You are Alabaster Soliloquy, anime virgin devirginer and fiesta organizer. After another wholesome family movie night with your older sister Cerise went spectacularly south before it even began, you did what any sensible young man would do: seek comfort in the arms of a drunken older woman.
>11:19 PM
"What's the capital of Angola?"
"Luanda. Everyone knows that."
"Which body is responsible for maintaining metric standards such as the kilogram?"
"The International Bureau of Weights and Measures. Or do you want the French name? Bureau International des Poids et Mesures. When do the hard questions start?"
"Don't get cocky, boy. The night is young."
>12:21 AM
"Which film won the award for Best Picture in 1939 at the 12th annual Academy Awards?"
"Gone with the Wind. What a boring fucking movie. The Wizard of Oz got robbed."
"What phylum do jellyfish belong to?"
"Cnidaria. Which is what I'm about to be if I don't get some fucking sleep."
"Buck up, buttercup. We've got a long way to go."
>1:32 AM
"In what year did the world wide web begin?"
"1991. August 23, 1991 to be precise. Oh my god, I'm so tired. Let me sleep."
"You're the biggest wuss in history. I hope you're cognizant of that."
>2:01 AM
Ms. Carte comes in from the kitchen and sits back down.
"The new pot of coffee should be done brewing in a few minutes. Come on, now, look alive."
She snaps her fingers in front of your face. You rub the sleep from your eyes as she flips through her note cards.
"Who holds the record for most points scored in a single NBA game?"
"Fucked if I know. I thought we were focusing on my strong suits."
"This is an easy one, Alabaster. You should be able to answer it."
"The correct answer is Wilt Chamberlain," comes Spancer's monotone voice from behind the couch.
"Jesus!" you cry. "Don't scare me like that. I forgot you were back there."
"..."
"Does he have to be here?" you ask Ms. Carte.
"Spancer, please wait outside," Ms. Carte says.
"Understood."
You watch him go through Ms. Carte's busted front door. "Here's a question," you say. "Is there a reason you keep your living room at 90 degrees? I'm literally dying."
"I don't have A/C. Sue me. It's hard to afford luxuries on a teacher's salary."
"...Uh, what are you doing?"
"Taking off my shirt. You're right, it's hot in here."
She tosses the shirt over your head. You bat it to the floor, but not before catching a few whiffs of Ms. Carte's sweat.
You pretend to gag, but the truth is it was alluring, somehow. Ms. Carte laughs devilishly. Somehow you don't think the act fooled her.
"How much longer do we have?" you ask.
Ms. Carte loops her arms over the back of the couch and kicks her heels up on the coffee table. In that position, it's hard not to stare at her tits. Her bra is plain and white but about half a size too small. Her chest heaves rythmatically with each breath.
A droplet of sweat trickles between her cleavage and you watch its progress with interest.
"11 hours to go. Don't bitch out on me now, Alabaster. ... Here, maybe a food break will help. Do you want order a pizza?"
[ ] Sure.
[ ] Sure. It'll be my treat.
[ ] Let's take a break and go somewhere, get some fresh air.
[X] I have some food waiting at home in the fridge. Let's take a break and eat there.
You follow Ms. Carte through the apartment complex's gravel path. Spance is takes up the rear.
As you walk through the refreshing night air, one of the denizens here confronts your little trio, holding a video camera.
"This is gangstalking report #117," he says. "I am following a group of three perpetrators right now. These people are completely shameless."
"...What?" you say.
"Just ignore him," Ms. Carte tells you.
Ms. Carte, seeming embarrassed, picks up her walking speed. You hurry to maintain pace.
"You're perpetrators!" the man with the video camera calls after you. "This is going on youtube! Your faces will be on the internet! You're perpetrators!"
You get to the parking lot and Ms. Carte clicks the unlock button on her keychain. Her shiny red Corvette beeps once and you hear the satisfying click of the locks unlatching. As Ms. Carte steps into the driver's seat, she says: "I'll admit it. I've made a lot of mistakes."
With you riding shotgun and Spancer in the back, you peel off into the night, leaving Ms. Carte's schizophrenic neighbors behind.
Arriving home, you sneak through the front door. Spancer remains outside, waiting for you on the footpath by the drive.
You and Ms. Carte tiptoe through the darkened foyer and toward the dining room, giggling like a couple of teenagers.
"No, really," you tell her for the dozenth time. "It's the best pie you'll ever taste."
"I don't believe you. Nothing will beat Gustav's pies. He kept me fed through my whole employment at Darkbloom Enterprises."
"You little pie-slut," you whisper playfully.
She gives you a shove. "Hey, I was only in it for the food. The guy was pushing 60. I like them a little younger than that..."
Your banter stops short when you hear sudden movement from the dining room table. You see a lumpy, vaguely humanoid shadow shift in the darkness.
You realize it's Mom. The sound of your footsteps and conversation must have startled her awake. She sits up with one last, loud snore. She glances about frantically, disoriented.
"I-it'ssh not like I wash waiting up for you or anything!" she slurs, still half-asleep. She rubs her face with a broadened palm. "I jusht got really tired after dinner!"
The cat's out of the bag, so you may as well turn on the overhead lights. Mom squints from the sudden illumination, shielding her face. Ms. Carte watches on, silent. She looks a bit guilty, like a child awaiting punishment.
Mom focuses on you first. "W-what are you doing home at this hour?"
"I came home to get some food," you say, shrugging. "You saved some for me, right?"
Mom glances from you to Ms. Carte, finally noticing her presence.
In an attempt to nip this disaster in the bud, you quickly put a hand on Ms. Carte's shoulder and usher her toward Mom to initiate a friendly handshake. "This is my biology teacher," you tell her. "She's helping me study for quiz bowl."
Ms. Carte smiles sheepishly. "Hi," is all she says. No friendly handshake anywhere in sight.
"Your own teacher," Mom breathes. "Do you have no shame, Alabaster?"
"I think you're misunderstanding--" Ms. Carte begins.
"Oh, I understand perfectly well! Sneaking in during the dead of night, laughing, smelling like liquor... you're fucking my son."
"Not yet-- err-- I mean, no, not at all..." Ms. Carte stammers. She cringes at her own Freudian slip and looks away.
Mom folds her arms and harumphs. "Looks like you're building quite the harem, Alabaster," she says indignantly. "I guess you expect me to feed this one, too."
"Well-- if you would," you say. "I'd sure appreciate it."
Mom gets up and heads toward the kitchen, grumbling: "honestly, I don't know why I put up with you..."
When she's out of earshot, you give Ms. Carte an apologetic look. "Sorry," you say. "She's a bit hotheaded. Don't let it get to you."
"At least I know where you get it from now," Ms. Carte says. She sits down at the spot customarily reserved for your father. "This pie better be worth every bite."
Ms. Carte has a lot of qualities to admire: intelligence, foresight, even a strange sort of charm.
But these qualities also leave a lot to be desired. Such as table manners.
Ms. Carte eats her food wolfishly, both elbows on the table, practically vacuuming up Mom's key lime pie. She dives in for seconds without asking. You watch her, a bit appalled.
"Real class act you've netted here," Mom says, unimpressed.
"Thish is amazhing!" Ms. Carte says through a mouth full of cream. "Thish musht be illegal! Nothing thish good could be legal!"
Mom blushes from the unrestrained praise, but quickly puts on her bitchy facade again.
"I'm sure you know from illegality," Mom grouses. "How many of your students are you fucking, anyway?"
Ms. Carte swallows hard and chases it with a gulp of ice water before answering. "None of them, Mrs. Soliloquy. Please understand. I'm just trying to help your son with the quiz bowl, honest."
"Mmhmm." She turns to you. "I hope you're using protection. She probably has every STD known to medical science and a few yet to be discovered."
Ms. Carte laughs, nearly choking on her water.
"Did I say something funny, you harlot?"
"Nothing. It's just... that would sincerely surprise me."
"You can play pure and innocent," Mom says, pointing an accusing finger at her. "But I'm on to you, lady. I know all the tricks old hags like you use to lure innocent young boys like my Alabaster into your snares."
"Ohhhh man. Your boy is far from innocent, lady."
They're both calling each other "lady." This is getting dangerous.
"How dare you speak of my Alabaster like that!" Mom shouts, standing.
"Calm down, Mrs. Soliloquy. I lo-- I really admire your son. And we make a good team."
[X] She's right. We make a good team. Come to the competition tomorrow and watch us.
[ ] I think this is getting out of hand. Maybe Ms. Carte should go home.
Mom's face cycles through a number of expressions as she tries to settle on what she should think of this invitation. You've never once invited her to a quiz bowl competition, even when you went the state championships in 2011.
What she finally seems to settle on is a flustered sort of downtempo happiness.
"You mean it?" she asks. "I can come watch you play?"
"Of course," you say. "You can come whenever you like. Competitions are weekly now."
Mom puts a hand to her cheek.
For some reason, you think that her cheeks must be very warm to the touch right now. You wonder what they'd feel like. You wonder why you wonder that.
"Are you really helping Alabaster with quiz bowl?" she asks Ms. Carte.
"Yes. We're going to go to nationals this year. I guarantee it."
"...And you really don't have any ulterior motives with him?"
Ms. Carte smiles painfully, glancing between you and Mom. She makes a clumsy attempt to change the subject. "If you see us in action, you'll realize how well we work together."
"I see," Mom says. She casts her eyes downward. "So it's like that."
You reach out and take Mom's hand in yours. "Ms. Carte isn't what you think," you tell her. "Trust me."
"I guess I have no choice," Mom says. She looks up again. Her frown transforms into a bright smile. "You better win tomorrow. I'm not throwing you to the lions for nothing!"
"We'll win," Ms. Carte promises. "We're going all the way."
Mom stands. "I'll go to bed and let you two practice, then... I wouldn't want to be a third wheel. Good luck."
She heads for her bedroom.
[ ] Let's practice here.
[X] Let's go back to your place.
>3:23 AM
By now, both of you are struggling to remain awake. Ms. Carte is dozing off as she reads you questions from her index cards. Far from energizing you, Mom's pie -- like all of her desserts -- has the quality of inciting drowsiness.
"What is the..." her head droops to a critical point that causes her to snap awake again. "What is the name of The Beatles' first LP?"
"Please Please Me."
Ms. Carte smiles wanly. "Alabaster... that's a little forward, don't you think?..." Her head starts to droop again.
"No, that's the answer..." You're not doing much better, yourself. A silence settles over the room and you find your head drooping as well. Soon your ears are resting against Ms. Carte's chest -- now shirtless once again.
"Alabaster--" Ms. Carte whines, writhing around and waking you up. "That tickles..."
"Say, why do you have all these notecards full of questions? I've been meaning to ask..."
"I used them when I was in quiz bowl."
Your head starts drooping toward her breasts again. This time you catch yourself. "I need an IV drip of coffee or something."
"Shut up. Now, let's see... okay, what is the strait that separates Istanbul from the rest of Turkey?"
"The Bosphorus... please don't remind me of Turkey, I'd rather not think about it."
Ms. Carte's head falls backward this time, and her whole body follows, slumping to one side. This startles her awake again.
"This is bad," you say. "We need some way of staying awake."
Ms. Carte blinks heavily a few times. "I think I have an idea," she purrs.
>3:45 AM
Ms. Carte leaves the bathroom dressed like an explorer going on a six-month trek to the south pole, complete with the goggles.
"I completely don't understand," you say.
"Lightning round," she says. "For every question you get right, I lose a piece of clothing."
You stare at her, jaw slack.
"You know, I just got done telling my mom you're not a slut trying to lure me into sex."
Ms. Carte walks over to the couch, shimmying her hips -- or at least you think so. It's difficult to tell under all those layers.
"Who led the first European expedition to Florida?"
"Ponce de Leon."
Ms. Carte peels off the goggles and throws them to the side.
It's going to be a long night.
>4:20 AM
Ms. Carte is down to only three parkas and a few pairs of pants. She starts asking you sports related questions. When you get one right, she resorts to taking off a single earring for your reward.
"You're cheating," you complain.
"Cheating would be to make you ditch a piece of clothing every time you get one wrong."
"Hmph."
>4:51 AM
"...diatoms?" you say.
Ms. Carte takes off her last coat. You can actually see her arms now. Her shirt is absolutely drenched in perspiration. You hadn't considered how uncomfortable she must be in all those layers.
>5:13 AM
"Another earring? Seriously? You owe me your pants."
"I owe you nothing!"
>5:15 AM
"Wearing two pairs of earrings was definitely cheating."
"Stop whining."
"Your pants are mine, Ms. Carte. Fucking bank on it."
>5:31 AM
Ms Carte arches her back and lifts her butt off the couch, peeling away her pants. She has nothing left on but her bra and panties. She's a flushed, heaving, overheated mess. Through your exhaustion, your body buzzes with lust. You can feel your eyeballs vibrating. You want to pin her down and lick every square inch of her tired body.
"Congratulations," Ms. Carte says. "You win."
"...what."
"Wasn't that fun?"
"You've still got clothes on."
"What, you expected me to get naked for you? I'm not a slut."
You bow your head and groan with frustration and need. Ms. Carte loops an arm around your shoulder, leaning in close.
"Lightning round part 2," she whispers lowly. Your ear twinges from the tickly heat of her breath. Ms. Carte's hand finds your zipper and pulls it down. "One correct answer... one stroke..."
Ms. Carte pulls you free. Even though the room is overheated, the rush of air around your throbbing cock is refreshingly cool. Ms. Carte gasps, directly into your ear. You shudder.
"I'm sorry," she says. "It's just-- I've nev-- I didn't think..."
Her hand flexes daintily around your shaft. "It's... it's so warm," she breathes.
Ms. Carte pulls your balls out next. She stares at them intently, with the furrowed brow of a scientist at the microscope. She pokes and prods them gently.
"Alabaster, this might sound silly... do you know if yours is larger than average?"
"Huh? I don't know... why wouldn't you? I guess it's about average."
"There's no way... no way..."
She grips you again, tighter, around the base.
"Where was the first manned flight?"
"Kittyhawak," you moan.
Ms. Carte gives you one stroke, just as promised: up and then down. One slow, luxurious stroke. And that's it.
"Fuck," is all you can say, squirming, writhing, every nerve in your body begging for more.
"First moon landing?"
"July 20, 1969."
Up -- then down. A dollop of precum oozes out of your cockhead and over her clenched fingers. You whinny and bury your face in her neck, nuzzling her. "Please..." you say.
"Latinate classification for dogs?"
"Canis familiaris."
Up -- then down. You buck your hips wildly, trying to hump her clenched hand, but she pushes down on you with her other arm, the one wrapped around your shoulder, and keeps you pinned.
"Follow the rules~" she chides.
"Let me cum. Let me cum. Let me cum!!"
"Oh, no. Not until after the competition. Sexual release before a major competition clouds your mind..."
Your blood runs hot and fast with need. Some distant part of your brain says that this is karma for how you treated Rose. Ms. Carte's grip on your tightens. You nip her neck. You can taste the salt of her sweat, feel it on your tongue.
She breathes sharply, and gives you a bonus tug. Your precum leaks in a continuous stream.
It's going to be a long night.
>7:10 AM
You feel your grip on sanity beginning to loosen.
Ms. Carte's hand, not to mention your thighs and crotch, are completely coated in your precum. The whole room smells of sex.
After every few minutes of questions, she stops to give you a few quick bonus strokes -- never more than 9 or 10 -- taking you to the very brink and before abruptly stopping.
"I'm begging you..." you say.
"Begging gets you nowhere." She bites your ear.
>12:01 PM
You're dead. Your body has left the physical realm and is floating in some extra-dimensional space, far away from here. You've become a mindless, question-answering automaton. You're pulling out answers you never had any idea you knew. You're even getting the damn sports questions right. Anything for an extra stroke, one more delicious moment of Ms. Carte's palm sliding up and down your glistening, pulsing shaft, one more electric thrill rushing from your cock up your spine.
"I need to cum," you rasp. "Oh god..."
"After the competition," she says, smiling.
"I can't wait."
"I hope you can. Because I don't want it in my hand."
"...What?"
"I want you inside me, Alabaster."
"Fuck. Oh god."
"I want you to cum in me."
You pant and moan, shifting your head side to side. Ms. Carte grips you hard at the base to keep you from popping off. Your balls and glans both ache sweetly. Your temples throb.
Ms. Carte whispers in your ear seductively. "But only if we win... only if we win, you can fill my womb with seed..."
>3:00 PM
You stand at your assigned podium in the Centennial High gymnasium. You're a quivering mess. Your brain is mush -- and yet at the same time more finely honed than it's ever been. You can't get Ms. Carte's intoxicating scent out of your nostrils. You want to bury your cock inside of her, bury your face in her chest, and fuck yourself into the abyss of madness. You feel like if you cum, you'll never stop cumming, ever.
As usual with these academic competitions, audience turnout is... low. There's a couple dweebs and friends of team members scattered around dispersely, but otherwise the hall is empty.
Mom sits front and center, hands folded in her lap.
Mr. Langley and Ms. Carte watch from backstage, behind the curtains. They seem to get along well enough. But Mr. Langley looked a little deflated when he heard Ms. Carte had been coaching you -- you suppose it must have been sort of like a quiz bowl netorare for him.
Vivian is here, too. She looks downcast at her podium.
"Welcome," says the officiator, "to the first Academic Bowl match of the semester. Today's game is between the Centennial High Philosophizers, led by team captain Nate Jarvick, versus the North High Mindbreakers, led by team captain Alabaster Soliloquy--"
"WOOO!" comes Mom's voice from the audience through cupped hands. She glances around, suddenly embarrassed as everyone gives her annoyed looks. She clasps her hands in her lap again and blushes deeply.
The officiator explains the rules of Quiz Bowl. And then it's off to the races.
You expected Vivian to beat you to the buzzer at every turn, the same way she did during quiz bowl practice. But today, she's a lot slower. Or maybe you're quicker. In any case, you get in plenty of answers in your own right:
what is the study of eggs? Oolgy. What shape does a quadratic equation take? A parabola. Where were the 2000 Summer Olympics held? Sydney.
The important thing is that the opposing team isn't scoring at all. Between you and Vivian, literally no one else is answering any questions. It starts to be a little embarassing, actually. In a game where the maximum number of points in one question is 500, the final score is an insane shutout: 22,000 - 0. The game actually ends 15 minutes earlier than usual, because the officiator runs out of questions to ask. This is a first in the history of the California state Academic Bowl, he informs you. Several of Centennial's players are literally crying as they file off stage.
"Amazing, amazing!" Mr. Langley says backstage. He hugs you and Vivian each in turn. Then, after a quick beat, he hugs the other team members also -- almost as an afterthought.
Mom's voice comes out from behind you. "That was really something," she says.
"I told you," Ms. Carte says triumphantly, but not smugly. She folds her arms and smiles. "We'll make nationals at this rate."
"Absolutely!" Mr. Langley agrees. "I don't know how you're training him, Renee, but keep it up, whatever you're doing. I'm leaving Alabaster in your hands from now on. They're obviously quite skilled!"
Through all of this banter, you watch Vivian. She stares at her tiny little shoes and says nothing. Even for her -- silent, creepy Vivian Darkbloom -- this is a little... well, silent and creepy.
For reasons you can't fathom, you actually feel-- sympathy? Maybe it's just knowing that Spancer stands guard on the perimeter of the room that gives you confidence to care.
[X] Vivian, what's wrong?
[ ] Ignore it.
Ms. Carte worries her lip impatiently. She must be as excited as you are to high-tail it out of here, and damn all small-talk.
Perhaps she also doesn't approve of contact with Vivian in any form.
But you just have to know, so you ask.
Vivian looks up at you, her frown morphing to a look of surprise. Sometimes, you forget how small she really is -- the way she's affected your life certainly doesn't square with her physical dimensions. In moments like these, you remember. She trembles and stammers a bit under your gaze.
"Well?" you ask. "I haven't got all day..."
"I am fine." Then, after a pause: "Although I appreciate the concern."
Bullshit, she's fine. She sounds like she's on the verge of tears. But David Darkbloom enters the backstage area from outside, sucking away any possibility of pressing the issue.
"Come now, Vivian," he says. He pats his pantleg once, as if calling a dog. Glumly, Vivian walks to him. He rests a palm on the top of her head; she winces at the contact.
Darkbloom nods at you, smiling. "I'm so glad to see you, Alabaster Soliloquy. I trust the two of you won?"
"We won," Vivian says.
"I was talking to him, Vivian. Please mind your manners." He looks at you. "Apologies. Vivian can be bothersome from time to time."
You begin to say something, but he turns. "Let's go," he says. Vivian follows him out, staring at her feet the entire time.
"What a douchebag," your fellow team member Hank says, summarizing the general opinion of all onlookers present.
Ms. Carte actually grabs you by the hand as if to lead you away, but quickly remembers propriety. She releases you, and turns briskly for the door. You follow, just as brisk.
"Where are you two going?" Mom asks, cocking her head. There isn't any accusation in her voice, just confusion.
"Ah-- well," you stammer.
"I thought I'd drive him home," Ms. Carte says. Her voice has a shaky timbre, like the kind she uses in her podcast, but even more pronounced.
"I appreciate it, but you don't have to," Mom says. "You've already done so much for him. I drove here, I can take him back. And actually, I was hoping to go shopping with him... you know, as a reward... n-not that he deserves it..."
You massage your face and hold yourself back from unleashing a string of unutterable obscenities. Ms. Carte stomps a foot.
Is Mom doing this on purpose?
Ms. Carte takes you to the side and leans in close, whispering quickly: "you can go... I'll follow and find you in your first free moment... I promise."
[X] Go.
[ ] Sorry, Mom. I've got other plans.
You're harder than alloyed titanium and your boxers are a few endangered otters away from qualifying as government-protected swampland, but Ms. Carte's promise keeps you level-headed enough to refrain from alienating kaa-san dearest any further today.
"Where do you want to go?" you ask her.
"I was thinking we could go downtown. There's Marvin's on 5th-- you really need some new clothes Alabaster, everything you own is dingy and disgusting. I'm almost embarrassed to be seen with you!"
You follow her into the parking lot. Ms. Carte casts you one last longing look as you leave.
"You could stand to buy some more clothes yourself," you tell her. You poke her in the tummy. She jumps at the sudden intrusion. "You'll, uh, 'outgrow' your current wardrobe pretty soon."
Mom slaps your hand away and stomps, huffing angrily. "You're unbelievable! I offer to buy you gifts and you just insult me!"
"Chill out," you say. "I was thinking we could make it a joint venture, that's all. You know, make it a proper date."
Mom's lips tremble.
"Date--?" She blinks rapidly a few times, then: "I'm your mother, you pervert. Don't tell me all that pornography has brought you THIS low."
"Geez. Learn to take a joke. You're too easy to rile."
You get in the family station wagon and Mom fires it up. On the road, you watch the rearview. Ms. Carte's shiny red sportscar tailing you is impossible to miss. Luckily, Mom is blissfully oblivious.
"What do you think?" Mom asks, spinning around in the mirror to examine herself from every angle.
"I think it's a bikini."
She slaps your shoulder.
"Well what do you want me to say?" you groan impatiently. "'Oh God, let me fuck you'?"
To be honest, if Ms. Carte doesn't show up soon, you might consider--
"You're vile. Absolutely vile. I should disown you."
She spins around in the mirror again, trying to look at her own butt, chasing after it like a cat after its tail.
"Does this outfit make me look fat?" she asks.
The dreaded question. You just shrug it off. "Most things do," you reply, chuckling.
She slugs you in the ribs. It only hurts a little.
"If you keep abusing me, I'll call the authorities."
"You'll need to call a morgue if you keep that up!"
"Why are you buying a bikini, anyway? It's September, summer's basically over."
"That's why," she says. "They're on such big sale now. Don't you know anything about shopping for clothes?"
You don't answer her and instead meander over to the men's section, feeling bored. Mom heads for the changing room to try on another set of clothes.
As you look through shirts on a circular display, slowly moving hangers aside, you see a human face hiding amongst the clothes.
You jump back, falling to your butt. "Jesus!" you cry.
Ms. Carte puts a finger to her lips, grinning at you. She kneels down inside the circular display so she can look you in the eyes from between the shirts.
"Changing room 11," she says. "It's in the back, not much foot traffic."
"Right now?" you breathe. You look toward the women's section. Mom is nowhere in sight.
"Right now," Ms. Carte affirms. "Or don't you want a reward for all that hard work?"
You cast one last glance around, again seeing no one.
It's time.
You pace around the tiny beige room, the insane intensity of your need growing by the nanosecond. At the peak of your frustration, the shuttered door clicks open. Ms. Carte enters.
She lightly pushes against your chest, forcing you to sit on the uncomfortable wood bench connected to the wall. The geometry of this encounter isn't exactly favorable for stretching out, but neither of you are in any state to care.
You kiss each other with wide open mouths, and just as in the karaoke bar, the back of your mind registers how awkward her tongue is against yours, how inexperienced she seems. But no matter. It's wet and hot, and actually tastes of mint -- did she use some kind of breath freshener before coming here? Kneeling to kiss you, Ms. Carte draws her hair behind her ears with one hand, too entranced to pull back. Your breathing against one another is ragged and quick.
"Alabaster," she moans between kisses when you finally do break away. You draw her close and nuzzle her, running suckling kisses up and down her neck that leave behind beautiful red welts on the ivory skin. She falls to her knees for easier access.
"Alabaster," she says again. "I want you to know something..."
You stop and look at her.
"I want you to know that I'm choosing this."
"I don't understand."
"No, of course you don't..." Ms. Carte wiggles in your embrace, her body heat emanating like the steady pulse of a fired furnace. "But over the next few weeks, you might find some things out about yourself. And if you think back today you might wonder whether this was real. I want you to know it's real."
"Forget it," you say. "Just forget it. I know this is real."
You take Ms. Carte by either shoulder, spinning her around. The maneuvering is awkward inside this cramped space. You sit her on the bench, her tailabone against the edge and back against the wall. Her body hums with anticipation, bird-like, her skin turned to gooseflesh under your fingers.
You pull her pants down, not roughly, but quickly. Her plain white panties are stained dark with her need. You can see the outline of a bush -- neatly trimmed, a small strip just above the clitoral hood. Something like this would have turned you off, only weeks before -- the Alabaster of today buries his nose in it, inhaling deeply. Ms. Carte stifles a cry by biting her knuckles.
You've never eaten pussy before, but want to try it, just a little. You sweep Ms. Carte's panties aside and give her a hesitant lick. Ms. Carte throws her head back so quickly that it bumps against the wall with a hard whack. She doesn't even seem to notice. You let your tongue rest on her pussy lips. Her juice pools in your mouth -- there's more than you expected. Swallowing greedily, you lap at her cunt, breathing in her aroma, tasting her-- tangy and searing hot, like semisweet chocolate maybe, an acquired taste. You acquire it immediately.
"Ala-- Alabaster--" Ms. Carte's voice is so staccato and trembly that she's almost unintelligible. "P-p-p-please, don't make me wait anymore..."
You stand up, kicking off your pants and then your boxers. Your dick is swollen and dripping. Ms. Carte looks at it like a climber looking at Everest, eyes filled with doubt.
"Please..." she says. She gulps. "Be gentle. This is embarrassing, but... I haven't..."
Your cock twitches and you stand over her, supporting your weight against the bench. You kiss her deeply.
"You're joking," you say. "Never?"
Ms. Carte shakes her head.
You grab yourself in one hand. With with other, you hold Ms. Carte's thigh and guide her legs apart for easy entry. "Hold it there," you tell her, and pull off her dripping underwear.
Ms. Carte kneads her hands together, whining in anxiety and desire, as she stares at your dick.
Clasping her chin, you draw her view up. You look her in the eyes and smile kindly, to allay her fear.
And you kiss her at the exact same moment you steal her virginity.
"Mmmf--" Ms. Carte grunts, her whole body tensing. You can feel a small trickle around your shaft that serves as the last vestige of her virginity washing away.
Her pussy contracts, not skillfully the way Whitney's does -- but the uncoordinated, uncontrolled spasms give you a new kind of pleasure.
Ms. Carte doesn't know what to do, where to put her hands, where to look: you guide her gently, just as she asked. Your thrusts are short, and slow, and shallow, but you pick up the pace over several minutes. You try not to lose control -- you've been waiting so long, in such lust -- but you don't want to go crazy, you don't want to be too rough.
For some reason, you care more about the woman underneath you than yourself right now.
"Alabaster-- Alabaster--!!"
Her legs wrap around your hips, her arms around your neck. As you fuck yourself into her, deeper and deeper, you let out a few heavy sighs and growls of your own that echo off the walls, mingling with hers.
And then there's a knock on the door.
"Alabaster," comes your mother's voice. "Are you in there?"
You try not to respond, but your breathing is giving you away, and you know you need to say something. "J-just a minute!!" you holler, trying to mask your ecstasy and doing a very bad job.
"Come on," she says. "Hurry up. I want you to look at this outfit."
"I'll be done s-soon!" you say.
"Alabaster... Alabaster..." Ms. Carte repeats, whispering -- but you can't risk Mom overhearing even this. You shut her up with a long, wet kiss that she returns eagerly, her eyes half-lidded.
"I'm close..." you whisper as quietly as you can, directly in her ear.
"Please," she whispers back. "All of it-- give me all of it--"
"It's okay?" you ask.
Ms. Carte's legs around your hips interlock and pull you deeper into her sucking pussy. "Cum inside, cum inside," she slurs, high on pleasure. "I need it, I need you..."
"Alabaster?" Mom asks. "Are... are you all right in there?"
"I'm fine!" you yell. "I'm-- I'll be out soon-- I'm-- I'm coming! I'M CUMMING!!!"
You pour whole liters of your jizz deep into you Ms. Carte's virgin cunt. Your hips buck wildly against hers as the wet explosion pulses through the both of you. Your cum leaks out around your shaft. Ms. Carte wrenchs her eyes shut, grits her teeth, balls her fists. You bite her shoulder to keep from yelling anything further, so hard that it draws blood, and you feel awful about this -- you actually feel guilty -- but in the moment you can't help it, and she doesn't seem to care, either during the moment itself or in the immediate aftermath.
With cum still leaking from your dick and directly into her most intimate parts, you give Ms. Carte an eskimo kiss. She returns it -- and who can say why the urge to do this struck you, just now -- but rubbing noses with Ms. Carte as you finish spilling your seed inside her is the most satisfying moment of your young life so far.
Judging by her satisfied sighs and mewls, Ms. Carte feels the same way.
GIRLS FUCKED: 3/6
Mom gives you a strange look when you barely crack open the door and creep out of the dressing room. But if she has suspicions, she doesn't say anything.
She probably has suspicions. She buys her bikini and doesn't say anything else during the whole excursion. You drive home in silence.
All night Saturday and all day Sunday, you don't see Cerise even once. It's a worrying sign, but you decide to give her space. You're still not sure how to deal with your mounting feelings for her. Or what to do about Ms. Carte... or Whitney, or even Rose-- do you feel a pang of something more toward Rose besides animal lust? Impossible.
But... maybe...
All of this is too much, too fast.
You drift through the rest of the weekend in a daze.
On Monday, Spancer escorts you to school -- this seems to be the start of a new ritual.
And perhaps another new ritual: a text from Ms. Carte.
>Today. After TH club gets out.
Simple and to the point, as expected. But Whitney is probably going to want something today as well, and then there's Rose-- if dealing with your emotions is hard, the actual act of juggling so many girls will be even harder.
"Why do you fuck?" Spancer asks suddenly, drawing you out of your reverie.
"You mean people?"
"Yes."
"Well, procreation of course... aside from that, I don't know. We just fuck. You know, when we're horny."
"This feeling of need causes it?"
"No, it's when there's nothing wrong with you, but you want to fuck anyway. You get it?
"No."
You shrug and give up on this line of conversation.
In homeroom, Vivian seems fidgety. You ignore her, but she keeps casting weird glances at you, and it starts to get under your skin.
Mr. Langley, on the other hand, is riding a high that may not ever end. He won't shut up about Saturday's victory against Centennial.
After class, your suspicions that something is up with Vivian are confirmed. She corners you out in the hallway.
"Alabaster..." she mumbles.
"Fuck's sake, Vivian. Can you leave me alone, just once?"
"I'm sorry."
She stands around, fiddling with the hem of her outrageous dress, as if trying to draw courage to speak.
"Actually--" she starts, "I want to apologize for the course of all our interactions thus far."
"...What?"
"Maybe you will understand better if I give you this."
She pulls her backpack around to the front and opens it. Spancer seems to become even more vigilant, if such a thing is possible.
But what Vivian pulls out isn't a weapon or anything else dangerous -- in fact, it makes your jaw drop in pure, unadulterated confusion.
"I wanted to express my heartfelt appreciation for your concern at the quiz bowl competition. All weekend, I researched your cartoons to gather ideas about a gift you might enjoy. I believe this is called a bento."
A bento, sure -- the box is roughly the length of her torso.
"I hope this can signal a new beginning for the both of us. Perhaps a friendship. I believe we perform quite well together as team mates. If you will accept this as an apology --" her eyes glimmer wetly -- "I hope that you are the type of person who believes a bridge is never truly burned."
[X] Take the bento.
[ ] No thanks.
"Um, thanks," you say, a bit weirded out.
Vivian smiles.
This may be the first time you've seen her smile -- at least in a way that doesn't make you fear for your mortal soul.
She turns on her heels and hurries toward the second period class.
"I advise against consuming that until it is tested for contaminants," Spancer tells you.
"Obviously. I'm not a moron." You hand him the bento. "Get cracking."
"I cannot test for them. But I can bring this to Ms. Carte."
Yeah, great. You do that.
You stand in the quickly emptying hallway, trying to think of how to fill your day. Thursday's humiliations with Cerise and Stackleford are not far from your mind, and you have some ideas on how to proceed.
Of course -- first thing's first. You're in two clubs, and both of them meet today.
[X] I'll go to TCAC after school.
[ ] I'll go to Quiz Bowl after school.
"Fezzes on!" Cerise says as you enter the Turkish clubroom.
"Yes yes! We drill now," Fazil says warmly. "Then we watch the animes. Very wonderful the animes."
"Right," Cerise agrees. "Wonderful anime. Who says cultural exchange doesn't work?"
There's a quiet rustle as the club members pull on their fezzes. Connor, the stupid asshole, puts it on over his fedora, balancing it precariously.
When Cerise sees you standing off to the side, she frowns, but doesn't say anything. She tosses you a spare fez. Dutifully, you don it.
"Ah!" Fazil cries when he sees you. He throws his arms wide and kisses you on both cheeks. "Ala-bast-or! Nasılsın?"
"Err... what?" you say.
Kimberly flips through her phrasebook. "Bu adam Türkçe bilmiyor!" she shouts.
"O bir salak!" Connor says, drawing laughter from the club. Laughter that seems to be directed your way.
"O bir otobüs çarptı edilmelidir!" Kyle adds. The laughter only gets harder at this. Stackleford can hardly breathe.
"What are they saying?" you ask Cerise, feeling a burning sensation in your scalp.
"They're bullying you," she says, shrugging.
"Are you going to do something about it?"
"Just sit down, Alabaster. We'll be finished NeeKyu today."
After twenty stultifying minutes of drilling basic Turkish phrases, the show finally begins.
"These are my favorite guys!" Fazil announces during the OP showcasing each of the characters. "I hope the brother and the sister have many fucks!"
"Incest is wrong," Kyle points out.
You, Cerise, and Fazil simultaneously give him the evil eye. He slinks into his chair under your simmering gaze.
"He's not wrong," Kimberly says. "Incest is fucking gross."
"I don't want to hear what's gross from YOU," Cerise says. "Or should I print out more of your Mr. Langley x Mr. James slashfic and read it to the club?"
Kimberly quiets down.
The series finale, in fact, is quite incestuous. After saving her ungrateful littler brother Shiro's life, the female protagonist, Sakura, makes out with him. There was obviously a disporportionate segment of the budget dedicated to this sequence.
The club watches this on the projector screen, but Cerise, sitting at the head of the room, has to watch it on her laptop. Her hands are clasped together tightly in the moment of truth and her eyes are misty. She's smiling stupidly. Hasn't she seen this series before?
Stackleford sits at the back of the room, sulking.
You know where he lives. His mother quite likes you.
She's a cow, just like he is, and you'd rather choke to death on Spancer's cock than fuck her. But that doesn't mean you can't spook Stackleford a little bit. You could always volunteer to help her cook...
[X] It's time to let bygones be bygones.
[ ] You will have your revenge.
Near the end of TCAC, you approach Stackleford's desk. He folds his arms and looks away, sullen.
"Hey," you say. You knock on his desk. "I'm sorry about Whitney."
He winces, but doesn't say anything.
"I know you like her, but she doesn't like you back. That's not anyone's fault. It's just the way it is.
No reply.
"Stay out of my house." You smile. "I swear to god, Stackleford, if you fuck my sister, I will fuck your mom. I may have to cut off my dick afterward, but I'll do it."
Stackleford laughs despite himself, but still can't meet your gaze.
"We cool?" you ask.
"I guess."
For the first time in many years, you do the secret handshake you devised with him in middle school. It's lame.
On-screen, NeeKyu is drawing to a close. It's one of the few series with a true harem ending. Shiro rides off into the sunset with his sister, his arch-rival turned lover, his training mentor, the loli vampire who turned out not to be evil after all, and several others.
You actually quite enjoy it. Not many series have the balls to pull something like this off.
Now that the club meeting is over, there's one last matter to decide.
[ ] Let's visit Ms. Carte.
[ ] Let's visit Rose.
[ ] Let's visit Whitney.
[X] Let's go home.
You catch up to Cerise on the way home.
"Hey," you say sheepishly.
She rolls her eyes. "I'm still mad at you," she informs you.
You chuckle. "Officially?"
"Officially."
It's clear she really means it. But she isn't so mad that she wants you out of her sight, so that counts as progress... right?
You walk the rest of the way home in silence. You take a moment to text Ms. Carte:
>Tomorrow Ms. Carte. Have homework tonight. We'll drill tomorrow.
Her response comes so quickly that you're not sure if human fingers can actually text so fast:
>Please call me Renee.
Then just a few moments later:
>Let's drill a whole lot tomorrow.
Things are looking up.
At home, you actually do have a lot of homework to finish up: your academic performance has been suffering under the weight of all these recent adventures.
You sit at the dining room table, eating the leftovers from dessert-for-dinner Sunday and trying to solve chain differentiation problems for calculus. It's such a drag.
Dad reads a copy of Forbes across from you. Cerise watches some reality TV pap in the living room, her knees curled up under her XXL tee like she's hiding under a quilt.
You barely notice Mom sit down beside you until you hear her soft voice.
"Is there something wrong with Cerise?" she asks.
You put down your fork and pencil and look at her.
"Please answer honestly," she says. "She never tells me what's wrong with her."
"She's mad at me," you say.
"I thought so. Why?"
"I said something stupid."
"Your sister takes after me," Mom says, putting her hand on yours. "She gets very emotional. Whereas you take after your father -- very stoic. That's a bad mix, isn't it? But... your father and I are proof that mixture can work. I'm sure she'll get over it."
You shrug. Mom picks up your fork and pokes at your food, lost in thought.
"Please don't touch my utensils," you say. "It's unsettling."
"Tch-- geez, Alabaster, no wonder Cerise is mad at you. You're never not a jerk, are you?"
She stands up. "Cerise cares about you more than you think. Remember that."
You wonder if she knows the full extent of what she's implying here.
"And I meant what I told you last night," she continues.
"Hmm?"
"Make sure you use protection."
Maybe she does know the full extent of it.
END OF EPISODE 8.