Season 3 Episode 5: The Princess of Tennis

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, NTR'r of megalomaniacs and bake-off runner-up.

December 26, 2011

Pebbles crunch beneath thick off-road tires. The car swerves off the barely-there dirt path and its hi-beams illuminate the woman standing there already. The driver kills his engine and calls: "Hello to Ms. Bail Breaker. Are you ready?"

Renee nods. Gustav steps from the vehicle and Renee hands off the little corrugated metal box. Gustav adds the implant alongside the tapes that Renee has already put there. By walking out of Darkbloom Enterprises with this device, he has made himself persona non grata to David Darkbloom and a host of other, very powerful, and very cruel people, who are probably on the hunt for him already.

Renee pulls her windbreaker up to cover her neck against the numbing winter wind. Keeping the collar clutched with whitening knuckles, she mutters to herself, irons this location into memory: "42 10 42.1 -- 119 42 12.0. 42 10 42.1 -- 119 42 12.0. 42 10 42.1 -- 119 42 12.0. "

Gustav digs, the headlights casting him in dark shadow. Renee continues to mutter the numbers, over and over, until they become a mantra devoid of any syntactic meaning.

Soon Gustav is patting the gravelly earth with the back of his shovel. He swipes his foot back and forth several times as well, to further conceal that there was ever a hole here.

They stand side by side and stare at the nondescript patch of desert together, in front of the big Joshua tree, silent.

Gustav finally says: "I have chartered an aircraft. There is room for another passenger."

"Where are you going?"

"A place far away. I will tell you on the ride there, if you come."

She considers it, and then: "I can't."

"Not for David's sake, I hope. He has resolved to throw you under the bus, as it were. In fact I dare to say he will throw you beneath the entire depot."

"I kn--"

"There is nothing left, Renee. We made a good attempt. We did good work. But David has gone mad, and Mara has gone madder. There is no use handing world-changing technology to madmen."

"I have to stay," Renee says, eyes downcast.

"You will go to prison."

"I'm protecting someone."

Gustav nods. "So it is true, at last."

"Her name is Whitney."

"We could always find her. I have committed many felonies tonight. What is kidnapping in addition?"

"I could never do that. She's been through enough. I won't make her go on the run with a woman who's a stranger to her."

Gustav pats her back. "You are a wonderful woman, Renee. I so sorely regret my part in this sadness that has befallen you."

"I suppose this is goodbye, then?"

"For now." He gets into his car. "Farewell and good luck to you -- your daughter also. I hope to meet you both in good health and high spirits one day."

He drives away. Renee stays there by the burial site, hands in pockets, considering the lifeboat she just turned away. It was worth it -- for her. Everything for her. And Vivian too. She gets into her own car now. The first day of her trial is tomorrow.

---

You sit at the edge of Dr. Carte's bed as she noisily sucks your cock.

Despite her older age, her technique is more amateurish than most. She has trouble keeping her jaw unhinged enough to take your entire girth. Her teeth occasionally scrape lightly against the underside of your cock-shaft, and you have to continually chide: "no teeth." She's getting better, though. You'll make a star cocksucker out of her soon enough, if these trips to her apartment continue. Running your hands tenderly through her hair, you guide the bobbing of her head at the pace you enjoy. You're more or less masturbating against her broad, wet tongue and her delightfully wet throat. Right now, this woman's mouth is your personal onahole.

But her teeth make contact, again, and this time when you chide her, she takes your dick from between her lips with a plop. She nuzzles the slobbery shaft with her cheek. Giggling a low and devilish giggle, she meets you with smoky eyes and says: "it's not my fault your penis is so big... my jaw hurts..."

You love the sight of Dr. Carte rubbing your dick against her beautiful face. It's obscene in a way that makes your toes curl. So you say: "keep going -- just like that."

"Hmmm," she murmurs, trapping your hot shaft against her cheek using a free hand. It's almost as long as her whole head. "You like the way this feels, too?"

You nod desperately.

She also nods, pressing the soft skin of her face against the straining hardness of your dick, smiling as your precum and her spit leave messy, viscous smears all over. It's almost like she's soaping herself down with your combined fluids. Closing her eyes, she savors it just as much as you do, the dirtiness of it. She switches cheeks back and forth at random, then rubs you against her forehead and her hair too, and her puckered, smacking lips, and her chin -- making a real fucking mess of herself indeed, leaving not a square inch of her face unmarked by your cock-leak. And of course, she traps your cock right under her nose several times too. She has remarked, more than once, that she loves the way your dick smells, that she's hooked on it, that the thought of it keeps her distracted during the day. She never wastes a chance to fill her lungs with it. She mashes her nostrils right up to your mushroom head and inhales deeply again and again, simultaneously showering the sensitive underside of your prick with loud kisses. She loves the way you smell so much that she's practically making herself orgasm just by this alone. You think so many years being deprived of sex left her cock-starved and desperate, and now this is the result, an older woman who's obsessed with the manly scent and taste and heat of your dick.

"You're going to cum soon," Dr. Carte remarks. A quick learner in this as in everything else, she knows the signs.

"I am," you moan. "I'm gonna cum. I'm gonna nut all over your fucking face."

"Dirty boy," she says, with another low laugh. She rises to her feet. You draw a sharp breath, frustrated at the sudden loss of the delicious pressure and wetness of her face.

She lays her hands on your shoulders. "Wouldn't you rather spunk somewhere a lot nicer?" She asks. Your eyes drift down. Dr. Carte is naked below the waist and her perfectly trimmed pussy is on full view. A downy patch of hair above the hood leads to a pair of drooling lips, a tight hole just begging to get packed full of cock and fucked full of hot cum. This is another thing Dr. Carte has quickly grown attached to, the bliss of getting cummed inside -- the sensation of your expanding cockhead spewing its seed in her. So now she climbs onto the bed, and rears back onto her tailbone, and spreads her legs just as wide as they'll go.

"Fuck me," she says. "Get on top of me and fuck me stupid. Right now."

Your balls aching for release, you have no choice but to comply. You crawl to her on your knees and prepare to mount her. Even from a distance you can feel the heat, the womanly need emanating from her overstimulated cunt. Half blind with lust, you desperately rub the bulbous head of your prick up and down over her sopping outer lips until you find the hole at last. You surge home, glutes tightening like a rock as you force your horny cock up into her. The overwhelming heat and tightness of it causes you to fall forward, laying atop her in a true missionary position. And now she locks her legs around you, hooking her ankles about your waist so there is no getting away. Pulling you ever closer, humping back against you to wedge your cock even further inside, she loops her fingers around the back of your head, and draws you into a wanton tongue kiss.

"Ahhn~" She coos against your lips every time you drive your dick into her, swimming in an ocean of pleasure. "Ahhhn~" It's hard to believe a woman of her age can make such cute, girly noises. Or that she could have a pussy this tight and this wonderfully inviting. You'd cum inside her any day.

"Do you like my pussy, Alabaster?" she says with a husky voice. "Do you like fucking my pussy?"

You trade a series of hot, searching kisses before answering through a gulp of air: "Yes... fuck, yes..."

She pulls her face forward, and brushes her still wet cheek against your ear. Whispering directly into your eardrum in a way that sends electric chills down the side of your body, she demands: "Do you like my pussy better than Whitney's?"

You can't answer that, but the way you frantically plunge into her quivering cunt over and over, faster and faster, is an answer all its own. She knows she's got you, she knows you need her pussy for release. She giggles again, that mischievous giggle of hers. Twirling a finger through your unkempt hair, she bites your earlobe to elicit another shudder from you. Then she whispers once more: "I won't tell. It'll be our little secret~"

"Dr. Carte... I'm gonna... I'm gonna..."

Her voice is like silk and she begs, still whispering, "Yes... yes! Cum inside me, PLEASE cum inside me, Alabaster."

The bed squeaks beneath you and the bedframe thumps hard into the floor as you drive into her at a mad pace, your hips a blur as you work towards that final peak. Dr. Carte continue to encourage you, coaxing your load out: "You can always cum inside me... whenever you get sick of cumming inside those little girls you play with, and you need a woman to help relieve you... my pussy belongs to you..."

If she wants it so bad, she can have it. You shout in ecstasy, nestle your cock as deep as possible and let go of your load. Thickly you squirt your jizz into her, squirt after noisy, squelchy squirt, filling her with it, making her into your cum-toilet. Dr. Carte's mouth turns into a wide O as she looses a silent scream of her own and gets off all over your cumming dick. She loves nothing more than getting seeded by you, it seems, the gooey heat and pressure of it, the deep hot internal sensation of your sperm hosing down her interior walls. It always sends her over the edge. Getting fucked raw and pumped with hot cock juice is her favorite thing in the world; now you know where Whitney gets it.

>11:19 PM

"Who invented the telegraph?"

"Samuel Morse. Duh. It's called Morse code for a reason."

"What state was US President Gerald Ford from?"

"Nebraska... Omaha, specifically. Do you have any hard questions for me or do you just assume I'm too stupid for them."

"Don't get mouthy with me, young man." Dr. Carte wiggles a bit in your lap to get more comfy, cracks the trivia almanac again, and continues. "Lowering global temperatures by up to 1.2 degress Celsius, what year was the Krakatoa eruption?"

"1883. You're leaking cum on my thigh."

"And whose fault is that?" She boops your nose with a slender index finger.

"Yours. It's your fault. You're the one who wanted to sit in my lap."

She tosses the almanac aside. "Fine. Maybe I'll just take my lap-sits and give them to someone who'll be more appreciative."

"Yeah right. Who else can you find who'd be half as good a partner as me for bar trivia?"

She frowns. "You are such an arrogant prick."

You draw her in a semicircle so she's facing you. You lean forward and rub your nose against hers: an Eskimo kiss. Obviously surprised, her cheeks flush deeply and her eyes bug out.

"You're one to talk, huh?" You say. "You're so competitive that you even compete to have the best pussy."

"W-well--!" She sputters. "That's obvious! My pussy is the best!"

"I'm sure you've got a spreadsheet tracking average time-to-orgasm so you can prove it."

"No I don't!" She insists, so quickly, and with such vehemence, that you actually begin to suspect your joke might have hit on the truth.

"Well you're making a mess in my lap, so maybe we can take this conversation to the shower."

She smiles.

>11:47 PM

The bathroom is practically a sauna; your shower has dragged on and on. You long ago finished soaping each other off -- and then fucked again -- and cleaned each other again. Now, strange sight: you sit facing one another on the steamy floor of the shower and let the stream wash over you as Dr. Carte lazily lobs trivia questions at you from her own memory.

"Third man on the moon?"

"Pete Conrad."

"SI base units of the Poise?"

"Uhh... let me think." You do some quick dimensional analysis in your brain. "Kilogram per meter-second."

"Too slow. Way too slow. You're going to lose the game for us if you're that slow on Thursday."

"Jesus," you say. "First of all, it's gotta be close to midnight. Second of all, I just ejaculated twice. Third of all--"

She pounds a wet fist against a wet palm. "No excuses!"

"Fine. Now it's your turn. Who directed the Tom Hanks comedy film Big?"

She interlaces her hands behind her head, shrugging and grinning smugly. "Penny Marshall. My youthful beauty must have made you forget that I was a kid when that movie came out. I'll forgive you, of course. But you're asking about a seminal part of my childhood here. Can't you come up with anything more difficult?"

You shift forward, trying to prod at what you assume will be a weak point: "Who holds the record for most points scored in a single NBA game?"

"Wilt Chamberlain. That's way too easy, Alabaster. Not all of us are mentally deficient when it comes to sports."

You shove her, and she shoves you back, and it devolves into a playful little tussle beneath the flowing water, with you somehow ending up atop her, as she gasps for breath between her fits of laughter, and you force a series of Eskimo kisses upon her that she weakly tries to fend off.

>12:49 AM

Sitting in towels on Dr. Carte's couch with her, you feel a little sorry for how humbly she lives. Her place is spartan and small. She could live with you and Whitney -- Whitney has offered, many times -- but Dr. Carte doesn't want to be a bother.

She's finally beginning to get a little sleepy herself, although frustratingly, you still haven't found a question that will stump her. She's right: as a duo, you'll knock 'em dead at trivia night.

Drooping against your shoulder, and beginning to slowly doze, she mutters: "shall we... call it a night?"

>[x] Stay here.

[ ] Go home to Whitney.

[ ] Go home to Rose.

[ ] Go home to Cerise.

You gently lay Dr. Carte in her bed so she can be more comfortable. Of course the sheets are covered in wet spots and the room still stinks of raw sex, but at least she'll be warm. You debate whether to drive all the way back home or not -- you're pretty sleepy too and you're already not going to have much time for rest as it is. Being a working stiff has its downsides.

Dr. Carte, mumbling, decides the issue for you:

"Alabaster... have you ever had sex with a sleeping woman?"

You arch an eyebrow as you stare at her supine form, naked save for the plain white terrycloth wrapped around her body and barely concealing her enormous tits.

This is one of those "depends on what the definition of 'is' is" kind of questions, because you've certainly fucked Rose to the point of passing out and kept going, but does that count as having sex with a sleeping woman? This proposition feels different.

"You can do it, if you want..." she says, dreamy smile on her lips. "I won't mind."

You crawl into bed with her. If this is what she really wants, you'll oblige her. And you'll do it right. Which begins with denying that you have any unseemly intentions at all: "I'd rather just get some sleep. You wrung me dry already."

"Mm... that's too bad..."

You wrap your arms around her and cuddle up. She's incredibly warm, and incredibly soft, and makes for a great hug pillow.

"If you change your mind, just go ahead," she murmurs, and this is the last thing she says. Even though it takes very little time for her to pass into dreamland, you're fighting exhaustion yourself, and your eyes burn with the effort of staying open. Of course, with a standing offer to have sex, sleep will have to wait.

Once Dr. Carte's jet engine snoring leaves no room for doubt that she's well and truly asleep -- so ladylike -- you begin.

First you unknot the towel where it's secured around her side, and let it unfurl softly on the mattress. Her tit meat, no longer constricted, springs out, the soft and spongy orbs jiggling in the light of the moon.

Dr. Carte stirs, and her snoring catches, but she doesn't wake up. Undetected for now, you reach down and fondle her. You have no inhibitions and don't bother to worry about whether or not this will rouse her. She said you can have your way with her, so you will.

As you molest her prodigious breasts, enjoying their give and their soft texture in your palm, the way you can press down on them and feel like your whole hand is getting swallowed up -- you reach back with your other hand and undo your towel, too. Fully naked, you spoon up against her and rub your rapidly hardening dick against her ass. As with her tits, Dr. Carte's ass is thick and wonderfully soft, and the globes of them wobble like jello when you hump against her. She's all flesh, warm and springy and so nice against your prick.

Dr. Carte may be snoozing, but her body is perfectly well aware of the liberties you're taking with it. Her nipples harden against the heel of your groping palm, and you can feel her pussy heating up. Even in her sleep, this woman is hot for your cock.

You tenderly raise her thigh, just enough to give you the space to jut your prick in between her legs and get it wedged against her pussy. The soft hair of Dr. Carte's landing strip tickles you, and this strange sensation teases your cock to its full hardness.

The sticky lips of her vulva hug your shaft and ooze against it, as if to say on Dr. Carte's behalf: "please fuck me!" Not just her cunt but her entire body is getting hot now, beginning to sweat and flush. She's like a bunny going into estrus.

By some sort of autonomic reflex, Dr. Carte's thighs tense as you slide your dick back and forth against them. Her sweat and natural wetness make them slick and the clenching of her muscles makes them tight: it's the next best thing to fucking her for real. But why settle for the next best thing when you can actually fuck her, free of guilt? You rear back all the way now and find the sultry opening of her slit. In this position, she's even tighter than usual, and you have to really push to get yourself seated inside her.

Good things never last, and Dr. Carte's ignorance of what you're doing to her comes to an end as your cockhead spreads her vagina open, and you groan in satisfaction.

"Mmmh~" she mumbles, coming to, "are you... oh... ohhh... ahhhn..."

Her chin presses against her collarbone. She lets out a long sigh as she adjusts to your prick sliding into her.

"That feels..." she says, still dazed with tiredness, "that feels... reeeally good... keep... keep going..." Her voice drawls and she seems about to fall asleep again even as she says this.

You hug her against you and hump her with abandon. Awake, asleep, you don't care: you just need to fuck. Her hole is perfectly hot and wet and tight, whether she's conscious or not.

The only sound in the room is the slick noise of your cock sliding in and out of Dr. Carte, and your little gasping breaths of enjoyment as you screw her. She really does seem to have fallen asleep again. You rest your face on hers, get some payback for earlier. You whisper directly into her ear: "I'm gonna cum inside you."

"Mmmhhh... what's that? ... cum...? Okay... go ahead, Alabaster."

She nuzzles your cheek lovingly and wags her hips a little. You grip her even tighter, arms around her tummy, and really give it to her. The force of your fucking, the raw slapping of your crotch against her butt, the wet sluicing of your mated genitals as they make another mess, keeps her semi-awake. She coos contentedly while you stuff her with your cock. Mumbling, more to herself than anything, she repeats: "cum... mmm, cum... mmm... cum..."

Even though you've shot two loads quite recently, the load you blow up Dr. Carte's cunt now is the biggest yet. Something about the situation, and the position, really drives you wild, and your orgasm seems to stretch to infinity as you fire of blast after searing blast into her welcoming body. Maybe she's right and her pussy really is the best. You can't get enough of its rippling folds, its wet heat, and how it seems to suck on your cock like a mouth sucking a lollipop whenever you nut in it. Her pretty cunt literally sucks your semen out of your body as you fill her up. An orgasm that tremendous and mind-melting is hard for even you to withstand; and within moments, you're nodding off, too.

At work the following morning, Whitney scrutinizes you with suspicion as you pass by the security check. You and Dr. Carte are both looking a little bedraggled after everything last night -- that combined with the fact that you're coming in together, makes it easy for Whitney to understand what happened.

"Long night?" she says, arms folded.

"Uh, yeah," you say. "We were practicing for bar trivia... you know..."

Whitney glances over at her mother, unamused. Dr. Carte, much more amused, winks. "We drilled all night long."

"Uh huh," Whitney says. "Go ahead. Rub it in."

"Don't be jealous, honey," Dr. Carte says. "You know his heart belongs to you even if I have a little fun with him from time to time..."

"Well," Whitney tells you, "since you so rudely decided to have an unscheduled sleepover with the old woman here, again, I was forced to use Rose AGAIN. And I don't know what's gotten into your cousin--

"--Once re--"

"--OnCe ReMoVeD--" Whitney cuts in mockingly. "--But she keeps wanting to have your sister watch us. Which is wild, and I think you'd appreciate it, but noooo. Have to go and fuck Miss Universe 1905 over here instead."

"I'll make it up to you," you say.

"You definitely will, because if you spend another night at my mom's place, I'm busting down the door." She continues as you and Dr. Carte follow her towards the elevators: "So since you're late -- and I'm docking your pay for that, by the way, both of you -- you haven't heard the good news."

"Which is what?" You say.

"Cerise is back. She decided to come to work again. Dunno why but she even volunteered to work with Rose. Imagine that. Watch out that your sister and your cousin ONCE REMOVED don't cuck you, now."

Dr. Carte shares a serious look with you. Whitney doesn't know yet how dangerous this could really be.

>[x] Tell her.

[ ] Keep it under wraps for now. 

You sit with Whitney at a picnic table under the shade of a stately ash tree, one of many dotting the campus outside Darkbloom Analytics.

"So it's like that," she says.

You nod.

"When were you going to tell me?" She says. "Fuck. I've been living in the same house as... as HIM all this time..."

Dr. Carte lays a hand on her shoulder. "I'll fix it, but... I need to make sure I do it right. I don't want to rush anything, or make any mistakes... if only I could get in touch with my old research partner, I might have a little more confidence in trying to remove the implant again."

"So...?" Whitney says. "Where is the asshole?"

"I wish I knew. He disappeared right before I -- went to jail."

"I'll find him," Whitney says. "What's his name?"

Dr. Carte tells her. You're a little disturbed by the prospect of Whitney running off half-cocked in search of this man, but she brushes off your concern. "You fags can't do anything on your own. Leave it to me. I'll find him. And then we'll fix Cerise."

"Don't do anything without telling me," you say.

"Of course," Whitney says. "You'd do the same thing for me."

You catch the note of sarcasm there.

Since now seems to be the time to come clean, you really come clean: you tell her about Camelia and Mom, too -- the false memories, everything. Whitney is reluctant to believe you, but you bring her around.

"My dad, your mom... fuckin' Camelia..." Whitney rubs her forehead, struggling to grasp it all, which isn't a ding on her intelligence. You're equally struggling to grasp it. "This world is fuckin' crazy."

When her eyes meet yours again, they're damp, but she's keeping herself from shedding any tears by sheer force of will.

"I thought we were all happy again, you know?" She says with a slight tremble to her voice.

"We will be," you say.

"I hope so..." she sniffles, looks around, jostles her legs. "Hey... if Mrs. Soliloquy really is alive... wow. I missed her cooking. So much. Well... her desserts. Bring her around sometime, huh?"

You'd like to, but it's been over a week with radio silence on her part. You think, if she really did recognize you, she may be too freaked out. And you still aren't sure how to proceed with a woman who half believes she's someone else, and half believes she's your mother.

---

"We're not gonna let this shit rain on our parade," Whitney says, putting her game face on again as you stroll back inside. "Make sure you eat a big lunch, 'kay Ally?"

"I usually do," you say. "Why is it more important today than--"

"You ARE ready, right?" Whitney says, stopping, wheeling to face you.

"Uh."

"The tournament?" She raises her eyebrows and fixes you with a confused look. "Did you forget? It's today, 2 PM."

Fuck.

The 2nd Annual Darkbloom Tennis Invitational. It's Whitney's queer attempt at an employee engagement exercise: forcing a bunch of tech dweebs to play tennis against each other. The first one was a spectacular failure, having been conducted during the chaos and fragility of her first couple months as CEO. It ended with a fistfight between the winning doubles team and the runners-up, not over the outcome of the match, but over how the prize money was going to get split. Everyone back then expected to be out of a job within a few days.

"I haven't checked the sign-up sheets yet," Whitney says. "Who'd you pick for your doubles partner?"

You narrow your eyes at her. "That's -- a secret," you say.

"Bwahaha. Fine. Be all mysterious, then. See you in court!"

"On court."

She sticks her tongue out at you.

The truth, of course, is you completely forgot to sign up. And you hope the sign-up sheets are still posted on the bulletin board in the cafeteria, otherwise Whitney's delicate mood could sour again.

You rush to the cafeteria, and find the sheets still there, thank god. Grabbing a pencil, you look for the name of someone you know who doesn't have a doubles partner yet. You find one:

[ ] Rose

[ ] Alex

>[x] Kay

It's between her and Trenton McAllister, the marketing beanpole who you know by proxy through his friendship with Rose2. He's often in the theater area, watching anime with her and the rest of those rejects. He's about 90 pounds wet and 6'2" or something, and at age 25 still has a gnarly case of acne; how he can succeed in marketing is anyone's guess. Kay and Trenton are the only two people who don't have a partner to play with yet. Since you'd rather hang yourself than spend time interacting with Trenton, you have to bite the bullet -- for Whitney's sake -- and tether yourself to intrepid reporter Kay Vera.

Something else on the sign-up sheet catches your eye, though, and since you feel the need to check on Cerise anyway, you head up to Rose's office.

"Alex?" You say. "How did you convince Alex to partner with you?"

Alex is here, across the office, far enough away that you can carry on a hushed interrogation of Rose without him overhearing. He's already wearing his gym clothes, ready to play. He's having a carefree conversation with Cerise about the future of her circuit-bending livestream. He still really wants to be her patron, it seems.

"If you'll recall, I offered to partner up with you," Rose says. "But of course you stood me up."

"Don't change the subject. I've been trying to drag him out of his office for weeks. What gives? Why are you the Alex whisperer all of a sudden?"

"Maybe it's because I treat Alex like a human and not a set of holes to cum in."

"Oh? Is that why you went to town on him with your strap-on the other week?"

"Don't change the subject."

"This isn't about being nice to Alex, is it -- you know Alex played on the varsity tennis team when he was in high school, don't you."

Rose perches her chin on tented fingers. "I play to win, after all."

"Well you're in for a surprise," you tell her. "I'm gonna fuck you up. I'm gonna beat you AND Alex into the ground, and when I'm done, I'll take out my dick and pis-- hi, Mrs. Mallory!"

You spin on your heels as she walks up.

"Am I... interrupting something?"

"No," you say. You notice that she too is all decked out for athletic activity -- and Saul, entering the office now, is as well. Of course they teamed up.

"You're not interrupting anything at all, mom," Rose says, pushing her chair back, standing. "I was simply explaining to Alabaster how I'm going to humiliate him on the tennis court today."

"Right," you say. "And I was explaining to Rose how she's wrong, as usual."

Rose snaps her fingers, beckoning for Alex like a mistress beckoning a puppy. "I have to go get ready," she announces. "Enough of this."

Saul and Cerise discuss the details of the pending interview with Noelle, later today; there was no putting it off any longer once Cerise returned to work.

Meanwhile, Charlotte watches her daughter depart.

She turns to you. "She reminds me so much of myself as a young girl."

"She still reminds me of you," you say. "Actually, I get the two of you mixed up all the time."

You never resist the chance to flatter her -- with Charlotte, flattery goes far.

"Alabaster, it's rude to lie to your elders~"

"That's why I don't lie to you, Mrs. Mallory."

"After all this time -- you can call me mom, you know."

You nod, but don't reply to that. You weren't ready for that before, and you certainly aren't now, with the recent circumstances.

"I know she's a handful," Charlotte is saying, "but please, have patience. She's at that age..."

She pauses, thinking, and recounts an anecdote: "when I was in college -- of course, Rose isn't going to finish school, even though I think you both should--" (she pauses again to give you a displeased look) "-- well, anyway, it seemed like every little thing was the most important thing in the world. Every conversation, every interaction, was another blow to strike against the system."

"Yep," you say. Sounds familiar.

"You might not believe it, but I was as much of a firebrand as Rose. Did I ever tell you how I met Saul?" You shake your head, so she fills you in: "Law school. This was back when the 'no means no' campaign really took off -- my sorority sisters and I were doing some different events and pamphleteering with that as a slogan, you know. Well Saul ran the school's humor bulletin at the time... and he published an article where he said that no means yes and yes means anal."

You nearly choke, on nothing.

"Crass, I know. So I marched straight over to his dorm to ream him a new one and explain exactly how horrible he was being. I wasn't going to let a misogynistic prig like him get away with that. Well after about an hour of lecturing him on the seriousness of sexual violence and how awful it is to joke about, he asked me on a date!"

"And you actually agreed?" You say.

"Well..." she winks. "I didn't say no."

You do choke this time.

"But only to keep an eye on him, obviously. Not because I liked him. I just needed to make sure this chauvinist ass knew exactly who he was dealing with... to teach him a little respect. To show him I wasn't some dumb little girl he could mess with."

"So what changed, then?"

She puts a contemplative finger to her chin. "Nothing at all," she finally says with a smile.

Alone again with Cerise, you tell her about letting Whitney in on everything.

"When are you going to bring Mrs. Catachresis over?" Cerise asks. "I'd like to see her for myself... if she really is mom..."

"I'll reach out to her soon. I don't want to scare her off for good." There's an awkward pause, and you finally say: "hey, by the way. You should have told me you were coming back to work."

"Sorry. It was a spur of the moment kinda thing. I was sitting around last night, thinking about going back to being a NEET and I just about wanted to puke. It's the weirdest thing. I actually... actually kinda want to have a job?"

They grow up so fast.

You shrug. "Since you're here anyway... want watch me grind Rose into dust?"

"Of course. I'll have a front row seat."

"Alex is going to be collateral damage, sad to say... but that can't be helped. He shouldn't have partnered up with satan."

"And who did you partner with?"

"Ah--"

"You! There you are." You turn: it's Kay.

"Just where do you get off?" Kay demands.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me! Why did you sign up as my partner? Did I ask you to be my partner?"

"Well, you didn't have one. So."

"Exactly! That was by design!"

"It's a doubles tournament, Kay. Doubles. Two. Partners. Do you understand this concept, or...?"

"I understand it perfectly well! I didn't want a partner!"

"You wanted to enter a doubles tennis tournament as a single."

"Yes! Exactly!"

"Well it's too late to take it back now," you say. "Besides, unpaired sign-ups get forced together. Would you rather play with Trenton McAllister?"

Kay's eyes dart around inside her head as she scans her mental banks trying to place the name.

You prompt her: "Marketing guy. Skinny. Acne."

"Oh god," she says.

"Right. So. Take your pick."

She folds her arms and stares at the ground, tapping her foot, deliberating.

"You cannot seriously be--" you begin.

"Shut up! I'm thinking!"

"Fuck's sake, Kay. If you're going to be like that, I'll have Whitney un-sign me up and let you pair with Trent McHalitosis after all. It doesn't matter dick to me either way."

"No," Kay says. "No -- you'll do."

"Gee, thanks. I'll do. Hear that, Cerise? I'll do."

"You don't even work here," Cerise says. "How the fuck did you get into the tournament?"

"The key to everything," Kay tells her, "is acting like you belong. If you can convince people you deserve to be there, then you do. Simple as that."

"You are something else," you tell her. "I seriously don't understand how no one has kicked you out of the building yet."

"You don't have to understand," Kay says. "And you don't have to play tennis either. Just stay out of my way on the court. If you can manage that, I'll carry you to victory."

Lucky for you, you keep a pair of workout clothes in a locker down by the saunas. Not that it ever gets much use -- at one time, Whitney had cajoled you into starting an exercise routine at the gym here, but you quickly fell off that wagon.

You go and change. On an empty stomach, with no time to warm up or otherwise prepare (not that you would actually know how to go about that), you head for the tennis courts behind the campus of Darkbloom Analytics. Whitney has rented them out for the day, all 6 of them. Your first match is scheduled for the second cohort, which leaves you with time to observe another set of teams playing first.

[ ] Trenton McAllister & (empty) vs. Steven Armstrong & Nelson Berenstoin

>[x] Fazil Çatalhöyük & Takagawa Kenichi vs. Whitney Darkbloom & Makoto Kikuchi

>[x] Rose Mallory & Alex Best vs. Rose Catachresis & Boyd Stackleford

In a dainty pleated skirt, with leggings, tanktop and a visor, Makoto is the very picture of toned athletic beauty; she could be a model for a sportswear catalog. Her form, to your admittedly untrained eye, seems perfect as she stands rigid at the back half of the court, one arm extended directly in front of her with the elbow locked, holding the tennis ball. The first serve belongs to her.

"We're gonna rock your faces, bot-boy!" Whitney shouts over the net at Kenichi, preferred name Ken Smith.

"I reckon them's fighting words," Ken replies.

Makoto bounces the ball, once, twice. With a majestic arch of her back, she tosses it into the air, brings her racket-arm up, then down again in a graceful arc, and... she whiffs it. She misses the ball completely. As her arm completes its arc and the racket softly whumpfs down on nothing at all, coming to a rest parallel with her body -- she totters, off balance, the hand that held the ball still held aloft. She wobbles on one foot, nearly falling over. When she finally rights herself again, she stays in place like that, with her racket-arm in front of her, and her other arm held high, frozen in place by the surprise of missing the serve.

The ball rolls uselessly behind her, towards the bleachers at the rear. A ballboy runs up and hands it back to her. When he returns to his spot across the court, the ref in the tall chair at court-side says: "Service fault!"

Makoto blinks confusedly.

"That's okay!" Whitney says. "Try again, babe! You got this!"

Makoto bounces the ball the exact same way -- once, twice -- and then again with that truly stunning arch of the back, the forceful swing of her arm. A beautiful study in the grace the human body is capable of. And with exactly the same result. She misses.

"Double fault!" The ref says. "Point receiver. Love-15."

"Okay, baby!" Whitney says. "Head in the game now! Let's do this!"

Cerise, sitting beside you, covers her face. "I can't watch," she says.

It's a wise decision. Makoto faults eight times in a row. The first game goes to Fazil and Ken without them having to swing their rackets even once.

As they prepare to begin the next game, Whitney's positivity is about at its limit. She walks over to Makoto, shouting. "You said you were good at tennis!"

"I am good at tennis," Makoto says.

"Bullshit! You can't even hit the fucking ball! What the fuck! You have to HIT THE BALL to be good at tennis, Kimochi!"

"I will do my best!"

"Fuck your best, bitch! Hit the goddamn ball, you slanty-eyed cunt!"

Sitting in the bleachers up and to your left, Chalmers just about goes into conniptions.

"She's boned," Cerise says. "Guess partnering up with a J-pop idol is a bad idea for anything that isn't J-pop."

And Cerise is right. Fazil -- wearing his goddamn fez, which somehow stays perfectly perched atop his skull while he plays -- sends a shot blazing down the edge of center court to Makoto, who receives first. You wouldn't have guessed it, but Fazil is clearly a practiced player. Maybe tennis is a popular pastime in Turkey.

And Makoto -- poor Makoto -- seeing the ball rushing towards her, turns, and squats, and curls up into a sort of fetal position to shield herself.

"FUCK!" Whitney wails when the ball bounces right past Makoto and the point goes to the other team.

On Whitney's turn to receive, she actually manages to get a volley going. Soccer isn't analogous whatsoever to tennis but apparently some basic skills carry over, because she's coordinated, with great form, and follows the ball with poise. Which is just as well because Makoto, on the other half of the court, near the net, is cowering again. Whitney carries the volley all on her own, nearly taking the point off of Fazil and Ken. But like Fazil, Ken also has surprising skill, and finally he lands a spike to the court side opposite Whitney that she can't catch. Clutching her knees, wheezing, Whitney curses with such creativity and such force that you're sincerely impressed.

"Please do not terminate our employment!" Fazil says. "Is all fun and a game, yes? Yes?"

"Go to hell, asshole! You and your little red hat too! Say one more word and I'll deport your fuckin' ass!"

"We will take care of these varmints real nice and quick-like," Ken tells Fazil.

Fazil is worried. "Please do not antagonize the opposing team. It is unsportsmanlike, and also, a threat to future earnings."

Not that it matters. The game quickly devolves into a blowout. Whitney manages to score a couple points but without the help of her partner -- with her partner, in fact, getting in the way and taking more than a couple balls to the face, with tiny little squeals and oofs (you really do feel bad for her), not to mention automatically losing the point each time she receives -- it's hopeless.

By the time Whitney begins to chase a terrorized Makoto around the court with her racket like a maniac wielding an axe, you and Cerise have both seen enough, and decide to visit the next court over to see how the match there is progressing.

The game there is much more competitive. Not for the contributions of Rose and Rose: The Revenge to their respective teams. Mostly the volleys seem to be between a shockingly agile Stackleford and an equally agile -- and viciously competitive -- Alex. The two Roses kind of hang back on the rear halves of the court, not doing much of anything except staring daggers.

Except for when it comes time for Rose2 to serve to her opposite number. In an embarrassing mirror of Makoto's incompetence, Rose2 faults the first attempt, missing the ball completely. But it's not a total repeat; because noticing you in the bleachers seems to give her a second breath of wind.

She waves happily at you: "Ally~!"

Alex and Rose glance back at where you sit. Alex waves, too. "Hey there!" He says. "Nice day, huh? This is so fun!"

It's way too hot for this day to qualify as nice -- you're sweating like a hog before your first game even begins. You pull your collar out and let it snap back repeatedly, to cool your body.

"Don't kill yourself spectating--" Rose begins, but she can't finish the thought because the ball is sailing clean past her head.

"15-Love!" The ref calls.

Rose2 served to her while she was distracted.

Turning, Rose growls: "oh, you cunt. You're dead. You hear me? Dead."

Even more surprising is Alex's reaction. "Dead?" He sputters. "Death is too good for this cheating skank!"

"Heh... sorry," Rose2 says, rubbing the back of her head. "I didn't realize!"

On the next serve, Rose returns the ball with ease -- you're surprised that she can even hit the thing -- and Rose2 swats it back. Has your presence injected new energy into the match? Rose and Rose2, one in her plain white athletic wear, the other in her ridiculous neon pink frilled skirt and purple tanktop -- get closer and closer to the net with every hit. Soon they've entered into a rapid back-and-forth right at the net's edge that leaves Alex and Stackleford to merely gawk.

Whap-whap, whap-whap -- the two girls are practically on top of each other, batting the the ball across the mere inches that separate them, and at blazing speed. But there is a victor when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, after all; Rose2 jumps up, lands a dazzling spike, and nails Rose square in the face. Toppling to her butt, she covers her nose, which is leaking blood like a seive already.

"Aw geez!" Rose2 cries. "Whoops! I'm such a klutz. A-durr."

"30-Love!" the ref announces.

Alex helps Rose to her feet and glowers at his opponents. "You're going to regret that!" He warns them.

"Hey now," Stackleford says. "It was an accident. Don't get all--"

"Fuck you!" Alex screams.

This is going to be ugly.

Rose gets gauze stuffed up either nostril by the nurse, and the ref asks if she would like to quit. Whatever Rose says in response, you can't hear, but it clearly scares the poor guy. He scurries back to his chair at court-side.

"The twink and the harpy look real mad now."

You turn. Out of nowhere, Kay has appeared at your side.

"I don't think mad comes even close to capturing it," you say.

"If they make it through their bracket, we'll face them in the finals. I'm a little concerned."

"Don't be. They're pushovers. They're just up against even bigger pushovers right now."

"You're fucking both of them, right?" Kay asks.

"Uh--"

"Can you maybe fuck them happy again before we have to play them, if it comes to that?"

"I'll consider it," you say.

Perhaps as an act of revenge, Alex seems purposefully to aim a lobbed ball at Stackleford. And though it doesn't hit him with quite the force that Rose2's spike hit Rose, it still bowls Stackleford over. He howls in pain, rubbing his thigh where the ball smacked him.

Rose2, helping him up, is not nearly as concerned for his well-being as Alex was for Rose. "Come on, Stacks. Don't get hit."

"S-sorry," he says.

"Don't be sorry! Just don't get hit. We lose points when you get hit."

"Y-yeah."

Rose2 returns to her side of the court to receive the serve. She doesn't get turned around again before: payback. Rose scores a service ace while Rose2 has her back turned. The wake the ball leaves behind ruffles Rose2's hair like a gentle gust of wind.

Turning, smiling, Rose2 cocks her head. "That was kinda silly of you!" She says.

"Go fuck yourself," Rose replies.

The next serve brings another savage volley with both girls right on top of the net. Rose, face still streaked brown with dried blood, isn't going to yield. This time she spikes the ball, and nails Rose2, right in her forehead. You swear you hear a hollow echo. The welt it leaves behind is angry red and throbbing already as Rose2 lays out flat on her back on the baking blue court.

Tit for tat. A service ace while distracted, followed by a spike to the head. Rose grins smugly. Alex high-fives her.

"Angel!" Stackleford cries, rushing over, to grab Rose2's hand.

She swats him away. "Get off, Stacks." She sits up now, rising to her butt, woozy. She rubs her noggin. "Aw fuck," she says, maybe the first time you've ever heard her curse aside from that encounter in the karaoke booth.

She looks up at Rose. "I'm sorry, but that really felt like it was on purpose just now!"

"It was," Rose says.

Rose2 smiles. "Well then... if you want to break the buddy code, we can break the buddy code..."

Tennis as bloodsport is enthralling. By the time the next couple sets have ended, three of the four players are badly bruised, and battered, and bleeding. It obviously took Stackleford longer than anyone else to catch on to the fact that the players were deliberately trying to hit each other with the ball, and when he began to take aim at Alex, Alex turned out to be far more deft than Stackleford's lumbering attempts at unsportsmanlike conduct could overcome. So while Rose and Rose2 beat each other bloody by proxy with the tennis ball, and Alex lands blow after blow on Stackleford -- Alex himself gets away cleanly, dodging the ball again and again, even saving Rose from a few hits with some truly impressive dives.

"You gotta help me out here, Stacks--" Rose2 begins, swaying. "Stop getting hit."

"I'm sorry... I think they're aiming for us on purpose..."

"Yeah!" Rose2 says, the veneer of patience wearing perilously thin. "Yeah, Stacks! They are! Stop getting hit!"

"B-but -- you -- I mean -- y-you too--"

She shoves him. Through her fat lip, she slurs: "Don't messh with me!"

"Rose is going to come out of this match retarded," Cerise muses. "And Rose2 will come out of it... uh, even retarded-er."

"This... this is good for us," Kay says, nodding. "I like this. Let them fight."

"I'm... I'm... I'm sorry!" Stackleford pleads. He's crying. "I don't wanna see you get hurt anymore! Can't we just be nice?"

"Be nice," Rose2 says, sauntering up, gripping him by his collar, "by not getting hit."

Stackleford nods. She steps back and says, "Instead, hit her." She points the racket at Rose. Another first: the first time Rose2 has ever directly admitted to aggression against Rose.

Stackleford glances across the court at Rose. But of course, his crush on Rose is older than time at this point, a legendarily hopeless and one-sided pining -- he's been obsessed with her ever since prom. When Rose, black-eyed, lip busted, hair a mess, sneers back at him, he breaks. He rushes from the court, sobbing.

"Stacks!" Rose2 calls. "Oh, for the love of--"

Through the pain, Rose manages to smile. Sweet victory.

"That's a forfeit!" Alex says. He looks up at the ref. "They forfeited just now!"

The ref agrees. Rose2, with a savage scream of pure frustration you had no idea she was capable of, snaps her racket over her knee, tosses it, and stomps away.

Your first match is against Tyrus and Spancer. Just great: you're up against brick shithouse 1 and brick shithouse 2, right off the bat.

Beforehand, Kay takes a few moments to stretch. She goes to one foot and grips the tip of her shoe in her hand. Like this she forms basically a perfect circle: her arched back, bent leg and arm. She repeats this process with the other leg. Fucking Dhalsim over here. Years of yoga have made her impossibly limber.

Whitney, still smarting from her early elimination, catches up with Tyrus on the court right before the match begins.

"I need your help, Tyrus. This N word thing is getting out of control. You have to tell the people from the news that I have the N word pass."

"I don't speak on behalf of all black people everywhere. Shit."

"That doesn't matter. I just need some cover on this N word thing, that's all."

"Stop calling it the N word thing. And you don't have the pass. I'm not gonna go and tell the media that you've got a pass on that word."

"I don't want to actually use it! I'm only asking for it so that people stop bitching at me. Just because I MIGHT have used it in the past! It's bullshit!"

"That sounds like a personal problem to me, Nightmare." After all this time, he still uses that nickname for her -- you're glad. It seems like a mark of respect.

"Look. If you're so worried about it, maybe say that I had the pass when I was younger but it's expired now. Everybody wins."

"Bitch, why the fuck would you ever have a pass on saying nigger."

"I'm cool with you guys. For real. Lots of my friends are black!"

"Name one black friend you've got."

"You."

"Besides me, motherfucker. Jesus."

"That's not important!" Whitney stomps. "Just give me the fucking pass, Tyrus, goddamn it!"

The ref is blowing into his whistle, signaling for her to get off the court. "We'll finish this later," she tells him.

"Pfft. Maybe never."

Kay, all warmed up now, sidles up to you. "Remember what I said about staying out of my way."

"I don't know what the fuck you expect to accomplish against two guys who pretty much take up the entire width of the court just standing there."

"I expect to win," Kay says, smiling up at you.

She's confident, but by way too much. A tiny little woman like her up against these two guys is going to have her work cut out for her no matter how good she is at the game.

[ ] Help her out.

>[x] Stay out of her way.

Spancer serves first. He holds his torso stock-still during the serve, his arms moving with the unmerciful force and inhuman precision of robotic assembly machines at an automotive plant. The ball is a neon yellow blur that you instantly lose track of in the glare of the high August sun. But Kay somehow keeps on top of it. Pivoting, her sneakers squeaking on the hardcourt, she smacks the ball just after its first bounce. As her racket makes contact, Kay screams: "HAAAAHHH!"

The ball swerves, against all known laws of inertia, in a 180 degree arc that sends it in the direction of Tyrus who stands directly opposite. Tyrus is surprised to have the ball sliced at at him and scrambles to intercept it. He does, just barely, the ball rolling off the edge of his racket and slowly caroming at a near-vertical angle. It clears the net on your half of the court -- you're standing only inches from where it lands -- but Kay told you to keep away, so you do. Instead of moving towards the falling ball to hit it, which even you most certainly could, you step back. And good thing, too, because Kay has already covered the distance from the other side of the court and now she's jumping in front of you, catching the ball at the very apex of its bounce, spiking it with obscene strength.

"HAAAHHH!" She grunts, the noise blending with the nails-on-chalkboard echo of her sneakers squealing as they leave the ground.

At the rear of the court, Spancer is Usain fucking Bolt but even his seemingly supersonic run speed fails to save the point. He misses the ball, falling flat on his face and skidding to a stop.

"15-Love!"

Nonplussed, Kay is already taking up her position in front of the service line; it's your turn to receive.

"Don't fuck this up," she warns you. "If you can return the serve, I'll take care of the rest."

"Yeah," you grouse -- and with very little time to do much else because Spancer has already whacked one straight for your head. You choke on your own spit, stumble forward on unsteady feet, and, nearly falling down, you get your racket against the ball. You don't have any follow-through, so the ball sails lazily through the air at a low elevation. It nicks the top of the net and loses its already small momentum, tipping over -- on the right side thank god -- bouncing quickly twice on the opponents' turf before Tyrus can hope to run to it.

You scored a return ace. Tyrus has a vocabulary mostly consisting of the word "motherfucker" right now.

"That was awful," Kay says. "Do better next time."

"Oh, I'm sorry. How exactly can I do better than scoring on the very first hit?"

Kay pokes you in the chest with her racket. "Blind luck scores us a single point. Meanwhile, your inability to walk two feet without tripping over your own dick is going to cost us the match. Do better."

This fucking woman.

On the next point, Kay gets into a volley with Spancer that's honestly kind of eerie. It's like Kay is playing tennis against a cyborg. The way he strides directly to where the ball lands is strangely bionic, like the uncanny valley of running -- and whenever he hits the ball he's so silent that not even his racket resounds. Meanwhile, each and every time Kay hit the ball, gripping the racket with both hands and swinging like a madwoman clubbing a baby seal to death, she screams: "HAAAHHH! HAAAAAAHHHHHH!"

Kay wins the point for you, at the cost of your eardrums.

"Are you in pain or something?" You ask, sincerely wondering.

"Why would I be in pain?" Kay says. She's just a tiny bit out of breath and beginning to shine just a little with sweat.

"You scream like you're being murdered every time you hit the ball."

"That's how you're supposed to play tennis," she tells you.

"What? Where in the rules does it say that players have to scream every time they make contact with the ball?"

Kay has both hands in the air, motioning wildly. "It helps! Grunting focuses your energy and assists your tempo--"

"Excuse my ignorance here but I'm calling bullshit. You don't need to pretend you're a dying cat just to hit the ball harder."

"Stop complaining and take the serve, Alabaster!"

But you're not the only one annoyed by Kay's caterwauling. Tyrus winces every time she does it, and eventually it seems to put Spancer on the fritz. He begins missing easy lay-ups and he faults into the net a few times; at one point he even swings for thin air on his left as the ball flies past on his right.

After Kay takes the first set for you without dropping a single game, Tyrus complains to the officials. "This bitch is gonna kill me with her screaming. It's like I'm playing tennis against a Japanese porno up in here. Tell her to shut the fuck up."

Kay is under the tall chair now as well, defending herself: "It's deep breathing! It focuses my energy!"

Spancer now: "I believe she is trying to distract us with the volume of her noise-making. I assess that she does not require it to aid the quality of her own play."

The ref agrees and asks Kay to tone it down, which sends her into a fit of frustration as she marches back to the court: "Fucking biased fucking umpires! How am I supposed to play if I can't focus my breathing!"

Kay's service is stunning whether or not she gets to scream at full volume. She scores four service aces in a row and takes the game. By now, Tyrus is so tilted, and Spancer so demoralized ("Failure," he repeats after every dropped point. "Failure. Failure.") -- that all is over but for the crying. And as you approach the peak of victory, Kay's grunting slowly begins again, increasing in volume with each hit, until she's back to "HAAAAHHHH!" again -- this time doing it with impunity. Who's going to stop her?

"You are... wow," you say at the end of the match.

"I am wow," Kay says. She's panting like a dog, but in high spirits, smiling. Beads of sweat drip slowly from her drenched bangs. "I'm wow as hell."

On the other side of the net, Tyrus is slamming his racket into his duffel bag, with his headband and wrist bands and water bottle, angrily zipping it all up. A man you presume to be his boyfriend approaches, but there's not the tenderness he once had with Marquis; Tyrus backhands the poor guy and pushes past him, leaving the court. Spancer goes and sits on the bench near the chain link perimeter, staring at nothing, and his face has the closest thing to an emotion -- sadness -- that you've ever seen from him.

You sit down on the bleachers next to Cerise. Rose, who was babysitting her during the match, pretends to cough, saying under her breath to you: "carried. Carried."

"I'm surprised you can still talk after that beating you took," you say. It's true. Her dual shiners look more vicious than anything you ever gave her, and she's still caked with dried blood around her chin and hairline.

Rose doesn't have to respond to this, because then comes the bitter sting of betrayal. Cerise does the same fake coughing maneuver: "carried. Carried."

"You two really are getting too close," you say. "I need to keep you separated."

Kay does her typical materializing-out-of-nowhere schtick, showing up behind you and handing you a mustard-covered hotdog in a paper tray. She has another one of her own perched on her pushed-together knees. Unlike yours, Kay's hotdog is covered in jalapenos and onions, and nothing else. Adventurous girl, to risk playing with heartburn.

"Thanks," you say, and take your food. "I'm starving."

"Yeah, I could tell," Kay says. "Doing nothing sure works up an appetite, huh?"

Cerise again: "Carried. Carried."

"I could smack you right now," you snarl.

"I dunno," Cerise says. "I thought you were trying not to hit anything today."

Cerise and Rose snicker.

Alex, from the bleachers below, puts a reassuring hand on your knee. "Well I think you did a great job, Ally!"

There's something about Alex sitting below you, between your legs, and looking up at you, that always does something to you. Even in a chaste situation like this. You glance away and take another bite of your food.

"It's wonderful how supportive your boyfriend is," Kay says with a smirk.

With your mouth stuffed full of hotdog meat, you can't formulate a derisive reply. So the gap is filled instead by Alex. "Aww, you're so sweet!" He tells her.

Rose and Alex take the court again, this time to play against Armstrong and Nelson.

Their match against Trenton McAllister required the invocation of a mercy rule, but that doesn't say much about how formidable they'll really be. You watch with interest.

As it turns out -- they're not terribly formidable at all. Armstrong, despite his braggadocio, and his absurd muscle structure, isn't very deft -- and he often complains of his sore knees during gameplay. Age isn't on his side, it seems. Nelson is actually the more agile of the two and is responsible for fewer dropped points. Armstrong is hardly appreciative, though, and the two bicker like an old married couple as things turn south.

"Get to the fuckin' ball, ya dumb fuckin' Jew!" - Armstrong.

"Go to hell. Maybe if your goddamn knees didn't break in half every time you took a step, we wouldn't be behind right now!" - Nelson.

"I could have been President. Instead I gotta put up with this dumb shit!" - Armstrong.

"You could have been President like I could have been king of the moon. Fuck yourself, Steven, you egomaniacal ass." - Nelson.

Rose and Alex dispatch them easily. Rose doesn't contribute very much -- without a rival to spur her on, she's back to hanging by the sidelines as a semi-spectator -- but the hits she does get in are clean, and her coordination impresses you. You may not win so easily if you have to face them.

Your next match is a bitter prospect. Dr. Carte has formed a team with Vivian.

"Go easy on them," you tell Kay as you walk towards the courts again. "I don't think either of them are very athletic."

"If they're not athletic, they should have stayed home," Kay responds, without even looking back.

Before the match begins, you shake hands with them over the net. (Dr. Carte has to hold Vivian up under her arms so she can reach.)

"I am terribly sorry," Vivian says while shaking your hand, "but we will have to destroy you now. You understand, of course."

"Kay is a monster," you tell them. "I'd keep my head low and just focus on not getting hit if I were you."

Dr. Carte's turn for smugness: "Sounds like the words of a man who's scared!"

"That doesn't even make any--" you begin, but the ref is already blowing into a whistle; time to begin. Are you the only person in the tournament who isn't treating this like a matter of life and death?

As it turns out, the duo of Vivian and Dr. Carte are more challenging than you ever would have guessed. Dr. Carte's fumbling incoordination (is she a little drunk right now?) is amateurish, it's true, but it gets the job done; jogging, tits jiggling, nearly taking several pratfalls, she gets a handful of nick-of-time returns that surprise even Kay and take some points off your team.

More shocking still is Vivian. Decked out in full gothic lolita attire, ankle-length gown and all, this pale beauty turning quickly beet red in the heat of summer is impossibly nimble. It's as if she teleports from wherever she's standing to wherever the ball will be -- zip-zip, zip-zip, like an apparition floating across the court. Her one-handed style is effete and yet oddly effective. She gets some serious velocity on the ball when she hits it just right.

On reflection, you shouldn't be so taken aback. Vivian is obsessed with excellence, with being excellent. If she won't excel at something, she usually just won't try it at all. So her strange efficiency at this game makes sense. She wouldn't be here if she couldn't manage it.

They're a good team. Especially with Whitney cheering them on from the bleachers: "Wooo! Kick their ass! MOM-AND-SIS! MOM-AND-SIS!" Is she holding pom-poms? Where the hell did she get those? More importantly, why is she taking sides here?

Unfortunately for the pair, even with your steadfast adherence to the principle of non-intervention, Kay is simply a cut above. You don't have the TENNIS WORDS for what she's doing, but her transit from point to point across the court and back again is like a ballet; the way she miraculously intercepts so many seemingly lost balls and catches Dr. Carte and Vivian in so many gotchas that have them running for the opposite direction the ball is really going in -- Kay could probably play professionally.

The only downside, of course, is this:

"HAAAHHHH! HAAAAAHHHH! HAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!"

Vivian's assessment is on-target: "I -- am going to be bested by a tennis-playing neanderthal..."

"No wonder you teamed with this horrible woman," Dr. Carte says. "Do you feel good, getting carried to victory like that?!"

There's that word again: "carried." You're getting sick of it.

Dr. Carte confers with Vivian between sets, tries to devise a winning strategy. "We shall prevail," Vivian insists, keeping her hope alive. "We shall crush them like insects beneath a boot-heel."

"That's right," Dr. Carte agrees, "that's absolutely right. Let's go!"

It's absolutely wrong, in fact. Less than an hour later, with the sun drooping in the sky, Vivian is fighting back tears as Kay puts match-point to bed.

Kneeling, hugging her, Dr. Carte says something you never thought you'd hear from her:

"Winning isn't everything."

Sniffling, Vivian tries for optimism: "We shall emerge victorious next year."

"Maybe we should start practicing."

"I am in total accord. I will clear space for it in my agenda."

Kay brings the team two more easy victories by the time the sun has set. As the sky turns a deep perwinkle and the xenon lights along the court's perimeter clack to life, the semifinal match between Rose/Alex and Fazil/Ken is just beginning.

Fazil is a little less obsequious against people who aren't in a position to fire him directly: "We will fuck you up now, yes? Yes!"

Whereas Ken, who reports directly to Alex, is suddenly the model sportsman: "Let's have a good clean match, y'all."

Kay is like an official in the situation room watching Seal Team Six move on bin Laden. She remarks several times that both pairs will be a challenge -- you and she will be up against the winners for the championship. As always, Kay is way too invested in this stupid tournament, and seems to be taking extensive mental notes on the play style of both teams.

Rose is running ragged, out of breath, and making sloppy mistakes, but Alex -- somehow none the worse for the wear despite a full day of playing -- makes up for it. Over the course of some fiercely contested sets, he pulls the duo into the lead.

It seems like they're going to coast to a win. Until the unthinkable: from your position on the bleachers, you see Ken press a button on the handle of his racket during the match-point for Rose and Alex. You're not sure what it does, but when your attention goes back to the game, you hear the ref calling the point for Ken and Fazil. That's deuce.

The next point goes much the same way. Alex hops up, making a cute little "hunh!" sound from the exertion, spikes the ball -- and then there's Ken, surreptitiously pressing that button. This time you keep focused on its effect, if any.

The ball, against all plausibility, veers off course, and lands out of bounds.

"Advantage receiver," the ref announces. Suddenly, Ken and Fazil are poised to win the set when just moments ago their opponents were one point from defeating them entirely.

Alex and Rose are knocking heads together, confused. You hear their shocked whispering: "I don't know what happened -- I -- I don't know!" ... "We've got this. We just need to focus." ... "For sure, Ms. Rose. We'll do it -- I know we will. I'm so sorry!" ... "It's fine. There's no need to say you're sorry. Let's keep our eyes on the prize, all right?"

(Of course Rose is all sugar and sweetness when she wants help to win something, you think.)

It's clear they've begun to panic; the specter of a last-second choke hangs over them. Meanwhile, Ken and Fazil are high-fiving and yukking it up -- all the momentum is behind them now, they sense a change in the air, a shift in their fortunes. Those cheaters!

>[x] Intervene.

[ ] Let it happen.

You feel honest to goodness anger. Why is this stupid game suddenly making you angry? Although, of course, it's not about the game, it's about the fact that people you care about are getting played for fools. Although, of course, you're only angry for Alex's sake, not Rose's (although, of course, that's not because you're romantically inclined towards Alex... since he's a guy... it's really more of a friendship issue than anything -- you mean -- well, anyone would be upset to see their close personal friend getting cheated out of a victory, so it only makes sense...)

Look, never mind. The point is that you need to do something. You need to keep those jerks from stealing the match.

Mentally, you try to calculate the best strategy to achieve that. And so you hardly notice that you're already striding from the bleachers and past the chain-link fence.

"What the hell are you doing!" Rose demands. "Get off the court, Alabaster!"

"Ally...?" Alex says, blinking.

The ref is madly blowing into his whistle. The crowd is jeering.

You ignore all of that, square up to Ken and shove him. Grabbing the racket, you sneer: "cheater."

Ken is panicking. "Now hold yer horses. Let's not lose our druthers here..."

You press the button on his racket. The ball, currently in Alex's grip, jerks away -- flying to the left. Alex whips his head around just in time to see it smack Rose in the face. She falls back with an "oof." Holding her freshly bleeding nose, she says: "Whad da fuckhh!"

The booing is directed at Ken and Fazil now. But of everyone, no one seems more appalled than Fazil himself. "You have... you have placed a device inside the ball? You have... cheated?"

"Now I -- I --" Ken stammers. "I ain't -- aw, heck."

Fazil locks eyes with the ref. "I forfeit!" He says. "I hereby resign from play!" He looks again at Ken. "You have brought me nothing but shame! I spit on you!" (He spits on the ground for effect) "I spit on your family!" (He spits on the ground again) "Solemnly I repudiate your evil tactics and trickery!"

Making an X with his arms, he backs away. And then turning, he leaves the court in a huff. Ken, ashamed, hangs his head.

Rose is finally standing again, wedging the gauze already in her nostril a little deeper to stem the new tide of bleeding. "Guess it's just us now," she says.

"Of course," you say smugly. "But you only got here after two forfeits. Your luck is over as of now."

"Ally!" Alex laughs. "I'm sorry to say this, but... I think you're mistaken!"

"Why did you have to grow a conscience all of a sudden?" Kay grumbles when she joins you on the court. "You could have kept that to yourself until they won. We could have gotten them disqualified and taken the tournament by default..."

"Come on, now. You don't want to win by default. Isn't it more fun if you have to put some effort into it?"

"Fuck that," Kay grunts. "I just want to win. Winning by default suits me just fine."

Says the woman who wanted to enter the tournament by herself. But you let that drop.

Rose serves first. She's a little dizzy from a day of exercise and all the ball-abuse, so she double-faults on her first attempt. That's when you make a critical mistake. You laugh at her.

The next serve goes blazing down the centerline and right past you. 15-All.

"Goddamn it!" Kay says. "Are those two paying you or what? It's like you want them to win instead of us!"

Alex is the one laughing now. "Of course!" He says. He pulls a stray strand of hair behind his ear. "Ally cares about us so much that he's trying to hand us the win! He's a nice guy if he likes you!"

Leave it to Alex to find a way to be both sweet and sarcastic at the same time.

Kay is unforgiving, though, and her play brutally exploits the weaknesses she identified in their partnership beforehand. They have particular issue with covering the middle of the court, because they never seem to be able to coordinate on who should go for the ball when it's ambiguous; again and again Kay takes advantage of this and gets them bumping heads or otherwise just standing there uselessly while the ball lands between them. This in turn brings the two into conflict: Rose is bitching, and Alex is bitching right back. "It was your ball!" -- "What do you mean? It was over the service line! You're covering the front half!" -- "I was at the net! You were closer! You should have gone for it!"

It's a little sad watching their partnership crumble. But with match-point looming ever closer, Alex is turning his anger inwards, getting upset at himself. With every lost point, he pounds his forehead with the heel of his palm and mutters "stupid, stupid." Even Rose takes pity, and goes from naggy to motherly, trying to soothe him and get him to focus. She rubs his shoulders, pets his head; Alex is brushing her off, telling her that he just needs to try harder.

"We've got it," Kay says triumphantly. But at what cost?

Rose, from across the court, shoots you a recriminating look.

It comes down to the final set; if you can take it, you take the match. Rose and Alex would have to win the next two sets to turn it around. For them, all seems lost.

Even as he plays, Alex is turning to mush. He blames himself for his failure to perform and his head isn't in the game anymore, leaving Rose -- indefatigable -- to zoom around the court, fighting like mad to stay in competition. You secretly respect it a little. She doesn't give up even when it's already over.

A funny thing happens: she begins aiming for you. No matter where she intercepts the ball on her side of the net, she always tries to steer it back to you. It's a challenge. She wants you to actually play against her.

After the fifth or sixth volley like this, you take up the gauntlet. For the first time ever, you hit a ball that you didn't strictly have to hit -- shocking Kay who's halfway to it already.

"Don't do that!" Kay screams, skidding to a stop.

"Don't tell me what to do," you say.

Rose smacks the ball back. This time it's going to land closer to Kay than to you. By rights, she should be the one returning it. She squares herself up to hit it. But you get in front of her and interrupt, batting it back to Rose.

"Alabaster, I swear to God--!" Kay pants.

You ignore her. Like Rose2 before you, you enter into a back-and-forth volley with Rose from directly across the net that lasts for 20 or 30 returns.

Kay's insensate wailing whenever she hits the ball has got nothing on the invective you and Rose hurl at one another with every hit:

"CUNT!"

"ASSHOLE!"

"FUCK YOU!"

"GO TO HELL!"

"FAT WHORE!"

"PIG!"

"BITCH!"

"FAGGOT!"

With a roar of "SUCK MY COCK!" you swat the ball right over her head. She tumbles back, practically cartwheeling to catch it, but only succeeds in scuffing her knees. Alex is too flabbergasted by Rose's little homophobic slur there -- from her of all people -- to go for the ball either. You get the point.

When you turn, Kay is smiling. "I guess I've got a partner after all."

It's match-point and you're in another obscenity-laced volley with Rose.

You're going to win. Although neither you nor Rose are exactly prime athletes, you're just a little bit fitter, and you also haven't been exerting yourself as much as she has been for the past few hours. Victory is an inevitability.

But another spanner in the works. From the corner of your eye, you see Alex already leaving the court.

It's just a game, you try to tell yourself, to salve the way his glum expression makes your heart hurt. And besides, you have to show Rose that you're not going to lose to her.

That thought does nothing against the image of Alex sitting on a bench with his chin in both palms.

"MISOGYNISTIC PRICK!" comes Rose's war cry. But she had to lob the ball high and slow to catch it, and now you're perfectly positioned to spike it -- to end the tournament with one more hit.

>[x] Spike it.

[ ] Lose.

You spike the ball and win the match.

Except not, because to your utter shock -- Rose manages to return it. She flops to her stomach, diving, screaming, and just barely catches it at the edge of the court.

That dumb bitch can be so fucking fast when she wants to be. What a pain in the ass.

You're so stunned by that turn of events that you don't even move. Not to worry. Kay, in typical Kay fashion, carries you.

She intercepts the ball and bats it to the other side of the court from Rose.

Alex is suddenly on his feet again, rushing back into play -- to save the ball -- but for naught. He doesn't make it. The ref is announcing your victory.

"Awww man," Alex says.

Rose, panting as she totters to her feet, complains: "Goddamn it, Alex. You said the puppy dog shit would work!"

"I thought it would..."

"Wait..." you say as you put two and two together. "You mean--"

Alex rubs the back of his head. "Sorry, Ally! I thought I could sucker you. Guess you're too smart for that, huh."

"You were only pretending to be upset?" You sputter. "What?"

"Well -- yeah. I mean, it's all just a game, Ally! No hard feelings." He makes a pouty face, eyes narrowing and lips curling to one side of his cheeks. "I did want to win, though... but you had to team up with a regular Maria Sharapova..."

"I don't feel so good," Rose says, wobbling on her feet. As always, all of the physical abuse is only catching up with her after everything is over with. "I need to go... sit down..."

She limps off the court, with Alex's assistance.

That devious little cocksucker. He took advantage of you! He almost made you throw the match!

Kay is hoisting the trophy high above her head, exulting in the thrill of the win. Whitney seems none too pleased to be presenting it to her. And Armstrong, tilting his head in confusion, remarks from the bleachers: "That woman doesn't even work here!"

Kay ignores that as she smiles and turns in a circle to display the shiny trophy for the crowd on both sides of the court.

You need a little time to yourself after almost handing victory on a silver platter to Rose and that no-good, dirty-rotten homosexual whose name you don't even want dignify with a mention. Lying sluts, the both of them!

So you go back to the Darkbloom Analytics campus and make your way to the showers by the saunas there. Turning the water on full blast and high heat, you lean with both palms up against the tile wall, head bowed, and let your brain fill with static. The sweat and grime of the day run down your body, to the floor and through the grating of the drain. It feels nice; and soon any sourness you had about that little ploy is starting to evaporate. Alex might have played dirty, but you can respect the grift. And it didn't work anyway. So let that be a lesson to him.

Plus... you'll have time enough to punish him properly, of course.

---

You figured you were alone down here, so you don't bother toweling up when you head for the lockers again to change.

Unfortunately, you aren't alone. Sitting on a bench in her sweat-drenched shorts and tanktop is Kay Vera. She's got her back up against the wall and one leg on the benchtop, intently focused on applying a compressive athletic bandage to her calf.

"Jesus!" You cry, ducking behind a locker, and groping in one of the nearby bins for a towel.

"Don't worry," Kay's voice comes, echoing off the walls. "I wasn't holding a magnifying glass, so I didn't see anything."

You peek your head around the corner. "Rethink your insults. I know I don't have any problems in that department. Believe me."

You finish tying off a towel around you waist and step out.

"Are you sure?" Kay says. She lets the spool of the bandage dangle from her leg as she looks up at you. "Maybe the girls in your life are just lying to spare your feelings."

"Compared to most guys I'm sure I'm doing just fine. But I admit I might not stack up, if you're comparing me to Lady."

Kay makes a disgusted little purr. "You are vile."

"Don't dish it out if you can't take it, Kay."

You turn to leave and find the locker with your street clothes. But behind you, you hear a little hiss -- a sharp intake of air through Kay's teeth, the wince of pain. You turn and see her rubbing the calf she's got wrapped up in the bandage.

You approach with a frown. "Are you gonna be okay or what?"

Her voice is a little breathy as she says, "Fuck, that hurts." Then, gulping, she adds: "I pulled a tendon carrying you, that's all. I'll be all right."

You kneel down and pull her injured leg straight out so it lies flat against the bench. "Let me see."

She rolls her eyes. "What, you're an expert in sports medicine now?"

"No, but I know a thing or two about dealing with sore muscles." Another skill years of living with Rose taught you.

"I guess this is how you managed to seduce your way through a harem's worth of girls," Kay says. "Color me unimpressed. I'm losing what little respect I had for my fellow women."

"I'm not trying to fucking seduce you," you grouse. "This is purely platonic concern for a teammate."

Still, the slightly sour smell of Kay's unwashed body, laced with pheromones as it must be, combined with the give of her bruised and tender skin, has a predictable effect on you. You try to ignore it as you administer a soothing massage to Kay that works the kinks out of her muscles.

"Why were you so obsessed with winning?" You ask. "It's not like anyone's going to care about it by tomorrow."

"I'll care," she says.

"That's a little masturbatory, isn't it?"

"And who are you to criticize people for THAT? You're throwing stones in a glass house, aren't-- ahh--" She puts a flattened palm up against her lips and lets out a gasp as you hit a particularly sore area.

"Softer or harder?" You prompt.

"Harder."

You oblige. Your thumbs work in tight little circles, creating little dimples in her skin, and your fingers encircle opposite sides of her baby-smooth calf. Maybe she didn't really know what she was asking for because the little gasping "ahh" and "unf--" sounds increase in intensity.

"You doing okay?"

"I'm all right-- ahh--"

"Did you really hurt yourself that bad? You took this whole thing way too seriously."

"Hey -- hands where I can see them."

You pause, looking her in the eye, confused. When you look down, you notice it: in your ministrations, the tips of the fingers of one hand have crept up, and up -- past her knees, towards the legs of her shorts. It was genuinely unintentional.

"Trust me, Kay. I don't want to fuck you. If for no other reason than to save my hearing. If you make sounds like that on the tennis court, I don't even want to hear what you'd do in bed."

"I understand," Kay replies. "You're not used to hearing a girl moan in bed."

You shake your head, stare at the ceiling. "Seriously, Kay. There are insults that work on me. But this whole sexual inadequacy angle just doesn't cut it. You won't get under my skin that way."

"Are you sure? It seems like I am."

She curls and uncurls her toes in a playful way, the big toe brushing against your cheek. She pokes her tongue out at you.

If she wants to be like that, you'll get even. You know what button to press to annoy her now, too. You focus again on massaging her calf, but this time when your right hand creeps slowly upward, it's deliberate.

Your fingertips make it again to her shorts. She shuffles her legs, her spine goes rigid, and she pushes your hand back. "I told you once," she warns. "Next time it's a kick in the nuts, you understand?"

"Sorry, sorry," you lie. You bring your hand out of the danger zone again, and Kay relaxes. Her skin is turning to gooseflesh as the air conditioning here cools the sweat sheening her and makes her chilly. She hugs herself by the shoulders as she watches you work.

This is another opportunity, with her guard down, and you take it. Up creeps your hand.

She's like a cat after the laser pointer. She lurches and brings her palm down in a flash, pins your hand there with the fingers just under the legs of her shorts. One time is an accident, two times is a gentle tease, but three times is crossing a line, and her eyes are bulging with shock. She's frozen like that, so you push the matter. You bring your other hand up, over her other leg where it dangles from the edge of the bench. You get that hand almost all the way up inside her shorts, past the third knuckle, before she finds the wherewithal to pin it in place, too.

Arms criss-crossed to hold both your groping hands back, she's in even more of a state. This, combined with her onset of chill has her shivering. She stares at you like a frightened fawn.

Time to let her off the hook. "Okay, that was a little much. I think I've done about all I can for that tendon of yours, anyway--"

Kay cuts you off by suddenly hunching herself forward and locking lips with you.

You're so surprised that you do the instinctual thing and kiss her back, but only briefly. You pull away, and get your hands out of her shorts, and sit up straight on your knees. You hold your palms up like a magician saying, see, nothing up my sleeve. "I -- I think I gave you the wrong idea--"

Kay lunges from the bench and wraps herself around you, her hands embracing your head on either side. She forces you into another, deep, and needful kiss. You rock back and forth with her for a moment, unable to do anything but again return this kiss, as she pushes her tongue past your lips and invades your mouth. She ruffles your hair, moans into you, suckles on your tongue. You can taste the salty trickle of drying sweat on her lips and the stale vestiges of breath mints. Her body, in your hands, is rock-firm, the toned body of a woman who takes taking care of herself deadly seriously.

Still kissing you, she begins tugging at your towel. You try to push her back. "You're all sweaty and dirty right now," you protest. "Geez. If we're gonna do it, at least shower--"

Whatever switch you flipped in Kay is totally and irrevocably flipped. She's still tugging at your towel when she says: "No. Like this. Fuck me dirty, Alabaster."

That flips your switch, too. You help her get your towel undone and your hardening cockshaft springs free. You push her back now, easing her to the cold tile floor. Her eyes are fixated on that spot between your legs, and she isn't making fun of your size anymore, that's for sure.

You grab the elastic waistband of her shorts and tug them down. You don't bother getting them all the way off -- you stop at the knees. She wants to get fucked dirty, so that's exactly how you're going to do it. Quick and dirty, and without any dignity.

Next come her sweat-saturated white cotton panties. Pulling these down, you clamber to get between her legs. The closeness of your bodies, and the fact that you've got her mostly naked now, means you can even more strongly detect her unique scent. It's not clean, but it's not unpleasant. It really is laced with pheromones and it fuels a sort of primal urge in your hindbrain that broadcasts a simple command on repeat: "Mate! Mate! Mate!"

Kay is less enthusiastic all of a sudden, though. She's still staring at your prong. Dithering, she says: "You should know... I, uh..."

"Out with it," you grunt, impatient.

"I never, um..."

Oh god.

"You're fucking with me," you say. "Never? Aren't you, like... 27, 28?"

"T-twenty... twenty nine..."

This is criminal. You and Kay might spar but you've always allowed that she's gorgeous. She's never gotten laid before? How?

"Just take it slow, all right?" She says.

You nod. On your knees between her, you widen your stance, to push her legs further apart, and give you access to the prize: a pussy mound that drips with wetness, a mixture of sweat and womanly desire. The lips are dark, almost mauve, a much deeper and richer color than other women you've fucked. But pussy is pussy, and hers is beautiful. It looks as tight as the rest of her. It probably is, you reason. You're going to be the first and only man to get your cock up her.

Slowly, stifling the part of you that wants to slam yourself into her to the hilt and fuck her ragged, you get the head of your cock pressed up against the virginal entrance of her cuntslit. With a sigh, you begin to push. The slimy texture of her unwashed mound provides the lubrication you need and makes the going a bit easier. Still, she moans and gasps in some discomfort, discomfort that mixes and melds with lust while she watches you steal her cherry. She chews her fingers and just watches. The awareness in her eyes is plain, she knows there's no going back now. She gave it up for you. And those tiny inhaling gasps of hers drive you further forward, impel you to make sure her virginity is well and truly gone. Before long you're going to fill this virgin's pussy with sperm.

Once you're sunk about halfway in, you wrap your arms around her and lift her up. Leaning back to your butt, you've got her now in your lap. Gravity will help you do what brute force can't. You need to make sure she takes the full length of your cock on her first fuck.

Kay is a right mess now, all her bravado gone as she struggles atop your cock. Nonetheless, she helps you get it deeper and deeper. You make out with her wetly, her breath hot against you.

Depraved synapses firing, you moan: "You ARE dirty, huh? You've got a nice dirty little cunt..."

Gyrating her hips, she moans back in delight: "Clean me off..."

You run your hands up and down her body, and find the hem of her tank top, and roll it off of her. She helps, raising her arms for you, but the garment stubbornly adheres to her body and makes it a bit difficult. She's sweating all over, new beads and trickles mixing with the old. You take your lips from hers and trail kisses down the hollow of her neck, to her tiny A-cup breasts and ribs, her tight tummy, back up to her shoulders and arms. Even her bare armpits. All the while, you fuck your cock in and out of her drooling snatch. Her wagging hips sync with yours and her unsullied pussy milks you off. You enjoy the tangy, slightly bitter taste of her grimy skin. The sensation of being kissed and licked all over must be ticklish because she's laughing in ecstasy between moans of pleasure and little gasps of: "fuck me! Fuck me!"

Suckling on her skin, leaving little hickeys in your wake, enjoying the way Kay pets you as she would a dog, and loving the way her tight cunt shudders around your raping cock, you're about to lose your load. You're fucking like animals and you're going to finish like an animal: "I'm gonna cum inside," you tell her. That's a warning, not a request for permission, but she warms to it. She picks up the pace as well, trying to coax it out.

"Yes," she cries, "yes! Fill me up!"

Your cum is fighting against gravity and the vice-like grip of her interior walls but it races out anyway and bursts from the head of your dick with the force of a firehose. Kay's wail -- it really is like the noise she makes on the tennis court -- transforms over the course of several lingering seconds into a little choked squeal, then into nothing, as she throws her head back and lets her jaw hang loose and cums on your cumming cock. She's cumming as you take away this last trace of her virginity, and fuck her womb full of hot jizz. Your cockhead pulses, and spurts, and makes a wet mess inside of her. She's dirty now inside and out.

GIRLS FUCKED: 8/12

Kay has finished cleaning herself and drying off. She's still naked from the waist-up and now she's languidly pulling on a pair of pantyhose in the locker room as she informs you: "Whitney talked to me a little earlier."

"Yeah, so? She didn't say the N word again, did she?"

Kay makes a face. "She told me she's looking for an old research partner of Renee Carte's. Gustav Eichmann. Figured I would know."

You squint at her.

"And wouldn't you know it," Kay says with a grin, "but in fact I do."

"How the fuck do you know everything before the rest of us?"

"That's a trade secret. Sorry."

"I guess all that time not fucking leaves you with nothing better to do."

She flips you off.

"Well?" You say. "Where is he?"

"Why do you want to know?" Kay demands. "Are you stupid motherfuckers working on another Sand Reckoner? Or maybe your sister isn't all better, after all -- something is still wrong with her. Those are about the only reasons I can think of that would make you want to get in touch with that wannabe Nazi hack."

>[x] Tell her.

[ ] Make something up.

"There's something wrong with Cerise," you admit. "I'm not going to say anything more."

"I'll find out," Kay says. "So you might as well."

"You know as well as I do that there could be listening devices in here--"

Kay reaches for her purse, opens it up. "I've got a handy-dandy listening device of my own," she says. She shows you something that looks like a portable radio, or Walkman. "This will beep if there's anyone listening in. And it isn't beeping, so..."

"It doesn't matter," you say. "It's my family. My personal business. Something is wrong with Cerise's implant, and Gustav Eichmann can help us. Tell me where he is or don't -- we'll find him either way."

Kay puts a finger to her lips in a very Steve Jobs-ian thinking pose. She contemplates this. "Something is wrong in her brain. All scrambled up by Sand Reckoner. Amnesia? Or does she still see things the way Sand Reckoner sees -- is she overloaded with information?"

You give her a steely glare.

"All right," Kay says. "So whatever it is, it's serious. Life threatening?"

"Yes."

"Business threatening?"

"Yes."

"...World threatening?"

"Quite likely, yes."

"Wow."

She pulls out a pen, and a slip of paper, and writes. "This is a PO box. You can reach him there. He's very analog these days, for good reason."

"You remember this random person's mailing address -- just like that?"

She smirks that annoying smirk of hers. "You're not the only one with a good memory. That's another requirement of my trade. Here."

She hands it over. You read.

"Palau?" You say. "Talk about running to the edges of the Earth. I'm not sure where Palau even is."

She laughs. "Pull out your atlas, then. Who knows. If things get much worse, maybe you'll have to take a permanent vacation there too."

---

You sit for a long time in the driver's seat of your car, in the parking garage across from Darkbloom Analytics. Saul's text that Cerise's little "interview" with Noelle is over has helped put your worried mind a bit more at ease. But you've still got 1,000 other problems, and they're rapidly multiplying.

Kay was fun, but you still need to take the edge off.

>[x] Alex's apartment -- to punish him.

[ ] Dr. Carte's -- to drill for quiz night, even if Whitney is sure to interrupt...

>[x] Home, with Cerise -- to unwind with a wholesome family movie night.

You just want to go home for the night. Aside from the fact that you're tired and sore all over, you're sure Rose would like a break from keeping an eye on Cerise. Beneath their bickering, you know they do care for each other (of course, those idiots would never admit it!) But having to spend every waking moment together must be a little much. And you did promise to separate them, after all.

There's a lot of anime in your backlog too. Cerise, who's had a lot of free time since waking up, has made recommendations: obviously she's nuts about the NeeKyu revival, which was unexpectedly announced and brought to air right before the season began. Aside from that, she really enjoys Bunnygirl Senpai from the prior year -- seemed a bit dumb, to you, when you first heard about it. And she says that poor Rose, forced to watch alongside her, has managed to find enjoyment in an anime from last winter season. Kaguya-sama you think it's called, which you never followed either.

So there's lots to choose from. And so little time, these days.

At home, these expectations of a quiet night being a homebody with Cerise evaporate. In Cerise's bedroom, you find Rose (as expected), all gauzed up and still pale from the blood loss. Cerise too, obviously. But also an unexpected third: Alex.

"Hey there, Ally! Uh -- hope you don't mind."

Two things you notice straight away.

One, Cerise is slumming it, as usual; braless tee and panties, the NEET special. She might protest that she wants to be gainfully employed again, but the rotten soul of a NEET remains.

Two, Alex is in Cerise's maid costume -- now there's a memory.

Only after these observations do you realize the reason for the occasion. Cerise has all her old circuit bending gear arrayed on her desk, and she's been dissecting one of her Furbies. Alex, sitting alongside, with a soldering iron in hand, is her gleeful assistant.

"They're entering business together," Rose says. "Isn't that sweet?" Her speech is slurred and she's clearly drowsy.

"Is that so?" You say. "Going back on stream, Cerise?"

"Uh-huh!" Alex answers for her.

"I couldn't say no when he hit me with those puppy dog eyes," Cerise confirms. So that settles it: between the two of you, Cerise is the bigger sucker. "Alex is going to be my cohost."

"In that getup?" You say. "Alex, you're on the board of a Fortune 500 company. I know this is 2019 but it's a little -- uh --"

"That's why there's this!" He says. He grabs a surgical mask off Cerise's desk and dons it. "Like a bandit. Totally anonymous." He makes finger guns at you.

You actually, and without irony, clutch at your chest. It should be illegal for boys to be this cute. (In some jurisdictions, it actually is.)

"We were just finishing up," Cerise tells you.

"Good," you say, "wait here."

You help Rose to her feet and walk her to her bedroom. "Where's Whitney?" You ask. "I didn't see her car in the driveway."

"She assumed you were at her mom's, so she went over. Turns out dear old mother was still trying to help Vivian get over her loss in the tournament. So now I guess they're all having a big cry-in together. Honestly. Vivian is such a baby about these things... she doesn't know how to lose with grace..."

"Oh, and you do," you say, helping her in to bed.

"Of course," she says. "I learned from the best."

"Are you calling me a loser? In case all those concussions made you retarded, I beat you tonight. You were the loser."

"No. I beat you. The only reason you won that point is because of Kay. But you and I... we know the truth. Rose wins."

"Don't talk about yourself in the third person. It's creepy."

"Rose wins."

"I'll deal with you later," you say, as she snuggles up, and you leave again for Cerise's bedroom.

"I should stop bothering you two!" Alex says, hopping up from his chair. The skirt of the maid costume ruffles as he does. "I'll get changed again and head back home."

"No bother," you tell him. "I've got business with you."

"Err..." he says, shifting his weight from foot to foot and biting his lower lip. "What kind of business?"

You grab him about the waist and tug him toward you -- then grip him by either shoulder. The gasp he makes is really more of a tiny squeak.

The gasp Cerise makes is louder, and tinged with a little undercurrent of perversion.

Alex is fearful. "A-Ally..."

You force him to walk backwards, so that you're both at the foot of Cerise's bed. Turning, you lift him and get him on his stomach over your lap.

"Oh my god," Cerise says. "What are you doing?"

You glance up at her. "Should I take this back to my bedroom?"

"What? I didn't tell you to stop!"

Alex, looking at Cerise with pleading eyes, finally realizes that no help is coming. "B-but..." he stammers. He looks back at you, lips quivering. "W-why?"

"You tried to fool me," you say. "That's not gonna fly."

"Uh, uh... I'm sorry..." he says in a tiny voice, and seems genuinely remorseful. Then again, who can tell? You need to remind him the hard way that honesty is the best policy.

You reach back and hike up the frilled hem of his costume. You chuckle. "Panties too?" You say, marveling at the pink polyester fabric covering his butt.

Alex makes a humiliated little whine. "It's... part of the costume..."

"You're such a fucking slut, Alex." He makes another embarrassed sound at this, but you feel the truth of his reaction, pressing up against your knee: his little cock lurches.

You raise your hand high above your head. Cerise, her breath hitching, stares transfixed at the sight before her. She obviously didn't expect to be suddenly in the front row of How to Punish Your Trap 101. But she's happy for the show. She flexes her thighs rhythmically, and paws at her tits through her shirt, already all worked up. And the real fun hasn't even begun.

You bring your hand down now, hard -- just as hard as you can. The slap resounds in the dimly-lit bedroom. So does Alex's cry of pain and humiliation. You do it again, and a third time. Alex's weight shifts forward then back again with each hit. His cock is hardening more and more. Yours is, too.

"He should -- he should be bare," Cerise says between deep breaths. She foregoes shame and gets her hand down her panties. She starts masturbating right there in front of you, digging her fingers into her twat while she watches.

"What's that?" You say, just to make her tell you exactly what she wants to see.

"If you're going to spank him -- do it right -- spank his bare ass..."

"Cerrrisssseee..." Alex pleads, but it falls on deaf ears because all Cerise says in response, is to you: "Do it, Alabaster... spank him raw... punish him."

You grab that whorish little pair of panties and tug them. You pull Alex's stockinged legs off your lap so to get the panties fully off him. You toss them aside. Alex's milky bubble butt is on display now, and beneath him, you feel the heat of his throbbing prick against your knee.

"Count to five for me," you tell him.

"W-what?"

You smack his ass. Instantly it turns red, and a welt in the shape of your hand starts to form. He yells, but says nothing sensible.

"I lost track," you say mockingly, "so we'll have to start over. Remember to count, now."

"I--"

The next smack echoes off the walls. Alex is smart: he counts, loud, through a gulp of air: "Two!"

"I don't think that was two," you say. "Doesn't one come before two? Let's start over just to be safe."

The sound of Cerise's fingers in her cunt is loud and wet. She pauses only to get her shirt off her body, all the better to tweak and play with her fat nipples.

The next smack is the hardest yet and begins to bruise poor Alex's abused butt. His tongue wags as he wails: "One!"

Smack -- "Two!" -- smack -- "Three!"

You shrug. "I didn't catch that one. Where are we?"

"Th-three! Three, Mr. Ally!"

"I'm not sure... Cerise?"

"I lost count too..." she says, delirious with depravity. She's got her legs spread wide and she's sitting on her tail bone as her knuckles strain the black fabric of her panties. She smiles lecherously.

"Let's start over."

"Alllyyyy..."

Smack!

"One!!"

Smack!

"Ow! Two! It hurts! It really, really hurts, Mr. Ally!"

Smack!

"Three-eee... owww... stoo-ooop..."

"Are you sure it hurts?" You ask. "Your little prick is leaking on my jeans."

Cerise hisses in pleasure at this.

"Ow... ow-owww... please stop... it hurtsss..."

Smack!

"FOUR!" He's sobbing.

Smack!

"Five! Five!!! PLEASE, Mr. Ally..."

"Are you sorry?"

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

You cock a finger at Cerise. "Come here."

She's standing, but her hands are still in her underwear, and she's still masturbating. She looks adoringly at Alex's ass, the different shades of red and black and blue you've created. He won't be sitting comfortably for a while.

"Get him ready for me," you say.

She knows what you mean. She lays a hand on one globe of Alex's butt -- he sobs anew at this sensation -- and spreads him. The white little pucker of his anus is there, winking at both of you. He knows what's going to happen now.

Still frigging herself off, Cerise leans forward, opens her mouth, and drools. A viscous stream descends from the edge of her lip down to Alex's asshole. You helpfully take over the duty of holding Alex's ass open now, while she smears the spit around and then fucks her finger in and out of the hole. She spends over a minute doing that, and you let her, because she's obviously having so much fun. She plays with her cunt while she plays with Alex's ass. First one finger, then two, then three -- spreading Alex's ass nice and wide in preparation for you, but mostly for her own selfish and sadistic pleasure.

"Now me," you command through gritted teeth.

Sinking to her knees with zero hesitation, Cerise undoes your fly, and pulls out your cock. You close your eyes and relish the sensation of your older sister fellating you. She gets you deep, way deep, into the recesses of her throat. And she makes it extra wet for you, purposely letting little geysers of her drool leak out all around you, down your shaft and into your crotch, while she heaves and gags. Gagging on your cock must really get her off because you hear a soft patter, and know that she's cumming, squirting all over the carpet of her bedroom floor as she tries to force you deeper still.

"Good," you say. "Good."

She pulls off you, falls to her ass, and finally dispenses with her panties. Not completely -- they're still hooked around one ankle -- but she's naked enough. She sits spread eagle on the ground, one hand playing with her still creaming cunt and one hand exploring her own asshole, while she watches.

You lift Alex up, and around, so you're chest-to-back with him. "Hold my cock up for me," you whisper leeringly in his ear. "Help me fuck you."

"O...okay... okay..."

He reaches between you, grips you with a trembling hand, and dutifully holds your prick so you can sodomize him. Cerise's hands are a blur on her genitals as she repeats: "Fuck him... fuck him, Alabaster... fuck him fuck him fuck him FUCK HIM--"

Alex's fists ball up and clench to his chest as you sink deep into the snug confines of his asshole. It's a beautiful sight, to watch your perverted sister playing with herself while you use Alex for an onahole like this. You bounce him up and down. Alex's foreskin-covered cock also bounces, in tune with the force of your jackhammer thrusts. He's really nothing but a disposable fucktoy like this, right now.

Cerise can't handle this. Her overstimulated cunt is a fountain as she cums and cums, so hard you think she's probably pissing herself, but she doesn't care. Her fingers are deep inside, pussy and asshole, digging, spreading, strumming -- getting her off again and again.

Her eyes are distant and glazed over. She seems to be moving without conscious thought when she rises to her knees, and her mouth drifts open, and she begins to lap like a hungry kitten at the spot where you're fucking Alex. Her tongue is hot, and worshipful, and indiscriminate. She licks from your heavy balls, up the length of your pistoning shaft, all around the stretched hole of Alex's boypussy, and even higher still, up Alex's bouncing cockshaft too, which elicits tremulous girly moans from him, ending finally in a few wet swirls around the inside of his foreskin, against the sensitive head. Then all the way down again, drooling over your cock once more, kissing your balls, licking you oh so lovingly. Back and forth she goes, using her mouth to show her appreciation for the show, and to give you extra lubrication, while she rides a basically continuous orgasm.

You're going to pop off too, so you grab Alex's shoulders and force him all the way down, to get yourself fully inside. And then you let loose. The rush of hot semen against Alex's prostate makes him go too. With staccato moans he lets out ropes of thin, slimy cum. Cerise gets hit with it -- cups her hands in front of her to catch it and let it pool there. When you pull out of Alex's ruined little pussy, your cum sloshes out of the hole and she catches this too, a big puddle of your intermingled cum forming in her palms. This she brings with her as she stands. She holds it up to Alex's face and smears it all around. Alex is panting like a bitch, almost invisible under the opaque white film of jizz that Cerise paints him with. Thick ropes of it dangle from his chin, and fat dollops plop on the apron of his costume, staining it. Cerise sighs in satisfaction at her handiwork. You do too. He looks like a cheap, nasty fucking whore. And the look really suits him.

It's well past midnight when you wake up again. You're cuddled beside Cerise, who is secured tightly, hands and ankles ziptied together -- a nighttime precaution against the potential of an unwelcome visitor. (Alex, all cleaned up, is passed out next to Rose in her bed -- it would have been difficult to explain to him the need for tying Cerise up.)

What wakes you, you realize, is the incessant ringing of the doorbell. Over and over again it chimes. Rose and Alex must both be too exhausted -- each for different reasons -- for it to have roused them. Cerise, even if she woke up, would of course be unable to answer. And Whitney, you assume, isn't home yet (wasn't she was just bitching at you about unscheduled sleepovers with her mom?...)

So it's up to you.

Groggy and wiping the sand from your tear ducts, you march downstairs. "I'm coming, I'm coming," you groan.

You open the door. Standing there is your mother.

Her eyes are searching your face, looking for something. For what, you're not sure. That recognition is still there, though. It burns brighter than ever.

You pluck up the courage to say it this time. Nodding reassuringly, and laying a hand on her shoulder, you say: "Mom..."

She slaps you.

You reel back, clutching your cheek. "What the fuck!"

"Did you mess with my head? What did you do to me, Alabaster?"

"I didn't do anything," you insist.

"Am I some kind of test subject? Is that what this is? Did you put false memories in my brain? What did you do to me? Answer me!"

You stand tall again, and look her straight in the eye. "It's not a false memory. I don't know how... I really don't... but it's for real."

She clenches both her jaw and her fist.

"It's..." you begin, but trail off. You gaze up and over her shoulder, at the moon, thinking. After a moment, you try again. "When I was in 6th grade, I put off a science project until the very last day before it was due. You helped me make a scale model of the solar system out of styrofoam... we stayed up til 1 AM working on it... and then you grounded me for procrastinating."

She winces and violently shakes her head, as if trying to reject this.

"The first time Whitney came over for dessert for dinner Sunday, you kicked her out, but you still sent her home with a tupperware full of apple pie."

She's jutting her jaw in and out, eyes closed, practically hyperventilating.

"When Cerise graduated from high school, you framed the diploma and put it on the wall in the living room. But she made you take it down because it embarrassed her."

"Stop!" She screams. "Stop it! It's not true! I'm not your mother!"

"If you aren't my mother, who are you, then?"

"I'm... I'm Scarlett Catachresis... I'm Rose and Amber's mother... I always have been."

"You taught me everything I know about how to cook. And a lot of other stuff... stuff I didn't ever thank you for."

She wipes stray tears away with the back of her palm. "You're an awful cook. There's no way I taught you how to cook, because I certainly would have done a much better job than that!"

"Mom..." you say.

You step forward, slowly, and draw her into a hug. Sobbing, she hugs you back.

END OF EPISODE 5.