You are Alabaster Soliloquy, America's #1 purveyor of the public_use tag and victim of the most dedicated stalking campaign ever conducted by an adolescent girl. After seeking refuge from her in an anime clubroom, you've received some revelations about how your NEET onee-sama spends her time. You can't believe your older sister is this drunk.
Going home from anime club, your older sister Cerise walks a few paces ahead of both you and your childhood friend Whitney. "I cannot believe you're still hanging out with Stackleford," Cerise fumes. "That faggot is a twinkie and a big gulp away from diabetic shock."
"You're hanging out with him too," you point out. "And all the other weebs in that club. At least I'm not associating with them by choice. You have an acne fetish now or something?"
"Please," Cerise says. "As if Stackleford forced you to come to the club. You can't even admit what you want. It's pathetic."
"He really did force Ally to come," Whitney offers, trying to be helpful. "In exchange for info on Ally's stalker."
Cerise stops and turns around, glowering with suspicion. You sigh deeply.
"You didn't tell her?" Whitney asks.
"It doesn't concern her."
"Well excuse the fuck out of me for thinking you might seek comfort with your family. I forgot what losers you all are."
"She's hardly family," you say, as if Cerise isn't standing right there. "More like a streetwalker who just happens to sleep in the next bedroom over."
"So you've got yourself a stalker," Cerise says. She folds her arms in gloating. "Some half-ton genetic aberration, I'm sure."
You give her a half-cocked smile. Now that the secret's out, you may as well go for full disclosure.
"Vivian Darkbloom?" Cerise repeats, aghast, after you finish the story. "You can't be serious. Any relation to David Darkbloom?"
You shrug. "Who?"
"David Darkbloom! Darkbloom Enterprises? Are you stupid? How do you not know who he is? You of all people--"
You gawk; Whitney looks like she's just been asked to solve a partial differential equation. "Stackleford did say she's the daughter of some silicon valley tech whiz," you offer.
"Christ on a bicycle," Cerise groans. "You guys are retarded."
Even though she barges into your room on the regular, you rarely enter Cerise's. You prefer it that way: walking into her room is like stepping into a foggy swamp of fuck-mist. You often make the suggestion that she use at least a little bit of the money from her cam show to buy a dehumidifier.
"Your room is so cool!" Whitney says to Cerise as the three of you step inside. She takes a few deep breaths.
You glance at Cerise's bookshelves, which she always keeps draped with an opaque sheet. Whenever you go near them, she freaks out. You had always assumed they hid some unimaginable perversity. But now looking at that sheet, you see pokes and bulges in it that might be from plastic figurines and other merchandise. Stranger things are possible -- you're not discounting anything now. Only a closet weeaboo could speak moon as well as she did in the club meeting.
"Let me show you guys what I'm talking about," Cerise says, sitting down at her PC. Firefox is already open but minimized to the taskbar. She seems about to restore the window -- but then, glancing back at you and Whitney, thinks better of it. She opens Chrome instead and navigates to Youtube.
The video shows a cute blonde anime girl on a tablet's touch-screen. There's some passing resemblance to Hatsune Miku, but not enough for litigation. A mostly off-screen man holds an index finger in front of the girl's face, sweeping his hand back and forth as if performing an eye exam. Her head makes exaggerated bobs to follow the movement. He snaps his fingers loudly and she winces at the sound.
"Hello, Viv-tan," the man booms.
"Mastah!!" the avatar cries with such saccharine joy that your heart could melt.
"The technology is still in its infancy," Cerise narrates. "But it's evolving quick. With Darkbloom's billions behind it, we'll have realistic VR in less than five years." She turns to face you. "Your stalker's dad is the man who's going to make anime real."
"Why is his daughter such a bitch though?" Whitney asks, peering over your shoulder. None of you have an answer. Whitney throws her arms wide, spins on her heels, and falls onto Cerise's bed. "What a mess," she drawls.
While the three of you sit contemplating, a loud banging emerges from downstairs. "Dinnertime, you assholes!" comes your lovely mother's voice.
You trudge downstairs with the other two. Seeing Whitney, your mom throws a dishrag over her shoulder and sneers. "I never said you could invite this sapphic hussy over." Then, after a brief pause: "not that I care what kind of sluts you hang around with, but I don't want my home turning into some kind of libertine harem."
"Hi, Mrs. Soliloquy," Whitney says, taking a seat at the dinner table. No matter what insults your mother throws at her, Whitney knows she'll be fed if she sticks around; just like everyone else. You and Cerise sit down too, you directly opposite your father -- hidden as always behind his newspaper.
"You leave the house before dawn and don't come back until sunset, and with yet another teen slut in tow," your mom says as she serves. "What am I to think?"
"I left to go running with Whitney. I'm trying to get in shape. Maybe you should try it yourself, you cow."
"Don't speak to our mother that way!" Cerise shrieks, playing indignant. She's always Ms. Manners around mom, the golden child who can do no wrong. Of course, all she really cares about is continuing to live here rent-free.
"At least one of my children respects me. Thank you, Cerise."
"You're quite welcome, mother."
Tonight's dinner is some kind of roast, cooked to a crisp and served with a gravy that's more like paste. Mom does dessert better than a five-star chef but her entrees leave a lot to be desired.
While you pick at your food and count the seconds until she serves up tonight's cake, a sickening realization crosses your mind.
"Wait a second," you saw slowly. "You said I had another slut in tow? What does that mean? Whitney's the only person I came home with besides Cerise."
"You sleep around so much you can't even remember them anymore? God, Alabaster. Did you forget about that little anemic girl you seduced? She can't be older than 10. It's a travesty."
You drop your fork. "When was she here?"
"This afternoon. She said she had some homework to drop off for you. I'm sure it was a lie. She was probably looking for your sex toys so you could do depraved things to her. I quiver just thinking about it."
Even Cerise is too weirded out by this news to put up her facade. You, her, and Whitney exchange horrified looks. Then in unison, you race upstairs.
Your bedroom has been turned upside-down -- err, hasn't it? It definitely seems messier than you left it. You look around carefully like an inspector at a crime scene as Cerise and Whitney watch from the threshold.
"Do you notice anything missing?" You ask Cerise. "You're in here almost as much as I am."
She shakes her head. But then: "Wait-- that." The trashbin next to your computer is empty. More important, though less creepy, the thumb drives you keep next to your monitor are also gone. Aside from a lot of sensitive data, they had your Quiz Bowl practice programs on them.
"Cheating bitch," you mumble.
[X] We have to get my shit back.
[ ] If she wants them, she can have them. They won't help her.
"Okay, but how?" Whitney asks. "She lives in Palo, uh, 'motherfraggin' Alto -- according to Stackleford. Isn't that like 100 miles away?"
"Cerise, you have a driver's license, right?"
"Uh..."
"Seriously?"
"Mom always drives me if I need to go somewhere far away."
"Jesus Christ, Cerise. Time to cut the fucking cord, don't you think?"
"Yeah? What about you? You're not much younger than me."
"Don't change the subject!"
At some point the two of you have leaned in so close to argue that your noses are practically booping, and you're yelling in one another's face. Whitney puts her hands between the the two of you to break you up.
"I can drive," she says.
"Do you have a car?" you ask.
"Err-- no... but I have the keys to the auto shop."
[ ] Too risky. It could get us expelled. We need some other plan.
[X] Let's do it.
"Whoa," Whitney says in a small voice. Her and Cerise gawk at you like they're visiting a zoo exhibit.
"What?" you ask defensively.
"It's just-- I don't know," Whitney shrugs. "I've never seen you be so -- decisive, about things like this. I guess I'm used to you being a pussy, is all."
"Of course he's decisive about this," Cerise says. "Someone stole his porn."
Climbing over the gates of North High in the dead of night, you feel like a bunch of hooligans. The quad is eerily dark and deserted. You hurry to the auto shop, where Whitney unlocks the garage and pulls the retracting metal door up.
"I guess our best bet is the '88 Thunderbird," she says, flipping on the fluorescent lights. "The struts are shot but it should get us there. I just changed its fluids out today." She rifles through the key rings hung on some corkboard near the back before finding the right one. "Here!" she says triumphantly. "Last chance to back out..."
You shake your head. "We're gonna do this. But-- we also have to be smart about it. We don't even know where she exactly lives."
Which means a call to Stackleford. Ugh.
"Road trip?!" he grunts through a mouthful of what must be donuts or cake. "Fucking sick! I wanna see where this Vivian bitch lives, too. You gotta take me, niggers. I won't give you the address if you don't."
[X] No way, you stupid shit. Give me the address.
[ ] Fuck. Whatever. We'll pick you up.
"Nope!" Stackleford says, and you can just envision him beaming like a smug idiot on the other end of the line.
"I will shove my fist so far down your throat that I can punch you in the dick from the inside."
"You don't have to be mean about it..."
"I'll teach your mom how to search your internet history."
There's a long pause.
"43819 Poe Road, Palo Alto. I'll text you google maps directions."
As you hang up, you turn to see that Whitney and Cerise have already gotten in the car. Cerise took shotgun. You bicker with her for a few moments over it, but Whitney calls it off. "She can sit up front. Stop being such a baby, Ally."
You groan and get in the backseat. Whitney fires the car up -- which groans even louder and almost doesn't want to start. As she pulls out of the garage, she flips on the headlights -- just in time to illuminate the silhouette of a man passing by. Whitney doesn't react quick enough and hits him at the breakneck speed of about 8 miles an hour. There's a loud thud and the car creaks to a halt as Whitney applies the brakes.
"Oof! Me fookin back!"
It's Damon, the school's britbong janitor. You look out the window and watch him writhing in pain on the ground, his janitor's cart tipped over.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" Whitney screams, banging her fists on the steering column. She rolls down her window too and screams to the injured man: "what's your problem? Goddamn it!"
"You wankers broke my siatic muscle!" he complains incoherently. "I'm dyin'!"
[X] He's seen us. We gotta help him.
[ ] Beat it.
You get out of the car and offer him a hand while he writhes and wails. "Come on, it's not that bad--"
"I'm dyyyyin! I'm dyyyyin!" He clutches his face theatrically, turning side to side. You try to haul him up but he's like dead weight in your hands.
Cerise gets out of the car, moving swiftly. She walks over and kicks him in the back of the head.
"'Ey!" He calls, springing to his feet, apparently out of instinct. He looks around, realizing his mistake.
"Your 'siatic muscle,' huh." Cerise says flatly.
"Wot're you turds doin' here this time 'a night?" He asks, trying to parlay into a new power dynamic. "And stealin' you's a car no less."
Whitney steps out, leaning against the door as if it's a shield against Damon's repulsiveness. "We're not stealing anything. I'm just taking this out for a test drive."
"Bullshit," Damon says. "I heard your conversation through the door. Din think ol' Damon was so clever did ya?"
You share worried looks with Whitney and your sister.
"Well if you want to stalk that little Vivian cunt, that's fine by me." He rights his cart and starts putting his supplies away. "I usedta work for her father. Groundskeepin', you know. I steal one pair of her panties and all of a sudden the rich trollop's gettin' her dad to fire me. Ain't right."
"When I saw her on campus," he continues, "I just about had a heart attack. Guess she's a student now. She could do with having the lights scared outta her too..."
You start to feel uneasy. And then, as you expected, the hammer drops. "Course, that don't mean my silence comes cheap... you'll have ta do somethin' for me, too."
[X] As long as you don't report this, we can work something out.
[ ] I don't feel comfortable about this. I'm going home. Right now it's your word against ours; you can't prove anything.
"You want another pair of panties? Got it."
Damon takes two quick steps back and stares at you like he just saw a ghost.
"Ow'd... ow'd you know wot I was after fore I said it? You psychic or summin?"
Cerise huffs. "Of course not, you limey piece of shit."
"We'll get you some panties," you say. "Fresh and dirty."
"But you won't breathe a word of this to anyone!" Whitney adds. "That's the deal!"
"Course not, course not..." Damon laughs. "I scratch your back, you scratch mine."
The three of you pile into the car again. But before you pull off and Whitney can roll up the window, Damon jams his claw in empty pane, his gleaming face popping into view like a movie monster's. "You get me those knickers, ya hear? You'll be sorry if you don't."
Whitney says nothing; none of you do. She rolls the window slowly up until Damon has to pull his filthy hand away. He steps back and watches as you drive off.
And away you go.
Neon billboards and rumbling semi trucks whiz by on the highway. Whitney drives at a conservative five-over, and you can't blame her -- best not to catch a cop's attention. But it was 10 PM before you pulled out of the school, and at this rate it'll be almost 2 AM before you pull up the half-mile drive that leads to Vivian's mansion. You still don't have a clear plan of what you intend to do when you get there.
"You know," Cerise says after long silence. "The more I think about this, the stupider it seems."
"Where's your sense of adventure?" Whitney chides. You feel like a little kid watching your parents argue in the front seat.
"We need to be looking for more than the thumb drives," Cerise says. "Whatever Vivian thinks she's planning, it has to be bigger than that."
"How are we even going to get inside her house?" you ask. "Her dad must have security."
"I've been thinking about that," Whitney says. "I say we don't sneak in. We drive right up and let her dad know we're there."
"This is a new low even for you," you say. "And I once heard you ask if Paris is a country, so the bar is pretty low as it is."
"Think about it, you whiny bitch," Whitney says. "If she can use the 'stopping by to visit friends' gambit, so can we. What's she going to say if she sees us, 'those aren't my friends, those are the people I'm stalking'?"
"Maybe..." you say. "But who visits a friend at 2 AM?"
"We could pull over and sleep for the night," Cerise says.
"Won't they notice the car missing back at school?" you ask.
Whitney chews her lip. "Wednesdays the auto shop meets in room 201 for a weekly lecture... the class doesn't go to the garage. If we get the car back before, say... lunch? That's when Coach Kevin eats lunch in the garage. We should be okay."
"Well I'm not sleeping in a car," you announce. "I'm above that kind of thing."
You pass a billboard that advertises a motor lodge on the next exit. You look at one another and shrug. By now it's 1:30 -- you're all exhausted.
Bleary-eyed, the three of you stumble into the lobby of Comfy King Motor Lodge, which advertises a nightly as well as an hourly rate. More importantly, the sign outside says No ID's are required.
It's not the cleanest place you've ever seen: a roach skitters by on the grimy tile floor as you step inside. An unbelievably rotund specimen of a man sits at the faux wood check-in counter.
"Wait," you say. "You guys have any money?"
"No," Cerise says. "Don't you?"
"God, you're so useless," you cry. "If you're going to whore yourself out, the least you can do is keep a little pocket change around."
"Get bent. I didn't expect to have to shell out for a motel room when we left. And what kind of guy walks around without a wallet?"
"Will you two assholes cram it?" Whitney says. She pulls a velcro wallet from her back pocket. "I've got a little cash..." she counts it and then looks sheepishly up at you. "Uh, I guess two of us are gonna have to share a room."
[ ] I'll bunk with Whitney.
[ ] I'll bunk with Cerise.
[ ] I want to sleep alone because I'm literally that fucking retarded.
[X] TIE VOTE
"Why waste the money?" Cerise asks before you can decide. "We can all three sleep in the same room." She calls out to the fat man at the counter. "Hey, lardo! You got any triples open?"
"Singles only," the fat man grunts, scratching his stomach.
"We'll figure it out, I guess," Whitney says.
Unit J01 is a corner room at the back of complex. As you approach, you can hear dogs barking on the distance. Hundreds of moths flutter in the lights hanging on the stucco walls outside. The interior isn't any more promising: a single twin bed with a busted coin-operated vibration mode, and a busted TV. The paneling is yellowed with age. You could just about touch opposing walls with your arms spread out.
At your request, the fatass bellhop gave you two extra comforters and some extra pillows, but there's still the question to settle of who gets the bed.
"Not me," Whitney yawns, stretching her back luxuriously. "I don't want scabies. You two clowns can fight over it."
Rock-paper-scissors is always a joke when you play with Cerise. No matter how many times you throw, you always tie. You play rock, she plays rock. You play paper, she plays paper. It's like some kind of eerie telepathy. Tonight is no different.
After a few minutes of this, Whitney groans in protest. "Shut up already. Hanging out with you guys is such a drag. Ally, just give your sister the bed you assmunch. What about chivalry, huh?"
Cerise crawls into the bed before you can agree to this, rubbing her temples. "I need a drink..." she grumbles to no one.
"This is shit," you complain. "Why do you always take Cerise's side? You hardly even know her."
Cerise has already kicked off her shoes and is underneath the covers, halfway to sleep. "Here," Whitney says in conciliatory tone, fluffing her pillow and sliding it a little to the side. "We can share beddings. It'll be more comfortable that way."
You look down at her lying on the floor and see a glint in her eyes you're not used to seeing. The remembrance of what happened in the locker room two days ago plays through your mind's eye.
"Come o-o-on, Ally~" she mews, patting the ground. Slowly, you put your blanket down next to her.
It's hard to sleep with Whitney cuddled up beside you, you soon find. You didn't ask her to do this -- you figured you'd keep to your own sides -- but as soon as you lied down, she turned over and wrapped her arms around you, complaining that she was chilly. Her breaths are slow and measured against your chest, and you can feel the warmth of them even through your cotton tee. You try to doze but every time you open your eyes, she's just staring up at you in the dark.
"Jesus, that's creepy," you finally say, just to break the silence. "What are you looking at?"
Whitney's legs wrapped around yours squirm a little. Her well toned calf muscles tense against yours, giving you a weird sensation of supple firmness. "I dunno," she says. "I'm just excited. We're on an adventure."
"Don't be stupid," you manage, sounding really stupid. Whitney gives you a playful slug on the hip.
"You were cute in those spats," Whitney says, her voice suddenly silken. You feel a jolt of adrenaline. "They fit you. I mean, they didn't fit you-- that's what made them fit."
You feel yourself flush and hope she can't see it in the dark. Trying to keep your voice from shaking, you say: "I don't get it. I thought you were a dyke."
Whitney laughs, burying her face in your chest so the sound is muffled. The vibration of it tickles you and makes you writhe around, but not uncomfortably. When the laughter subsides, Whitney looks up, her eyes two bright orbs in the dark. "It's complicated."
You mull that over for a few moments. Whitney goes still in your arms, but then she wiggles herself up onto her elbows in order to see you better.
"You know," she says, "I thought all that time training on your video games taught you how to handle a situation like this a little bit better."
"What?"
"You're a fucking stupid jerk is what," she says, and kisses you wetly. You don't know how to respond: your tongue lies dead in your mouth while hers probes and prods hungrily. She pulls back, a thin strand of saliva joining you.
"You suck at this," she says. "I'm going to have to teach you everything, huh?"
"What about my sister?" you say, dazed.
"Who gives a clumpy fuck?" Whitney hisses.
A red heat rises from your core and you grab Whitney by the shoulders, flipping her over so you're on top.
"Oooh, scary~" Whitney hums, her wrists pinned.
"You want me to fuck you?"
"No, I want you to paint me green."
You reach under the covers and pull her shorts partway down. She isn't wearing panties. You look back at her with disbelief, and in that moment Whitney must sense an advantage: she latches onto your mouth again, drawing you into another kiss. This time you move your tongue, but you keep bumping it against her teeth. You squeeze her face with both hands and redouble your efforts as if more force will make you better.
Her hands now free, Whitney reaches down and unzips your pants. When she pulls you already rock-hard out of your boxers, her back arches and she moans -- involuntarily? -- directly into your mouth. The hum travels down your throat like a ripple. You feel Whitney's feet kicking frantically as she snakes her way out of her shorts just far enough to permit entry.
You wag your hips a little, trying to find your way. Pulling back from her wanton mouth, you groan: "am I in?"
"No. Christ." She runs her hands through your hair with frustrated anxiousness.
"Now?"
Whitney sighs and wraps her legs around your waist, pulling you around in a split-second reversal of position. Now you're the one who's pinned.
"You're hopeless," she moans. She pulls off her shirt, grabs your hands, and guides them to her tits. The heat of them alone makes you shiver. Her nipples are already pert and prominent.
Reaching between you, Whitney grabs your cock and guides it home. She lowers herself into a kind of reverse missionary position and slides back onto you. You grit your teeth at the sudden sensation.
"NOW you're in," she coos. She grinds her pubis against your own, her deepest parts contracting and relaxing in a rhythm that feels like being milked.
"Is this your first time?" She asks tenderly. You don't reply. She stops moving; the milking motions stop. "Is this your first time?" she demands, voice low, not so tender now.
"Y-yes," you groan. "God. Yes."
She kisses you again. Her tongue is practically raping your mouth and you have no way to counter. She starts humping at a frantic pace, her lower half moving parallel with your bodies to maintain this topsy-turvy missionary position.
"Perfect," she whispers in your ear. "I knew you were a virgin. Tell me, is it better than your hand?"
"What? Of course it is--" you stop, hearing noise further back in the room. "Whitney," you whisper.
"Fuck me!" Whitney pleads. "Come on, move your fucking hips, you little pervert!"
"Whitney, my sister--"
There's definitely some kind of movement in the shadows by Cerise's bed now. You hear the soft squeal of bedsprings. Whether Whitney doesn't notice or just doesn't care, you can't tell.
"You can cum inside, Ally~" she says, and licks your chest. "Pour it all inside me, okay? As much as you can!"
There's a loud hiss from the bed like someone gasping through their teeth. The squeaking springs, soft at first, are now louder than the slapping noises of your copulation. There's no way Whitney can't hear it.
"Jesus," you say, sweating, mauling Whitney's tiny breasts with both hands, feeling the inevitable about to happen. "Are you safe? Is this safe?" you plead, suddenly growing panicked.
"Not at all!" Whitney cries, like she just won the lottery. "It's completely, 100% not safe!"
The squeaking from the bed gets louder, if such a thing is possible. You try to send the emergency signal to your arms to push Whitney off of you before it happens, but your body is no longer your own. Your hips move to meet Whitney's thrusts without your conscious effort.
"Whitney, really-- I'm gonna-- I can't hold--"
"Do it! Do it! I don't care!"
With a wet, far-off sounding splash and a guttural moan, you let go, and paint Whitney's womb with your cum. Whitney howls and collapses against you -- and there's another voice in the room howling now, too.
GIRLS FUCKED: 1/6
You wake up a little bit after 8 AM to Whitney cursing.
"Fuck, we're late! Oh god! We'll never make it there and back in time!"
You sit up groggily and look around. Whitney is stumbling around the tiny room, pulling on her shirt and shoes at the same time, panicking.
"We'll get expelled for sure!" she says.
You look over at the bed. Cerise is asleep in exactly the position she passed out in: spread eagled, arms splayed wide, with her panties around her ankles. You divert your eyes and pretend you have no idea how she ended up this way.
After a lot of confusion and flung obscenities, the three of you are up, dressed, and on the road again by 8:30.
"We've come too far," you say when Whitney wonders aloud whether you should all turn back now. "We have to at least scope the place out. Just hurry back. We can make it to garage again before noon."
Poe Road has exactly one property: why the address number is so high, you can't fathom. It sits ominously at the top of a hill at the end of along, winding gravel road.
Obstacle number 1: A security gate. A disinterested looking man in a rent-a-cop uniform sits in a tollbooth-looking construction on the other side. He speaks to you through an intercom, demanding to know who you are.
"Let me handle this," Whitney says, and rolls down the window. "We're Vivian's friends. We just came by to visit her!" Whitney says.
"Vivian's at school," the security guard says flatly.
So... that was a bust. Whitney slumps her head.
Before any of you can formulate Plan B to gain entry, deus ex machina helps you out.
"Let them in," you hear a deep voice boom over the guard's walkie-talkie. "They're here to see me, too."
The gates open, and Whitney drives through. The crunch of gravel underneath the tires is somehow ominous, reminiscent of bones shattering.
The front of the house is composed of a long colonnade with marble tiling leading to the entryway. All alabaster, ironically enough. In front of this is an enormous fountain. Walking out to meet you is a tall, dapper-looking man who walks with a commanding air.
"David Darkbloom," Cerise says.
Whitney parks at the head of the drive. There's a carport off to the side, about a quarter of a mile away, but you know you won't be here long.
"I think you're looking for these," Darkbloom says. He hands you your missing thumb drives. "I'm sorry you had to come all this way to get them. Vivian can be difficult sometimes... as for the other things-- I don't think you'll mind to hear I threw them out."
"You know she's stalking me?" you say.
"What he means is--" Whitney starts, trying to be diplomatic, but Darkbloom holds up a hand to silence her.
"Vivian is difficult, like I said. She's been in a rebellious phase recently. Trying to be an... individual. Well, it's one of those teenage things all children go through."
"She's nuts," Cerise says.
"I take full responsibility," Darkbloom says in a way that sounds remorseful but also says it really isn't at all. "I push her too hard."
"Why me?" you ask.
Darkbloom laughs. "Childhood infatuation. That's all it is. You wouldn't believe it if I told you. I will put more restraints on her behavior, I promise."
"Pull her out of that school," you say. "She doesn't need it."
"I'm afraid I can't do that," Darkbloom says. "There's a lot at stake here. And the psychological trauma would be considerable..."
He reaches out and grasps both of your shoulders. "What we need, Alabaster Soliloquy," -- referring to you by your full name is a heritable trait, apparently -- "what I need is for you to stay on the Quiz Bowl and perform to your very best. With Vivian on the team, you'll make nationals."
The ride home is awkward. Not just because of last night's strange incident.
"You told him yes," Cerise groans. "You told that richie rich fucker yes."
"What was I supposed to do?" you ask. It's hard to say no to a man on the Forbes 500, especially when he promises to deposit $1 million in your bank account at the end of the school year.
"You probably could have talked that tight-ass up a bit," Whitney says.
"Nothing changes," you say. "I never agreed to go to practices. Just the competitions. The only thing different now is I'm a millionaire."
"Theoretically," Whitney says.
"And you call me a whore," Cerise fumes.
"We've got a bigger problem anyway," Whitney says, pulling over 90 to get back to school in time. "What about Damon's blackmail?"
"Fuck it," Cerise says. "Give him mine. He won't be able to tell the difference. Panties are panties."
Internally, you applaud Cerise for taking one for the team. But she didn't have to pull them off and give them to you right there. You take them like something radioactive and set them beside you in the car. It's 11 AM.
You speed back into the auto shop's garage just before the bell for lunch rings. Luckily, the quad is empty and no one sees you pulling in.
You say brief goodbyes and scatter to the four winds: Cerise walks home, Whitney heads for the track, and you go to seek out Damon to deliver his prize. Cerise's wadded up panties in your front pocket feel like they're buzzing, it's so awkward to carry them around.
Before you find Damon, you decide to grab your backpack out of your locker. You've been awake this long, you may as well stick around for the last half of school today. You hate to be in the same room as Vivian, but you have to learn to confront her eventually--
You hear a loud bang behind you and turn around. It's Vivian herself. She has her arms extended, pinning you in the corner where your locker sits. You curse your rotten luck.
"You've been avoiding me," she says simply.
"Of course I have, you schizo."
"You went to see my father?" she half-shouts. "Without telling me?"
"You were in my HOUSE," you counter. "You stole things out of my room!"
She slumps her head, and then looks up at you. She barely comes up to your neck. Her nose brushes up against your sternum as she says in a low tone: "I'll leave you alone. If that's really what you want. Just one thing first."
Vivian's breath is hot against the crook of your neck. She has to stand on her tiptoes to look you in the eye.
"I need six milliliters of your essence. No later than tomorrow afternoon."
You try to shove her away, but she maintains her splayed-armed posture with strange ferocity. She won't budge. "Have you considered electro-shock therapy?" you ask. "It's not as cheap as stealing cum rags but I hear the results are usually pretty good."
"I am loath to debase myself by asking for your help, but the fate of nations may hang upon this."
"What nations? I mean specifically. Is Vanuatu going to sink if you don't get six mils of my jizz?"
Vivian reaches into a pocket inside her clouse and produces a vial.
"How much is six milliliters, anyway?" you ask. Vivian indicates with her index finger how much she needs.
"What do I look like," you breathe, "a horse?"
"My father stole the backup supply. It can't be helped."
"Uh huh. Can I go now?"
"Do I have your promise that you will deliver the supply?"
"I'm not gonna j/o in a vial for you. Sorry. I have better places to cum inside."
Vivian winces with naked disgust. "Suit yourself," she drawls. "I have other means at my disposal."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Now--" and here, Christ, you could swear she darts her tongue out and licks your neck. But it happens so quickly you doubt yourself. "--About the Quiz Bowl. You have been avoiding me. This will not stand. You must come to practice on Friday."
"I'm not going. Hey, you wanna hear a fun Alabaster-fact? I just got done fucking someone way cuter than you."
Vivian's right eye twitches. After a lengthy pause, she says: "If you won't face me, then admit you're afraid of me."
"Excuse me?"
"I want to hear it from your mouth. That is all. I want to hear you say the words: 'I , Alabaster Solilioquy, am afraid of a little girl. I am afraid of her because I know she is smarter than me.' Say it. And then I will be out of your life forever."
[X] Say it.
[ ] Refuse.
"I, Alabaster Solilioquy, am afraid of a little girl. I am afraid of her because I know she is smarter than me."
Vivian's eyes dart around inside her impossibly tiny skull as she surveys every part of your face. She leans in, as if trying to get a better look. When she's satisfied, she pushes herself away from the wall.
"I don't believe you," she says.
Whether she means that she literally doesn't believe you, or that you're jusst a fucking faggot -- as in i.e. "you're unbelievable" -- you can't tell.
She turns as if to go but stops herself short. "Oh yes," she purrs. "Those ersatz undergarments you were thinking of pawning off on Damon as my own -- you cannot be serious. Damon will know you cheated him. The size difference alone will give it away."
She snakes a hand underneath the hem of her skirt. Stooping over in the middle of the hall, in broad daylight, she tugs her underwear down and steps out of them daintily. They're black and lacy but nonetheless quite conservative -- as expected.
"A gift," she says, "to save you from getting yourself expelled before the real fun can begin." She tosses the panties into the air. They describe a perfect arc, landing squarely on your head. You're so flabbergasted that you don't pull them away and shove them into your pocket for several moments. By then, Vivian is gone. And somehow, in less than an hour, you've acquired two pairs of used panties.
Damon is ecstatic when you make the delivery. "Mother 'o' god!" he says, burying his nose in the crotch. "It's 'ers! After all these years, ol' Damon can still tell!"
You leave him to his little reunion.
The rest of the day passes as an undifferentiated blur. You haven't slept or eaten anything in over a day, which contributes. There's also the burning presence of your own sister's panties in your front pocket, which you haven't had the chance to ditch. Every time you stand, you become paranoid that all the others can tell what you're carrying around.
Vivian doesn't come to any of your classes after lunch.
When the bell rings to dismiss class for the day, Whitney texts almost immediately: "soccer practice today!!" But you're not in the mood for extended physical exertion. You'd rather pass out and sleep for a few decades.
[ ] Man up: soccer practice with Whitney.
[X] Stop by anime club with Cerise.
[ ] Go home.
You step into the old Home Ec room to find a peculiar scene. The entire anime club is sitting in a circle of chairs. At the center, on the floor, is Kimberly.
"This is a circle of shame," Cerise says. "You're being shamed right now."
"Whyyyy?" Kimberly grovels, loudly snorting back mucus, her face bright red and slick with tears.
"Who wants to tell Kimberly why she's being shamed?" Cerise asks.
Fartin' Franklin raises his hand meekly. "She used the word 'fail' as a noun."
"Can anyone tell me why what Kimberly did was wrong?"
Stackleford offers a response, like a sullen child repeating things learned by rote: "only faggots and weeaboos talk that way."
"Thank you, Stackleford. I hope all of us are learning valuable lessons. Anime club is a growth experience."
Stepping stealthily behind her, you pull Cerise's panties from your pocket and hold them against her back so that no one else in the club can see them. "I think these are yours," you say.
Cerise's eyes bulge. "Put those away," she says in a low voice. "If they see those-- I swear to god, you little ass goblin--" The other club members gawk at her.
"We need to talk," you tell her. "I figured this would get your attention."
Slowly, awkwardly, Cerise stands from her seat so that the panties remain concealed from view between your bodies. You lead her out into the hall like someone being held at gunpoint. "Be right back, you guys!" Cerise chirps, uncharacteristically cheery.
In the hall, Cerise wheels around and grabs for the soiled undergarments. You jerk them back out of her reach.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Cerise demands. "And why didn't you give those to Damon? Are you trying to get expelled?"
"I got a pair of Vivian's panties to give him instead," you say. You let that sink in with Cerise. She shakes her head mutely, unable to comprehend, and you decline to explain further.
"Do you know what those weebs would do if they saw a pair of my panties?" Cerise hisses. "I'd be done for. I'd never hear the end of it."
"Guess the circle of shame works both ways, then."
"I will shit in your eyesockets! I swear to god, Alabaster!"
She grabs again for the panties but you pivot and feint right. She falls for it every time.
"Goddamn it," she says. "What the hell do you want? Spit it out if it's so important."
[ ] I want to join anime club.
[ ] Since when are you an otaku?
[X] What was up with last night?
Cerise looks at you like you just sprouted feathers. When she finally manages to speak, all the anger drops out of her voice. The emotion that replaces it is much harder to peg.
"I don't know," she says, looking away. "you fucked your slut girlfriend right in front of me. What kind of person has sex in front of their older sister?"
"Were you--"
"I wasn't doing anything! So what if I was?" Cerise shouts, almost incoherent. So it's confirmed, then. "And anyway, since when is that little scissor sister hot for dick?"
You laugh. "Since she got a look at mine."
Cerise is back to her old self again. She catches you off guard and clutches onto her panties, but you keep your grip tight on the other end.
"Give those back, you fucking sperger!" she cries.
You get into tug of war that sends you spinning laterally down the hall like two ends of a fan blade.
"Why?" you yell, growing dizzy. "So you can flick your bean into them some more?"
"They're mine to do with as I see fit! Don't you have enough cum rags of your own? Or do you have a thing for crossdressing now?"
Tumbling, shouting, a pair of soiled panties stretched taut between you, you and Cerise crash into a girl leading what looks like a delegation of teenage librarians. It's the student council. You just bowled down their president.
A pair of khaki-wearing toadies appear at either side of the President and help her to her feet. No such aid comes for you or Cerise.
"Motherfuuuucker," Cerise groans from beside you, rubbing her head. "I did not need to whang my face on tile today..."
"Are you all right?" one of the student council members asks the President. Her earnestness could make you puke.
"I'm just fine, thank you," the President says, dusting herself off. "Just a little bump. Nothing's hurt, thank goodness."
You stand, swaying, and stare at the girl until your vision uncrosses and you can get a better look. She wears a plain beige outfit like the rest of the council, Hitler Youth-esque, long pleated skirt and heels, conservative blouse, old-lady glasses. Yet despite this frumpy getup, she's a bombshell.
It's Rose Mallory, the youngest student council president in North High history. Barely a sophomore now, she got elected to the position last year through relentless campaigning and cronyism. At five foot zilch, she looks like a fleshier, compacted version of a taller girl. Come to think of it, she could pass for Vivian Darkbloom's doppelganger from an alternate timeline.
"What are those doing here?" Rose asks with distaste in her voice, pointing at the panties on the floor. Next to the panties is a clipboard she dropped in the scuffle. She picks it up and begins making a series of ominous sounding ticks as Cerise finally rights herself.
Gravely, Rose says, "I was checking in on all the student-run organizations to see how they operate... there are some changes in policy coming down the turnpike. This is-- let's see-- the... ah-nee-may club? You're Cerise Solilioquy, faculty adviser?" Cerise nods dumbly. "I don't imagine I have to explain how unbecoming this appears," Rose says.
"It's this little pervert's fault," Cerise grunts, pointing at you. "He needs to have his teeth kicked in."
"Please don't speak like that," Rose says. "Some people may find such language triggering."
Cerise, having graduated before Rose's reign or terror, has no clue who she's dealing with. But you do. Before you can give Cerise a whispered warning, more bad timing strikes. Whitney comes marching down the hallway.
"Alabaster, Alabaster, lazy lazy bastard~" she chants in sing-song as she goosesteps down the hall. When she finally sees Rose and the student council, she freezes.
"Oh, hello, Whitney," Rose says.
"Hi," Whitney says back, her voice now icy.
"Keeping up the grade point average?" Rose asks, examining her nails. "We don't want to lose our soccer team's star player."
"I'm doing fine," Whitney glowers.
"Keep it that way." Rose turns to Cerise. "Ms. Soliloquy, speaking on behalf of the student council, I'd like you to please step aside for a private conversation. Now I'll cut right to the chase. There have been some... allegations."
Rose walks with Cerise down the hall where you can't overhear. Whitney gives you a look that says she would rather be anywhere else on Earth than right here. You can't help but agree.
[ ] The soccer field
[X] The school rooftop
Whitney goes for the soccer field to return to the practice currently in session. You decline to follow. But when you break away from her to trudge upstairs, she calls after you.
"Ally!~"
You don't respond.
"Hey! The soccer field's through here! Aren't you coming to practice?"
"I'm not a soccer player," you say, entering the stairwell. "I never was." Whitney trots quickly behind you up the stairs.
"Of course you are. That's the deal, remember?"
"The deal for what? For being my bodyguard? You've been the worst guard possible. Vivian cornered me today. I could have been killed."
"Stop being such a drama queen," Whitney says. But then, almost as an addendum and sounding worried: "what did she do?"
"She gave me her panties."
You step out onto the roof. Whitney is dazed, but after a few moments the realization washes over her face. "For Damon," she says.
"Can't slip anything past you."
Whitney slugs you in the shoulder. You let the force of it push you back but otherwise don't respond. "Geez," Whitney says. "Who pissed in your cereal?"
You lie down on the gravel. "I'm just tired," you say.
Whitney sits down cross-legged next to you. She picks at the pebbles for a few moments and everything is quiet. Then out of the blue, she purrs: "That was hot... last night, I mean. Don't you think?"
"It was rape," you say.
Whitney groans like she just heard a bad joke. "Please," she says. "You wanted it just as bad as me."
"You're a crazed rapist who needs to be removed from society."
"You consented to it, assmunch. You splattered your consent all over my insides. I'm still trailing your consent down my legs." She rolls over so that she's lying on top of you, just like last night. She sticks her tongue out playfully.
You glower. "Maybe I should rape you back, to show you how it feels."
"Maybe you should~"
You huff.
"Are you worried about pregnancy?" Whitney asks, with no teasing in her voice now. "I used my lunch period to get some Plan B over at the Costco. Isn't medical science wonderful? -- I even took two in case it was twins."
Sometimes, you wonder how Whitney is capable of dressing herself in the morning.
"Thanks for consulting me."
"Maybe I won't next time. Maybe I'll let the fucker gestate. Hmm?"
She kisses you and you do your best not to return it, but can't help yourself. The idea of what she just said is -- not unpleasant.
"My sister saw everything," you tell her.
"I know," she said. "Wasn't it wild? She was playing with her cunt like it was the end of the world."
"You're demented."
"Let's be demented together."
"--Excuse me?"
"You have to take responsibility for me. You were my first too, you know. We're ruined for marriage."
"Not me. It doesn't count if it's rape."
"Ally~" her voice is silken. She trails kisses up and down your neck, stopping to suckle on your earlobe. "That's fine. You belong to me now. I'm keeping you as my rape slave, if that's how you want to be."
"Get off of me."
"Never."
"Whitney--"
"Let's fuck your sister, Ally."
"What."
"Let's fuck her. You and me. It's not cheating if we do it together. That'll be rule one. We can do whatever we want if it's together."
"I agree to nothing."
"Then it's settled."
A cloud passes over the sun and you wonder what you've gotten yourself into.
END OF EPISODE 3.