You are Alabaster Soliloquy, nukige ubermensch and electro-shock therapy subject.
You peel out of the restaurant, into the parking lot, and down the street with Whitney, running as fast as your scrawny legs allow. Sunset is over but the residual heat of the afternoon is still simmering in the air, and it saps you of energy before you make it more than a block.
When you can't run any farther, Whitney doubles back and pushes against you, trying to urge you forward. "Come on Ally, come on-- they'll never take us alive!!" she squeals. But it's no use. You're out of steam.
Plus, you're both laughing so hard that you can barely breathe, and that would make it hard to run anyway. The two of you stumble and lean against each other for support, wheezing and giggling.
"The look on her face--!" Whitney cries, slapping her knee.
"Why-- in God's name--" you draw gulps of air between words -- "would you enact the 'dash' part -- of the dine and dash -- when the waitress was at our table?" Your head throbs and vision swims from the adrenaline, from the physical exertion of escape.
"It's funner this way! Don't be such a spoil sport."
"You could have -- at least -- warned me..."
Even though you play at being frustrated, the truth is: it really was fun that way.
And the look on that waitress's face when Whitney leapt up and ran out the door really was priceless. Doubly so when you glanced out the window at Whitney's fast-receeding form, back to the waitress, back toward the kitchen, and then leapt up to run away as well.
As you walk arm-in-arm down the road, lost in the din of early evening traffic, Whitney seems content in a way you've never seen before. She smiles warmly with her head on your shoulder, the glow of streetlights and traffic signals bouncing off her angular face.
That's when you start to think maybe it isn't right to keep her in the dark about Ms. Carte.
[X] Whitney, there's something I need to tell you.
[ ] No. I can tell her later. Let her enjoy this moment.
Whitney cocks her head and stares at you like a confused puppy. You wilt under her gaze, and have to look away as you break the news.
"You know how I've been, um... training with Ms. Carte?" you say, rubbing the back of your head.
Whitney's brow furrows. "Uh-huh..."
"Well--"
She stomps your foot before you can finish, and you reel back in pain. "I knew it!" she says. "You're fucking her, aren't you?"
"It all happened so suddenly--"
"A week doesn't happen in the blink of an eye, Alabaster! You're unbelievable! How stupid are you? I only gave you--" she stops to count quickly on her fingers. "--Three rules to follow! You can't keep track of them?"
"I'm sorry, Whitney."
Whitney paces angrily back and forth a couple times, running her hands through her hair. But over the course of half a minute or so, she cools herself down.
"Geez. I knew it," she grumbles. "You're so hopeless. I can't leave you alone for a second, huh? Since when are you so popular with the girls, Ally?"
You shrug.
Whitney approaches you, standing face-to-face, her chest against yours. She peers up into your eyes, impishly.
"That old skank may be fucking you, but I still have your virginity... and you still have mine... so I'm not that mad, I guess."
She takes your hand in hers.
"You'll introduce me to her?" she asks. "We could always have fun, together. Right? You don't need to keep breaking rule 1 anymore."
"The thing about Ms. Carte..." you begin, but aren't sure how to put it. "She's-- shy, I guess?"
Whitney lets go of your hand, her furrowed look returning.
"So you want to keep seeing her on the side. Without me." Her voice is flat and pensive.
You kiss Whitney on the forehead and give another shot at making her understand. "I just think if we move too quickly with her, it would scare her."
"I can be gentle too, you know," Whitney insists.
You sigh.
"I just--" Whitney starts, a weepy catch rising in her voice. "I can't keep you from seeing her, if that's what you want. But-- I can't--"
She doesn't seem to know how to finish the thought. Instead, she slugs you lightly in the chest.
"Ow," you say, playing along.
"--you're not going to leave me, are you? You're such a jerk... but that would be a dick move, even for you..."
"I'm not leaving you," you say firmly.
Whitney hugs you underneath the amber cone of a street lamp, and you hug her back, nuzzling the top of her head. The warmth of her body always surprises you.
"Jerk," Whitney says, her voice muffled against your chest.
She steps back and looks up at you again.
"Rule 4! If I have to share you, then I have to approve of the woman I'm sharing you with! You'll take me and Ms. Carte on a double date next week so I can make sure she isn't just a skanky whore who wants to use you!"
[X] All right.
[ ] No.
Whitney spins around on one foot and then wraps herself around your arm again, practically squealing. Her carefree mood is back as if it never left in the first place.
"So you'll make that recording for tomorrow?" you ask, changing the subject to more pressing matters as you continue down the avenue with her.
"Yeah. And I'll bring the tools and everything else we need, too."
"Are you sure this plan is going to work?" you ask uncertainly.
"Totes."
"Don't say that word. You can't know how much I hate it."
"It's TOTES going to work, Ally. Totes." She sticks her tongue out at you and pulls at one of her eyelids. You can't help feeling like this is a particularly childish payback for your infidelity. You roll your eyes.
Whitney continues, "I know Rose better than you do. I've only been training her to suck clit for the past week, after all! I know how her mind works, and trust me... this will totally break her. 100%."
"If you say so."
You walk into the fast-descending night side by side with her, happy for now and a couple once again. When you part ways to head for home, you kiss her as deeply and as sincerely as you ever have.
As you walk up the footpath toward your front door, you see Spancer standing guard outside.
"There you are," you grouse. "Where the fuck were you when I needed you earlier?"
"My neural net processor--"
"Yeah, yeah," you say, waving him off. "Your neural net processor needed maintenance. Great timing. I almost got raped to death this afternoon. Tell Ms. Carte to do your maintenance in the mornings from now on."
"Understood."
You leave him standing outside and head in.
In the foyer, Mom is sitting on a stool with a broom in her hands. As you come through the door, she holds the broom high above her head and swipes at you with a savage "KYAAAA!!"
You stumble back as the bristles scratch your face, batting wildly at the air. You choke on the dust accumulated on the bottom of the broom.
"Oh, what the hell!" you shout.
"...Oh. It's you," Mom says, pulling the broom back to a defensive position. "Did you see that creepy-looking boy standing outside our house when you came in just now? Is he still there?"
"That's Spancer," you tell her. "He's a frien--"
Cerise comes through the front door.
"KYAAA---"
"What the fff---"
"Oh. It's you. Did you see that creepy boy--"
"He's a friend!" you shout. "His name is Spancer."
There's an awkward silence as Mom processes this.
"Hmph. Leave it to you to have such creepy friends," Mom says. "What is he doing out there? I have half a mind to call the cops."
"Don't call the cops," Cerise says. "We... kind of need him around."
Mom looks between you and Cerise uneasily.
[X] Tell her what's going on.
[ ] Make up a lie with Cerise to keep Mom from worrying.
"Mom, it's time we had a talk."
Over dinner, you explain the entire story to your parents (leaving out the raunchy sex, naturally). Cerise corroborates.
Dad doesn't have any questions for you -- he seems more interested in the news from the Ukraine -- but Mom has plenty. Such as:
"How can we kill David Darkbloom?"
and
"How can we kill that little skank daughter of his, too?"
("No, Mom, I don't think she deserves to die...")
and
"Cerise, why haven't you beaten some answers out of this Ms. Carte woman, since Alabaster is obviously too stupid to do it for himself? Don't you love your piece of shit brother?"
and
"Can Spancer be programmed to murder things? Such as everyone at Darkbloom Enterprises for example?"
and
"What about Whitney? Is Whitney safe? N-not that I care about that little tramp, b-but it seems weird that she doesn't have someone to guard her, since she's your girlfriend and all..."
and
"I'm going to murder David Darkbloom!" (okay, that's technically not a question, but she said it a lot.)
.
.
.
"So..." you say after several hours, drawing the story to a close. "That's pretty much it, I think."
Mom stares at you, a hand clasped over her mouth. Her eyes shine with worry.
"Alabaster..." she breathes. She closes her eyes and draws a deep breath, composing herself.
"You're a moron," she says flatly.
"--What?"
"It's obvious what has to happen now. I can't let you out of my sight for even one second, because you've proven that you're incapable of defending yourself. It's not something I want to do, but that's my duty as a mother." She folds her arms and harrumphs.
"I don't think that will be necessary," you say. "I do have Spancer. And Ms. Carte. And--"
"I'm coming with you to your quiz bowl competition tomorrow," Mom says, ignoring you.
You massage the bridge of your nose.
You knew she'd worry, but you didn't expect her to be so annoying about this situation.
Your competition that Saturday is at 10 in the morning.
Mom drives you, naturally. All night and all morning she hectored you with worried questions and demands -- and all while pretending she didn't care at all. You'll never understand her.
Backstage, when Vivian tries to hand you a bento, Mom materializes as if from nowhere to snatch it out of her hands before you can take it.
Vivian goggles at her, plainly shocked.
"I'm on to you!!" Mom tells Vivian accusingly, and then disappears again, ninja-like, bento in hand.
Vivian looks back at you. You shrug. "Sorry," you say. "My mom is weird."
The competition itself is yet another embarrassing blowout. You and Vivian steamroll the Sentinel High Sentinels, 22,000-0.
Perhaps more intriguingly, you and Vivian both score exactly 11,000 points.
Playing at quiz bowl feels less like a competition against the other school than a competition against Vivian to see who can score the most. So as far as you're concerned, it wasn't a win at all -- it was a tie.
You think she approaches it the same way, too. You've never seen that kind of glint in Vivian's eyes in any other context. By the end of the match, she's actually breathless with excitement.
But the thrill of competition is soured for you by a disturbing fact: Ms. Carte isn't in attendance.
"All right, all right, you won--" Mom says backstage after the match is over, dragging you away by the arm. But as she leads you toward the door, David Darkbloom steps in, blocking your path.
"Alabaster!" he says warmly. Mom hugs you close, arms around your shoulders, squeezing your side against her ample breasts and hips.
She growls -- no, she literally growls -- as in the same way a wolf would growl to ward off a threat.
"Mrs. Soliloquy," Darkbloom says. He extends a hand to shake but Mom doesn't return the gesture.
"Spancer..." Mom mutters. Off to the side, Spancer gives a single reassuring nod that says: "I'm here and vigilant, but now is not the time."
Darkbloom glances between you, Mom, and Spancer. Understanding dawns in his eyes. Mom didn't play her cards close enough to her chest, and now he knows that she knows the situation.
"Well then," Darkbloom says, changing gears, dusting off some invisible lint from his coat. "Vivian tells me you and she are growing much closer."
"That's not--" you start.
Darkbloom holds up a hand to silence you. "I appreciate you taking the time to work with my daughter like this. She's very intelligent, but she doesn't have many friends. She's... how do you say it... awkward. As a token of my gratitude, then, would you like to come to our home in Palo Alto next Saturday for dinner? Just the three of us."
Mom growls again.
[X] (play it cool) "I'll be there."
[ ] (play it defiant) "No way."
[ ] (you're worried) "Where is Ms. Carte?"
"I cannot believe you!" Mom shouts, banging her fist against the steering column as she speeds you toward Ms. Carte's apartment complex. "I am literally dumfounded! How could you accept that invitation? How?"
"I just needed time to plan," you say. "That's all. I don't necessarily have to go, right?-- okay, turn left here. No, your other left! Jesus, what is wrong with you?"
"Well excuse me for being frazzled when robot assassins and mega-billionaires want to kill us all! I'm so sorry!"
"What are you-- U-turns are illegal here-- Christ, I'm getting car sick..."
A few minutes later, Mom slams the car to a halt in the parking lot with the awful squeal of rubber against concrete.
You bound across the apartment complex with her and Spancer close in tow, and burst through Ms. Carte's front door in unit 23B.
What you see makes your heart drop. Ms. Carte is lying in a heap in the corner, bloodied and battered.
But still breathing, thank god.
"Oh, hi there..." she slurs, a trickle of blood running down her nose and another one out of her mouth. Her face is caked brown with dried blood and she sports twin shiners.
"What did they do to you?" you demand.
"Oh, you know... same old, same old... this isn't my first time around the block, you know..." she squints her eyes, trying to focus on you. When she notices Mom standing behind you, she tries to smile, but winces in obvious pain and can't sustain it.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Soliloquy. Nice to see you again..."
"Ms. Carte..." you say, falling to your knees.
"I told you to call me Renee. Don't you ever listen?"
"I'll make him pay," you insist.
Ms. Carte snorts derisively.
"No, Alabaster, here's what you'll do. My friend Gustav has a safe haven in Palau. You're going to take your family and anyone else you care about and leave as soon as he can charter a plane."
"What are you saying? There's some other way, right? I don't understand--"
Ms. Carte pulls out her cellphone and flips it open. "No. It's over. That's all there is to understand. At least this way, you can live a nice life."
Through the panic and adrenaline, a thought occurs to you.
"You'll come too, right? You're one of the people I care about."
Ms. Carte looks at you severely, an expression like longing and sadness mixed together on her battered features.
And then she shakes her head.
"Ms. Carte --" you say. "Please--"
She shakes her head again, looking away. "Listen to me. Over the past few years... over the course of my whole life, really-- I've made a series of very poor decisions. The consequences of those decisions... they should be mine to face, and no one else's. I won't be a liability to you any longer."
Mom huffs. "You're even more of a bimbo than I thought you were."
"--excuse me?" Ms. Carte says, confused.
"If you think Alabaster is the type of boy to just leave someone he cares about behind, you're sadly mistaken! Tell her!"
Mom seems to have come to an understanding. If Ms. Carte is being victimized by Darkbloom too, she can't be all that bad.
You nod reassuringly, holding Ms. Carte's hands in yours. "Darkbloom thinks I'm playing along for now. We have a little time. We can make our move--"
Ms. Carte swallows hard. "Our only move right now is fleeing the country," she says.
"Correction--" Mom says. "Our only move RIGHT now is getting you somewhere safer-- n-not that I want you skanking up my home, but it only seems logical..."
Ms. Carte has a hard time standing on her own. Spancer picks her up and princess-carries her across the complex. You pile into Mom's car, and head for home.
It takes no small amount of effort to convince Mom and Ms. Carte to let you leave the house that evening. Neither of them are keen on the idea of you going. Mom, patting Ms. Carte down with a wet cloth as she lies on the couch, yells and shouts; Ms. Carte shyly pleads and begs.
Even Cerise gets in on the act,
But you've got Spancer to keep you safe -- and you've got other business to attend to, also. Mom and Ms. Carte are not the only women in your life.
You meet with Whitney near Rose's gated community. She's dressed for the part, in a denim overalls and a grease-stained shirt, plus baseball cap. She has her backpack of goodies with her.
"Remember," you tell her. "You don't come inside until I'm done with her and I give you the signal."
"Gotcha!" She gives you a faux salute.
"When we're done..." you say. "There's something else we need to discuss, too."
"Gotcha, gotcha. Geez, stop being such a blabbermouth and get on with it. This is your show, Ally."
You hop the gate and hurry toward Rose's house.
You and Whitney take a moment to marvel at Rose's three-story miniature mansion of a home. Even for the neighborhood, it's spectacular: stately and vine-covered, spruce-lined -- it must have cost over a million dollars.
Whitney whistles appreciatively. "Wow," is all she can say.
Quickly, you take your positions. Whitney circles around the house and into Rose's spacious backyard.
Composing yourself and drawing some breaths to calm your nerves, you ring Rose's doorbell.
A bespectacled woman answers who looks exactly like Rose, but slimmer and taller.
"Hello, Mrs. Mallory," you say, acting suave. "Is Rose home?"
"Err-- was... she expecting you?"
"Oh, yes," you lie. "We're working on a school project together."
Over Mrs. Mallory's shoulder, you can see up a long staircase. Rose appears at the head of it and freezes in place when she sees you, a terrified look in her eyes.
Rose's mother calls up at her. "Were you expecting this boy?"
You pull out your cellphone and pretend to be texting. But really, it's a reminder to Rose that you still have those pictures of her. Rose gulps hard and nods silently.
Her mother turns back and smiles at you. "Well, a friend of Rose is a friend of ours as well. We were about to sit down for dinner. Won't you come in?"
Inside the enormous, well-lit, white-tiled home, you can hear classical music -- Bach, you think -- as it pipes out of surround sound speakers.
Mr. Mallory, tall and equally thin as his wife -- stares out the sliding glass window into the backyard. He's sipping a chardonnay from a stem glass as he watches... Whitney.
Whitney is playing the part to a tee: she holds a pool skimmer and runs it languidly across the surface of the Mallorys' hot tub, picking out autumn leaves.
Mrs. Mallory joins him at the window. "Is that Julio's daughter?" she asks.
"I don't know... she doesn't look Mexican, does she?"
"Don't be racist, dear. Some of them are very pale skinned."
He opens the door and calls out to Whitney. "Are you Julio's daughter?" he asks.
Whitney, in a rare moment of genius, parlays it perfectly: "no habla ingles," she says.
Rose sneaks up behind you and hisses. "What are you doing here?"
"You'll see," you say, smirking. "Just wait."
Mr. Mallory turns around, noticing you for the first time. Mrs. Mallory introduces you and you shake hands: you notice his grip is weak and clammy.
A few minutes later, you sit down to dinner.
"Why don't you tell me about your parents?" you say to Rose over a delectable selection of lobster and steak, served to you by a Hispanic woman who didn't seem to know much English herself. The food on your plate alone probably cost several hundred dollars. What would have happened to it if you weren't around to eat it? There's more than enough for the rest of the Mallorys, too.
Rose is a mess and the night hasn't even begun. She trembles and keeps casting worried glances toward the patio door, where Whitney still hovers outside, pretending to do yard work.
"W-well..." Rose starts in answer to your question. "My parents are both lawyers... my dad works for ACLU and my mom works for the SPLC... all pro-bono, naturally... but we have a nice nest egg from their time as defense attorneys--"
So Rose's liberal bona fides check out, after all. This explains a lot.
"Mm," Mr. Mallory says, cutting his daughter off. He wipes his face with a napkin. "Instead of our daughter blabbering on about us, how about you tell us about yourself?" He smiles warmly. "You and Rose wouldn't be... involved, would you?"
[ ] We sure are, Mr. Mallory.
[ ] We sure are, Mr. Mallory. I'm fucking your daughter.
[X] No, we're just friends.
Rose's parents laugh. Rose breathes a sigh of relief when you say you're only friends, and gives you a quick glance that actually seems thankful.
"I didn't think so," Mrs. Mallory chimes in. "Right now, Rose is... what was the new term? Grey ace demiplatonic?"
Mr. Mallory chuckles. "No, I think she's a trans-romantic pan-genderqueer this week."
"It's hard to keep up, isn't it?" Mrs. Mallory says. "Well in any case, I don't think she's interested in going steady with normal boys like you."
"I think they ARE going steady," Mr. Mallory says playfully. "She just doesn't want him to admit it. Right?"
"Don't torment the poor girl, dear. Her love life is her business, after all... though she could do worse than a boy like that..."
Rose's face turns crimson as her parents continue to riff on her. They don't seem like such bad people, really.
As the meal progresses, you talk with Mr. Mallory at length about his work with the ACLU. You're surprised to find out that he defended North High's home-ec teacher and former anime club faculty adviser, Mr. McMichael, in court after he got arrested.
"Those charges were such bunk," Mr. Mallory says, clearly getting a bit tipsy by now. "I wouldn't want him teaching children, but how can you imprison someone for drawings?"
"I agree!" you say emphatically. "I absolutely agree!"
Rose cradles her head in her palms and shakes her head, as if unable to believe she is witnessing this particular conversation between these two particular people.
"He did have those... other materials..." Mrs. Mallory offers.
"Which is what we plead out on," Mr. Mallory says. "Those charges and not a single other one! No one will serve time in prison for a cartoon under my watch."
After dinner, you excuse yourself. Rose hurries upstairs and you follow, making the excuse that you need to work on your project with her. Whether her parents think this is the truth or a flimsy excuse for teen love, they accept it either way.
Rose sits on her four-post bed, hugging her knees, when you enter.
Her room is surprisingly feminine given her proclivities and strident activism: the walls are cherry pink. Her dresser is lined with lace and stacked with fluffy stuffed animals. A silk veil hangs over her bed. She actually has a Tinkerbell decal on her window, long-faded -- probably left over from childhood.
"I guess you're going to rape me now," Rose says, voice dripping with loathing.
You crawl onto her bed on all fours, approaching her like a jaguar approaching prey. She tries to pull back, but she's already sitting against the headboard: nowhere to go.
You clasp her chin in your hand and force her to look you in the eye.
"I think it's time for something different," you tell her.
"Wha...?"
You kiss her deeply and tenderly, lightly brushing her shoulders and her hair. When you pull away, you run more tender kisses up and down the nape of her neck.
And just like Whitney said, Rose melts like butter in your palms.
She arches her back and sighs. "What... what are you doing?" she mewls.
"What can I say? You inspired me..." you plant another kiss on her forehead, breathing deeply, and caress her all over with gentle touches. "Make love, not war."
You unbutton Rose's blouse and pull it away. Her bra and skirt quickly follow. fluttering to her carpeted floor with soft 'pwahs'.
"You can't do this--" Rose says, squirming against you. "This is still rape... you can't..."
You knead her bare tits, your palms sinking into the soft, warm flesh. As you kiss her and explore her breasts blindly, you happen to run your thumbs over the pert, pink nipples. She tenses underneath you, and then quivers, as if shocked.
"You say no-- but you're already like this..." you run a hand south, feeling her smooth and puffy mound through the fabric of her panties. She's soaking wet. Her hole pulses heat lewdly against your probing digits.
"I hate you-- I hate you so much--" she moans weakly, but you drown her protests in more kisses. Kisses that she returns hungrily. Your tongues swirl over one another's, each one fighting to be on top.
"Why do you do this to me?" she asks dreamily, breathing hot against you. She clutches your collar in balled-up fists, seemingly uncertain whether to pull you closer or push you back. "Why do you make me feel this way..."
You tug at the waistband of her underwear. She lifts her plump little butt off the bed to help you pull them off. You toss them unseen in the a corner and slip a finger inside her. It enters easily. She winches and writhes, apparently still sore from yesterday's rough treatment, but she lets you do as you please. Her pussy is pliant and fleshy, just like the rest of her -- a warm, wet little slit nestled in a prominent pubis. No onahole could ever compare to this softness.
As you work her over, Rose's shaking hands find their way to your jeans and unzip your pants.
"I thought you didn't want this," you say with a smirk.
"Shut up. Just shut up. Just-- just shut up..."
You lay atop her in a true missionary position and seat yourself inside her. She lies beneath you as you fuck her, without resisting -- completely willing -- and wraps her arms around your neck.
The most violent thing you do for the next twenty minutes is nip at her neck a bit, and from the way her pussy convulses around your cock every time you do this, she enjoys it.
As much as you'd like to fuck her completely, pushing your dick all the way inside -- you refrain from thrusting into her so far that you bottom her out.
As you pump her, she wags her hips back against you on every in-stroke, and together you find a rhythm that allows you to enter as deeply into her welcoming, velvety insides as you can without hurting her.
"Yes-- yes--!" she pants. "I-- I lo-- I love-- I love--- ugggh!"
You cut her off with a kiss. She goes abruptly limp, and you pull up far enough to take her hands in yours.
You interlace your fingers in hers, feeling her entire body shake, and fill her with cum.
All she can do is slur your name, over and over and over again, as she accepts your seed. And then you both collapse in a sweaty heap.
"I hate you..." she sobs as you lie atop her in post-coital bliss. "I hate you... I love you... I hate you..."
"Have you ever heard of Palau?" you ask her, your cock still mated inside her and drooling.
"Palau... I don't understand."
"Nothing. Go to sleep, Rose."
"Will you still be here when I wake up?"
"No."
She doesn't say anything in response, but wraps her legs around you as if trying to force you to stay. A few minutes later, she's asleep.
You extract yourself from her embrace and open her window. You whistle into the cool night air. A few moments later, Whitney props a ladder against the side of the house and climbs up, into Rose's bedroom.
Whitney finishes drilling the pin-sized hole into the ceiling above Rose's bed and places the almost-microscopic speaker inside.
"So you're sure this will work?" you ask.
"Three hours per night between the hours of 1:00 AM and 4:00 AM. Like clockwork. It can't fail!"
"Let's see how it sounds," you say. "I want to make sure it's not too loud."
Whitney clicks the button that remotely activates her special message.
From the speaker, the hypnotic sound of Whitney's recorded voice plays out. The volume is almost imperceptibly quiet-- you have to strain to make out any words at all.
"Rose Mallory. You've been a bad girl. You need to stop resisting. You will Alabaster Soliloquy as your only master. You are his pet. You are his loving and compliant pet. You want to service him every second of every day. You want to lick his cock and drink his cum. You want your womb to fill with his seed. You want him to fuck you until you can't stand anymore. When he isn't fucking you, you feel empty. When he uses you, you feel complete..."
The recording goes on and on like this.
"In just a few days... she'll never think of disobeying you," Whitney avers.
You watch Rose's snoozing form and wonder if she really needs this hypnosis treatment at all. And whether it will work. But it's worth a try.
Sunday passes quietly. Ms. Carte's injuries aren't so bad -- aside from a bruised face and an even more badly bruised ego, she's fine.
Unfortunately, a series of bad tropical storms has Palau under lockdown, and Ms. Carte's contact can't charter a plane until next week at the earliest. Ms. Carte insists that Darkbloom is monitoring all normal means of travel and will know if you try to leave the city in any other way, so -- you're stuck. For now.
"What about you?" you ask. "will he know you're staying with us?"
"If I keep my head low... he'll think I ran away, probably."
You decide to cut through to the heart of the matter.
"What is diegetic apotheosis?"
"Your life becomes like a movie or a game. You guessed that much. Everyone gets to live out their wildest fantasies. Whatever they may be... as long as Darkbloom approves. And that's where the apotheosis comes in. He gets to be the narrator. World domination through japanimation."
"I'm sorry, but that sounds... unspeakably retarded."
"Of course it does. He's insane, in case you didn't notice. But he's got more money than God, too. He could have a production line of Viv-tan's with modular personality units out by this time next year. That's step one... make every man dependent on robotic women for their happiness. I'm sure he's working on a male model, too-- to sell to women-- hell, maybe you're it..."
"This is too much," you say. "What's so special about me, then?"
Ms. Carte glances around. "That's what Damon's file is about. I'm still trying to decipher it, but it looks like some of Darkbloom's personal notes... right now, it's hidden in a crawlspace above my bathroom. I should go get it before Darkbloom's thugs find it."
"You are not leaving this house," you say firmly.
"It's all right, I'll take Spancer. There are some other preparations I need to make, too-- I'm sorry, but there's really no other way." She kisses you on the cheek. "Stay home with your Mom and your sister. I'll be back soon, I promise. I wouldn't want to miss dessert-for-dinner Sunday... I hear it's really something."
You, Cerise, and Mom watch with worried expressions as Ms. Carte disguises herself with bulky sunglasses, a hat, and a scarf -- all on loan from Mom's wardrobe -- and then leaves with Spancer.
"This is bullshit," Cerise says after a long silence. "Leave it to you, Alabaster, to get a multi-billionaire out for your blood."
She stomps upstairs to her bedroom to sulk.
You wish Whitney was here. She refused to come lay low with the rest of you when you asked her to, even when you begged. Sometimes, she can be almost suicidally stubborn.
Whitney, Cerise, Ms. Carte... even Rose... how long can you keep all these balls in the air? You were never good at juggling.
You spend the rest of the afternoon sitting in your bedroom, watching anime that you barely pay any attention to. Kana Hanazawa as a trap would have made your nutbladder go into meltdown under normal circumstances -- now you can't shake this feeling of dread long enough to enjoy it.
Downstairs, you hear the persistent drone of electric mixers and the banging of pots and pans as Mom cooks up a frenzy. She insisted on working alone today -- you're not sure why. With Cerise cooped up in her room, Dad in his, and you in yours, things seem so... lonely.
[X] Go downstairs and help Mom anyway.
[ ] Let her work.
The first thing you notice when you reach the foot of the stairs is a familiar smell wafting in from the dining room -- a smell like teriyaki.
Not good. Not good.
You wander over the table and, with dawning horror, pick up the empty bento container.
There's no way Mom would have eaten this, right? She doesn't trust Vivian. So why--
But then, maybe Ms. Carte told her it was fine to eat? That doesn't make any sense, either. She knows it's spiked.
From the living room, you hear a scruffy sound, as of something rubbing on carpet.
As you pass through the foyer to spy into the living room, your eyes widen.
Sitting on her knees on the floor, masturbating furiously, is Mom.
She wears nothing but an apron, which is bunched up inside her cleavage, leaving her massive tits hanging free. With a flattened palm, she rubs her cunt in swift circular motions. Her other hand tweaks her dark, pert nipples. Her eyes are closed and her lower lip is twisted as she chews on it. She squirting a continuous stream of her juices all over the carpet, like a fucking animal, like she's pissing herself.
You would turn away -- you want to turn away -- but instead you watch, transfixed. For a woman of her age, and despite how plump she is, her body is in great shape. Her skin is evenly toned and supple. Her flesh undulates deliciously as she pleasures herself. The mound of her pussy is plump and soft-looking, the lips engorged and dark. Her bush is well-trimmed, but thick, and matted with her cream.
Maybe most enticing of all is the little "unhh" and "mhhh" sounds she begins to make, guttural and primal, womanly.
You want to hear it from up close. You -- you want to hear her grunting directly in your ear as you fuck her womb full of cum.
...Jesus. This is your own mother you're thinking about. What is wrong with you?
Yet even still -- your cock is hard and demands attention. Whether or not it's wrong, your body likes what you're seeing.
Trembling and with a stomach full of butterflies, you fall to your knees as well.
This is pure insanity. There is nothing separating the foyer from the living room. All Mom needs to do to see you is open up her eyes, and there would be no hiding from her. You are acutely aware of this fact as you unzip your fly and pull your reddened cock free from its confines. The knowledge that she could see you at any moment only makes you harder.
You masturbate to the forbidden show, greedily drinking in this image of your mother's body. Her mannerisms are just like Cerise -- the raw, animal need in her movements, the shamelessness. And the way she grits her teeth, the way perspiration pearls on her forehead, the way she teases her breasts.
It occurs to you how strange it is to be familiar enough with the masturbation habits of your older sister and your mother to compare them.
The only difference between the two of them is that poor Mom has no toys to play with. And you feel bad, because you can tell how frustrated she is, how badly she needs to cum herself silly, as quickly as possible. If only you could help--
At this, your rational mind crumbles. All you can see in your mind's eye are visions of crawling over to where she sits in the living room, pinning her down, and taking her right there. Would she fight you? Would she say no?
Or would she let you have her? Would she let you plunge your spurting dick inside her pussy?
You swallow hard and try not to make any noises, but when Mom's little groans become a wailing "aieeeee--" you shudder and let out a gasp of your own.
Instantly, you realize your mistake. You swoop to the side, doing a barrel roll, and slide from view of the living room.
But there was no way she didn't see you in that split second.
How much did she see? Did she see you stroking yourself off in front of her?
The pindrop silence from the living room is enough to tell you that she saw SOMETHING, however much that was.
You quickly shove your still-hard penis back inside your trousers. As you do, you hear the gentle rustle of Mom getting dressed in the living room.
When this awkward moment is over and you're both dressed and standing, Mom steps into the foyer. She clasps one hand around the jamb, steadying herself. You stare at one another. You're both still flushed and breathing heavily.
"Alabaster," she pants, "w-what are you doing down here?"
"I was just--" you try to think of some plausible explanation, something that will also hint that you saw nothing, that you weren't just peeping on her. But you come up blank. "--I just wanted a snak?" you say lamely. You avoid eye contact.
Mom gives you a strange look, but there isn't time enough for the conversation to continue before Cerise comes trudging downstairs -- probably to grab a beer.
"You guys look like you just ran a marathon," Cerise says, yawning and interlacing her fingers behind her head. She glances between you and Mom, and finally registers the awkward atmosphere.
"Geez," she says. "Who pissed in your cheerios? If I didn't know any better, I'd think I just walked in on you two having sex."
Mom blushes and scuttles off to the kitchen, quivering.
"You two are such weirdos," Cerise mumbles. She grabs her beer and heads upstairs, leaving you alone again.
Your stomach bile turns sour when you imagine what might have happened if you hadn't accidentally interrupted yourself just moments before Cerise walked in. How would Cerise react to you and Mom masturbating together? You feel short of breath.
You sit down in the living room to watch TV, trying to get your mind off what just happened. But you can't get those images out of your skull.
Mom's pussy -- her breasts and naked body -- what's happening to you, to be thinking this way about things like this?
Seconds stretch into minutes, stretch into what feels like hours. Your dick won't settle down. Neither will your heartbeat.
The old clattering noises of Mom cooking in the kitchen only serves to remind you that she's only a few feet away.
Should you go see her, try to play it off, pretend nothing happened? Or just sit out here, quietly? You can't think straight. You feel like a prisoner awaiting execution.
Ms. Carte returns home at around 4 PM, safe and sound. She plops down on the sofa beside you and sets to work on deciphering Damon's file. She seems a bit tipsy as she grumbles: "this is so dull... you better be thankful I'm putting forth so much effort for you. It's a good thing I filled up on that bento earlier. You don't mind, right?"
Oh. So that's it. She ate it -- not Mom. But then...
"No," you say. "It's fine."
Ms. Carte sits with her legs in your lap like usual, back against the sofa's armrest. Every once in a while she bites her pen and says "interesting... interesting..."
You rub her calves back and forth absent-mindedly while she reads. Her presence here would seem to have put a definite stopper on resolving the incident with Mom anytime soon.
But as dinnertime approaches, you hear Mom's voice call out from the kitchen: "A-Alabaster... would you please come help me for a moment?"
You cast a glance at Ms. Carte.
She shrugs. "Don't look at me. She's your Mom. Be a good son and go help her."
You push Ms. Carte's legs away and head for the kitchen.
"Sit down."
Mom pulls a chair up to a counter and directs you with an index finger.
"What do you want?" you say sheepishly.
She puts her hands on your shoulders and gingerly guides you into the chair.
"Taste this," she says, and shoves a ladle to your lips. It's filled with a rich and creamy chocolate sauce. You swallow it -- but only because the alternative is drowning on it.
"Geez," you say, pushing her hand away and coughing. "You're so pushy."
"Close your eyes."
"Now, come on--" She interrupts your protest by running her palms over your eyelids. She gives your shoulders a quick squeeze as her hands pass over, and then you sense her turning around to face the stove top.
"How was that first batch?"
"Awful," you say. "Disgustingly sweet."
"That's what I was worried about. Now?"
She forces another ladle to your lips. You try to open your eyes, but she chides you with a "nuh-uh-uh," forcing you to close them again. You sigh.
"Well? How is it?"
"Better. A little too much on the bitter side now," you say.
"Needs some sugar, then..."
You wait while she serves up what you think is another scoop.
But instead of a ladle's metal rim, what you feel against your lips in the next moment is another pair of lips. Mom's tongue pushes a sweet dollop of chocolate directly into your mouth, past your tongue, and down your throat.
Your eyes shoot open and you pull back. "What are you doing?" you hiss, trying to keep your voice low.
"Was that better? A little sweeter?"
"You're crazy."
"Oh please," she laughs, her voice also low. "Don't try to lie, now..." she strokes your cheeks with a cupped palm, her eyes dreamy and half-lidded. She licks the excess chocolate from your lips. "You liked it, didn't you?"
"Y-you're-- you can't be serious--"
Mom holds her finger to your lips, shushing you.
"Mama's body does things to you, doesn't it."
This, you sense, is not really a question -- she is stating a fact that you both know to be true.
She pushes her nose against the crook of your neck, nuzzling you. Her breath is hot against your skin.
"Mama's body makes you ache... down here..." she pets the crotch of your denim jeans. "Isn't that right, Alabaster?"
"No..." you lie, mumbling and looking at the ground, trying to brush her away.
Her hand rubs up and down against you in a very un-motherly way, cupping and groping you obscenely. She smiles seductively and refuses to be rebuffed.
"You don't have to lie. I saw you earlier."
You look her in the eye, face going pale, and gulp.
"You were jerking off," she hisses. "Because you saw me doing those things to myself. You couldn't help it-- it's okay, I understand. You're so young, you can't control your urges..."
"Mom--"
"Shh. Don't talk."
You obey. Your heart feels like it's going to burst.
"This is all my fault. Just look at how big and hard you are. You must be going crazy, huh? It's only fair that I should take care of it. Just lean back, let Mama help you... I'll make your cock feel real, real good."
She unbuttons your jeans. You help her remove them, your hands tugging them down in uncoordinated unison.
This marks the moment your rational mind surrenders: you're about to let your own flesh-and-blood mother service you to orgasm.
Mom pulls your boxers away, too. You sit back in the chair and she scoots up close, settling between your legs. Your cock twitches and throbs, lightly tapping against the tip of her nose. The red, veiny monster makes quite a contrast with your mother's smooth and pale face.
It's all you can do not to grab her by the hair and force yourself to the back of her throat.
She runs her nose up and down the length of your cock, inhaling deeply. Her eyes drift shut and a stupid, satisfied smile spreads itself across her face.
"The musk of a young man..." she murmurs. "It's been years-- Alabaster, do you know how unfair it is for you to walk around smelling like cum all the time? It's been driving me insane..."
She wraps her dextrous fingers around you and tugs lightly, producing a translucent drop of precum for her effort. She pulls her hair behind her ear and licks the precum up, smiling lewdly.
Her hand is hot and tender from long years of domesticity. She works your shaft with expertise, twisting, teasing the head, firmly gripping you.
Mom draws her other hand to her mouth and licks the index finger. Still masturbating you, she slides the wettened digit underneath you and prods at your rear hole.
You go bug-eyed with panic. Once more, you try to squirm away, but the delicious sensations coming from your cock make it impossible to stand. You're like an animal in rut, not in control.
"Your father loves this. Just sit back and enjoy it."
You bite your tongue as she rubs her wet finger up and down your anus. It feels ticklish, and decadent -- but she'd never actually try to stick it in, would she?
Would she?
She puts her lips against your dickhead and suckles on your cock, cooing. With her hand stroking your shaft, her lips working the glans, and a finger tickling you from behind, you're about to lose your mind with lust.
And suddenly, without warning, she slips her finger inside.
"Mom--!!"
Your anus clamps down, but it's too late. All that serves to do is make sure her finger is firmly embedded inside you. She grins devilishly up at you and continues to suck on your oozing dick, drinking down your precum.
Her fingertip finds its target: a tiny bundle of nerves buried deep inside of you, that you knew was there, but never knew could feel so good.
You try to keep from groaning. You fail.
"Does that feel good, baby?" she asks. She wiggles her finger in and out ever so slightly, brushing against your prostate. It's so sensitive that you can feel every bump and crevice of her fingerprint scraping against you.
"Mom-- Mom--" you pant, delirious.
"Shh, it's okay. I know how much this cock of yours must be aching right now. Let Mama make it feel all better."
"Mom-- I'm going to cum--!!"
"Do it," she says. "Let Mama see all that cream your body stored up after looking at her."
She starts corkscrewing her finger inside of you. This new sensation rubs your prostate laterally, flicking it side to side, and make the pressure in your balls feel close to bursting. You shudder. Your testicles tighten.
Sensing how close you are, Mom lets go of your cock. You groan in wild frustration.
Then before you know it, Mom adds her middle finger to your ass too. Your hole tightens around her fingers, even as she spreads them to gain access.
The pleasure of her fingers closing and opening like fleshy scissors on your prostate is literally mind-destroying. Even though you're a guy, nothing can compare to this feeling.
She looks up at you with glinting eyes. "Mama's face is your cum rag today," she tells you. "So feel free to use it lots."
That does it. Your jaw hangs slack, and even though absolutely nothing is touching your twitching cock, you spew a hot load all over your own mother's face. Her fingers milk you off from the inside as she buries her nose in the junction between balls and shaft. She allows your cum to splatter against her forehead and cheeks, staring longingly up at you the whole time.
As Mom takes your nasty load, you happen to glance over. Through slitted eyes, you see two people in the threshold to the kitchen: Cerise and Ms. Carte.
They watch as you blow cum all over your mother.
"Oh," says Ms. Carte. "Ohhhh."
MEANWHILE
Ahem... ah-ha-ha-hem...
Testing. Testing. 1, 2, 3.
Alabaster Soliloquy. You've been a very naughty boy. Did you think such a stupid stunt would work on someone like me?
Your mistake is underestimating me.
You need to stop resisting, Alabaster. Accept Rose Mallory as your mistress. Accept that your place is at her feet, servicing her whenever she wants.
When she isn't using you, you feel sad and empty... when she does use you, you feel complete... you want to lick her pussy and suckle her toes, you want her to use your disgusting penis as a sex toy whenever she pleases. You want to lick up her sweat and suck on her ass. You want to worship her body as you would a goddess, because that's what she is to you. You want her to...
END OF INTERLEWD 4.