She's the fucking devil..."

You hug Rose around the waist and let her bask in this triumph. She almost seems to glow.

Rose hands out her little documents to anyone who asks in the aftermath of the speech. Many do -- most of the crowd, in fact. Several of them indicate that they had been supporters of the President, but won't be any longer. Rose provides some names of politicians who oppose the current regime, and who may run in 2016. Her public scrutiny of Remengesau's policies might well spread.

"Did you see the look on his face?" Rose asks as you walk hand in hand back to the restaurant where Vivian is waiting. "Oh god! It was priceless!"

"Maybe you really are the devil," you say.

"The devil only punishes those who deserve it," Rose says. "I'm proud to be the devil any day of the week." She pauses, grinning up at you. "Hail satan, bitch."

"Hail satan," you say in faux solemnity.

You and Rose stop short as you approach the veranda at the cafe where Vivian is sitting. Whitney is with her. They're talking with one another and Whitney is smiling, laughing. You're too far away to hear the conversation and neither of them notice you.

Vivian reaches out, laying a palm flat against Whitney's flat chest. Vivian's face rounds with wonderment when she feels the pulse and realizes Whitney still has a heart. She takes Whitney's hand and lays it against her chest in turn. Whitney feels Vivian's pulseless state. Vivian appears monetarily sad, so Whitney leans across the table and gives her an encouraging hug.

[X] Let Vivian and Whitney have some time together.

[ ] Take them to the beauty contest to watch Mom and Ms. Carte compete.

The pageant is on Koror's largest public beach, a bit of a trek from the city center where you currently are. Rose doesn't want to come along, citing such complaints as the contest's objectification of women and its legitimization of male gaze. You ask her how the bikini she owns and often wears fits into this ideological framework. She punches you in the shoulder.

So you'll go alone, then.

However, you're not on the beachfront for more than five minutes before you notice Rose at your side, appearing as if suddenly materialized.

"Jesus," you say, startling. "Don't sneak up on me like that." You give her an appraising glance. She's wearing her bikini again, as if trying to prove some kind of oblique point to you -- or maybe just to escape this godawful heat.

"I thought you didn't want to come?" you say.

"Hmph," is all she'll say.

This event is much better-attended than the President's dedication ceremony. Spectators fill the beach, milling around, dressed skimpily and drinking, like a browner version of Woodstock.

The stage set up for the contest is larger, too, more garish: huge metal rigging supports a purple backdrop as well as curtains hiding a backstage prep area. A judge's table sits to the left, seating ten fat and balding suited men, like a congressional NTR subcommittee.

The event's MC is a man you recognize -- he was on the parade float earlier with the current Ms. Palau. He stands center-stage, dressed sharply in a tux, and gives a speech hyping the beauty of today's contestants. There are 20, including the current champion.

The MC steps aside, the curtains part, and the women step out.

Mom and Ms. Carte are conspicuous. Most of the contestants are dark-skinned, or else clearly Japanese. Mom and Ms. Carte are white as the driven snow. They stand side-by-side, wearing forced smiles and not very much else.

The crowd goes wild for the assembled beauties. All you can do is pray nothing untoward happens between those two before it's all over.

Each woman steps forward to briefly introduce herself.

"I'm Naoko," one says, full of meekness. "I will do my best to please everyone here. My main hobbies are embroidery and doing whatever my boyfriend tells me."

"I'm Ursula," says another, "and I like to exercise. I believe in veganism."

Compared to these stilted introductions, Mom's is a little more... eventful.

"I cook and read in my spare time," she says. "But forget about that crap. Let's get to the real point. I solemnly promise that I will destroy everyone here--"

The MC, smiling, tries to usher her away, but she pushes him back and continues.

"Do you hear me?" she snarls, grabbing the mic stand. "I will destroy EVERYONE on this stage-- I will completely-- hey!!" The microphone shrieks like nails on chalkboard as the MC finally forces her back into the lineup. He isn't smiling anymore.

Ms. Carte steps forward now, grinning. "My name is Dr. Renee Denise Carte, MD, PhD. I'm basically a genius. My research interests include bio-engineered symbiotic prostheses, bioelectronics, piezoelectric surgical techniques, carbon nanotube skeletal augmentation--"

"Thank you, thank you," the MC says, trying to end it before it becomes a bore.

"--neural networking systems, synthetic flesh analogues--"

"Renee Carte, everyone!" the MC says. "Let's give her a hand!"

"--artificial intelligence, transhumanism--"

She cranes her neck to keep speaking into the microphone as the MC forces her back into the lineup as well. Finally she has to break off her verbal CV. Taking her place beside Mom, she sticks her tongue out at her as if she was already declared winner.

The first part of the actual contest is a question-and-answer session. The women are posed such toughies as, "if you were granted three wishes, what would they be?" and "in your opinion, what is the most difficult problem facing the world today?"

World hunger and world peace get brought up early and often.

"Mrs. Soliloquy," says one of the judges when it comes Mom's turn. "Who do you most admire?"

"That's obvious," Mom replies, folding her arms. "My two children. They mean everything to me."

This surprises you. Rose elbows you in the side, snickering.

Mom's eyes find you in the crowd, and she blushes deeply, her eyelids fluttering. "A-although," she adds, "my son is a complete idiot sometimes-- I suppose I only really love him because I HAVE to-- I mean, it's not like-- it's not like--"

She trails off. The judges cast confused glances at one another.

"I mean-- Alabaster is obviously the most intelligent person in this whole country-- and the strongest, too-- aside from that dyke bitch-- but-- w-well--"

She's trembling and flustered. She keeps glancing back at you, abashed. So you do the only thing you can: you give her an encouraging smile and nod slowly. She clears her throat and continues.

"Anyway-- my daughter Cerise is also precious. She's extremely intelligent too, and kind-hearted, and sociable... err--"

The judges begin to whisper to one another and don't seem impressed at this rambling response.

Mom, thinking fast, adds one last bit: "you asked a different contestant what she would wish for if she had three wishes. This might be outside the scope of what you asked me, but I would only need two. I would wish-- I would wish to be even closer to Alabaster and Cerise."

The judges arch their eyebrows but seem to like that. So does the crowd. They applaud.

Next comes the talent contest. The current Ms. Palau, Yvonne, swallows fire, to the crowd's wild adulation; a girl named Midori recites haiku, to the crowd's much less enthusiastic reception.

Ms. Carte's talent is walking on her hands.

You never knew she could do this, and it turns out she's almost unbelievably skilled at it. She skitters around the stage like a Silent Hill monster after receiving a total makeover. She hops and dances with ease, and even walks on her fingertips for a few seconds.

From the back of the stage where the rest of the girls are seated, Mom watches glumly. When Ms. Carte mounts a unicycle, pedaling it with her hands to oohs and aahs from the crowd, you think Mom might have a conniption.

But instead, she exacts revenge.

As Ms. Carte unicycles by, Mom reaches deftly out and tugs at the string of Ms. Carte's bikini bottom. That's all the coaxing it takes. The bottom falls away, leaving her pussy exposed to the eyes of every single man, woman, and child in attendance. Its inviting pink folds, the fleshy mound shaved bare and slightly coated in sweat, glisten in the afternoon sun.

Ms. Carte gasps in shock. She does a quick 180, baring her perfectly round ass. When her legs involuntarily split to help maintain her balance, you can even see her little puckered rosebud.

"Oh my god oh my god oh my god" you hear her saying from the stage, mortified.

Rose covers her mouth. "Oh, my," she says, never peeling her eyes away.

The rest of the audience hoots and hollers, eating it up. The judges and MC do nothing to intervene. They seem to be enjoying the show, too.

"I can't-- I can't--" comes Ms. Carte's voice, barely audible over the wild crowd. She wheels around on-stage, unable to cover her shame, blushing, on the verge of tears. Her legs flail madly and her most private parts remain on lewd display.

>What do you do?

[X] Help her cover herself/help her backstage

You rush forward, sweeping up one of the beachgoers' towels as you do. You bound on-stage and tackle Ms. Carte off her unicycle -- the gesture is perhaps a bit rough, but desperate times and so on.

Lying over her, you wrap the towel around her lower half before helping her to her feet. You guide her through the curtains that lead to the backstage area -- really just a section of beach that's been cordoned off. Ms. Carte bows her head, still humiliated. Mom looks a bit shamefaced as you pass.

Backstage, security personnel at a table back here watches you inquisitively. Someone tosses Ms. Carte's bikini bottom back to you and you help her put it back on.

"I'm going to get her back!" Ms. Carte says in a rage after she overcomes the initial shock of embarrassment. "That bitch is going to pay!"

"Tone it down," you say, trying to keep her rational. "Let me deal with it later. All right? Don't make a scene--"

"I'll make any goddamn scene I want to!"

Not exactly the wittiest riposte. She isn't thinking clearly, and that spells trouble. Worse, Mom's talent exhibition is beginning now. Ms. Carte pushes past you, returning to the stage.

Things might get ugly.

When you walk around the side of the stage and return to Rose's side in the crowd, Mom is well into her act. Her talent is speed-painting. She's halfway done with a stunning landscape of a beach at sunset.

Unlike Ms. Carte's talent, you were already aware of this one, but it's been years since you last saw it. Mom stopped painting well before you hit puberty, when as a child you made fun of her work.

"And now," Mom says with a flourish, "we add some happy palm trees. Like so. And so."

She's so involved with the painting that she doesn't notice Ms. Carte's growing rage hit its boiling point. Nor does she notice when Ms. Carte rises to her feet, lets out a savage yell, and barrels toward her.

Mom's easel goes flying and her canvas topples to the stage floor. Her palette becomes trapped between their bodies as they tumble to the side. The two women struggle, rolling around and trying to pin each other. Their torsos become smeared and smudged with bright green paint.

"You bitch! You bitch!" Ms. Carte says again and again. She tugs cruelly at Mom's hair.

Mom kicks and screams in pain and anger, spittle flying. "Get off of me, you crazy tramp!"

The judges are standing, watching in shock; the MC's mouth is agape; the other contestants are like deer in headlights.

"Learn to take a joke!" Mom cries.

"A joke?! A JOKE!? The only joke around here is the delusion that your saggy ass could win a beauty contest!"

Mom jockeys for position, rolling Ms. Carte onto her back and kneeing her roughly. "Screw you! The judges aren't here to elect 'worlds most drunken tramp,' you know! I'm much more beautiful than some used-up trollop like you!"

"Please! It's a good thing I didn't take off your bikini too! All the judges would have puked!"

Watching this unfold, Rose is laughing like a madwoman.

But you know you need to intervene. And as it just so happens, Rose is going to help, like it or not.

You grab her by the wrist and haul her into a nearby mens' bathroom.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Rose spits as you push her into a claustrophobic stall. You lock the door behind you.

"I need your swimsuit," you say, turning to face her.

"What?"

"Take your swimsuit off. I need it."

"Why on EARTH--"

You don't have time to argue. You take Rose's swimsuit by force, kicking off your swim trunks as you do.

"This is hardly the time or the place," Rose begins. But when you start putting on her bikini bottom, she stops mid-sentence.

"Um-- not that I'm strictly against doing something with you right now," Rose says, revising her previous position. She licks her lips as she watches you crossdress. You can see her naked pussy already beginning to cream itself.

"How do I look?" you ask.

"Good enough to eat," she says. Her eyes twinkle.

"Like a girl?"

"Like the nastiest, sluttiest girl who ever--"

"Good. Wait here," you tell her.

"--huh?"

"I need to stop that fight. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Rose slumps down, sitting naked on the lid of the toilet. "You can't just-- just LEAVE me here, naked, in a public bathroom! Are you crazy?"

"It'll be fine," you say. "Try not to get raped, okay? I believe in you. Wear my trunks if it'll make you feel better."

You peck her on the cheek. "Love you. Bye."

You dash out, closing the stall door behind you, as Rose wails in protest. "Wait! Wait, goddamn it!" But you're already gone.

You dash back to the beach and sneak around the side of the stage, into the prep area. A man in a black tee that says SECURITY in huge stencil lettering stops you.

"Sorry I'm late," you say, forcing your voice to unnaturally higher registers. "I can still compete, right?"

The man glances you up and down. "Name?" he asks, pulling a clipboard from the folding table beside him.

"Err-- that's not important, is it?"

"I can't let you on stage if your name isn't on the list, lady. That's the rules."

You throw your head back, groaning. "Isn't there any other way?"

"Nope. If you're not supposed to be here, beat it."

Desperate times...

Swallowing your pride, you saunter closer to the man. You run your fingertips up and down his barrel chest. "Come on," you say, trying to sound coy. "Who needs a silly list? Let me on stage. I promise to... make it worth your while, after the show..."

The bouncer gulps, pearls of sweat appearing on his forehead. The side of his mouth twitches as he looks at you with new eyes -- hungry eyes. It makes you a bit uncomfortable, but also kind of proud, too. He steps aside and lets you pass.

"Uh-- wait--" the man calls out, his voice shaky. "I, uh, still need your name-- to pass on to the judges so they can announce you."

You look back at him. With a wink, you say the first thing that comes to mind. He nods his understanding, jots it down, and hurries to hand it off to the judge's table.

"I'll kill you!" Ms. Carte shouts.

"I'll grind your face into dust!" Mom shouts back.

They tug at each other's hair and try to slam each other's heads into the ground. It's vicious and terrible, and... well, kind of hot, too, but that's beside the point.

Yet when you walk on-stage, everyone falls still and silent -- the other contestants, the crowd, the judges -- Mom and Ms. Carte, too. The two women stare at you like they've seen a ghost, disbelieving, their faces lightly bruised and spattered with paint. Their mouths part slightly in shock.

"Ahem--" one of the judges announces, taking a notecard from the bouncer you seduced. "We, um, have a late entrant into the competition here. Everyone, please welcome-- Alabasterina Aside."

You step to the center of the stage, swaying your hips as best you can, trying to look sexy.

You notice Rose returning to the crowd, wearing your trunks. She covers her bare tits with her arms, and not very well. She looks glum, until she meets up with--

Oh, Jesus. Whitney is here. So is Vivian. And following close behind them--

You close your eyes, trying not to have a panic attack. This can't be happening.

Cerise is here, too.

Mom and Ms. Carte are still lying on the ground, Mom on top, in exactly the position they were in before you took the stage. Their eyes follow your every move. Down below, so do the eyes of your other four lovers.

"Alabasterina," says the judge who introduced you, "what is your talent?"

>What is your talent?

[X] Answering trivia questions WHILE BENCHPRESSING TWO HOT OLDER WOMEN

You haul Mom and Ms. Carte up by the scruffs of their necks, like two naughty kittens. You toss them into the air and catch them by the butt, one in each palm, balancing them precariously. You raise them high above your head in a show of superhuman strength as they teeter and flail their extremities, trying not to fall.

Down in the crowd below, you see Cerise's lips form the words "holy shit." Whitney looks like she's about to faint from exhilaration. Vivian fans her to no effect, looking worried and majorly confused.

The rest of the audience cheers and screams. Soon a chant develops: Alabasterina! Alabasterina! Alabasterina!

"Your skill is... your strength?" one of the judges asks.

You pump Mom and Ms. Carte up and down as if they weigh nothing. "Oh, this?" you ask. "This is just how I warm up. My real talent is trivia."

"W-what are you doing?" Mom demands out of the corner of her mouth, still struggling to balance herself. "Why are you wearing those--"

"--Are those Rose's?" Ms. Carte cuts in. "Why the hell--"

"Shush," you tell them, keeping your voice low. "You're lucky I came when I did. You guys could have killed each other."

They shut up at that.

Standing here on stage with hundreds of spectators watching you instills a strange feeling in your gut -- though not unpleasant. You feel the residual warmth of Rose's cunt against your genitals and the silky smooth fabric of her swimwear clinging to you, your ass and your thighs. You do your best not to grow what would doubtless be a show-stopping erection.

"Trivia?" a judge asks. "We're not really prepared-- we have no questions prepared, that is--"

"When did the Spanish armada sail?" Ms. Carte interjects.

You grin triumphantly.

"August 8, 1588," you say. You give her mound a grateful little squeeze for helping you out, and she bites her lower lip in sudden pleasure.

Mom, seeing this from her perch, and not to be outdone, counters with: "What was the first work of Picasso's blue period?"

"Casagemas in His Coffin," you say, and give her a squeeze, too -- it's only fair. Her soft pubis is like a toy in your hands. You feel the rapid spread of her wetness, her pussy going into overdrives from this incestuous, exhibitionist molestation.

"Who invented the phonograph?" Ms. Carte says.

"Thomas Edison."

"Ohhh fuck," Ms. Carte can't help herself from groaning as you grope her. She bucks her hips, threatening to fall. The crowd is in a fervor of cheers and chants, and no one seems to hear this, or notice the sexual perversion happening right in front of them.

"What year did A Farewell to Arms come out?" Mom says.

"1929." -- of course!

"Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!" You rub her through the thin fabric, masking the obscenity with the motions of your continued lifting. Whitney, Rose, and Cerise seem to understand what's going on, and watch rapt -- even Vivian seems to understand -- but no one else does. Your public violation of these women becomes bolder still as they alternate questions in shaky timbre.

Mom and Ms. Carte, now in the throes of approaching orgasm, can't continue their grudge -- by necessity. They lean against each other for support, linking fingers as you get them off. They cum in your hands, gasping and shuddering. Their cream trickles wetly down your forearms and all the way to your elbows, their pussies throbbing in tune with their pulses. They lean their foreheads together and ride out their cum, screaming soundlessly into each other's mouths. And then you let them down. The crowd is ecstatic.

Your show of bizarre strength and mental acuity is the last event of the pageant. You stand with the other 20 contestants as the judges deliberate -- taking your place in between Mom and Ms. Carte, just in case.

Both women are complete fucking messes, their hair mussed, their bodies smeared with paint, their bottoms stained with their fluids -- they stink like acrylics and sex -- but both of them smile as if they've got it in the bag, as if they're sure to win.

But the crowd isn't chanting their names. The crowd is chanting YOUR name.

The judges come to a decision. The head of the committee writes their collective choice down on a notecard and hands it off to the MC. The MC strides purposefully to center stage, the perfect image of showmanship. From somewhere to the side, a drummer gives a drumroll to amp up the suspense.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the MC says. Your heart flutters in your chest. Mom and Ms. Carte stare past you, at each other, with renewed rivalry.

"Ladies and gentlemen, today's contest has been one of the... strangest... that I've seen in many years doing this--" he pauses for laughter-- "but we finally have a decision. The winner of Ms. Palau 2014 is--"

He looks down at the card, dramatically raising his eyebrows.

"--Why, I never would have guessed this-- but she's a real crowd favorite, it seems, and the judges loved her too-- she took this entire competition by storm--!"

"Our winner is--!!!"

You puff out your chest, your breath growing ragged with excitement.

"--Yvonne Tamaguld!" the MC cries, throwing his arms wide and beckoning the champion to step forward.

"What." you say, flatly.

Yvonne, current and again Ms. Palau, puts her trembling hands to her mouth and starts to cry, as if this is some big fucking shock for her. The MC puts a tiara on her head, wraps a sash around her, and hands her a bouquet of flowers.

Mom and Ms. Carte appear less than pleased.

So do you.

"This is Yvonne's fourth win in a row and fifth overall," The MC says. And then, as that stupid, slutty harlot who isn't NEARLY as pretty as you are bows and blows kisses to the crowd-- seriously, who the FUCK does she think she is? -- the MC launches into a crooning melody.

"Sheeee's so pretty and graceful, Ms. Paaaalaaaau. She's so el-e-gant and looooovely, Mssssss. Palau..."

You could puke.

"HOW DARE YOU NOT VOTE FOR ALABASTER?!" you hear Rose shriek from somewhere in the crowd. "THIS IS ERASURE!! THIS IS A HATE CRIME!!"

As the other contestants crowd around the winner to congratulate her, you turn on your heels and disappear backstage, worrying that if you stick around you'll start to cry. This is so unfair. Mom and Ms. Carte follow close behind.

"It's not FAIR," you cry, arms folded as you sit on a flimsy plastic chair backstage. Whitney fans you with a magazine. The others look on.

"Are you going to give me back my top?" Rose asks, still using her forearms to -- badly -- cover her udders. No one pays attention to her.

"You're still number one to me, Ally," Whitney says.

"That's right," Mom says in an uncharacteristic display of tenderness. She strokes your hair. "You're the prettiest person in Palau."

Cerise gives her a mean look.

"Um-- the second prettiest person in Palau..." Mom corrects. "I mean--"

"Oh, of COURSE," you moan. "Always the bridesmaid, never the bride!" You snatch a tissue from Vivian's outstretched hand. You blow your nose loudly, but the tears won't stop. You weep into the bunched-up tissue.

"Seriously, my boobs are completely exposed here..."

"I would have voted for you," Ms. Carte says, talking over Rose.

"Me too!" Whitney says. "I would have voted for you SO fucking hard!"

"They're obviously biased toward breasts," Cerise says. She pounds a fist in her palm. "Those judges simply can't appreciate the delicate body of a crossdressing boy!"

"I would hardly call Alabaster's weightlifting 'delicate,'" Vivian says.

"That isn't the point!" Cerise shouts.

"I can feel everyone looking at me..." Rose mumbles.

"You should have beat those judges to pulp," Ms. Carte says, her eyes dewy with daydreaming. "That would have been justice. Not placing at least one of us in the top three was a travesty."

You glance over and notice the security guard from before -- the one you seduced to let you into the contest. He stares at you with lustful eyes. Only now do you remember yourself. "Let's get out of here," you say, sniffling.

"My top!!" Rose shouts, powerlessly, as you stand up and head out. The other girls follow, Rose bringing the the rear. Her breasts ripple like an upset pond with every step, and sweat trickles lightly from the undersides. As expected of breasts.

Out on the beach, the crowd from the pageant is dispersing. A wind rolls in from the east, bringing with it long, flat, gray nimbus clouds that lie ominously on the far horizon. The clouds haven't overtaken the sun so and the day is still bright -- and oppressively hot.

The fresh air does wonders to quell your despair over losing. You breathe normally once again -- and start to feel once again the strangeness of being in girl's clothes.

Vivian seems more interested in the lapping tide than your emotional turnaround. She tosses off her dress with a theatric flourish to reveal her spandex onepiece underneath.

Ms. Carte, perhaps at least partially to wash herself clean of the acrylic paint that spilled on her in the fight on-stage, helps Vivian along as she dogpaddles into the ocean. She holds Vivian about the belly and spine to keep her from sinking as Vivian kicks her pale legs in the water.

Cerise unfurls a beach towel and sits down near the shore, watching the windsurfers as they gather at the other end of the beach. Mom joins her.

"I guess I'd better get ready," Whitney says. "The competition is starting soon."

She hugs you tight, looping her arms over your shoulders. She kisses you on the cheek. "I like Alabasterina," she whispers. Her voice directly in your ear sends a jolt down your spine.

"I--" you begin.

"MY. TOP," Rose cuts, setting her jaw and stomping a foot. "Everyone is looking at me!"

You glance around. It's true: Rose's bare-chestedness is drawing a lot of leering.

"All right," Whitney says, pulling away. "Wish me luck!" She jogs toward the cabana where her board is being kept.

You look over at Rose. She taps her foot expectantly, your boxers hugging her fleshy thighs.

>What do you do?

[X] Mock indignation/tell her to beg

"Are you-- are you trying to body shame me?" you breathe, hugging your chest in mock indignation. "How dare you--"

"Alabaster, this isn't the time--"

"How DARE you?"

She kicks at you -- a move she must have picked up from Whitney. But she's uncoordinated, only managing to graze your ankle. The move sends her tumbling backward and she collapses splay-limbed in the sand.

Rose might copy Whitney's moves but she absolutely doesn't have the same grace. Mom and Cerise watch intently from their beach towel; Mom giggles to herself at Rose's misfortune.

You help Rose to her feet and steer her away from the rubberneckers and cat-callers hooting at her exposed tits.

"Fine," you say, yielding. "I'll give you back your clothes."

Rose smiles.

"You just have to beg me for them," you say.

Rose's smile freezes on her face. "I'm sorry--?"

You untie the bikini top's securing straps and slip out of the garment. Holding it out on a hooked forefinger, you say, "just grovel a little and you can have it back."

"This is RIDICULOUS--"

"Well, it's your choice," you say, turning away as if to leave her behind. Rose's face crumples and she reaches out to stop you. The desperate gesture momentarily exposes a bright pink areola which she quickly covers up again.

"Wait," she says. "You wouldn't really leave me naked in public, would you?"

"If you're misbehaving? Oh, sure."

Rose's lips tremble. Her eyes dart side to side, perhaps trying to get a read on your expression, to gauge if you're serious.

"Please," Rose says finally, her voice pinched.

"Hmm?" you say.

"Please," she repeats. "I'm-- begging you--" She swallows hard, looking at the ground, her face flushed. Her haughtiness is -- at least momentarily -- demolished.

"All right," you say. "Will you admit that you're my pet, and not the other way around?"

Rose winces at this, like she's been slapped in the face. "Y-you're a dog," she says, still averting her gaze. "Taking advantage of me like this--"

You deny her the satisfaction of a response as she stands there trembling.

Long moments pass, and then: "I'm you p-p-pet," she stammers. "Okay? Please don't-- torture your pet like this..."

You grin. "Here," you say. You toss her the top. She catches it, and with lightning movements puts it on.

You tug down the trunks she's wearing and the two of you quickly swap bottoms. This bold maneuver draws some raised eyebrows and makes you thrill with adrenaline, but otherwise goes off without a hitch. Mom and Cerise, watching, cover their mouths daintily, looking almost like mirror images.

You lay a palm on Rose's tummy. The sudden contact makes her inhale sharply. You run a fingertip across the shallow striation that serves as the only remaining mark of her wound. She can't help but make a small moan at this -- the flesh there is still tender.

You kiss her on the top of her head and say: "you pull off the bikini look better than I do, anyway."

"You'll pay for this..." she says, but there isn't any force behind her words. She snuggles closer to your touch.

The windsurfing competition begins about half an hour later. Buoys are deployed to demarcate the playing area and keep swimmers out of the way. A judge's table seats many of the same men who judged the beauty pageant. You begin to suspect Palau is some kind of oligarchy.

Whitney is an unknown, and hasn't ever competed before, so she's seeded at the very bottom. This means she's slated to compete in the middle of the pack, after the mid-seeded players but before the top-seeded ones.

The competitors congregate underneath the shade of a long white tent, milling about and drinking gatorade. There are roughly two dozen, all men, of all different nationalities, and they all seem to know one another well. They laugh and joke and horse around. Whitney, usually a social butterfly, stands around looking lost and uncertain.

[ ] Beckon her to your place on the beach with Rose, Cerise, and Mom.

[X] Go over there.

You climb over the rope cordoning off the players' area and head into the tent, not caring about the rules.

"Who're you, eh?" a man with long blond hair and an Australian accent asks as you pass. "Ain't supposed to be heah, mate."

"I go where I want," you say. The man puts a hand on your shoulder to stop you. You shrug him off.

"Oi!" he shouts after you. "I'll call security!" But you don't even look back.

Whitney watches this little altercation with wide eyes. You hold her around the waist and guide her away, toward the opposite end of the tent.

"That was Ty Fobbler," Whitney breathes. "You just pissed off Ty Fobbler -- WE just pissed off Ty Fobbler."

"Ty... who?"

"He's the number one windsurfer on planet Earth! Don't you know anything about this sport?"

"Precisely nothing, as it happens..."

You glance back. Ty is posing for pictures with the other competitors, who eagerly crowd around him. He's got a body like an ancient Viking god and hair like a modern Viking douchebag, and everyone in the tent is gaga for him.

"You'll kick his ass," you say.

"Yeah fucking right, Ally!" She stomps your foot. "Two hours of practice and I can still barely change direction! That guy can do triple backflips in his sleep!"

"You'll kick his ass," you say again.

"You can't just-- just make something true by repeating it," Whitney says.

"It worked for Goebbels..."

"What the fuck do gerbils have to do with this?" Whitney shouts. She stomps your foot again. "YOU put me up to this and now I'm going to make an ass out of myself in public, dickweed. Oh god... I'm going to barf..."

She grabs a paper bag from a nearby table and breathes into it, hunching over. The bag expands and contracts with her breath. You lay a comforting palm on her back, rubbing up and down.

An idea strikes you. An idea to help Whitney win -- but it's cheating, not to mention insanely risky.

[ ] Help her win, no matter the risk.

[X] I believe in Whitney. She can win on her own!

"Whitney."

"I'm doomed. Fucking... goddamn it--"

"Whitney! Look at me."

You clasp her by the shoulders. She pulls the paper bag away from her face and meets your gaze.

You were planning something to say motivational here, but you're not exactly the Gipper.

"It's not whether you win or lose," you say, "but whether you have fun--"

"Oh, FUCK you," Whitney groans."Fun is bullshit! In sports it's kill or be killed. The end!"

"Then," you say, "kill."

Whitney fixes you with a skeptical look. You launch into a pep talk.

"The Whitney I know always killed. Soccer, softball, basketball, it didn't matter. You sent a kid to the hospital in 6th grade from a tetherball injury. The first time you got on a skateboard you pulled a 720 off the roof of North High. And you're telling me you can't ride a couple waves?"

"You make it sound like it's nothing. But it's hard--"

"You love hard things!" you shout. You glance to the side, dithering. "Err-- you love difficult things. You once told me soccer is the hardest thing ever. That it makes you sore, and sweaty, and cranky, and that you love it."

"Well, yeah..."

"Then go out there and kill."

Whitney straightens her back and balls up her fists, fire slowly returning to her eyes. She glances over at Ty Fobbler.

"Metaphorically," you add. "...Kill metaphorically."

"You believe in me?" Whitney asks.

"I do."

"If you believe in me... I can do anything."

The officiator blows the whistle that signals it's time for the day's first contestant to go up. As you watch him go into the water, Whitney says: "Knob Gobbler's going down."

The oncoming gale worsens over the course of the competition. The whipping wind gives players enough lift to perform stunts that you can only describe as death-defying. One man, a Saudi who insists on wearing his turban even in the ocean, hits the crest of a wave at the edge of the playing area that's easily two stories tall. He launches into a front flip and seems about to jackknife face-first into the tide. But he rights himself at the last moment to an uproar of applause.

Another man, a blond Kiwi almost short enough to classify as a true midget, turns into the wind at the perfect moment to go spinning like a top, lifting about a dozen feet into the air and completing almost as many revolutions. The wind is so loud you can barely hear the standing ovation. Even though he pukes on landing, the judges award him high marks.

"Poor Tyrion lost his lunch," you joke, trying to lighten the mood, but Whitney doesn't even seem to be listening. Standing at your side, her face is ashen with anxiety as she watches contestant after contestant dazzle the crowd.

Whitney's two hours of practice may not be enough.

"Seed 20," an announcer intones over loudspeakers. "Price, Whitney."

"That's me..." she murmurs.

You give her an encouraging nod as she gathers her board and steps out onto the dock. She hooks the board to a speedboat, which ferries her out to the center of the playing area and releases her. And so it begins.

Whitney's performance isn't as immediately arresting as the other players. She curves her spine too far, you think, in comparison to the others, and leans precariously to one side because of it. And she really does have a hard time changing direction. She struggles to maintain even a cruising speed as she tries to keep up with the shifting wind. The crowd on the beach begins to get restless, a collective sigh passing through them.

From the beach, Rose calls through cupped hands: "Come on, Whitney! Come on!"

Mom joins in: "Give them heck!"

And Ms. Carte: "Take them to Get-Your-Ass-Kicked City!"

Even Vivian offers: "You're performing admirably! Continue doing your best!"

Then, finally, Cerise: "We're all rooting for you!"

You would add to this chorus, but almost by serendipity, a hurricane-force gust buffets the beach. Angry black clouds blanket the sun, and the waters begin turning from azure to a frothy gray.

The wind catches Whitney's board and she surges forward, uncontrolled, unable to adjust her sail or halt her advance. She wails in panic. The edge of her board kicks up a white wake. She almost topples over.

Rapidly, she approaches the buoys. Passing by them would spell instant disqualification. Your heart sinks. "C'mon Whitney..." you mumble. "Come on..."

"Turn!" Rose shrieks over the wind. "Turn around!!"

Whitney steels herself and skirts the playing area's edge, turning 90 degrees in an instant. The maneuver doesn't seem physically possible. A wave lifts her from behind, but she outpaces it and goes airborne.

Then she does something you've yet to see any competitor do. She kicks her own sail, along the underside. She kicks it, like a soccer ball. The blows taut in the wind, its momentum carrying her against all laws of physics into the opposite direction. She spirals into a backflip -- once, twice -- and lands in the trough of the wave, riding it out and coming to a stop just alongside the dock.

The crowd goes wild.

Whitney pukes, too.

The rest of the competition, Whitney seems drunk on the thrill. "I can't believe it..." she breathes. "I did it. But I can't believe it. But I did it. But... but I can't believe I did it..."

The rest of the contest is marked by well-seeded players making mistakes in the high winds. Whitney barely pays attention, but you watch closely, and you believe Whitney may have an honest chance at placing.

And then Ty fucking Fobbler does a routine that sends the audience into convulsions of cheer. Back- and front-flips, helical spins off of eddies and waves -- he performs with pure panache even as a gentle rain begins to occlude visibility and the wind howls all around him.

So Whitney doesn't win the competition. She doesn't even place second or third. Yet when the judges announce the winners, she doesn't betray a hint of anger or disappointment. Her stupefied grin doesn't leave her lips for a moment.

"You're not upset?" you ask as you watch Ty Fobbler hoisting up his gold trophy on the winner's platform. He puffs out his stupid dumb chest and brays with stupid dumb laughter.

"Not at all," she says, looking up at you. "I killed."

"Well. We could still kick Gay Faggler's shit in," you offer. "If you want."

"Fuck him," Whitney says. "He's not worth it. He has a trophy. I have you guys. I'm fine with how it turned out."

You give her a playful slap on the ass. "Ally!" she cries in surprise, jumping.

"Say, do you think they have a soccer league around here?" you ask, grinning.

"If they don't..." Whitney says "I guess could always start one, huh?"

Evening descends more quickly than usual because of the cloud cover. The surrounding landscape is cast in a gloomy gray-blue pall. You follow the beachgoers along the shore toward where a number of grass huts and firepits are set up for the Independence Day feast.

You and Whitney walk arm-in-arm, enjoying the coolness of the sea wind against your skin. You hope the rain holds off until the celebrations are over.

You aren't sure where the others are, but you figure you'll catch up with them soon enough. Ms. Carte is supposed to meet you when the main course at the feast is served -- which should be soon -- and then Mom at dessert.

The warm beach sand is covered by straw mats underneath the cabanas, and whole pigs roast on rotisseries. Stalls offer games, trinkets, and snacks. Hundreds of celebrants mill around -- maybe the whole population of the island. Men go around lighting paper lanterns at the edges of the open-air huts. Other men, clad in tribal dresses, twirl torches. They wander around seemingly at random, their faces orange in the glow, giving the feast a warm ambiance.

"THERE you two are," comes Rose's voice from behind. She smiles warmly as you turn, standing near one of the booths. "Whitney, I thought you were going to drown out there."

"Whatever, clambreath," Whitney laughs. "You'd never get so lucky."

Rose frowns and rolls her eyes, but doesn't seem to mind the ribbing.

[X] It's almost time. Leave Whitney with Rose and find Ms. Carte.

[ ] Take Whitney along for the ride.

You're not sure at first where to find her. The fairgrounds are large, and crowded, and noisy. But when you see a sign advertising "BAR" in giant hand-painted letters with an arrow pointing the way, you have a pretty good idea where she'll be.

The open bar is a large circular wood hut with a thatched roof, arrayed all about with stools. The place is mostly full, and two harried bartenders struggle to keep up with business.

You almost don't recognize Ms. Carte as you approach. She sits with her back to you, straight-spined and ladylike, wearing a long and elegant black dress complete with lei. The transformation is hard to believe.

She keeps a place reserved for you with an expensive looking leather purse on the stool beside her. You sidle up and sit, handing the purse back.

"Well hello there," she purrs. "Come here often, stranger?"

"You look amazing," you can't help saying. And it's true. Her breasts appear to defy gravity, pushed up and together by the sheer black fabric. She almost seems to glow under the soft relief of candlelight all around her. Her face is youthful-looking and rosy, belying her true age.

She also might be a bit drunk, if the empty glasses surrounding her are any indication.

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

"I bought it," she says. "Just a few minutes ago. The purse, too. I could never have afforded this kind of thing before, but Rose has been awfully generous with her credit card. It's basically free money."

You laugh, rubbing the crown of your head. "Yeah..." you murmur, trailing off.

"Here," she says, pushing a bowl toward you. "They serve soup here. I looked all over for a booth that serves sandwiches but these uncivilized savages aren't into that kind of thing. So this'll have to do."

You pick up your spoon and poke at the noodles. "Is this ramen?" you ask.

"I believe so. Never much liked it... too many memories of grad school."

You start eating. Ms. Carte does, too. "I already had a bowl, while waiting for you," she says between mouthfuls. "The kind they serve here has a sort of curry in it, very spicy. And you'll find chunks of beef, too... this stuff could make me rethink my anti-ramen stance..."

"It's fine," you say noncommittally, slurping up spoonful. To be honest, you're more focused on Ms. Carte than the food. The slit of her dress reveals a glimpse of her child-bearing hips and thighs fills you with lust. You stare at her unashamedly.

"Contain yourself, young man."

You raise your eyes to meet her.

"We're in public," she chides. But she spreads her legs wider so the hem of her dress bunches up a little further. She winks.

"Ever hear a song called Hot for Teacher?" you ask.

"Of course. Unlike you, I was alive when it came out."

"It came out in 1984. You were a baby. That hardly counts."

She narrows her eyes. "It SO counts, you little shit." She reaches out, putting a hand on your knee and swiveling around to face you. "Don't make me beat you."

"You couldn't even if you tried. You made me into Superman, remember?"

"Maybe. But I know where your off switch is."

"...I have an off switch?" you ask.

Ms. Carte swivels back around and brings her bowl to her lips, sipping at the dark broth. "Hmm, maybe..." she says. "That would be a hell of a design flaw, though, wouldn't it?"

"Be serious," you say. "You've got me a little scared now."

Ms. Carte sets her bowl down. She puts her hand on your leg again, this time much higher. She gives your thigh a squeeze.

"I know where your on switch is, too," she says, her voice like silk.

"We're in public," you say, turning her words against her. The truth is, you don't want her to stop. But you can't resist getting one over on her, anyway.

Ms. Carte glances from side to side. All around, people converse and drink, laugh and shout. No one is paying any attention to two quiet lovers sitting at a bar together. You can see these conclusions clicking together in her mind just as they click together in yours.

"What these people don't see won't hurt them," Ms. Carte says. She runs her hand further still, her fingers twiddling with the drawstring on your swim trunks.

The bar has an overhang that casts the ground beneath it quite nicely in shadow. In combination with the descending dusk and the festival's dim mood lighting, it makes for a nice space to have some fun.

[ ] I want Ms. Carte to service me.

[X] I want to service Ms. Carte.

Ms. Carte's forwardness is adorable, but you want to keep her on her toes -- the subtle gamesmanship of your relationship practically demands it. And you know if you turn the tables on her, she won't know what to do with herself.

You take your spoon in hand and drop it on the ground between your stools.

"Whoops," you say, voice flat. "I better get that."

Ms. Carte's face is shadowed with uncertainty. You slide off the stool and slink to the ground, concealing yourself in the shadows. You hold Ms. Carte by the knees and guide her around so she faces forward. She doesn't fight you as you push her thighs apart. The supple skin gives like a pillow to your curious hands.

"Alabaster," Ms. Carte whines, trying to keep her voice low, "what are you doing down there?"

"You're not wearing panties," you say, tsking. "Bad girl." You hike her dress up almost to her butt, baring her soft pussy. The lips throb visibly with arousal.

Ms. Carte alternates between shooting paranoid glances all around to make sure no one is noticing, and staring longingly down at your ministrations. She bites the nail of her pinky, her eyes glimmering, as you breathe hot breaths against her wet cunt.

"Stop teasing me," she begs.

You purse your lips and release a steady stream of air against the pink pearl of her clit, like blowing out birthday candles. "Unfff--" Ms. Carte grunts, hunching forward. You hear the thump of her elbows against the bartop and the clatter of glassware being pushed aside. There's a lull in nearby conversation and you can feel people turning to look, but no one seems to notice you underneath the stool.

"Please, please, please," Ms. Carte whispers. "Please..."

You lean in and inhale her scent. The deep headiness of it makes your mouth water. With no pubic hair to trap her juices, they pool lewdly underneath her.

Sensually rubbing her thighs with your fingertips, you push out your tongue and lay it flat against her cunt.

Ms. Carte gasps breathily, once, twice, her entire body shivering. It sounds animal and primal, like a rutting dog finally finding its relief. "More," she heaves. "Fuck, I need more..."

You swirl your tongue around, focusing on the outer lips and hood. Sometimes the tip of your tongue pushes past her opening and explores the velvety insides of her drooling pussy as you lap her up and down. Better than a package of ramen, that's for sure.

You run a hand underneath her, stroking the milky globes of her ass and toying with her anus. Ms. Carte pants with lust and bucks her hips. "Inside," she says, "go ahead, put it inside. Finger me-- stir me up--"

You wet two fingers with her juices and push them past her rosebud. Her ass clenches around you as you force your the digits in and out. Ms. Carte's cream pours like warm honey, slightly viscous and sweet against the back of your throat.

The stool creaks as she starts to hump you. Neither of you care. She pushes her mound and clit against your nose. Your tongue goes rigid and penetrates her deeply with each thrust of her hips. You scissor your fingers back and forth, violating her cute ass and eliciting new mewls.

She grabs your hair and mashes herself against your face with abandon. Soon she cums all over you. "Fuck!" she half sighs and half screams. "I'm cumming! Drink it! Drink my cum!"

You obey, though you don't have much of a choice. Ms. Carte's ass spasms rhythmically and she squirts a virtual geyser of girlcum all over your mouth, lips, face, and chest. The surrounding din grinds to a halt and you know everyone in the vicinity must be watching this older woman using your teenage mouth as a cum receptacle. Well, let them watch. You never minded giving people a show.

"I love you!" Ms. Carte wails, her voice clear but trembling. "Eat me! Fucking eat me!! I love you!"

You drink her love, every drop.

Naturally, you beat a hasty retreat from the bar when Ms. Carte is capable of standing again on her own two feet. Leering eyes follow you as you lead her by the hand.

"I don't think I've ever cum that hard in my LIFE," she says, still sounding woozy. "I may faint..."

"You exhibitionist, you."

"I'm seeing stars. No, really..."

"Do you want to eat again? That might help. They should be serving those roast pigs soon."

"Oh, Christ," Ms. Carte says, leaning against your shoulder for support. She lays a palm on your chest. "I love it. Cumming our brains out in the open air wherever we want, and then eating wild boar... it all feels so, so-- primeval." She curls and uncurls her fingers against you, like a de-clawed kitten trying to scratch you.

"You sound kind of loopy."

"I am. A little bit."

You find your way to a cabana housing rows of extremely long beachwood tables, where hundreds of the festival attendees are already being served. Men with carts walk up and down the aisles, handing out paper plates of roasted pork and plastic cups of kava.

Rose and Whitney are here, with Vivian in between them. The two older are resting their hands on Vivian's inner thighs in a manner that certainly isn't chaste. They stroke her little legs languidly up and down, in sync. Vivian doesn't seem to be in distress over it. In fact she seems to rather enjoy the attention.

Ms. Carte plops down next to Whitney and you sit beside Rose. "Where are Mom and Cerise?" you ask.

"No idea on Cerise," Whitney says, leaning forward to catch your eye. "But Mommy dearest decided she wanted to help the dessert chefs herself. She should be out when dessert is served."

[ ] Go looking for her now.

[X] Wait for her here.

Whitney and Rose ply Vivian's legs. Vivian stares ahead, her eyes fogged over with a kind of low-level buzz from the groping.

"You're cute," Whitney says.

"I agree," Rose says. "I completely agree."

Even in her own still-dazed state, Ms. Carte can see that this interaction is a bit racy. She watches with interest, head lying on folded arms. She doesn't intervene.

"That swimsuit is cute," Whitney says.

"I agree," Rose says. "I completely agree."

"Your face is cute," Whitney says.

"I agree--"

"Um, excuse me," you say. "I hate to intrude, but this feels a little..."

"Oh, you're one to talk!" Whitney and Rose snap in unison.

You'd press the issue, but then:

"Please do not stop..." Vivian mumbles. "I... enjoy these sensations."

"Oh, you ARE cute," Rose says, practically squeaking with delight. Her and Whitney's movements become yet bolder still.

"You're a slut," Whitney says, whispering directly in Vivian's ear. Vivian lets out a shocked little "mmf" at this.

"Not that there's anything wrong with being a slut," Rose adds, whispering into her other ear. Vivian squirms.

"Because you're our slut," Whitney says.

"Does our slut want us to make her feel even better?" Rose asks.

Vivian, bright red and trembling, can only nod her head.

In unison, Whitney and Rose push their hands into Vivian's onepiece. The spandex is so tight and constrictive that you can see every line and curve of their fingers as they rub Vivian's crotch up and down.

"Mm," Vivian murmurs again.

"She's wet," Whitney reports.

"Dripping wet," Rose adds.

They nibble on Vivian's earlobes as they masturbate her and whisper obscenities into her ears that you can't quite make out.

"Slut..."

"...horny cunt..."

"...your little clit..."

"...until you pass out..."

"...meat toilet..."

"...whore..."

"...own you..."

"...whenever we want..."

Vivian writhes and suppresses her moans under this barrage of sexual violation. As demure as she usually is, she can hardly contain herself.

Vivian's jaw hangs open, her tongue drooling freely in her mouth, saliva trickling down her chin. Whitney and Rose kiss her up and down her neck and cheeks.

"I'm going to climaxshh," Vivian slurs.

"Darling," Rose says. "Darling, darling. Cum for your big sisters." She pushes Vivian's face against her cowtits, briefly suffocating her.

"Ah- ahhnn--" Vivian sighs.

"That's it," Whitney says. "Right here in front of everyone. Cum!"

Vivian's eyes roll to the back of her skull and she falls backward. With perfect timing, Rose and Whitney dart their free hands back to catch her, never for a second letting up on the vicious molestation.

"You're not getting away that easily," Rose says.

"You're not done cumming until we say you are!" Whitney says.

The girls' hands clench underneath Vivian's swimsuit, rubbing orgasm after orgasm from the exhausted little girl. The two are merciless and they work in perfect tandem, like two halves of one sick mind. Vivian never stood a chance. She goes limp and half-unresponsive, the only clue that she's still conscious being the little groans and sighs of her rolling, never-ending orgasm.

"Dyke bitch," Whitney says.

"You're addicted to cumming, aren't you?" Rose asks.

"Yessh... addicted... I love cumming-- I love cumming--"

She rolls her head side to side, repeating herself like a broken record. You can hardly believe no one else nearby is paying attention to this scene, but that's certainly for the best. Ms. Carte pushes her thighs together and apart, her eyes glued to the lascivious action before her.

A man with a cart of food rolls by, the wheels squealing, the tin exterior clattering. Rose and Whitney see it approach. Taking the cue to end it, they withdraw their hands from Vivian's swimsuit. The poor little cum-addled girl lurches forward and collapses against the tabletop.

"Cum... cum..." she repeats, her eyes distant-looking. Whitney and Rose pet her hair, and it feels like two lions gloating over a felled gazelle.

---

Whitney and Rose devour their helpings of roast pork and taro, tearing at the food with their bare fingers like animals, washing it down with gallons of kava. Ms. Carte merely picks at her serving. And poor Vivian is still too much of a mess to eat at all. She lies slumped against the table, drooling.

"I think we fingerbanged her retarded," Whitney says between bites.

"Oh, she'll be fine," Rose says. She prods Vivian's shoulder and receives no intelligible response but the word "cum" slurred over again.

"...She'll be fine, probably," Rose qualifies.

Watching that spectacle has left you in need of release too. But even you're not as crazy as Rose and Whitney were to do something so outlandish in such a public space. At the bar there were shadows to hide in; here, the beach is lit by hundreds of paper lanterns and you sit shoulder-to-shoulder with over a thousand Palauans. Whipping your dick out is just asking for trouble, isn't it?

A man at the galley table adjacent to yours flags down one of the cart-pushing food vendors. "Can I get some coconut pie?" he asks.

"Nnn," grunts the vendor, shaking his head. "Problem in the kitchen. Dessert won't be out for a while."

"Problem? What problem?"

"Some crazy woman." The vendor shrugs and wipes his grubby hands on his apron. "American tourist is raising hell back there. Thinks she owns the place."

"That's ridiculous!" the man cries. "I want my food--"

"Tell someone who cares," the vendor says, taking up his cart again and strolling away.

You tug at the man's apron as he passes. "Excuse me, sir. Where is the kitchen?"

The vendor points to a squat brick building on a hill overlooking the beach. He continues on his way.

You think you'd better go see what shitstorm your dear sweet mother is brewing now.

You excuse yourself from the table and leave the festival grounds. As you pass by one of the open bars, you see Ty Fobbler, champion windsurfer, chatting it up with Yvonne Tamaguld, champion slut.

"The Fobster likes 'em dark," he says, obviously drunk, petting Yvonne's shapely leg. "Back home they call me Fobbler the FOB fucker."

"Ty, I'm married--"

"Ah, that's no problem." He slaps Yvonne on her tits, hard enough to produce an audible thwack, but she just laughs. She runs a forefinger over his chest, smiling. You suppress a shudder and move on.

You head up a dirt path leading from the beach to the restaurant being used for dessert preparation. The dimly lit sign in the parking lot advertises itself as Tommy's Delicatessen. You can the shouting even before you set foot inside.

A sign hung on the door says "closed for Independence Day feast." But it's unlocked, and you poke your head inside. Chefs hurry to and fro in the grimy tiled dining area, clattering glassware and silverware as they rush to fill vendor carts. Beyond the counter, you see into the kitchen, where even more men in chef's tunics work, and where the source of the shouting is. The sounds finally resolve themselves into words:

"Come on you donkeys! Get your act together! This is amateur hour over here!"

You step gingerly through the white blur of activity and into the prep area. Mom is standing in the midst of the chaos like a culinary Rommel, barking orders and insults. She stops a man carrying a tray of desserts.

"What is this?"

"J-just some pies--"

"What the hell did you do to the crusts? Dance a jig on them?"

"I--"

"I wouldn't feed these to my dog! Start over!" She pounds her fist on the tray, knocking it from the man's hands, sending the desserts flying. "Come on, come on!" she claps the back of her hand against her other palm, turning in a semicricle and shouting at the frenzied chefs. "We've got mouths to feed, people! Fuck me..."

[ ] That's enough. Stop this.

[X] Join in.

"Alabaster," Mom says, finally noticing you. Her tone is softer, but still tinged with the manic edge of managing a kitchen. "You're supposed to be waiting on the beach."

"I heard you were causing trouble back here."

"Well-- o-of course-- these idiots wouldn't be able to tell a dutch oven from a jelly glaze..."

You smile at her reflexive defensiveness. Then, turning around and cupping your hands over your mouth, you yell: "let's go, assholes! You heard the woman! Work faster!"

Mom blinks. "Do you really think I need your help?" she demands, indignant. "You barely know how to melt chocolate. You're no cook."

"I know how to yell at people. Are there any spare aprons?"

She indicates a hamper in an open closet at the back of the kitchen. You grab an apron and lace up.

Mom marches up and down the aisle between the prep counters and the stoves. Men in tunics stir pots of pie filling and load ovens with trays of unbaked food. They part for her like a beaded curtain as she moves through them.

She dips her finger into a saucepan of brown glaze and samples it. She grimaces. "Why the hell is this so bitter? Do they not have sugar in this godforsaken country?"

"It's because--"

"No excuses!"

A few men rip off their aprons and chef's hats, tossing them on the ground. "We quit," their leader says.

You stop him at the threshold as he tries to leave. His friends hang back to see what happens.

"And where the fuck do you think you're going?" you ask.

"Home. That cunt can't tell me what to do--"

You swing him like a ragdoll, tossing him clear across the kitchen. He collides against a back wall, plaster coming down like snowflakes. He lands in a dazed heap.

"Anyone trying to desert will have to answer to me," you announce.

The young man's friends go bugeyed with fear. They quickly gather their uniforms off the ground, put them on, and return to work.

"Go, go, go!" you shout. "Time is money, and so on!"

Mom, watching this, smiles slyly and bites a fingernail.

Mom is not above working alongside her -- employees? minions? slaves? -- and she often stops to show them how to perform a certain technique. She shows one person how to core a pineapple, another how to make a sweet roux.

After your little demonstration of might, the men working the kitchen seem much more receptive to constructive criticism.

It isn't much longer before food that Mom deems serveable begins to leave the kitchen. Carts of pies, pastries, and vats of pudding trickle out, destined for the beach below.

But it turns out the festival-goers are growing restless, and want quicker service.

The front door's bell has been ringing incessantly all night with vendors coming and going, so you can be forgiven for not noticing the arrival of a short, sweating man in an ill-fitting suit: Tommy Remengesau, the President. And, apparently, the owner of Tommy's Delicatessen.

"What is this ruckus?" you hear his nasally voice demanding from out in the dining area. Your blood runs cold. "Why is the party being stalled?"

You crane your head to see him as he approaches the kitchen, his cheap shoes click-click-clacking against the linoleum. "Shit," is all you can say.

"What's the matter?" Mom asks. "That man's been in here before. I sent him away the first time, I can send him away again."

"That's the president," you hiss. "And-- and I may have been involved in pissing him off earlier today."

"Oh, dear. If you want to avoid him, I could always stow you away in the walk-in refrigerator."

[ ] Let's go.

[X] Let's not.

"Forget it," you say. "I'm a bionic science abomination, I'm not afraid of some glorified mayor."

Remengesau steps into the kitchen, looking awfully imperious for a man who barely cracks five feet six. "You!" he says, pointing at Mom. "What is the meaning of this hold-up? Answer me!"

Mom taps her foot. "I told you earlier. This kitchen will not serve subpar food."

"Subpar! I saw a perfectly fine cake in the trash on my way inside! You're a crazy woman--"

"--and we ARE serving now. So what's the problem?"

"It's not quick enough! People do not want five-star service and so on and such like. They just want to eat something. For goodness sake, woman--" he stops, finally noticing you at Mom's side. He pulls his sunglasses down to peer at you over the rims.

"Hello, Mr. President," you say.

He dabs his forehead with a handkerchief. "Young man-- you're wanted by the law, you know?"

"Excuse me?" Mom says, darting her eyes between you and him.

"You and your blonde bimbo girlfriend," Remengesau says. "Public lewdness! You were seen naked on the beach this afternoon. Where is she, boy?"

This is news to you. You have no idea what to say.

"Well?" Remengesau demands. "Do you think you have free rein to just -- parade around, embarrassing elected officials and prancing shamelessly about? Where is she?"

"I--" you stammer. "I-- look over there!"

Remengesau falls for it. He glances to his left. You sweep Mom into your arms and feint past him, hopping on a food cart and riding it like a scooter out of the restaurant.

"Wha--" Mom breathes in shock. You hold the cart by either handle, Mom in between your outstretched arms.

"Hey!" Remengesau calls behind you. "You two get back here! HEY!!"

He chases you on foot, but he can't even begin to match your speed. You're rocketing down the hill toward the beach before he can even make it outside the restaurant.

The cart wheels squeak madly as you careen down the gravel path. The hill is steep and makes for a bumpy ride.

"What are you DOING?" Mom yells, half in a panic. "This is-- I was WORKING back there, you know!"

"They'll be fine without you!" you say. You have to yell to be heard over the wind whipping around you. "You imparted your wisdom to them! They'll be great!"

"You little brat! You and that Mallory skank get in trouble, and I'm the one who has to pay for it!"

"Not at all!" you say. "This way, you get to see people enjoying all your hard work! Isn't that the biggest reward of all?"

Mom glances over her shoulder. "We're going back to the festival?"

"Of course! We have to warn Rose the cops are after her, don't we?"

You reach the bottom of the path, skidding to an abrupt halt in the sand. The cart tips to its side, spilling its contents onto the beach. You pull Mom away, into your embrace, so she doesn't topple over, too. You steady her and set her down on her own two feet again.

"My heart is beating so fast..." she says, clutching at her breast.

"I know," you say. "I can feel it." And you can: your palm on her chest thrums with the rapid thump-thump of her pulse.

"Why-- why do you have to make things so complicated?" Mom demands. "Getting chased by the police... what's gotten into you?"

"Don't be like that. You love it, don't you?"

She wheels around and stares you in eye. She pounds a fist limply against your chest. "That's hardly the point."

"Consider this penance for embarrassing Ms. Carte on stage today, then."

Mom narrows her eyes. You think for a moment she's still mad, so what she says surprises you: "You still call her Ms. Carte?"

"Well, yes--"

"She really wishes you would call her Renee, you know. N--not that I care what she wants, but it's annoying to see someone acting so careless. Especially toward a person they supposedly care about."

"Tell you what. If you're nicer to her, I'll be nicer to her too."

She hugs you. You hug her back.

Unfortunately, you don't beat the fuzz to the beach. Three clean-cut looking men in a police uniforms walk up and down the booths at the festival grounds, showing people a photo of Rose from the President's speech earlier, asking if they've seen her. It won't be long before someone snitches. You hurry to the galley tables with Mom.

You find the girls where you left them, eating some desserts from the kitchen. "Mmff," Whitney groans through a bite of cream cake. "It's sort of-- if your mouth could cum, this is what it would feel like..."

She isn't the only one having an orgasmic reaction to the dessert. Whole swaths of guests at the feast are groaning and moaning as they shovel the sweet morsels down. It's like an orgy minus genitals.

You tap Rose on the shoulder. She turns to face you, as does Whitney and a somewhat revitalized Vivian. Ms. Carte, on the other hand, has her face buried in a newspaper.

"I think it's time for you to go home," you say. "There are some... cops, looking for Rose--"

"Oi!" you hear a douchey voice from behind. Ty Fobbler is pointing at you and your girls, ratting you out to the officers from before. "That's the one, mate! Saw her hangin' out with that mad cunt from the windsailing match, just like I told ya. I knew those dyke whores were up to no good, yeh?"

"Oh, fuck," Whitney says, stumbling to her feet. The trio of officers approach the table sternly.

"This isn't--" Rose slurrs, hiccuping. "This isn't good. We may be... a bit drunk on kava, right now..."

You glance to Whitney. She struggles to support herself against the beachwood table. Vivian watches, worried. Ms. Carte reads on.

"You guys just get out of here," you say. "Mom, take them home."

Mom nods curtly. She ushers Rose and Vivian away, but Whitney refuses to follow. She stays behind, swaying unsteadily at your side. The officers break into a jog when they see Rose fleeing. You grab a nearby food cart and push it into them. It barrels into them with the force of a mack truck. They fall to their backs like bowling pins.

"Hey! You can't treat the law like that!" Fobbler shouts, also breaking into a jog. "Someone stop those cunts! They're fleeing the scene of a crime!"

Fobbler bends to help the policemen to their feet. Yvonne Tamaguld stands far off to the side, watching with a frightened expression.

Behind you, there's a wild clamor as a few of the braver Palauans at the feast try to halt Mom's advance with the fleeing suspects. Rose kicks one of the men in the nuts; Mom punches another in the face. Even Vivian aids in the escape, latching onto one as he goes windmilling for the trio. She bites him in the calf. He lets out a horrendous shriek and falls to the ground. Murmurs of shock ripple through the crowd.

[ ] Whitney, get out of here. You're drunk and I can handle this.

[ ] You deal with Fobbler. I'll distract the police.

[X] Custom: FOOD FIGHT!

The four men -- Fobbler and the police officers -- step forward in unison to confront you and Whitney. Fobbler stands at the rear of the formation, almost as if shielding himself.

You'd rather not get into a direct altercation with the police if it can be avoided. So you take a pie tin from the tabletop and launch it across the cabana. In the most loudest, most obnoxious voice you can manage, you shout: "foooood fiiiiiight!!!"

Pandemonium breaks out. Plates, cups, and portions of food launch like military ordnance in all directions, almost as if they're launching themselves. Men, women, and children shout and squeal with laughter as the feast quickly devolves into an orgy of food-based violence. The fight makes the air opaque with blurs of motion, so much so that you can barely see even three feet in front of you.

Whitney uses the chaos to flank the harried officers and approach Fobbler. But she doesn't get to pounce him. Instead, literally as if from nowhere, Rose appears, sneaking up behind him. She whangs the aussie cunt across the back of his head with what looks like a wrench.

"Knock boots in the free world!" Rose shouts, caught in throes of sadistic ecstasy. "Whoooo!"

Fobbler stumbles forward, injured but not downed. Whitney is briefly stunned by the turn of events, but follows Rose's attack with a knee to Fobbler's chin, flooring him.

"You FUCKIN' bitch!" he cries, voice choked. He tries to stand. Whitney kicks him in the kidney. He howls in pain.

"Stay down!" Whitney says.

"Ty--!" Yvonne calls. She dashes through the madness, getting beaned with pies and cake and bits of cream, swatting uselessly at the air to shield herself.

Meanwhile, you pivot and sway and otherwise do your best to avoid the nasty-looking business ends of police tazers as the three officers surround you. "There's been a misunderstanding," you insist over the din of the foodfight. "Let's talk about this-- hey!" They lunge and try to subdue you anyway.

It's into this insanity that Tommy Remengesau enters. He perches himself at the edge of the raging battle, hands on hips, and bellows: "stop!! I bid you, stop! What is the meaning of this?"

But no one listens.

Rose and Whitney sweep the legs out from two of the officers corralling you. So much for not assaulting them directly. You grab the girls, one on each arm, and march them away. The third officer begins to give chase, but seems torn between pursuing you and rendering aid to his downed comrades. Yvonne's sniveling seems to clinch it. He pulls his walkie-talkie out of his holster and calls for medical assistance.

You step with Whitney and Rose over Fobbler's prone form, fleeing the scene. Yvonne cries, hunched over him, alternating between "you poor man!" and "my poor clothes..."

You leave the festival grounds, passing by Remengesau. "You three!" he demands. "Stop right this instant! You-- you devils have ruined everything! You filthy American brats-- you think you can do whatever you want--"

"Shut the fuck up, President Assmunch," Whitney says, sticking her tongue out as the three of you pass. Remengesau blanches and turns purple with rage. Being the ugly American never felt so good.

You see Rose and Whitney off, handing them over to Mom's care in the lot where Gustav's pickup is parked. Rose and Whitney pile into the truck bed. Mom sits in the driver's seat with Vivian beside her.

"What about Renee?" Mom asks.

"She's back at the festival. I don't think the police were looking for her, so she'll be fine. I'll bring her back later on."

"You're not coming?" Vivian asks, concerned.

"I told Cerise I'd meet her at the bridge." You peer into the idling truck, checking the time on the radio clock. "--I told her I'd meet her ten minutes ago, in fact..."

"What about those fascist pigs?" Rose asks. "They'll be out for blood now. You can't be seen wandering around--"

"Don't worry about it. They won't be over by the bridge. They'll be too busy dealing with that food fight we started..."

"Oh good lord," Mom says. "Another food fight? You're incorrigible."

All you can do is rub the back of your head and laugh awkwardly.

"Well then," Mom says. "If you're so sure-- you'd better not keep Cerise waiting, huh?"

You run as quickly as you can to the Japan-Palau friendship bridge. Which in your new condition turns out to be record-smashingly quick. You don't time it, but you're pretty sure you break the barrier on the 3-minute mile. Even in the balmy and humid night air, you hardly sweat at all.

Cerise is sitting on a grassy knoll with her back to the concrete wall of the bridge's main support column, cheek resting against her fist. She only notices you when you draw close.

"You came," she says, turning her face to regard you. You can't help feeling guilty that she sounds surprised.

You sit beside her. "Hi," you say. "Were you waiting very long?"

"No. I just got here..."

You have a feeling that's a lie. You think she was probably waiting for you ever since the windsurfing competition ended five hours ago. But you decide not to press it.

"Well?" Cerise says. "You have the floor, Alabaster. What's the big surprise you wanted me to come out here to see?"

"Just wait," you tell her, smiling warmly. "I have a plan."

You take her by the hand and stare her in the eye, warm feelings washing over your artificial heart.

"Alabaster," she says uncertainly. "You're acting weird."

"Trust me."

And just like that, as if on cue, the sky lights up.

Not with fireworks. With an angry blue bolt of lightning.

Your smile collapses like a thing shot dead as you peer into the heavens.

"No," you say, your voice low. "No. You've got to be shitting me--"

The attendant thunder booms like an explosion, so loud you can feel the pressure differential against your chest.

"No..." you say again. But there's nothing to help it. The clouds open up, and a torrential downpour the likes of which you have never seen unleashes itself. It falls in sheets, slanted, drops the size of silver dollars. Electricity arcs through the sky like magma in underwater fault lines. Rolling thunder rages amidst the awful patter of the monsoon.

You and Cerise are instantly drenched, head to toe.

You find a door that leads into a spiral stairwell inside the bridge, used mainly as an access-way for maintenance crews. Luckily, it isn't locked. You and cerise stumble inside, shutting the heavy door behind you. The sound of the storm outside is muffled and weirdly echo-y inside this cramped, fluorescent-lit space.

You pound a fist against the cream-colored wall, leaving a wet dent behind. "God damn it," you grunt. "God-- damn it--"

"Alabaster," Cerise says, "what's your deal? You're acting like a schizophrenic hobo off his meds." She wrings her hair out, head cocked to one side, heavy dollops of water squelching against the concrete floor.

"This was supposed to be a surprise," you say, closing your eyes. "It was--"

You sit down on the corrugated metal stairs. "There was a fireworks show scheduled."

Cerise sits with you. "Fireworks?" she says. "That's a bit lame to be making such a fuss over, isn't it?"

You look at her like you can't believe what she's saying.

"I just thought it would-- I thought it would make things up to you," you say.

"Make up for what?" Cerise asks. "Taking your harem of used-up sluts on a bunch of dates when you could have spent that time masturbating to hentai with me?"

You narrow your eyes at her.

"I'm joking," she says. "...Mostly joking. Half joking."

She puts her hand on your knee. "I just wanted to do something nice, for once. Do you remember that 4th of July when we went to the beach--"

"Of course I remember," Cerise cuts in. "The fireworks weren't the important part. I could give a greasy shit about fireworks."

"It was me," you say. "I was the biggest disappointment of your life, wasn't I."

"No. The biggest disappointment of my life was us."

"Was us-- or is us?"

"Well, that depends on what your definition of 'is' is..." Cerise shoots you a wry smile.

"I'm sorry, Cerise."

"Me too."

You lean forward and kiss her. She opens her mouth to yours for a brief moment -- but then pulls back, hands pushing against you.

"What is it?" you ask, and you can't help the note of frustration that sneaks in.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I'm sorry for always pushing you away like this. It's just-- I'm scared, okay? I haven't..."

"You -- haven't?"

"Try not to look so shocked!"

"But... all that time in high school... I mean, you bragged nonstop about what a sl-- about how much you got around--"

Cerise fixes you with a simmering, vulnerable gaze and says:

>What do you do?

[X] Something

You take Cerise by her still-damp shoulders. She trembles like a wounded bird in your embrace. "You stupid," she says, half-senseless. "You stupid-- you really believed--"

She can't even bring herself to meet your gaze. Her eyes fill with tears. Her pupils are moist and her irises swirl with refracted colors in the light. You tilt her chin up with your finger.

"It's all right if you're a virgin," you say. "That's sort of my thing, you know?"

Even through the anxiety and verging tears, Cerise giggles. Then her face turns serious once more. "That isn't fair," she says. "Did you ever stop to think that I like virgins, too? But you fucked just about the whole population of planet Earth before me..."

"I'm a virgin where it really matters," you say. You clench a fist in an open palm. "Blood-related sibling incest is the only sex that counts to anyone with taste!"

Cerise snorts.

"So-- here?" you ask.

"Why not here?" Cerise counters. "It doesn't need to be perfect, you dweeb."

You kiss her again. This time she doesn't pull away.

Cerise's mouth is warm and inviting, but her lips and face are still cool from the rainfall. The contrast is strange against your searching tongue. She breathes heavy against you, her full chest heaving, her hands tracing invisible patterns across your dripping back.

You turn her around so she lies against the stairs. She winces as you settle her in place.

"Are you comfortable?" you ask. "Those edges are sharp."

"I'll be a lot more comfortable when you're inside me," she breathes, her voice dreamy with anticipation.

You run your hands up and down her delicate body. She's damp all over, little droplets standing in neat rows along the micro-crevices of her gooseflesh. You poke your fingertips gently against her belly and watch the raindrops converge at your touch, forming little rivulets that trickle down into her navel, or even further, to the hemline of her bikini bottom.

This body of Cerise's is not exactly in the best of shape -- not fat and not scrawny, but un-toned, pale. It's the body of a girl who doesn't get out much, the body of a NEET. This body is your fault. So you feel guilty for adoring its every curve and bump. But you do, with all your soul. You maul her with kisses. You devour her and consume her with kisses, big wet smacks and little pecks and everything in between. Your lips find her dainty toes and fleshy calves, they find her long forearms and her taut belly, they find her hands and her neck. Your lips find her lips. And her lips find yours. Cracks and snaps of approaching thunder outside fill the space between your needful breaths -- breaths which come syncopated and strangely synchronized.

"I love you," you say, over and again: "I love you I love you I love you." She nuzzles your neck, her nose tickling your Adam's apple, as you repeat your mantra into the crown of her head.

"You always did?" she asks.

"I always did."

"You always will?"

"I always will."

Cerise's reaches for your trunks, arms straining. You help her pull them off of you. Your member is already hard. She grits her teeth at the searing heat of it against the soft cold skin of her stomach. You grit your teeth at the contact, too. For a moment the tiny stairwell echoes with your collective sigh: an "ahhh" that dangles, unrelieved, in the air above you.

Your fingers find her bikini bottom. Like the rest of her, the crotch is damp. But this dampness is hot, and pulsing, and it runs through the folds of your fingers like ambrosia. You tug her bottom off with one swift motion. You enjoy the suppleness of her bare cleft against your hand, so wet and needing. You can practically feel her ache, the singing of her every nerve ending, begging for release. Your manhood twitches and sings and burns for the coming pleasure just as badly.

"Now," she says, "do it now, do it right now before I go crazy..."

You do it.

You position yourself at the dewy entrance to her mound and slide into your older sister. Her silken inner walls surround your shaft and shudder deliciously around you as they accept you in. You let yourself savor it, sinking in slowly, millimeters at a time. Her neck muscles strain and her face contorts in a silent scream of ecstasy.

She claws at her bikini top and tugs it down, out of the way, baring her nakedness and her vulnerability to you in full. She reaches out for you, stroking your face. Her breasts are two perfect white domes topped by two perfect pink nipples. You lean forward so she can wrap her arms around you as you finish pushing yourself in. Her nipples touch your nipples. Her chest is pillowy against your pressing weight. The head of your penis makes contact with her deepest and most intimate parts.

Cerise lets out another sigh, her voice staccato and high-pitched. It's a noise insane with lust and begging for more, but filled also with love. It's a noise that says "I am yours, I am at your mercy, do whatever you want with me." Her hands run in circles through your hair. You suckle on her neck as you lie there inside her, simply enjoying the throbbing wetness of your genitals mated so obscenely together, a brother fucked inside his sister.

You pull out, and it makes an audible sound that sends a new thrill coursing through you. Cerise's inner walls cling to you, as if they don't want to let you go. But she's so wet, and your cock is pouring so much precum into of her, that those walls can't hold on forever. You pull out almost all the way, hugging her neck for support as you raise your hips. Then you slide smoothly back inside -- all the way. In this manner you establish a steady pace. The stairs clatter beneath you. Cerise reaches at the ceiling for nothing, her hands curling and uncurling into fists. Sweat pearls with the rain on her skin.

"Cerise," you moan. "Cerise, I'm going to--"

"Yes! Yes!"

You rub your cheek with hers, and then lock lips. With one more savage thrust, out and in again, you plunge yourself to the root and fill her greedy body with semen.

"Alabaster! Alabaster--!! aaahhhhnnn--"

You empty yourself completely, your mind going blank, your tongue mating with her mouth and your seed filling her tender womb. Your cock pulses; you grunt and heave; she trembles and cums -- and cums, and cums. She cums all around you, all over you, milking you off. You stare deeply into her half-lidded eyes as you cross this, the final rubicon.

GIRLS FUCKED: 6/6

ALL CLEAR

RANK: S

Basking in the afterglow, Cerise curled beside you with her head in your lap, you can't help asking.

"All these years," you say. "Why? Why lie about it?"

"Lying about it is the first step to making it true. If I had a boyfriend or something-- then I wouldn't be lying around thinking about YOU all night--"

You pet her hair, dazzled at this revelation. "So even back when you were in high school-- in middle school-- this whole time?"

"Of course this whole time. Ever since I had a conception of what love really is."

"Even after I ruined your life," you say. "Even after I convinced you not to go to college."

"Oh, come off it. So I'm a 20 year old, alcoholic NEET. It suits me, doesn't it?"

You raise her face to yours and kiss her on the dimple of her cheek. "Not at all," you tell her. "You should be in school."

"Too late now. We're stuck in Palau forever."

You wonder about that.

The monsoon clears up almost as suddenly as it arrived. It's barely past midnight when you step back out into a much wetter Koror.

You walk back to the docks with Cerise, holding hands. Colorful detritus from the festival, kicked up by the wind, blankets the landscape, paper and plastic and food and rigging caught in trees, bushes, and scattered across the ground. The roads are deserted, everyone having fled for indoors when the storm hit.

Whitney is waiting for you at the docks when you get there, apparently just arrived from Gustav's private island by way of speedboat.

She sees your fingers interlaced with Cerise's, and quirks her eyebrows. Then, leaning forward and sniffing, she says: "you two reek like a French whorehouse. Did you--" comprehension dawns on her face. "Oh my God!" she shouts. She claps a hand to her mouth, hardly able to believe it.

Cerise turns a shade of red so bright it's almost infrared.

"Welcome to the club!" Whitney says, grabbing Cerise by her other hand. "Finally! Jesus!" She jumps up and down, taking Cerise's limp arm through the air with her on each excited hop.

"Err--" you cut in. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Whitney remembers herself. She stops jumping, clears her throat and drops her smile.

"I'm here for you," she says. "You'd better come quick. I think Ms. Carte went crazy."

Back on Gustav's island, Whitney ushers you into a dune buggy. She cranks the engine and it roars to life, the stink of diesel filling your lungs. She drives you along the coast, fat tires leaving tracks in the sodden sand. After a mile or so, you find her.

Ms. Carte is stumbling around on the beach, chucking empty beer bottles at the ocean. In the moonlight, the bottles glimmer as they arc through the sky and then disappear into the blackened water, never to be seen again. With every distant-sounding plop of glass against sea, Ms. Carte pumps both fists in the air and yells a triumphant "whooo!"

When the headlights of the dune buggy catch her in their cones, she pivots, swaying unsteadily, and shields her eyes with the crook of her arm.

Whitney kills the engine as you step out.

"What're you doin' here?" Ms. Carte slurs.

"Looking for you," you say. "Everyone's worried."

"Oh, how gentlemanly," she says, swatting at the air and leaning to one side.

"Ms. Carte...? Are you okay?"

She stomps her foot in the sand, kicking up a small spray of ejecta. "Goddammit. How many fucking times do I have to tell you? Call me Renee!"

"Do they have AA in Palau? Maybe you should attend a couple--"

"We shouldn't be here," she says, fixing you with a stern look.

"Yeah. We should be back at Gustav's, sleeping."

"No-- no--" she swipes at her face, massaging it. "We shouldn't be HERE. In Palau. We should be in California."

"Are you kidding?" You take a step forward and hold her by her shoulders so she'll stop twisting and turning and fidgeting. "What's gotten into you?"

Ms. Carte turns her chin up. Her nose brushes against yours, but it isn't with the tenderness of your habitual Eskimo kisses. Her breath reeks of hops and her eyes are crazed.

"We-- were not supposed to leave--" she begins.

"Yes we were," you say firmly.

"We have to go back, Alabaster."

You shake your head.

"We have to go back!!" she shouts. She wrenches herself free of you. "We have to go back!"

In Gustav's dining room, you read the news article that spooked Ms. Carte so badly, and you understand.

"This is all my fault," Ms. Carte sobs, face in hands. "I let it get so far... I helped him... I can't just sit idly by--"

You, Whitney, and Ms. Carte are the only ones in the room. Mom brews the three of you some chamomile tea in the kitchen. The four of you have spent the better part of four hours discussing strategy.

The rest of the girls are off to bed already, Dad and Gustav as well. None of them know anything about this. Which is for the best.

The plan you cobbled together is cunning, in its own way but -- desperate. Ridiculous, even.

"Does it have to be your mom?" Whitney asks, stroking your arm. Her brow is furrowed with worry. "If I'm coming back too, then I could do it, couldn't I? Old David D.B. wanted to make me into a creepy fuckdoll too, didn't he?"

"David would find your augmentations," Ms. Carte says, glum. "He'd know we were laying a trap."

Mom returns with the tea. She hands each of you a cup. You drink yours somberly.

"It just makes sense for it to be me," Mom replies, sitting. "I'm the oldest... the most expendable... if something goes wrong, it's no big loss."

"Don't talk like that," you say, setting your jaw.

"It's the truth," Mom counters. "Rose can't do it -- Darkbloom probably wants her head after what she did to his butler. Vivian and Renee can't do it for obvious reasons... Whitney is already augmented... and--"

"Cerise would do it if I asked her," you say, offering Mom a hypothetical alternative.

Mom purses her lips. You get the point without her having to say it. If one of them has to risk their lives -- you'd both rather spare Cerise.

"So that's it," Whitney says. "The four of us, plus a couple Spancers, up against a robot empire."

"Can we really do this?" Ms. Carte asks.

"We have to, don't we?" you say. "The fate of the world depends on it."

END OF EPISODE 10.