Season 3 Episode 8: Boku no StuCo

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, Sadpanda Spelunker and defiler of idols.

October 7, 2011

On their annual sojourn into the desert to hunt quail, David Darkbloom and Vasily Kerimov discussed finances -- as always -- but the "home office," as Vasily always euphemstically calls it, seems to be souring on David's management.

When normal investors lose faith in the CEO, they support an ouster and the CEO is fired. If David's darker sources of income lose faith in him, however, he knows being out of a job is the least concern. To drive that home, near the end of their hunting trip, Vasily ominously remarked that the Cosa Nostra used to use the desert here between Basrstow and Las Vegas as a convenient place to dispose of bodies.

Now, that evening, David is in his study, poring over Darkbloom Enterprises financial reports to assess the scope of the crisis. He does it to himself, and that's what really hurts: sterling performance in quarter 3 utterly demolished by the money-hole that is his secret Penelope project. He is developing new wrinkles on his already careworn face in real-time. And it is just then when he hears a small voice from over by the door, near the fireplace: "Euripedes?"

Darkbloom folds stapled sheets back over themselves and sets the current document aside. He swivels in his chair and smiles at Vivian. "Yes! Eumenides?"

This is Vivian's favorite greeting of late, although David sees her so infrequently that it doesn't get much currency. It's the punchline of a tired old joke about a Greek playwright who rips his trousers and visits the tailor to have them fixed. David taught it to Vivian last year. He himself learned it at age 13 -- and, repeating it to his own father back in those days, got called a faggot for his trouble.

Vivian is holding Johann in front of her face the way she does when she's too anxious to look people in the eye.

"Good evening, Johann," David says. "Have you seen Vivian?"

"I have not," is Vivian's best impression of a refined gentleman.

"Shame. I had some cherry cordials to share with her."

Renee taught him this maneuver. He wouldn't otherwise have guessed that little Vivian is as easily motivated by the promise of sweets as any ordinary little girl. But in fact she is, and now Johann is saying: "Aha! I believe I see her now."

Vivian lowers the stuffed penguin so David can look at her properly.

He waves her closer, and she steps forward into the warm little room. He hauls her up on his lap. From his drawer he produces a little bonbon wrapped in red foil. He hands it to her, and she eagerly unwraps it, and bites into it, and it leaves a little dollop of sticky syrup on her chin. Darkbloom wipes it off with a tissue for her. She grimaces, but lets him.

"I did not know you kept cordials in your desk," she says.

"My secret hiding spot has been revealed," David says with mock despair. But he is quick to remind her: "I know how many candies are in this drawer. Do not think you can sneak any without permission. Cherry cordials are a sometimes food."

"Yes. The caloric content is too high for the relatively small nutritional value."

He bounces her a little on his his knee. She smiles wanly.

"Can I count on your vote in the upcoming election?" Johann asks.

"You can. I will even contribute towards your campaign."

"Huzzah. Your support is critical to my success."

"What is the voting age in Antarctica?" David asks.

"Ten and a half," Johann replies.

"What a happy coincidence. This means Vivian can vote for you as well."

"Indeed. Her support is also key."

Vivian is quiet for a turn, so David finally says: "There is something on your mind."

"Of course," Vivian says. She fiddles with Johann's fur. "My mind is always occupied with important matters."

"As it should be. But there is no one better to help you work through important matters than your father. What are you trying to work through?"

She stares at the ground. "I am wondering -- if I could come and work at the company."

David laughs in his leonine way. "You are a bit young yet, to worry about your career. When the time is right, you will have your rightful place there. I promise."

"Mm."

"But is that truly what you want for your career? You should set your sights higher than running the family business."

"It is only natural. I want to continue your legacy--"

"I know. But you are capable of greater things." He holds her by either shoulder and squeezes. "The world is yours, Vivian. Maybe one day you will let someone else take the reins of the company -- and instead do something to shape the course of history itself. You could even be a President, like Johann here."

"Mm."

"But this is all so far in the future. In the meantime, you should focus on your education. Are you getting on with your tutors? Still progressing nicely with integrals?"

"The tutors are fine."

"You seem dispirited. Something else troubles you."

"It is just... I never see you, father. If I could come and work at the company..."

He puts his broad, strong palm on the top of her head. "I understand. This is not about your career, after all -- is it."

"I miss you."

"I miss you too, Vivian. You are never far from my mind."

She leans against his body and grips the sides of his coat, tight, in both fists. She inhales the scent of his cologne, his warmth. "I do not wish to be maudlin... I am sorry."

"It is quite all right."

"Father, do you... do you love me?"

David tilts his head and peers down at his daughter, confused. "Why would you think I don't?"

But tears are slowly trickling down her cheeks, so he hugs her tight, and says (one of maybe a dozen or so times he ever directly does) -- "I love you, Vivian."

---

You slowly wind your car up a long, twisting driveway until finally you sit parked outside Vivian's new house. It's a hell of a contrast to the gloomy Tudor style of the Darkbloom manor; Vivian selected a home in the modernist style, all smooth white reinforced concrete, spindly columns holding up a boxy second story above a carport, the perimeter dominated by enormous windows. She's only just relocating, and even now a moving crew is busily unloading Vivian's things from two different trucks -- there's just so much of it.

"This is the house Vivian chose?" Darkbloom says. "It's so dreadfully gaudy."

"Yeah," you say sarcastically, peering out your windshield, scanning your eyes across the house's exterior. "I'm sure that's the first thing Vivian wants to hear from the father she's been mourning for more than a year." You turn to face Cerise. "I get it. It's hard to accept that your daughter isn't your creepy little clone anymore. That she's got her own tastes and opinions. Is that it?"

Darkbloom grimaces.

"After you," you tell him.

He steps out and walks up the driveway like someone dazed. You follow close behind.

Up a short slat staircase, inside the squat, yawningly wide-open tiled living area of the home, you find Vivian, sitting on a couch, filing her nails; and Whitney, turning in circles, directing the movers.

One of the men makes the mistake of asking Vivian directly, about a china hutch: "where do you want this?" -- to which Vivian replies with a distressed, wordless murmur. Whitney intercedes, saying: "Over there is fine. We'll figure it out."

Seeing you and Cerise now, Whitney greets you happily -- oblivious as always, and not noticing that Cerise has bright blue eyes at the moment. Vivian, her attention catching, looks up. She notices it straight off: "Cerise -- are you wearing contact lenses?"

"Vivian..." Darkbloom says. He begins to say something further, but Vivian recoils, rubbing her forehead, wincing.

"I apologize," she says weakly, "I've had this terrific headache come on a few moments ago, and --" she gulps down air.

"What is he doing here?" Whitney demands. She's staring at Cerise with contempt.

"He wanted to see you two. I told him he could on the condition that he keeps himself well-behaved..."

"Thanks for consulting me, assface," Whitney says.

Vivian, still weak, and massaging her temples, says: "He? Have I missed something?"

"Is your bedroom all unpacked yet?" You ask, speaking over Darkbloom, who is -- in what must be a first -- struggling to find words.

"Yes. I suppose you wish to speak in private?"

---

Cerise is on the edge of Vivian's four-post bed, hands in her lap; Whitney and Vivian stare down at her. Vivian has not taken the news very well at all. She is angry and reeling in disbelief: "This... must surely be a cruel practical joke. Absurd -- utterly specious. To think you could make me believe that father has been transported into the body of someone else." She looks to you, now: "This entire ruse is sick and detestable. Did Whitney put you up to this? And why? I demand an accounting from you all--"

"Euripedes?" Darkbloom says in a small voice. You cock your head in confusion at this. But it instantly defuses Vivian's ranting. She turns slowly towards Cerise, lips atremble. And then her entire body is shivering, as if wracked by a sudden chill.

"...Euripides..." Vivian repeats. She sounds half shellshocked.

"Yes!" Darkbloom replies. "Eumenides?"

There must be hidden significance to this exchange because it seems to have convinced Vivian of the truth, just like that. Tears well up and come running down in big fat drops. She holds the heels of her palms to her cheeks and clutches her face, and actually falls to her knees. Darkbloom is on the ground with her now in an instant, hugging her, as Vivian says: "Father -- father!"

Vivian weeps against Cerise's chest for a minute or two. Big, gasping, inconsolable sobs. Darkbloom gently strokes her hair and tries to soothe her. "I am here," he repeats over and over, "I am here."

But then all at once Vivian is pushing herself away, wriggling herself free. Darkbloom reaches out for her again, but she swats the outstretched hand and refuses his touch.

"Why?" Vivian demands. "Why did you -- why did you...." There are too many whys and not nearly enough time to list them all.

"I did not intend for things to end as they ended," he says. "But everything I did, I did for you."

"Liar!" Vivian barks. "You did it for you. You did it for your insane ego. You did it for your hubris. Do not think you can manipulate me with your self-justifications and revisionism!"

Darkbloom is shamefaced. He has no rebuttal.

"You... you are a monster," Vivian tells him. "And you deserved the death you got."

Darkbloom reacts to this as if he had been physically struck.

She stands, and sniffles back her tears, and backs slowly away. Then, turning on her heels, she's gone. The door slams behind her.

Now it's Darkbloom who's crying. "I don't know what's come over me," he says through the tears. "Usually I am in much better command of my emotional state. I think my mind is overwhelmed by female hormones--"

"Jesus," Whitney breathes. "Vivian did you even dirtier than I was gonna. That was rough."

Darkbloom stares at the ceiling. "Alabaster -- if you will permit it, may I speak with Whitney in private?"

You glance at Whitney. She seems unhappy with this prospect, but she isn't saying no.

>[x] Let them speak in private.

[ ] Refuse.

And:

>[x] Try to get Vivian back in the room.

[ ] Let her go.

"Remove that person from my home, please," Vivian says when you return to the living room.

"I will. He wanted to talk to Whitney for a little bit, but we'll go back home after that."

"Is Ms. Carte aware of this? She must be made aware -- she will remedy the situation --"

"She's working on it. He'll be gone for good soon enough."

"Splendid news."

She sounds anything but happy.

"Are you going to be okay with that?" You ask Vivian. "I mean -- if what you just said to him, is the last thing you ever say to him?"

Vivian is trying to appear aloof, but you know she's struggling with a horrible inner conflict. "You helped kill him. Why should you take any greater measure of pity on him than I do?"

"He's not my dad," you say. "Unless some other big plot twist is in the works." You massage the bridge of your nose. How to make her understand? She's setting herself up for a regret you know all too well. "Vivian -- I'm not doing this for his sake. I know you miss him. Don't spend the rest of your life wishing you said something else to him the last time you got the chance to speak. Because who knows if you'll ever see him again."

"What else is there to say?" She asks.

"I don't know. 'I love you, dad'? Or however you two weirdos expressed affection. I'm not well versed on the father-daughter bonding of robots."

She frowns, but you seem to have moved her enough to stomach seeing him again, if only one more time.

A few minutes later, when Vivian is composed, and the murmuring from within her bedroom is done, Vivian's first words to Darkbloom are not affection, but interrogation:

"Why did you leave me nothing? Why did you hand everything to Whitney?"

"I... thank you, Vivian, for returning. I want you to know that I understand --"

"Answer me."

Darkbloom sighs. "It is as I told you time and again. Running the company is not your destiny. You are meant for even greater things. I had a vision -- of the future -- that I built up for so very long... Whitney running the company without any trouble, and you, ascending to the Presidency... together you could have built an immortal legacy for this family..."

"Guess I'm a real disappointment, huh?" Whitney says.

"You do not disappoint me," Darkbloom tells her. "Quite the contrary. Under the circumstances, it is a miracle you have kept yourself and the people you care about alive. You were the right person to give control of the company to."

Whitney's expression is still contemptuous, but a little surprised at this -- and maybe a little proud over the praise.

"I meant every word of what I said earlier," Vivian tells Darkbloom. "And this just brings the truth of it to bear. Whitney and I were two pieces on the chessboard for you. The same as everyone else."

"You were," he admits. "But you were the most important ones. I was lucky to have had two queens... oh, but nevermind. I have learned... just recently... the folly of planning. And now I am merely a ghost passing through. I will trouble you for not much longer. If you ever wish to consult me, I... but I suppose you never needed that either. You will want to be through with me completely, and that is fine. Just know my heart was only ever full of love for you. You must believe this, please -- if nothing else at all."

"I hate you," Vivian says. "Rationally I should. But... when I assess it with the fullness of my memories and emotions, the vestige of filial affection is there too."

"I, uh," Whitney says. "Is that your way of saying 'I love you'?"

"I still love you, father."

Vivian hugs Darkbloom. Darkbloom hugs her back. The hug has a heaviness to it, though. There is something broken there that cannot be repaired. And when Vivian pulls away, Cerise's eyes are normal again.

"What did he want?" you ask Whitney on the drive home.

"Couple things. He didn't think Vivian was coming back so he gave me this list of offshore companies he had with a bunch of money in them. Shell corporations, he called them... bunch of wild fuckin' names like Zebra Brain Interactive, Vermont Coma Genetics, Gyroscope Mandala LTD... basically, places to keep some extra cash where the big bad gubmint couldn't tax it."

"How much are they worth?"

"Dunno. Few billion? They weren't in the will and he figures they should go to her. I left the list written down for her."

"How nice of him," you say, drumming your thumbs on the steering wheel. "Not that Vivian needs any extra billions."

"Well fuck, I don't either," Whitney says. "Let the kid have 'em."

"What else did he want?"

Whitney hums. "Uhhh... I agree with the dumb asshole for once. It's probably best not to say the other thing. Knowing how you'd react."

"Fucking seriously?" You say. "You're going to let Darkbloom manipulate you into keeping secrets from me. Is that it?"

"See?" Whitney insists. "Like that!"

"She's kinda got a point," Cerise says from the backseat. "You have a habit of flying off the rails."

"I don't fly off the fucking rails! Fuck you!"

"Ally, if there's anyone who doesn't want to fall for Daddy Darkbloom's bullshit, it's me. I'm, like, hyper vigilante about that."

"Vigilant," you correct.

"Whatever, grammar Nazi--"

"That's not a grammatical mistake. That's a vocab mistake."

"Oh my GOD, Ally. Shut up. Listen. It's nothing you need to worry about right now, so don't. I'll handle it."

>[x] Drop it.

[ ] Demand to know.

"Okay," you say, calming yourself. "I trust you."

"You-- what?" Whitney says. She seemed keyed up for a fight already.

"You hear me. I'm trying to learn how to be more trusting."

Cerise clutches the headrests of both front seats and leans in between them: "Who are you and what have you done with Alabaster?"

"Ha ha," you grouse. "Don't act surprised. There's enough on my plate already so I sure as hell don't want to deal with any more of Darkbloom's bullshit if I don't have to. If you're telling me I don't, I'll believe you."

"Fuckin' A," Whitney says, smiling.

---

(Time for something else.)

[ ] Bar trivia.

[ ] A visit with the Catachresis family.

[ ] A date with Whitney.

>[x] Anime with Noelle.

You're in your bedroom on Saturday enjoying some quality me-time with a Mizuryu Kei doujin when you hear a pelt against your window.

You're too into the images on-screen to pay any attention to that, so you don't.

But then comes another. And a few seconds later, a third.

Is someone throwing pebbles at your fucking window?

"What on earth is that?" Rose asks, looking up from between your legs.

"I didn't tell you to stop sucking," you growl.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her palm. "Is someone throwing pebbles at your fucking window?"

What a goddamn mood killer. You tug yourself back into your fly and step across the room. Glancing out the window, you see -- Noelle. You pull the window up.

"Hey weeb-fucker! Let me in!"

"Are you shitting me right now? Can't you ring the doorbell like a normal person?"

"No! I don't want to be seen coming up to your doorstep!"

"And skulking around in my backyard like a burglar looks any better?"

"The point is not to be seen! I'm here for-- oh, motherfucker."

Rose is at the window now too. "Fascist pig," she sneers. "What are you doing here?"

"Should I ask why you're alone with your cousin in his bedroom on a Saturday night?" Noelle says.

"Once re-- go to hell," Rose says. She turns to you: "Should I call my dad?"

"No," you say. "I think she's here for personal reasons. I'll go down to the patio and let her in."

Rose follows you into the hallway. "Wait just a moment now," she says. You think she's going to tell you what a bad idea it is to invite the FBI into your house, but instead she hits you with: "I didn't get my turn!"

"You'll get your fucking turn," you say. You pause at the top of the stairs. "You always do, don't you? So don't worry about it. Being under your desk gives me a kink in my neck anyway so I need some time to get ready for it."

That's the arrangement for me-time you've had with Rose stretching all the way back to high school; it hinges on reciprocating in good faith, so you're not going to upset the balance.

"Asshole," Rose grumbles, turning for her bedroom.

Down in the kitchen, you're momentarily blinded by the the house's motion-activated exterior lights coming to life as Noelle approaches the sliding-glass door. You squint at her from the other side as if deliberating whether to let her in.

She waits for a few seconds. Then, stomping, she repeats Rose's assessment from earlier: "Asshole!" Her voice is muffled by the thick glass. But after sadistically letting her hang for a bit, you relent, and let her into your home.

"You could have told me you were coming," you say. You lead her back to your room.

"I didn't know I was until about an hour ago," Noelle says. "I was bored at home and just kind of decided... well." She hands you a thumb drive. "I've got Yuru Camp on there."

"Yeah, no," you say, pocketing the drive. "I'm not Stuxnetting myself. I'll torrent it." You sit down at your computer and begin to do exactly that. You don't bother to hide the fact of what was on your screen before that.

Noelle shakes her head. "You are such a jerk. I'm risking my job just by being here, you know."

"That's very sweet of you, but you can understand how my trust might be at a critical low right now."

"It smells like wet dick in here," Noelle says, glancing around. "Do you just have a fetish for girls named Rose or what?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. But my living room is open if you'd rather watch down there, when this is finished downloading."

"I'd rather not have to deal with anyone else," she says. "Who knows what fresh hells await in the orgy house."

"Pull up a chair, then."

"Wait -- shit. You don't have a real TV in here?" Noelle seems amazed that a billionaire could forego such conveniences.

"Somehow I prefer watching things on my computer screen. I never saw the need for a TV."

Noelle sits beside you. Even if she complained, she seems to understand implicitly what you mean.

"We can watch a few episodes," she tells you. "Then if you want to keep going, we totally can... otherwise, I'll take a recommendation from you. I'm sure it's bound to be better than anything the MAC suggested."

"Oh, this ought to be good. They gave you recs?"

Noelle counts on her fingers: "Death Note, Attack on Titan, Haruhi, Dragon Maid, One Piece, Madoka..."

"Well..." you say. "There's some good stuff in there, too, at least."

"Oh gee," Noelle says, then, impersonating a wheezy, lispy nerd: "Hey Alabashter. Have you have ever heard of thish obshcure ah-nee-may called Mad-o-ka? It'sh pretty high level shtuff."

"Okay, so their recommendations were at best useless and at worst awful. But at least there's a glimmer of hope for them -- right?"

"There is no hope for those people. You're only saying that because you put your penis in one of them. You don't want to believe that you've been brought to such a low."

"You're so hung up on that. Are you jealous of Rose2? And are you jealous of Rose, too?"

"You only wish," Noelle says. "I always exclude the ugly bastard tag."

"Yeah, well, ugly bastards have a way of ignoring those types of protests."

"Oh?" Noelle says. "Am I in danger, now? Should I be quaking in my boots?"

"I think I'm probably the one in danger here. Letting a fed into your house is sort of like inviting a vampire in, isn't it?"

"I'll let the Roses handle sucking you dry. I'm just here to watch cute 2D girls being cute."

You can at least agree to that.

Noelle grabs a can of pringles off your desk and begins snacking on them -- without asking. Already taking liberties.

You can count on her for one thing, at least: she's got passable taste. Of course there's hardly anything resembling yuri undertones, in a series that could have really gone all-out on it (adolescent girls camping together in the woods is a setup rife for it) -- so you wonder whether Noelle is holding back on delivering the goods. She was always more the type to dig series where the girls are perpetually on the verge of pinning each other down and going knuckle-deep.

She's super into it, though -- this was clearly a favorite of hers from recent seasons. You wonder whether there's a kind of nostalgic wistfulness underpinning that. You can picture her as someone who camped a lot in her youth, even if she may not get out much now (judging by her pallid skin tone). And she's weirdly eager to know that you enjoy the series also. That simply could be some sort of desperation to finally hang out with a person who shares her opinions to some small degree, though.

"It's pretty good," you admit.

"Fucking finally." There it is: "I tried to show a couple slice of life series at MAC and they said my tastes were weird and boring. The utter imbeciles. Thank you."

After the prerequisite three episodes, you know you'll give the full run its dues. But it's time for something else.

"Hey Noelle," you say. "Have you ever heard of this obscure anime called Psycho Pass? It's pretty high level stuff..."

"End yourself."

"Geez. All right, let's try again. For real this time. I'll tell you something to piss you off even more: I ended up dropping Magical Witchy--"

"You WHAT?"

"I dunno. I just kind of stopped watching it. No reason."

Magical Witchy ~Pero Pero~ was bar none Noelle's favorite anime of winter 2017, and the two of you bonded over your fandom. It's utter tripe of course, a series about little girls in skimpy clothes who battle monsters, but there's something special and transfixing about it, and Noelle agrees. Its second season aired in Summer 2018. Your attention was a little divided back then, for many reasons. Keeping all caught up on anime was low on the priority list. Plus it reminded you of her, and you weren't too happy with her then -- still aren't. Now you have a chance to make amends.

"You're almost as bad as the MAC," she says. "I should arrest you on principle."

"Sorry, but I'm full up. I've got enough girls who want to put me in handcuffs."

Noelle rolls her eyes.

"If you don't mind rewatching it, I'll just pick up where I left off," you say.

"Where did you stop?"

"Not far in. I only made it past to the third episode."

"Oh..." she says. "Well, the second season gets pretty raunchy. So that's a fair warning. I don't know if you get second-hand embarrassment watching that kind of thing in the presence of another person."

Not at all, of course. You cue up the next episode you haven't seen.

Noelle wasn't lying. Magical Witchy ~Pero Pero~ is one step removed from just being a tentacle rape hentai in its second cour. You sort of wonder how many takes the seiyuu spent in the sound booth trying to strike the right mix between terror and erotic thrill. Maybe BD sales were lagging on the first run, so they felt the need to sex it up. The source material never got this prurient.

Regardless of the reasons why, these episodes are certainly designed to titillate as much as they are to tell a coherent narrative. When the three witches, Lillith, Lucy, and Lulu, have to "soul bond" to defeat the villain in one episode, it's pretty clear, despite the mystical steam that appears to obscure the screen, that they're basically just rubbing each other's cunts.

"Whoa," you say during the scene, glancing at Noelle. "So much for undertones, huh?"

"It's -- it's a necessary part of the story," Noelle says. "They explained how soul bonding works. It's a magical ritual to boost their sealing powers."

"Yeah. By cumming on each other."

On screen, raven-haired sexpot Lillith is sighing: "Ahh -- it feels so good!"

To which blonde-haired, cow-titted Lucy sneers through little grunts of pleasure: "S-stupid Lillith... I'm not doing this for your sake!"

And which is followed up by demure, plank-chested redhead Lulu, who timidly orgasms while pleading: "Let's all feel good together!"

"This is porn," you say. "We're watching porn right now."

"Yeah, whatever," Noelle says. "You were watching porn before I showed up too. Anyway, I warned you, so whose fault is this?"

"I'm not complaining," you say. "I'm just surprised the show went this far. Actually, this kind of thing is more my speed. You were the one who always said you preferred things subtle and understated."

"I'd rather not hear about your tastes in hentai, Alabaster, if you'd please."

"I mean... don't agree to watch hentai with me if you don't want to hear what I think about hentai."

"It's ecchi at most," she says. "Anyway, that's about as hot as it gets--"

"Hot?"

"You know what I mean."

"You ARE a lesbian," you say. "I knew it."

"Oh please," Noelle says, groaning. "2D doesn't translate to 3D. Just because I like gay things in 2D doesn't mean I'm gay in real life. You of all people should understand such a concept."

"Is that some kind of snipe?" You say. "Been digging through my internet history, now, cop?"

"No," she says. "But my oh my, did you give away an entertaining fact about yourself just now."

You don't know what it is -- something in the air, a sudden shift in the mood of the room -- maybe it's having your masculinity directly challenged like that, or the fact that Rose left you in a state of need, or just because the show, despite your shit-talking, did have its intended effect on you. But you suddenly lean in and grab Noelle and kiss her on the lips.

But it seems you misread her. You're not a Lothario after all. She recoils, pushes you back. "W-what are you doing!" She shouts.

"I--" you stammer. "I thought..."

"I can't have sex with you," she says. "I-- I shouldn't be here. This is such a mistake. I shouldn't be fraternizing with you at all. I'm sorry -- I'm sorry, I need to go."

"Noelle--" you say, as she stands.

She stops. "You have to understand," she says. "This is a real oh-shit thing to be doing, sitting here, with a subject of the investigation I'm running--"

You try to brush away the awkwardness. "I get it. It's fine. I don't want to make things weird, you know? The truth is.... the truth is, I kind of missed just hanging out with you and riffing on anime together. It was... fun. It was a lot of fun."

She regards you for a long moment.

"I'm not one of those thirsty weeaboos at the MAC," you add. "Just chalk it up to temporary insanity and forget about it. I'm not gonna be m'ladying you all night--"

She steps closer and climbs onto your chair with you -- gets in your lap facing you. "Jesus," she says. "Stop digging already."

"That's -- a good idea," you agree.

You let her kiss you.

Her mouth tastes powerfully of mint, the precise flavor of a scoop of mint ice cream, but warm and moist. And you can practically feel her need, a desperate need for something real, companionship, closeness, human contact -- and unless Quantico has a special course on posing as a sex-starved Christmas Cake, you think this must be real and true. How sad that she should land on Alabaster Soliloquy as the tincture for a lonely heart, you think. Somehow the reality of being a loathsome asshole seems especially biting right now.

Nonetheless, Noelle is pretty, and warm, and she's in your lap kissing you, and you're never going to say no to such a situation.

"The bed?" You prompt in between her ravenous, wet kisses.

"Yeah. The bed..."

You lead her by the hand there. This feels kind of taboo in a new way too. If you're going to become lovers, you'll be star-crossed indeed -- you've been eyeing each other from opposite sides of the FBI security cordon long enough to know where you stand. This is bad news for both of you.

But Noelle is already kicking off her black shoes and socks and slacks -- underneath a surprise, pastel pink panties. And under her shirt, a matching bra.

"Been raiding Rose2's underwear drawer?" You laugh. Even now, you can't resist ribbing her.

"Oh, shut up. These are cute."

"They're extremely cute," you say approvingly. She blushes a little at this. She blushes even harder as you get your hand behind her lithe back and unhook the strap on her bra and pull it off. You're getting pretty good at that maneuver.

Noelle's breasts are small and perky, the nipples a dark brown despite her pale skin -- you were never clear what flavor of Asian she is, but her body is small and thin and fuckable all the same. You get your clothes off too, and enjoy the way her eyes bulge despite herself at the moment of the big reveal. You never get tired of that, the way a girl reacts the first time she sees it. Some are upfront about their surprise -- but others, like Noelle, try to conceal the trepidation. All she allows is a little exhaled huff of air, as you take the waistband of her panties and slide them down her legs.

"Do you -- have any condoms?" She asks. Even as she asks this, she spreads her legs open, bares her pretty pussy to you.

"No," you say simply.

"Oh..."

"Is that a problem?"

Noelle thinks. She chews her lower lip. Then she shakes her head slightly no.

You lie over her and kiss her some more. But her kisses in return are full of doubt, it seems, and her body is all trembly. Her voice is pinched as she says: "You'll pull out, right?"

"Sure," you say. You rub your cock up and down the cleft of her pussy as you lie on top of her. It's slick, the fat lips feel nice against your shaft. She keeps herself cleanly shaven down there, and you appreciate how smooth and wet both ends of your body feel, as you mate your tongue to hers, and tease her cunt with your prick.

"I'm gonna put it in," you say.

"Do it slow... please."

You're nice; you follow her orders. Rearing back, you find the entrance to her slit with the head of your cock, and instead of ramming it home, you gently nudge it in by centimeters. The first is the most difficult, for her. She takes a choking breath of air as you spread her pussy open around you and begin to slide in. To alleviate some of the tension and discomfort gripping her, you, well, grip her: you find her arms where they lie at her side and bring them up by her head, and then you lace your fingers through her fingers. You hold hands with her as you get your raw dick inside of her.

"It's so warm," she says. Her voice is higher than you're used to, way higher. But the warmth in it reflects the warmth she feels in her pussy.

You push and push, letting her acclimate to the feeling. She stares blankly up at you, seemingly in shock at just how much there really is -- as if she can't believe that you're not already all the way inside, as you continue you slip your horny prick into her. But it's sooner than it seems to her, when you have yourself balls-deep. She's got a great little cunt, nice and velvety, and you can actually feel the way its wetness seeps from the walls all around your throbbing shaft. She's all wet for you. Her cunt is drooling on you.

As you begin to pull out, her legs wrap around you, her bare feet interlock at the ankles just above your tailbone. "Wait," she says. "Go back in."

"Do you understand how sex works?" You say. "There's a rhythm... in and out, repeat--"

"I want to feel your cock in me... all the way in me... please."

She's a bit delirious right now, but her desperation is so sweet that you let her have her way. You get yourself as deep as you can go and settle your weight on her. Still interlocking hands, your mouths find one another's again. She's all pips and squeaks as you enjoy the simple feeling of your hardness resting inside of her, the way her cunt loosens and tightens and loosens again, milking you off. Though she can't move much with the way she's pinned, her butt does gyrate just a little bit with anxious lust. These little rotations masturbate your cock in turn. The pressure and heat is delicious.

You lie like that for three or four minutes, letting her revel in being completely full. But your prick is getting so hot for more that the itch actually begins to hurt a bit. Your body doesn't understand why you've got yourself stuck up a cunt but aren't fucking it for all it's worth. Eventually you just HAVE to give in to your base instincts and do it; you're filled with a burning need to fuck her pussy out. And now that she's got you so riled up, you have a hard time being gentle about it.

You do try, you really do, but you just can't take it slow. You're in such a state of overdrive that you have to really fucking pound her. Your first in-and-out thrust, a moderate tempo but without warning -- is met with a surprised little moan from her. The second, faster thrust, with Noelle stammering: "Al-Alabaster--"

And then, when you cut loose and start fucking her ass into the mattress as hard and as fast as you can, your hips a blur on top of her, she can only tighten her grip on your hands and hold on, breathless, as you rut. And rut you do, like a dog, unable to stop yourself. A few moments later, she finds her voice again, but it's senseless. She can only form a long, low "unnnnngggg-- unnnnn--" while you fuck her mercilessly -- as you rail her.

You have the benefit of a soft memory foam mattress without springs that creak; but the frame is thumping against the floor and the headboard is banging against the wall. You're making a huge racket as you fuck Noelle silly. And her low "unnnnggg---" noises are picking up in volume, resounding off the walls, leaving no doubt that you've got a girl in your bed who you're showing the time of her life to. "Unnngh--- unnnngh---!!" Her hands flex in yours and this seems to be her only way to sensibly communicate that she wants you to keep going, exactly like this. Her creaming, cramping cunt is the other indication that she loves it. She's quite the little fuck-bunny when you get her warmed up.

It doesn't take much, like this, to get you up to that wonderful peak. You're an honest man -- you know you have to pull out. You ask her, your voice hardly more than a scratchy grunt: "Where do you want it?"

"Whu--" she moans, her head shaking side to side.

"I'm gonna cum. Where do you want it?"

Her ankles around your tailbone tighten. "In," she says. The force of your thrusting leaves her unable to form more than one syllable at a time. "In-- in-- innnnn--"

That suits you, too. You mash your lips to hers and exhale deeply through your nose, a sigh of pure satisfaction, as you let go of frustrating concerns about having to pull out. That's right: in is just fine. You like in, too. Her cunt makes lewd, sloppy noises around your dick as you jab back and forth, these final few, deep, short strokes that carry you to the finale. Your balls tighten, you heave, she throws her head back against the pillow and bares her thin, pale neck to you. And like that you blow your load in her pussy. She hugs you to her body with her feet, to make sure you stay exactly like that, all the way inside, while you empty yourself. Blast after blast of cum directly in her womb. You seed her right up, just as she asked -- and just like she really needed. She knows now as well as you, the doujins weren't lying to you: there is no greater pleasure on Earth, for man or woman, than that of cumming inside.

GIRLS FUCKED: 10/12

"Oh my god. Why did you cum in me?"

"Uh. I'm thinking it's because you told me to cum in you. I could be wrong, but that seems like a good explanation."

Noelle is trying to wipe the remnants away with wad after wad of tissue, but more just keeps seeping out -- you're nothing if not prodigious.

"Ugh," she purrs, "I'm gonna reek like your jism for a year."

"Don't be a drama queen. It'll be half a year, tops."

She cracks her neck and then flops back onto your mattress. "You mind if I sleep here? I don't feel like crawling back over your gates and walking to the bus stop right now."

"You may be attacked in the night by an ugly bastard," you warn her.

"That's fine."

"Or a pack of deranged lesbians."

"Also fine."

You crawl into bed with her and find yourselves curled up, spooning.

"This is a one-night stand," she tells you.

"Right."

She wiggles against you, finding a comfortable spot. "Never again."

"Never." Your hand, draped over her body, finds one of her hands, and holds it.

"I'm serious, Alabaster -- don't patronize me. This is a mistake. Not to be repeated. I won't be back."

"Goodnight, Noelle."

You fall asleep together.

---

The Drunken Robot is classic Silicon Valley kitsch, a gastropub full of nerd paraphernalia like a scale replica ENIAC above the bar, wallpaper that looks like circuitry, and tables with smart tablets built right in so you can order and reorder without having to flag down waitstaff. At the front, you and Dr. Carte are greeted by a Pepper robot hacked to be surly and confrontational. "You assholes want a fucking table or are you going to sit at the bar?" the robot demands, voice polite despite the obscene language.

"We're here for trivia night," Dr. Carte tells it.

The robot beeps and boops, and its eyes swirl with neon colors, as it processes this reply. Finally it comes back with: "Neeeeerds."

"Oh, screw you," Dr. Carte says.

Beep boop, light swirling, and then: "I do not have a fetish for humans."

"This is the least helpful hostess ever," you say.

"And you are the least attractive human ever. Meatbag."

"Let's just grab a seat at the bar," Dr. Carte says.

"Grab this," the robot says as you walk past, cupping its crotch with one hand.

Dr. Carte turns in anger and you have to haul her back by her collar before she slugs the thing. "Don't -- it's not worth it," you tell her.

"You're lucky my man was here to stop me!" She shouts after the robot as you drag her into the bar proper.

Prices at the Drunken Robot are all in binary, how cute, but of course you're paying in base-10. A pint of beer runs anywhere from $10.00 on the low end, up to, as quoted on the menu, $10.00 + $1.11 + 1.01 + $1.00. Just what you wanted -- having to do arithmetic before ordering a drink.

The bartender is a gangling ginger with what he must believe is a good beard since he's wearing it in public. Dr. Carte waves him over. She has her priorities straight: first she orders a rum and coke, then she asks how to register for trivia night.

The bartender's eyes light up about as brightly as the robotic hostess. He runs back to the wall where all the liquor sits on display and presses a button there. Klaxons sound as he grabs a microphone and shouts: "We have new contestants! Neeeeeewwwww contestants for the Brainy Lovers' Bowl!" Cheesy royalty-free gameshow music plays, and patrons at the bar begin to chant: "new blood! New blood!"

Suddenly the mic is in your face. "Tell us about yourself! Who are you and who's this lovely lady accompanying you? Batting out of your league, big guy! Are you betrothed?"

"Betrothed--" you choke. "What? I-- I'm Alabaster and, uh, this is my girlfriend's--"

"I'm Renee. We're engaged."

"Engaged!" The bartender chirps. "How wonderful. When's the wedding?"

"We aren't--" you begin.

"December!" Dr. Carte says. "We're very excited. It's gonna be Star Trek themed."

"Phasers set to looooove," the bartender croons. "Well you two lovebirds came to the right place, because we're gonna be getting started in about ten minutes! Drink up and have fun, you two!"

The patrons clap for you.

"What the fuck did you take me to?" You whisper from the corner of your mouth.

"It's a couple's night thing," Dr. Carte says. "Didn't I mention that? I'm sure I mentioned that."

Her mock ignorance isn't fooling you.

"Well, the rules say it's for couples only," Dr. Carte explains when you give her a displeased look. "So play along, huh? Is it that awful if a few strangers think I'm your fiancee?"

You nurse an obnoxiously bitter pint of craft IPA while you wait for the game to start. Dr. Carte is excitedly knocking back a second rum and coke already. You warn her: "I don't want to have to carry you. Don't get too drunk."

"Oh, so you're fine with being carried but not with doing the carrying. I see how it is."

"I'm serious--"

"Why the hell do you think I'm watering my liquor down with soda?" She says. "Cut me some slack. If you don't stop bitching at me, I'm calling off the wedding."

"Stop pretending you're the one I'm marrying alr-- oh, motherfucker." Just like Noelle's, your reaction to seeing Rose is usually negative. She strolls up to the bar as casual as can be.

Close behind her is Vivian. She's walking in reverse, giving the side-eye to that unfriendly robot at the front entrance, simultaneously insulted and perplexed by the thing.

"What are you doing here?" You demand, although you're beginning to understand the gist of what's up.

"Oh!" Rose says, feigning surprise. "What a pleasant surprise. I had no idea you two were coming out tonight."

"Pleasant isn't how I'd put it," Dr. Carte says. "Did you come to get curbstomped like the rest of them?"

"Oh my, no," Rose says. "I came to win. So did my girlfriend, Vivian."

Vivian makes it to the bar now and, in an uncharacteristic show of warmth, she hugs both you and Dr. Carte. "Greetings," she says to each of you in turn -- so, still not quite up to speed on the intricacies of appearing fully human.

"What's with that?" You ask her.

"Hmm?"

"The hugging."

"I am trying to be more affectionate."

"I for one think that's wonderful," Dr. Carte says. "I'm always up for affection from Vivian Darkbloom."

Rose gets the bartender's attention and informs him that she'll be playing. He repeats that outlandish performance with the klaxon and the music and the microphone-shoved-in-face, although Rose handles it more suavely:

"Oh yes, this is my special lady friend," she says. "We've been together for several months now."

"We are madly, passionately in love," Vivian avers as if reading from a cue card. Rose must have coached her.

"Is she, uh -- age of consent?" The bartender asks Rose.

"Absolutely."

"I might need to see some ID!" He laughs, although he only seems to be half joking. Then, definitely not joking here, his tone going serious: "Especially if she's gonna be drinking. We're like one strike away from getting our liquor license revoked."

This is approaching the level of a comedy of errors. Now in comes Cerise and Whitney -- and Mom.

"Should I even ask?" You say as they approach the bar.

Vivian does that same weird hugging thing with Whitney and Cerise, too; these are more lingering and touchy than the first ones, even. As Cerise awkwardly hugs back, swaying a bit side to side with Vivian who's got her face buried in her chest, Cerise says: "What the--? Are you feeling okay, Vivian? Did someone get diagnosed with cancer or something?"

Vivian explains her concerted effort to be more affectionate, which makes Whitney slap her knees, literally. "You're such a weirdo, sis."

"I rather think hugging is normal and wholesome and decidedly un-weird," Vivian protests.

Whitney rolls her eyes.

"Rose and Vivian might be trouble for us," Dr. Carte whispers to you, "but whatever combination those three form, I wouldn't sweat it." Focused on the details of how to win, as always -- never anything else.

"Are you playing?" You ask Mom.

"I am. I heard from Cerise that you were cavorting around with some old cow who's almost twice your age, and I had to see it with my own eyes!"

"--Excuse me?" Dr. Carte says.

"I can hardly believe it, Alabaster," Mom says. "But I suppose it can't be helped. Like mother, like daughter -- this trollop's got her claws sunk into you too, huh?"

"Now you hold on, Ms. Catachresis!" Dr. Carte yells. "I'll have you know that I treat your boy very well--"

"I know what your kind is after, thank you very much!" Mom cuts in. "Spare me the manipulative tactics. They don't work on someone who isn't thinking with their little head."

"You--!"

Thankfully the bartender salvages things before this confrontation turns ugly. "Did I hear someone else say they were playing?" He says. He hits the klaxons before anyone can answer -- itchy trigger finger.

"We're playing," Cerise says. "Me and her."

"May-December romance!" He says. "Uh, no offense. That's sweet."

"Actually, this is my -- nevermind."

"No one to pair up with, honey?" Dr. Carte asks Whitney.

"Pfft. I'm just here to get sloshed and watch you dorks dorking it up."

"Be ready," Dr. Carte purrs. "Poor Vivian is going to need a lot of consoling after tonight..."

"We shall see about that," Vivian says, haughty. "I have already divested my holdings in salt companies, in anticipation of excess supply depressing prices."

The game begins just a few moments later. You make your way to a stage -- this isn't ordinary bar trivia, but a full-on production, with special lighting, and podiums with buzzers for the pairs to stand at -- all eyes on you. But you've been under pressure like this before, and know you can handle it.

>SPECIAL FUCK QUEST EVENT:

>Roll a d6 to determine how many girls leave bar trivia feeling royally pissed off. The mode of all rolls will win.

>[4]

>...wait, I'm sorry, it looks like I made a typo at a critical juncture here. I somehow misspelled "horny" as "royally pissed off." I don't know how this happened.

The three familiar teams -- you and Dr. Carte, Rose/Vivian, and Cerise/Mom, are joined on stage by a couple also-rans who don't look too tough, a fat neckbeard and his equally fat girlfriend, and a cleanly professional Japanese couple who both look small and mousy.

The format is simple, rapid-fire questions from the MC, +100 points each, -100 points for wrong answers -- until 30 minutes elapses and the team with the most takes the crown. The prize is a $30 gift card for the Sizzler (there seriously must be some sort of seedy underground criminal empire pushing that place). But of course the real thing at stake here is your pride. You can't let Rose beat you. Or any of the others, for that matter.

"What do you think?" Dr. Carte asks in the scant few moments you have to huddle up and confer before things begin. "Vivian is for sure going to be tough competition -- I've watched enough Jeopardy with her to know. But what about Rose? You were in quiz bowl with her, right? You two won a national competition together--"

"Rose won't be a problem," you insist. "She's got a good base of general knowledge but not as big as us. Her strong suit was always math... and I don't think a bar trivia game is going to ask a lot of math questions. In any case, you should be good at math too, right?"

"I'm a biologist, not a mathematician," Dr. Carte says. "That's like oil and water. You should know that."

"Let's just count on there not being a lot of math, then."

"Hold on. You majored in engineering, didn't you? You're not good at math?"

"I'm okay at math. Rose literally majored in math--"

"Oh my god. We should have prepared better--"

You steal a glance at Rose and Vivian. Between the two of them, it's hard to say who looks more smug. They're both confident, even cocky -- you'll love wiping those grins off their faces.

"What about Cerise and the old hag?" Dr. Carte asks.

"Don't talk about my mom that way."

"Tell her not to talk about me that way!"

"They'll be pushovers. Unless there's a lot of questions about Furbys or baking, you can forget about them. Just make sure we beat Rose and Vivian to the buzzer. Fuck... buzz in even if you don't know. Between us, one of us is bound to know pretty much every answer. Right?"

"Right."

The game begins.

"For 100 points: What is the integral of sin(x)+cos(x)+x^2?"

"Are you FUCKING kidding me--" you sputter.

Rose is already buzzed in. "-cos(x)+sin(x)+1/3 x^3," she says breezily. "Plus a constant, of course."

"Correct," the host says. He presses something on his tablet. The tablet mounted on the front of Rose and Vivian's podium, acting as a digital scoreboard, increments to 100.

Dr. Carte leans against your podium and massages her forehead with the heels of her palms. Rose and Vivian are grinning at you. You simmer.

"Wooo!" Whitney cheers from the tables in the restaurant area, hands cupped to her mouth.

"For 100 points: Voodoo purple, lagoona, tart tangerine, and cow are all varieties of what popular toy?"

Cerise is already buzzed in before the host is done reading. "Furby! Those are Furbys!" She shouts.

"Correct! 100 points to Team Soliloquy."

Mom and Cerise high-five. "That's it, baby!" Mom says. "Let's kick their butt!" You feel sick.

"Wooo!" Whitney cheers, again. She clearly doesn't have a horse in this race.

"Just buzz in," you tell Dr. Carte. "Buzz in no matter what -- we'll get the answer afterwards."

"Yes. Good idea."

"In Marcel Proust's epic novel Remembrance of Things Past, what is the name of the narrator's love interest who leaves him and then dies in an accident?"

Dr. Carte does as instructed. But you have no idea -- and neither does she. "Oh my god," she's saying over and over, a broken record. "Do you know? I don't know. Oh my god."

"...Mary?" You guess.

"Oooh, sorry. -100 points from Team Submarine. I'll repeat the question--"

But Vivian buzzes in and answers: "Albertine."

"Correct! Another 100 points to Team Whiterose."

"Wooo!"

Dr. Carte literally beats her fists against the podium and grunts in anger. You'd normally think she's taking things too seriously, but you're about as upset right now.

"For 100 points--"

"Fuck's sake," you say. "Every question is 100 points. Why do you keep saying 'for 100 points'? Durr. Just get on with it. Jesus Christ. This is unbearable."

"...Uh. For 100 points: the confection mille-feuille is composed of alternating layers of what two primary ingredients?"

Mom is quick on the buzzer: "Puff pastry and custard. That's obvious!"

"Wooo!"

Dr. Carte violently scratches her head and growls.

A bizarre confluence of coincidences means that even as the game progresses and you finally rack up a healthy score -- the other four girls manage to keep even with you and Dr. Carte. From questions about famous celebrity chefs, to the discoverer of quaternions, to TS Eliot's first wife, to the amalgam most commonly used in soldering -- it seems like every other question is purposely designed to play to someone else's single biggest avenue of expertise.

It all comes down to the final question -- it's a tie match, and to the winner go the spoils. Rose and Vivian aglow with excitement; Rose's face is deeply flushed and her hair is damp with sweat, while Vivian is almost hyperventilating. At the next podium over, Mom's expression is pure, steely determination, and Cerise is so surprised at being in contention that she's smiling goofily.

"If this is a fucking integral..." Dr. Carte tells you, "I'm tanning your hide."

"Did you beam down from the 1800s with that threat?" You say.

"Tanning. Your. Hide."

"For 100 points, and sweet victory: the study of eggs is commonly called what?"

You buzz in. High on adrenaline and feeling gracious in the thrill of defeating your opponents, you begin: "I want to thank Whitney for this one." You point at her, smiling. "Thanks, Whitney."

"Ally! Shut the fuck up--"

"The answer is oology," you finish.

"Uh," the host says. "I'm sorry, but... you didn't actually buzz in first. Team Whiterose?"

"Oology," Rose says. "The answer is oology."

"Correct! Congratulations!"

You feel like you've been punched in the stomach. You blink -- your mouth goes dry -- you move your jaw but no words come out. Rose just won. She just beat you.

"No no no no no no," Dr. Carte says. "Oh, no. No. No." She's got her hands clasped over her mouth.

Rose and Vivian hug. Rose is so happy that she actually lifts Vivian a little bit off the ground, back arching, and twirls around with her a couple times.

When her feet are back on the ground again, Vivian, thrilling, kisses Rose on the lips. Rose is taken aback by that, but shrugs and rolls with it -- they're posing as girlfriends after all.

Mom and Cerise are gracious losers -- they didn't expect to win to begin with -- they just smile at each other and shrug.

Meanwhile, you and Dr. Carte are like soldiers back from the trenches of WWI: hollow, dead inside. The clapping of the bar's patrons is a distant patter in your ears, as if you've been lifted bodily up and away from this place.

---

"Goddamn it, Ally! You never listen to me!" Whitney flicks another peanut shell at your face, which you bat away, and return to sucking down your Corona. You're deep into your third bottle and getting a little buzzed now -- not as bad as Dr. Carte, though, who's practically falling over. Across the table from you, the winners are preening and sharing a bowl of ice cream together, feeding each other -- ugh.

"I knew the answer anyway," Rose tells Whitney. "I would never forget that display at the national competition... so yes, thank you."

"Face it, Alabaster Soliloquy," Vivian says. "Superior minds have prevailed." She folds her hands one atop the other, and demurely and lets Rose give her the last gloopy spoonful of half-melted ice cream. After swallowing, she adds: "Your folly was believing you could stand against us to begin with."

"This -- this is your fault," Dr. Carte says, pointing at you. "We lost 100 points because you told me to buzz in on that fucking Proust shit. We would have won without that!"

"Don't..." you grumble. "I'm gonna be sick..."

Whitney flicks a peanut shell at you.

Mom tries to leaven the bitter feelings in your heart: "You were impressive tonight. Err-- n-not that I want to admit it, but... w-well, maybe if you weren't so stupid as to tether yourself to this hussy, you would have done even better tonight..."

"Oh my god, lady," Dr. Carte says. "Call me a hussy one more time. I will put my fist so far up your--"

"I'm getting a mite sleepy," Vivian says. "I think it is time for me to depart..."

"You're the only one sober," Cerise says -- from behind a pyramid of beer bottles. "You and Ms. Catachresis. Do you guys mind being Uber tonight?"

"I would love to drag a gaggle of drunkards around town," Mom says, "but I have a long drive ahead of me already. You'll have to leave things to this strange, small, anemic little girl."

Vivian sighs. "So be it. Perhaps we can make a sleepover of it at Whitney's abode."

This gets the gears in your head spinning. You glance at Dr. Carte. "Hey... still mad at Rose and Vivian?" You whisper.

"You have no fucking idea."

"How about a little payback?"

---

"I mean -- against their will?" Dr. Carte says. She's in your living room with you, sipping a tumbler of whiskey of course. Rose and Vivian are asleep, happily oblivious, in Rose's bedroom. "That's rape, right? What you're suggesting is rape."

"They like being raped," Whitney says.

She marvels at her daughter. 

"It's kinda their thing," you confirm. "I mean -- Vivian for certain. But you know that already."

Dr. Carte demurs.

"And as for Rose," you continue, "well... she doesn't really care which direction it's running as long as someone says no."

"Just remember - it's not rape if they like it!" Whitney says, holding an index finger up.

"You two must be crazy. Couldn't we just, I don't know... prank them?"

"Sure we can," Whitney says. "We'll prank 'em full of cum!"

"Rose has a safe word she can use," you offer.

"Really?" Dr. Carte says. "I didn't take you two for people capable of playing nice together."

"There were some... unfortunate events..." you say. "Look, anyway, she'll say 'tenderness' if she doesn't like it."

"What about Vivian?"

"She, uh, thinks a safe word makes things 'less enjoyable' -- her words. We'll have to play that one by ear."

Dr. Carte still seems uncertain, so Whitney walks around the recliner she's sitting in and rubs her shoulders. It would be a chaste bit of daughterly contact, if not for what you're all discussing. "Come on, Mommy... don't you wanna plaaa-aaay?"

"Why do you continue to think calling me 'Mommy' in that fake-innocent voice of yours will always convince me to let you have your way?"

"Because it will~"

She leans around Dr. Carte and kisses her, full on the lips. You probably won't ever get sick of seeing that. It begins as a peck and quickly turns into something much more, and you'd love to let them continue, but you want to keep their energy pent up for better things. You clear your throat.

"R-right," Dr. Carte says.

"Right," Whitney repeats. "Let's go rape a couple bitches."

---

You and Whitney have done this enough times to be old hands at it. You flip the lightswitch on Rose's wall, and then you two are immediately on top of the bed. You sit over Rose and Vivian, pinning them firmly in place before they even awaken. Whitney takes care of Vivian and you take care of Rose. Dr. Carte seems hardly able to believe her eyes.

"Wh-what the fuck!" Rose squeaks. "What are you doing?"

Taking her wrists and pushing them together and holding them in one strong hand, you use your other to cover her mouth and muffle her whiny protests. "Shut the fuck up, cunt."

Her eyes go wide, registering the hunger in yours. And as she becomes fully conscious again, she understands perfectly well what this is all about.

"Unhand me at once," Vivian insists. "This is outrageous. I did not consent to this."

"For crimes against quiz bowl dorks everywhere," Whitney says, "I hereby sentence both of you to two hours' hard rape! Gavel gavel gavel."

"You can't just say gavel gavel gavel to imitate a gavel," you tell Whitney, glancing over.

"Well what the fuck sound should I make, then?"

"Bang bang bang?" Dr. Carte offers.

"That's a gun, ma."

"Doink doink?" You say. "Like on Law and Order."

"Yeah, sure. That really sets the mood. Doink doink. Great thinking, Ally, you fucking dweeb."

"Oh, and THIS sets the mood?" You counter.

Underneath you, Rose wiggles impatiently. There's anger and frustration in her eyes. Right -- enough of this bickering, on to the festivities.

You and Whitney force your victims to a sitting position. As they rise to their butts on the mattress, they catch sight of Dr. Carte for the first time. And the fact that she's naked, wearing a strap-on dildo. It's a model both girls are intimately familiar with, one of Whitney's staples -- it has a hand-pump that allows the wearer to squirt a cunt full of warm lotion. Whitney herself is too horned-up to play the man tonight. In her own words, she wants to get her pussy sucked.

"Ms. Carte," Vivian pleads, adopting a pitiful tack, "cease this behavior. If you wish to make love, then perhaps later, but --"

But Whitney is wise to this game. She reaches down and tugs Vivian's legs apart. Vivian is wearing only a thin nightie, and when Whitney flips the hem of it over Vivian's waist, you can all see that she's been going nopan. And that little cuntlet of hers, like always, is glistening with arousal.

Dr. Carte notices. "You're wet..." she says.

Vivian murmurs and looks away. Her cheeks blush deeply.

"Of course she's wet," Whitney says. "She's a little slut. Why else would she go to bed without panties? She wanted us to come and fuck her, that's why."

"Mmmf mmmf, mm ff mmm fmfmm--" Rose is trying to say something but you can't understand her with your hand still over her lips.

"What's that?" you say. "I can't quite hear you."

She tries again, obviously a threat or a curse of some kind, and struggles against you. But no use.

"Speak up, please. Is there a problem?"

She just keeps going and going as if you'll understand or care what she's ranting about, the darling.

"What do you think, Mommy?" Whitney asks. "Which of these whores do you want to use?"

"Whores..." Dr. Carte says, absentmindedly holding the dildo strapped to her and tugging on it as if it were real. The idea of sexually dominating someone seems alluring to her, but it's all so new to her, too. You decide to help her along her path to degeneracy, while at the same time conveniently shutting down Rose's annoying complaining. You slip your boxers off, get Rose on her back again, and straddle her head. Your balls sag down against her forehead as as you present your pulsing dick to her lips. A dollop of precum drools from your the mushroom cap of your prick, down the length of your shaft a small distance, and plops on her nose.

"Suck me," you tell her. You remove the hand covering her mouth.

But instead of obeying, she says through a gasp of fresh air: "FUCK you. You worthless fucking PIG, you cocksucking needle-dick faggot, you--"

You slap her, four or five times, and these are really vicious, no-holds-barred blows, too. She has to be reminded of her place from time to time, especially when she gets mouthy.

You can see the imprint of your hand on her cheek where you hit her. You enjoy the way she recoils each time. The meaty thwacking of your palm against her face reverberates off the walls, and if it's half as painful as it sounds, you know she's in agony. Exactly as she should be. You dick twitches at the thought and drools more of its slime on her. With her mouth hanging open in pain, you have your opportunity, and take it. Now Rose's vulgar little mouth is stuffed full of the dick she can never admit she loves.

"I like the way you think, Ally. I wanna beat Viv up a little, too."

"W-what?" Vivian says. "I-- did nothing to deserve such ill treatm--"

But Whitney is already slapping her. It's a nice sight to go alongside your cock sliding brutally down Rose's esophagus. Whitney gets a little crazed and goes overboard, in moments like these. As she beats on her little sister's face, she demands: "Admit it! Admit you're a cunt who wants to get raped!"

The abuse makes Vivian pliant in seconds flat. "I- I am--" WHACK "A c-cunt!" WHACK "I am a cunt who, w-who wants to get raped!" WHACK "I am... I am... I am nothing but a s-stupid little cunt!" WHACK "I am a slutty, stupid little cunt--" WHACK "Please rape me!!"

Vivian has learned well the words that please Whitney. And Whitney, hearing this confession, relents. When she does, Vivian's face is already badly bruised -- and she's sitting in a puddle of wetness.

Dr. Carte's eyes are shimmering with unconcealed lust now. She's looking more at Rose, though -- the way you pump in and out of her tight gullet, eliciting slick, rhythmic sloshing noises. Drool from the back of her throat sluices over your prick. It's hot and viscous and slimy, and it really gets you off. You can feel the pleasure coursing all the way down your shaft, to your balls, and down to the soles of your feet. Rose has her hands balled up against her chest, and she begins to paw her own cowtits through her negligee while you fuck her face. It's exactly as you said, Rose and Vivian live for being violated.

"I think your mom decided which one she wants to try," you tell Whitney. You ask Dr. Carte: "Wanna help use this cumdump?"

"Yes..." she says airily, "I think I'll take you up on that offer, Alabaster..."

Dr. Carte climbs onto the bed now. You lift Rose off your cock just long enough for her to turn over and get into a doggy position. Fucking her mouth like this feels especially nice because her tongue is against the extra-sensitive underside of your foreskin. And Rose, such a well-trained fuckpig, flicks her tongue back and forth against it in sync to your thrusts. Even when you rape her, this cunt does her best to get you off. She doesn't have to do any work at all in this situation, but she does so anyway, she sucks on you. She can't help herself. She's all stupid for your dick. 

Whitney watches her mom preparing to mount Rose. It's the kind of spectacle she wants to experience while being eaten out. So she leans against the headboard and gets her legs wide apart and grabs Vivian by the hair. She tugs the little girl violently into her crotch now. "Lick my pussy and don't stop until I'm done cumming on you," is her instruction. Vivian wastes no time and begins to lap at Whitney's cunt.

Dr. Carte holds Rose by the hips and gets herself stuck in. She stares down at Rose's healthy body, the plump butt and fleshy torso. Dr. Carte has got the same lesbian tendencies as her daughter, you figure. She definitely likes what she's seeing underneath her.

"This is fun," Dr. Carte purrs, ramming the dick home a few times for effect. "I could really get used to doing this."

"Hear that, bitch?" You tell Rose with deep strokes of your own against her sloppy, lapping tongue. "You've got a new friend who likes raping you."

Rose's shudder might signal shame or pleasure, but probably both.

"I love watching you, Mommy," Whitney moans. She's got her ankles locked around Vivian's head and she's humping her pussy against Vivian's face -- totally hands free. That gives her the ability to reach forward and interlink fingers with Dr. Carte. Mother and daughter hold hands lovingly as they each rape a different girl.

Whitney begins to cum like that, bucking her hips against Vivian and squirting all over. Vivian, starved for air and growing weak because of it, services her older sister all the same. She even puts a couple tiny fingers in Whitney's asshole to heighten the orgasm. "Yes!!" Whitney screams as Vivian swirls her fingers around the lower hole and works her tongue against Whitney's clit. "Just like that! Finger big sister's asshole! Drink my fucking cum!"

At some point Dr. Carte dispensed with her top, and you enjoy the way her massive tits ripple with every forceful thrust. She hugs herself, shivering, and seems obviously overwhelmed by the stimuli she's getting.

"Cum inside her," you say. "It's what she likes best."

"Oooh..." Dr. Carte mewls. "That sounds wonderful."

She takes the pump in hand and starts squeezing it. You can hear the wet, vacuous noises of the warmed-over cream traveling through the ersatz cock's interior and then spurting with a deep echo into Rose's cunt. But Dr. Carte isn't pleased with just this. She punctuates every spurt of cum with a hard slap against Rose's ass that makes Rose's throat clamp down on your dick.

You gulp. "You're gonna make me blow, too," you tell Dr. Carte. "Every time you hit her... her throat gets tighter..."

"Is that so?" Dr. Carte says. "Then here."

She gives Rose a barrage of spanks, both hands, and she spares no mercy. Her fingernails leave deep scratches and her palms raise ugly welts on Rose's backside. Rose is making some kind of noise, a gurgle from deep down in her larynx that probably wouldn't be words even if she could speak. She's just moaning senselessly against your cock while she gets fucked from both sides.

It's enough to make you climax -- you hold Rose by the ears and gag her on your cumming dick. But you only blast a time or two into the warm confines of her mouth before pulling out and finishing all over her face. You know Rose lives for eating your cum, and this is punishment, so you'll deny her the enjoyment. Besides, she looks a lot prettier painted with semen. You jerk your spurting cock and fire thick ropes of pearl-white seed all over her red, sweaty, slimy features.

Dr. Carte fills Rose's pussy so full with fake cum that the greasy lotion seeps out and begins to slide lewdly onto the sheets, staining them. She doesn't seem to care. And seeing you jizz on Rose's face makes her want to join the fun too. She pulls out of Rose, letting a torrential stream of lotion come pouring out like water from an unplugged dam. She then roughly turns Rose onto her back, and finishes emptying the dildo on Rose's stomach. The stuff ruins Rose's expensive pajamas and leaves her looking like a used-up whore, a piece of garbage, a dirty cum-rag.

Whitney runs a hand over Rose's face and scoops up your sperm, then sucks on her fingers like a lollipop. Vivian, in turn, sucks a few more orgasms out of Whitney's cunt. This is Whitney's favorite thing, enjoying the flavor of your cock milk while cumming on a bitch-pig. Even if that bitch-pig is her own sister.

When you three rapists are spent and sated, you give the instruction to your defeated prey to clean everything -- with their mouths. The two broken rape-toys can't do anything but comply. Stomach to stomach, they lick each other's faces, hungrily sucking down the remnants of your cum. They swap it back and forth, enjoying the flavor, lost to the concept of dignity. Then, on hands and knees with their naked asses raised up high for your amusement, they hoover up the sloppy mess from the bed sheets. Their mouths are nothing but holes to drink up anything you tell them to.

"So," you prompt, "did you have fun, Dr. Carte?"

Dr. Carte answers by removing the strap-on and forcing Vivian to lock legs with her. Cunt to cunt, Dr. Carte humps Vivian and gets herself off. Bemused, you watch this much older and much larger woman scissor with a girl who looks barely more than a child. And Vivian, orgasming just as hard, her messy face a sweet mask of pleasure, lets Dr. Carte take her.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, seitokaichou emeritus and no-time champion of the bar quiz bowl.

You and Rose watch from backstage as Whitney sits in the hotseat opposite the host of the Daily Show.

"I get it," he's saying. "We all go through embarrassing phases as teenagers."

"Yeah! Exactly!"

"You do the whole goth thing, or you get mohawk, or you get into cosplay -- or you go around calling people the N word."

Whitney smiles and nods along as the audience laughs. She seems unaware she's the object of mockery here.

He leans in, holding a pen between the fingers of both hands. "So tell us straight now. Is it true? I mean--"

"No, no, that's fake. That's totally fake news. Listen. I wasn't using it all the time."

"So you did use it, though--"

"I had a slip of the tongue--"

"How is that? Just take me through it. How does a slip like that happen? Were you trying to say 'niggardly' and you stuttered, or..."

Rose has her hand to her lips, watching through narrow eyes, holding her breath.

"I had this friend, see? Well. Not even really a friend. He was this kid who hung out with my boyfriend. And he said ni-- he said that word, like, constantly. So one day I just had it with him. And I said Stackleford -- that's his name -- I said Stackleford, don't you say that word! Don't you say it! Because I have a lot of black friends, and there's black people in my family tree, so that hurts my heart! That's what I said. I said, Stackleford don't you say ni-- don't you say it! It hurts my heart to hear that word! Like that. Get it?"

"Uh huh. Only... Ms. Darkbloom, you talk about this person as if he's some distant memory from your past. But he works at your company."

On one of the monitors backstage, you can see that they're displaying an employee photo of Stackleford, from back when he was fat -- complete, as always, with his slightly slackjawed leer and the pussy deflector on his forehead. In the corner, it says "file photo".

"This is him, yes?" The host asks. "Boyd Stackleford?"

"Yeah. But... I didn't know he still works for me..." She rubs the back of her head.

"You didn't... you didn't know he works for you!" the host is stupefied. "Ms. Darkbloom, you played at an employees-only tennis match with the man just a couple weeks ago. How did you not know he's an employee of yours?"

"That's the thing about Stackleford!" Whitney says. "See. He's not a friend, right? He's just sort of there for no reason. He just hangs around. Like a fart."

The host laughs despite himself. "So you didn't realize that just because he attended an employees-only event, that meant he was -- you know -- an employee."

"Yes! And actually..." She pauses. Then, pointing: "Is that camera on me right now?"

The host says yes.

"Zoom it in closer, then. Closer -- yeah, good." On the display monitors, her face utterly fills the frame. "Stackleford -- ya fired."

"You're firing him on national TV," the host says, half questioning, half just reveling in how batshit this is.

"Yep. He's fired now. Fired for sure. Problem solved."

"And one more thing," Whitney says. "I just wanna add onto this. I have this guy on my board, Tyrus Kang... and he said... he's black -- and he said..."

"Oh my god," you mutter. "Didn't you tell her not to do this? She's gonna start rambling about that pass thing. Goddamn it, Rose. You had one fucking job--"

"I told her not to!" Rose hisses. "What do you want me to do, Alabaster? I told her so many times! Fuck!"

But thankfully, the host is talking over her, and this derails her train of thought: "--to say you're not a racist, then?"

"Absolutely. Abso-positutely. I'm the least racist person I know."

"So you know a lot of racists, then?" He asks facetiously, laughing.

"Now -- now hold on," Whitney responds, taking that little jab with utter seriousness. She points at him. "That's a gotcha. You're trying to gotcha me."

"I'm just having a little--"

"The answer to that gotcha is, well, all of my friends are non-racist. But I'm the least racist non-racist I know. Got it?"

He laughs again. "I think I get it."

"Good. I know that might be tough for you to understand."

He arches an eyebrow. "Why is that?"

Rose is rubbing her forehead so hard it seems like she's trying to dig a hole to the center of her brain. "No," she repeats. "No, no, no..."

"It's not the black thing!" Whitney shouts. She pounds a palm on the sleek black tabletop separating her from the host. "I'm saying it's because you're just -- look, forget that. It really hurts my heart that you would even think -- I mean, you're not even all black anyway, right? You're like maybe half black."

"I'm going to be ill," Rose says. "I can't watch. I can't -- I can't even --"

"Ms. Darkbloom, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think you're just digging yourself deeper here. You're not doing a great job convincing me that--"

"What you gotta know about me," she says, "is I grew up -- so totally poor. Dirt poor. And so I didn't have a lot of former education--"

"Formal?"

"None of that, either. But you know, in despite of that, I've got a heart. I have such a heart, you wouldn't believe the size of the heart I have. It's humongous. And to hear people say these awful things about me... it hurts my humongous heart. It really does."

"Did you teach her that 'hurts my heart' shit?" You demand.

"Yes," Rose says, "but... goddamn it. It's not supposed to be like this. I just gave her a little spice cabinet, that's all--"

"What?"

"A spice cabinet! I taught her all these little phrases of contrition that she could spice her interview with. They're meant to be spices only! But she took the jar labeled 'hurts my heart' and just upended it into the pot..."

At the interview table, Whitney is at a loss. She drops the subject of racism completely, just like that, and plows ahead to the next topic: "I think now is a good time for my announcement thingie. Cool?"

And the host, likewise at a loss -- utterly bewildered by Whitney, in fact -- leans back in his seat, nods uncertainty and motions at her with his pen. "Sure. Go ahead, Ms. Darkbloom."

"Yeah, so. I bought everyone in the audience a new car."

Now the host is even more confused. "Excuse me?" he sputters over the in-studio audience's mountingly excited whispers. "Hold on. You told our producers that this announcement was about a new privacy policy at your company."

"Yeah that was a lie. I just wanted some extra time to do this."

"I--" the host begins, but Whitney is already explaining:

"I always wanted to do that. You know, the Oprah thing. I hope you're not mad. Can I-- oh, I'm just gonna do it."

She stands up. "You're all getting cars!" She says. Pointing at individual audience members, each in turn, she begins to shout: "You get a car! And you get a car! And you get a car!"

Despite the host waving and gesticulating wildly to bring things back under control, the audience will not be mollified. They're on their feet, clapping and hooting. Whitney is off the stage entirely now, running back and forth along the front row, the audience's adulation feeding her energy as she points, and runs, and yells:

"You get a car! And you get a car! AND YOU GET A CAR! AND YOU! AND YOU! YOU'RE ALL GETTING A CAAAAAAAAAAA--

---

One evening at the Catachresis house, after dinner, you're in the kitchen helping Mom clean the dishes. Not because you want to help her or anything, but because you know she'll bitch at you if you don't offer. Might as well save the trouble. You stand side by side at the double-basin sink, wearing matching yellow elbow-length gloves, scrubbing stubborn bits of stuck-on char off pans. The scritch-scratch of your metal scrubbing sponges underpins your conversation.

"Cerise's birthday is coming up, isn't it?" Mom says. "She'll be 26, right?"

You nod yes.

"Is she seeing anyone?" Mom asks. "I can never get a straight answer when I ask her."

"It's... complicated," you say.

"Tch. Why is this such a hard question to answer!"

You shrug.

"Well, you're her little brother. It's your job to make sure she doesn't become a spinster, Alabaster!"

"How is that my job?" You demand. "She's a grown woman. Her love life is her problem."

"I don't want to hear it! Cerise's biological clock is ticking. It doesn't help matters that she lost a year to that horrible coma. You need to make sure she has a child to carry on the Soliloquy bloodline."

"Oh? And what about me? I'm the male heir, after all."

Mom glances over, looks you up and down, head to toe, disapprovingly. "I think Cerise had better carry on the bloodline," she says, frowning.

"Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence. If there's anything you see about me that you don't like, blame yourself. These are your genetics."

"I'm just saying -- who would you even have a child with, anyway?" She idly dries a pan off with a dish rag. "There are hardly any suitable candidates interested in you. Whitney? You don't need to deal with a special-needs child right now."

"There are plenty of options."

"Oh, please! Don't tell me you're thinking of impregnating that strange little Vivian girl. She's basically a child herself. Labor would rip her in half! And aside from that, I think she probably has autism. So she definitely isn't fit to have your child."

You shudder.

"And certainly not Rose," Mom says. "You may as well marry a succubus. Not to mention that you're cousins."

"Once--"

"So who else is left, then?"

"Maybe I could settle down with Dr. Carte."

Mom's left eye twitches. "That old hag? Don't make me laugh. Her uterus is probably filled with sand!"

"Pfft. You're one to talk."

She swats you with her dish towel. "How dare you!"

You shrug. "Maybe I'll just have a kid with Rose2. That's what you're campaigning for, right?"

"I hardly know anymore," Mom says, turning back to the dishes in the sink, resuming scrubbing. Her tone loses its edge. "Maybe that really would be incest."

"Well, speaking of," you say with a smirk, "I could kill two birds with one stone for you -- maybe me and Cerise could..."

Mom chokes on her own breath, horrified. "Al-Alabaster! What a disgusting thing to joke about!"

"I bet we could even find a Mormon commune to do the marriage ceremony. And hey, you wouldn't have to worry about Cerise being an old maid anymore."

Now Mom is raining a hail of suppressing fire down on you: slapping you again and again with the soggy end of the dish towel, forcing you shield your face with both gloved hands. "Sorry -- sorry!" You laugh. "Forget I said anything!"

"Hmmph," she finally breathes, relenting. But you won't let that abuse pass without retaliation, so when she has her back turned again, you twist your own dish towel up and snap it loose against her back. It's more loud than painful, but it shocks her into a fury. When she wheels, grimacing, you stick your tongue out.

"You are the crudest, least respectful boy in the world!" She shouts. "I can't believe you!"

She shouts at you but her eyes are twinkling.

In the living room, Cerise and Rose are sitting across from Saul and Charlotte, who have also stopped by to visit. Mom sips chardonnay with the woman who is technically her niece as they laugh and reminisce about old times.

"And you remember --" Charlotte says, taking a sip from her fluted glass, "--that exchange student who showed up in your senior year? What was her name -- Samantha?"

"Oh god!" Mom laughs. "The slutty bunny?"

Cerise quirks an eyebrow. She, like you, is unused to hearing Mom speak so loosely -- at least when she isn't haranguing someone.

"That's her!" Charlotte says. She slaps at the air limply, the universal sign language of women gabbing. "That costume she always wore! I still can't believe she got away with it on school grounds. Bunny ears and everything!"

"I think just about every boy at school had a turn with her," Mom says. "She was from Omaha or something. Coming out to California must have corrupted the poor girl. Or they just raise them differently out in the flyover states."

"I heard that she actually moved out to the playboy mansion after high school," Charlotte says. "That's just a rumor... but you know what they say, right? Dress for the job you want..."

"Maybe I picked the wrong girl from North High," Saul muses, even as he puts an arm over Charlotte's shoulders and hugs her a bit closer.

"Saul! You're awful!" Charlotte says.

Rose is turning a bit green listening to her parents have this vaguely sexual conversation. As for you -- it's a side to your mother you've never seen before, this gossipy, carefree thing she's rekindled with Charlotte.

Glancing over your shoulder, past the edge of the living room and towards the stairs, you see two things.

First: Amber. She's on her way down. She stops halfway there, appraises the scene in the living room. At the bottom, she turns instead towards the empty dining room. It's the first you've seen of her all night long. She mostly avoids you when you visit, and you're just fine with that.

Second: Rose2, watching you from the top of the staircase, squatting, hands on the vertical rails like a prisoner in her cell. Her face is blank, but severe.

[ ] Stay in the living room.

>[x] See what Amber is up to.

[ ] Go upstairs with Rose2.

You excuse yourself on the premise of going to the kitchen for more drinks, but your object is really to see Amber -- something inexplicably draws you to this girl, even though you know she can only mean trouble. Even so, you think she must have answers, too -- and those are in short supply these days.

Amber is wearing her usual attire -- tanktop, panties, socks -- nothing else. She's at the table, on a laptop, focused intently on the screen. She eats a succulent-looking apple.

As you approach, she finally notices you. She glances up with a sly grin. "Want some?"

"Err--"

She hefts the apple up. "These are pretty good. Try a bite."

"No thanks."

"Oh, come on~" She tosses it at you without warning. By instinct, you grab for it, and barely catch it, clutching it close to your chest. You hold the apple like that, grimacing back at Amber.

She nods at you expectantly. "They're this new hybrid called Gran-Jazz. Super sweet, super sour. You'll love 'em."

Half expecting that she dosed the thing with some sort of hallucinogen or poison, you bite into it anyway. You're not sure why you do it -- you feel almost compelled to by an outside force. Your lips wrap around the dainty bite marks she left in the apple, the light brown bruises her teeth made in its pale white flesh. You bite down hard with a satisfying crunch, and enjoy the explosion of juice that slithers down your tongue, the tart but sugary flavor. There was no poison after all, no drug; other than the knowledge that you've shared an indirect kiss with Camelia herself, there's nothing at all unusual about this apple.

She was right, though -- it's really good.

"So whaddaya think? Did I make you into a convert?"

"Sure," you say. "I'll have to buy some next time I'm at the store."

"Hmm," she laughs to herself. "You're not as dumb of an asshole as I thought, then."

"What are you working on?" You ask.

"Shouldn't you be getting back?" Amber retorts. "You're working so hard to mom-cuck me and Rose. You don't want to lose your momentum now."

"Whatever," you say. You toss the apple back at her. As you hoped, this surprises her. She scrambles to pluck it from the air -- bobbles it, like a juggler, before bringing it back under control.

"Jerk!"

"Just repaying the favor. You know, if I steal your mom, that'll make you my little sister. So I was just showing you a little bit of brotherly courtesy by asking what you were working on."

"Don't make me sick," she says. She bites the apple, right where you bit it. Through a full mouth, she says: "Anyway, I don't need your help."

"Schoolwork, then?"

"Sort of." She swallows hard. "It's an extracurricular thing."

"What kind?"

"Not that you would care. But I'm running for student council president."

You circle the table. On a graphics editing platform, Amber is making a poster for her campaign. It's definitely her work -- and you wonder whether she'll be able to get such a thing past the administration.

"Well -- good luck," you mutter. "You'll need it. Campaigning for StuCo is a drag, and it's not really worth it in the end."

You start for the kitchen to retrieve the promised drinks.

"Actually--" Amber says. "Hold on."

You turn.

"That's right. You were StuCo prez once upon a time, huh. You won a really tough campaign and all."

"Yeah."

"So..."

You squint at her. "Don't tell me -- are you asking me to help you?"

"Not that I want to debase myself like that... but the guy I'm running against..." she shudders. "He's got the entire fucking school under his thumb. He was running unopposed for a third straight term until I put my hat in the ring. I can't stand autocrats!"

You fold your arms. This story seems almost too perfect. You're wary.

"Trust me, I know the way Rose1 ran that school," she says. "It was a miracle you managed to beat her and that well-oiled political machine of hers. Well that's exactly what I'm up against, too. So some tricks of the trade would be appreciated. Strike a blow for freedom why don't you?"

"My best advice is to cheat," you say. "That's what I did." You expect this to throw her off her game, but:

"That's obvious. Of course I'm gonna cheat."

"Well... there you go. Problem solved."

"That motherfucker Auburn is gonna cheat too, though! Cheating isn't enough. I need an ace in the hole. I need..."

She puts a forefinger to her chin. She thinks for a turn. Then, she snaps her fingers.

"I need an endorsement!"

"Me?"

"A former StuCo Prez campaigning for the new blood. It's perfect! All I'd need is... an hour of your time one day... you make a little speech, voila. Then your brotherly duty is done."

>[x] I'll help you.

[ ] I won't help you.

"I don't know who you think you're fooling," you say. "I know who you really are."

"Will you can it with this 'I know who you really are' shit? You sound like a schizo. Don't go totally crazy before I get some mileage out of your name I.D."

"I never agreed to help you," you say.

"Sure you did. You didn't say no."

"I--"

"Just look at this." She minimizes her current project -- as well as another, even more highly-questionable poster --

--and pulls up a video. The boy she's running against actually put his campaign announcement on youtube. And even more shocking, the video has over 3,000 views.

He's a horrible vision, a clean-cut, button-down kind of guy, in a cream-colored shirt and dockers, wearing black rimmed glasses, with a swooped haircut, the very picture of nerd-chic. He'd be right at home in an Old Navy catalog. Or on the board of the Teenage Republicans, or the Young Democrats, or whatever other socially-conscious, youth-oriented bullshit he is definitely a part of. It goes without saying this asshole is high up in leadership at the National Honor Society, too -- that's a given. He makes your blood boil just looking at him, and that's before the ukulele kicks in.

Then come his lickspittles, the rest of the StuCo, each more cookie-cutter than the last, like cheap knockoffs of their chief. "We're the North High Student Council!" They say in soul-killing unison over the cloying music. "And we want you to vote!"

"That's right," the president says, hands folded neatly in front of him. "The election is on September 23rd. All StuCo positions are up for a vote. And on that note, I have wonderful news -- I plan to run for another term. Another term as president!"

"Turn this shit off already," you groan.

Amber closes the laptop's lid. "Fucking Raisin Brant," she sneers.

"--What?"

"Auburn Brantly. Raisin Brant. He's the fucking worst. He actually -- nevermind. Now you see, right? Why this election is important."

You half nod, half shrug.

"There's a pep rally for homecoming on Friday. Candidates are officially announcing there. Of course, fucking Raisin Brant played by his own rules and announced early... but anyway, you could come and give your endorsement there."

As awful of an idea as this is -- you agree. What can you say; you like knocking the establishment down a peg.

You meet Amber after class lets out on Friday. It's awkward, as always, to walk the halls of the school you burnt down five years ago. And you're not sure you should really be doing this at all. But you expect to extract your own fee for this assistance: you're going to demand some real answers from Amber when it's all over.

She meets you in an empty hall, by that little glass case that has a timeline of the presidents from North High's illustrious -- and not-so-illustrious -- history. Rose's term as president was followed by Brantly's; North High has suffered five uninterrupted years of rule by soulless bean-counters.

"Check it out," Amber says. She hands you a sheaf of papers. "I stayed up all night drafting my platform."

You read aloud, aghast. "Free lunch for all students... fire any teacher who assigns more than three hours' worth of homework in a single week... all vending machines required to carry morning-after pills? A marijuana dispensary on campus? An official resolution signed by North High recognizing Palestine as the only legitimate government in Gaza? What?"

"What do you think?" Amber asks, excited.

"You can't accomplish one quarter of this shit."

She frowns, and looks deflated. "Man did you sell out. I thought you of all people would know a thing or two about shooting for the moon in a StuCo campaign."

"What the fuck does Palestine have to do with StuCo--"

"You don't come to the table already compromising, Alabaster!" Amber pounds a fist in her palm. "You have to make wild demands at the start, so when you meet the other side in the middle, it's closer to what you want! That's the art of the deal!"

Students are filing past in the hallway perpendicular, towards the auditorium -- it's almost time for the pep rally.

Amber rifles through her bag and produces another sheaf of papers. "Look at this," she says. "This is what Raisin Brant wants to do. This is his actual platform."

You read this now, and it raises your blood pressure -- terrible flashbacks to Rose. "School lunches reduced in price by 25% over a two-year period... student-led curriculum review board working hand-in-hand with the administration... a five-year plan to repair the potholes in the parking lot... planning committee for a new pool... a winter culture festival?"

"Tepid bullshit!" Amber shouts "Who wants to vote for that! People want change, Alabaster. That's why I'm a fuckin' shoe-in."

You begin to speak, but you pause, as you catch a glimpse of something that makes your heart drop. Among the throng of students headed for the auditorium, is the current student council themselves -- and they're impossible to miss, the very blandness of their dress style making them ironically stand out.

But that's not what makes the bile rise in your throat. Because at the head of the pack is Auburn Brantly, and he's deep in conversation with Rose.

[ ] Confront her.

>[x] Bide your time -- surprise her when you take the stage at the pep rally.

You enter the auditorium a little bit late, after things have already begun and the lights are low. You stand near the back, along the walls, and watch. Auburn is on stage, his cronies sitting in metal folding chairs to his right; and on his left, in a position of honor, is Rose.

"Homecoming is fast approaching, as you know," Auburn says. He takes a handkerchief and wipes his sweating forehead. "Which means there's a lot to do! ... The Sadie Hawkins dance is next week... girls, this is your chance to take the reins..."

You whisper to Amber, who's standing beside you. "Did you know about this? Did you know Rose was going to be here?"

"Of course." She's wearing a smug grin -- Amber is a girl who delights in keeping you off-balance, same as ever.

"What is she doing here?" You demand.

"Same thing you are... only for the wrong side. You wanna beat her, right? Well -- stick to the plan."

"Our boys' and girls' soccer team will be playing an exhibition match against one another this afternoon," Auburn says. "You can pay however much you like for tickets. Proceeds will go to the student org fund...

A boy sidles up to Amber on the other side. He's eating a deluxe-sized slice of pizza, although despite his wolfish hunger, he's thin as a rail. "I put those posters up like you asked," he says as he munches. "Plastered 'em right over Raisin Brant's. We'll beat his ass for sure."

"You are...?" You say.

He notices you for the first time. "Oh!" He says, to Amber. "You actually got the billionaire to help you. Fuckin' wild." He moves as if to extend a hand to shake, but realizes it's the hand holding his pizza; for a moment or two he seems confused, before he realizes that yes, he's got two hands, and he extends the other now instead. You shake with him.

"Will," he says. "I'm Amber's friend."

"Don't lie to the man," Amber says.

"I don't even know why I'm helping you," Will grumbles. "You are such an ass munch."

"He's not a friend. More like a hanger-on," Amber explains to you. "Been kind of following me around like a cloud since middle school. Hey, aren't you supposed to be warming up for that exhibition match?"

"Pffthaha," Will says. "The girls' team won't be any problem. If I can't beat a girl, I'm in trouble."

Amber shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

You marvel at the two of them. It's beginning to dawn on you, slowly, that whatever history this girl has, it runs deep; her cover as Amber Catachresis is more than just an assumed identity. She has friends and enemies, an entire life all her own; there is a real history to it, a timeline stretching back years. Amber is an individual in her own right somehow and in some way separate from Camelia. But how separate? And how is that possible?

No time to wonder, because Rose is taking the podium now.

"Thank you, Auburn. And thank you, North High, for having me. It's always such a joy to be back. Some of you old-timers in the class of 2020 might remember me from my time as president of the student council back in the day. Well, I'm here to show my support for the school I love -- by throwing my support behind the best candidate for the job -- the only candidate -- Auburn Brantly. For the past three years and counting, Auburn has continued my legacy, and built upon it in so many wonderful ways..."

She drones on for about 15 stultifying minutes. There's a lot to be said about Rose's time in StuCo, so many different things to despise about it -- it was like a finely aged hatred-wine with a full bouquet of flavors, little undertones and subtle notes that only a true connoisseur of hating Rose could ever truly appreciate. And of the many things you do not miss at all about her governing style, the thing you don't miss the most is her tendency to talk, and talk, and talk, and talk -- for seeming eons.

But of course, you know, there's a perverse strategy in this. She must know that Auburn's opponent gets to take the stage and announce after she's done speaking. If Rose turns the audience off before that happens, gets them bored to tears, they won't be paying attention; and Amber won't leave a mark on them. Snuffing out the competition by faux filibuster. She tried to do it to you, back when you ran. And just like back then, you're going to make sure it fails.

"Let me introduce you," you tell Amber. "I'll get them warmed up for you."

You take the stage.

It's a delicious moment, one you'll keep preserved in your memory banks forever: strolling down the aisle between the bleachers, up to the podium, right past where Rose sits. Her shocked eyes following you the whole way. Her obvious urge to say something, to snap at you -- and her sheer frustration at being unable to. Beautiful. Perfect.

You grab the mic, lean in, and begin. Full throttle, right away:

"Rose Mallory was the worst president in North High's entire history. Her presidency was an absolute disaster." This has the confused student body perking up and paying attention now. "I should know. I ran against her, once -- and I won. My name is Alabaster Soliloquy, and if you're tired of everything Rose and her little toady Auburn Brantly -- or as I like to call him, Raisin Brant -- represent, then vote for something else. Vote for my candidate. The real only candidate. Amber Catachresis."

Auburn, fittingly, is going red in the face; and Rose is even worse. She's bug-eyed, edges of her mouth twitching, physically restraining herself from charging you, it seems. Her balled-up fists in her lap clutch and unclutch the hem of her skirt, the knuckles going white. You smile at her.

"Amber is the girl with the master plan," you say. "She's the girl that's gonna rock this rotten administration to the core and shake things up. Do you folks actually care about a planning committee for a new pool? A culture festival? Of freaking course you don't." Students are looking at one another, nodding, murmuring their general assent. "Well, that's all you get with Raisin Brant. Bland old Raisin Brant. Don't go with that. Go with something fresh. Amber Catachresis. You remember that name now. Amber. Catachresis. Remember it, because in a couple weeks you're all going to vote for her, and she's gonna kick Raisin Brant's bland little ass."

You've got them laughing and enraptured, now; time to hand it off: "But don't take it from me. Here she is herself -- your next president!"

She takes the podium, grinning with an open mouth, exhilarated, resplendent -- and without hearing one word of her actual policy, they're chanting her name: "Amber! Amber! Amber!"

You grab a metal chair from the wall at the edge of the stage, unfold it, and plop it down right next to Rose while Amber speaks.

"I've still got it," you whisper from the corner of your mouth.

Rose is staring straight ahead as she whispers back: "I'm going to destroy you. I'm going to destroy you completely."

"You're on, cunt."

She smiles -- a pained, forced smile, for the audience.

When you return to work to close out the day, Whitney reads the news to you -- or at least, a translation. "These Japanese tabloids are vicious. Get a load of this: Makoto Kikuchi spotted at Darkbloom 'orgy house.' The singer-slash-actress has been seen coming and going from the home of Darkbloom Analytics CEO Whitney Darkbloom. Kikuchi, who is studying Darkbloom in preparation for an upcoming film, is now a fixture at the home where libertine activities are alleged to take place on a round-the-clock basis."

"Where's the lie?" You ask.

"I dunno. What does libertine mean?"

"Horny."

"Okay, so no lie. But still. They're gonna wreck her career like this."

You shrug. "Where is she, anyway? Isn't this her usual observation time with you?"

"Fucked if I know. I think she's hanging out with Rose2."

She scrolls a little bit through her feed, reading in silence. Growing suddenly enraged, though, she booms: "What the fuck! Listen to this: Musk founds new company. ... Called the Lightflower Company, the fledgling tech firm launches with the mission of 'creating an antidote to Sand Reckoner.' ... he's stealing our shit, Alabaster!"

"We've got competitors. That's business."

"Fuck that! I'm gonna sue him. I'm gonna take all his fucking money. Asshole! Lightflower? I can sue him for that, right?"

"I don't -- I don't fucking know. Maybe?"

She fumes. Now isn't a good time to poke her.

Instead, you try to think of a strategy for confronting the arduous StuCo campaign ahead. You don't have a lot of time, and you've got a lot of hurdles to overcome.

>Yes or no to all of these:

[Y] Y/N You need technological subterfuge -- hacking.

[N] Y/N You need to speak with Rose directly and try to understand her strategy.

[Y] Y/N You need to prepare Amber for the upcoming debate with her opponent.

And for now:

>[x] Find another girl (or Alex) to blow off some steam (name your choice). (Rose2)

"Have you seen the world's most annoying intern?"

You sit across from Kay in her office. If anyone would know where Rose2 is, it would be her -- she's got eyes and ears all over.

"Sure I have," Kay says. "What is it worth to you?"

"Absolutely nothing. I don't even know why I'm bothering."

"I know why," Kay says. "You wanna get your dick wet at work."

You shake your head. "If this was about getting my dick wet, I'd just fuck you. You're closer."

Kay flinches at this -- you enjoy making her squirm. But on balance, she doesn't seem averse to what you said.

"I have personal business with her," you explain. "It's about her sister."

"Uh huh. And I should tell you -- why? What's in it for me?"

"Why does everything have to be so goddamn transactional with you?" You say. "You really get on my nerves with this shit."

"If you're not getting ahead, you're falling behind," Kay says. She leans back, smirking. "That's just life."

"Well, fine. How about this, then. If I fuck you, will you tell me?"

She regards you as if uncertain whether you're being serious right now.

"I've really got nothing else," you say, shrugging. "If you want me to give you something in exchange -- my dick is about all I can offer you."

She stands and strolls to her office door. You figure she's walking out on you, insulted over your lewd remarks. But instead she shuts it, and then latches the deadbolt. She spins around, staring down at you.

"Well?" She says. She hooks her thumbs in the waistband of her pencil skirt. "Bend me over my desk, then. Fuck me dirty."

She shimmies out of the skirt and folds it neatly over the back of a chair sitting against the wall. Her shapely thighs are those of a woman who never skips leg day. The gap between them, bridged by a pantied pussy mound, is almost perfectly heart-shaped. When she turns, she catches you gawking. And like that she has, as always, taken the initiative.

"Were you peeking?" She says, hands on her thin hips.

"When you ask someone to fuck you -- generally, that's an invitation to peek."

She sticks her tongue out at you.

You decide now to take back the initiative: you grab her roughly by one wrist, tugging her hand off her hip, and lead her to the desk. You spin her around and do exactly what she asked: you bend her over.

But like quicksilver, she slips out of your grip and turns again to face you. You are not to be toyed with right now, so you get your hands on her shoulders and press her backwards, her tailbone justting against the sharp edge of the desktop -- you'll fuck her forwards or backwards, it doesn't make a difference to you.

"Wait," she moans between your searching kisses.

"No. What happened to 'bend me over my desk'?"

She puts a seductive hand on your chest. "We'll do that," she says slyly. "First, though... I want to try something a little different."

"Different?" You say. "This is the second time you've ever done it. Anything we do is gonna be different."

She scowls at you.

"Fine," you say, "what's your idea?"

She slinks to her own chair and pushes it away from the desk. Sitting down, she turns and faces you and spreads her legs akimbo. The tips of her toes just barely make contact with the carpet and the soles of her bare feet are arched severely as she exposes herself to you. Running a hand invitingly along the cotton crevice that describes the slit of her cunt, she seems to revel in your hungry gaze. "I heard through the grapevine that you've got one hell of a tongue," she says.

"Who told you that?" You demand.

"A good journalist never reveals her sources."

You have an idea anyway. Maybe you'll tell this source, later, that her loose lips drove another yet woman into your arms. She's sure to have a bad reaction to that.

You take a step forward. Kay crooks her index finger. "Lick my pussy, Alabaster..."

You get down on your knees and reach for the waistband of Kay's panties, but she swats your hand away.

You sigh. "Will you make up your fucking mind?"

"Take them off with your teeth... please..."

You've never done such a thing, and it has a novelty to it. She lifts her petite little butt just a bit off the seat to help you along. With a playful growl, you get your teeth around the nylon waistband and bite down, trapping the fabric in your mouth. From this close distance you can smell, deeply, the fragrant scent of Kay's femininity. She wears a musky perfume that sticks to the back of your throat and underneath this is the slightest hint of sweat, the lingering trace of a good morning workout. But overpowering both of these is the sweetly tangy smell of her overheated pussy. And as you tug her panties down with your mouth, and your nose travels over her bare genitals, you're almost knocked back by it -- this pheromone-laden fuckhole that's getting all wet for you.

You slide her panties to her knees, but no farther. That's more than enough for you to get your tongue where she wants it. Pressing your palms against Kay's inner thighs to hold them apart, you lean forward, and purse your mouth, and blow little puffs of cool air onto her darkly colored, dripping pussy. The side of her index finger pressed between her lips, Kay nonetheless can't suppress her little "aahhn~", a moan pleasure mixed with frustrated anticipation. You won't keep her waiting, though. You plant your lips on her vulva now, like the kid who sucks the faucet of the water fountain, and show her exactly why you get such rave reviews.

"Ohh-- ohhhhh," Kay says. Her voice is as deep as you've ever heard it and, glancing up, you see her eyes going wide as she adjusts to this alien sensation. Jokes about Lady aside, she's clearly never had a tongue lapping at her cunt before, and she seems about ready to wig out with how good it really feels. Her back arches and her legs flex over and over. She writhes and throws her head back, overwhelmed.

You eat her in earnest now, your tongue wagging up and down her sweet pussy hole, tracing little circles over her clit, and occasionally penetrating her too. she holds your head with both hands, fingers digging down to your scalp, to keep your face against her. You work her into a lather. Her warm wet cunt seeps its juices straight into your sucking mouth. You've grown to enjoy this over time, the taste of a woman's cunt cumming in your mouth, and the perverse pleasure of driving her mad with lust.

Kay soon loses all sense of propriety and discretion. She begins to grunt and moan as if she were in the privacy of her own home -- rather than in a workplace where anyone can overhear. She runs her hands in circles through your hair and repeats: "That's it... that's it... eat me... so fucking good... FUCK..."

You can feel her heartbeat in the way her pussy lips throb. And her thighs squeezing against your hands as if trying to clamp shut around your ears, tells you all you need to know. But then she warns you anyway: "I'm gonna cum... I'm gonna FUCKING cummmm... oh fuck, Alabaster-- make me cum!"

You pull back. She hisses in disbelief, and tries to yank your face to her soaking wet pussy mound again, but you're quicker now that you've got her dazed with need. You spring to your feet -- and drag her with you, too, up and out of her office chair. In one fluid motion you get yourself behind her and press her forward, bending her over her desk again. For real this time. You were already turned on from her striptease, but eating out her delicious cunt has your reptile brain in overload. You need to squirt a hot load of cum inside her, and you no longer particularly care how she feels about that.

"Alabaster -- hold on!" She chokes, weakly trying to fend you off. "Let me clear off--"

"No," you say gruffly. You unzip and pull your cock out. She asked you to fuck her dirty and she's going to get her wish.

"But I--" she begins. You cut her off by forcing your dick into her clamping cunt. She's so drenched that you slide in easy, without any real resistance, such a contrast to the first time you broke her pussy open. She lets out a choked "ghhh--" as you seat your cock in her, still unused to such a deep, rough and sudden violation. She loves it anyway. Her pretty little pussy squeezes your cockmeat appreciatively, like giving it a kiss. There's something lewdly cute about that, the thought of her inner walls smooching your dick.

You begin to rut inside her now, hard fast thrusts that shake the desk beneath you back and forth. Stacks of papers shift to and fro like towers in an earthquake. Her PC monitor topples to its face. Framed pictures and awards and knick-knacks fall to the carpet. Neither of you care.

Kay holds the opposite side of the desk while you fuck her doggy style, her knuckles going white. She holds on for all she's worth, because that's all she can do. She can't fight you, can't stop it from happening, so she might as well enjoy it. She lies beneath you and takes your cock inside her like a good slut. But you want more, you want to fuck her even deeper, so you find her wrists and tug her arms away from the surface of the desk. You hold Kay's arms in both hands like handlebars, for better leverage, so you can get a better angle on the hole you're fucking. You make her curve her spine a little and force her up on her tiptoes too, so that you can thrust into her at a nice, slightly upward angle. You can get into her all the way now, your heavy balls slapping against her clitoral hood with every stroke. Her head droops down, and she goes all limp. Kay is totally pliant and loose-muscled as she lets you ravish her. She makes loud, deep, "unf, unf, unf" noises and her tongue hangs stupidly from the corner of her mouth.

But you're still not satisfied. You need to really give it to her. And you have a perverted idea for how.

You step back, pulling her with you, never breaking your pace. She's still bent at the hips, but she isn't over her desk anymore. You're walking her across the room like a wheelbarrow while you pound her, her wobbly knees barely managing to carry her even with your guidance. 

Kay doesn't realize or seem to care what you're planning until it's already happening. You pull the shades on the floor-to-ceiling windows of the office's north wall -- and get her pressed up directly against one of them.

"Alabaster--" she groans. "N-no-- wait-- s-stop--!"

You're fucking her standing, her body pinned to the warm glass. Kay's palms are flat against the windowpane, her legs spread wide, your cock sawing in and out of her -- her shame is on full view to anyone who might happen to look up. These windows face the front gates and the spacious quad for employees. It's around the lunch hour still and many of them are milling around down below.

"Anyone-- c-could s-see--" she protests, even as she humps her pussy back against your viciously thrusting cock.

"You like watching, but you don't like being watched. Is that it?"

"N-no... no I d-don't..."

"Too fucking bad," you say. You press your cheek to her from behind and plant a wet kiss on her face. You whisper in her ear as you ram her: "Everyone's gonna see how you like to get fucked, Kay."

"Nnnnn..." she gulps, and closes her eyes. She can't bear to look. But all the while the swampy insides of her cunt squeeze and convulse around you. The harder and deeper you fuck her, and the more she's on display, the wetter she gets. It's not long before the degradation of it wrings a few tremendous squirts of girl-cum from her. Her ejaculation sprays the window hard like a spritzing bottle of Windex.

"What a fucking slut you are," you sneer. "Everyone's watching you cum. Look."

"Noooo... nooooo..." she moans as she cums for you. She still can't bring herself to look. A couple people down below really are looking up, but from this remove it's hard to tell if they're watching your lewd display or not. The thought gets you off, though. You like putting on a show for the little people.

"I thought you liked having everyone pay attention to you," you muse with a few extra-forceful thrusts up her pussy.

She's too frightened and cumming too hard to respond.

"That's fine," you say. "Let's show them what Kay Vera's face looks like when she's getting fucked full of sperm..."

"Alabasterrrr... unfff..."

She's cumming again. All over herself, and the floor, and the window. Her creaming, pulsing pussy is such a nice feeling against your horny dick that you know you can't hold back much longer. You hug her from behind and bury the head of your cock up her womb and lose your load. Your cum fires off in six or seven wet blasts. The deep relief resonates from your cock and throughout your entire body, all the way down to the soles of your feet. You sigh and enjoy this sensation purely for what it is -- forgetting yourself, and Kay, and the possible audience below, focused only and intently on the enjoyment of filling a tight wet hole with your sticky seed.

Just when you think you're empty, you feel the last vestiges of your climax shuddering through you, and you're taken by a sudden crazed need to pound her just a little bit more. You fuck her with a few extra rapid strokes, surprising her. She squeals. Your bodies slap loudly together for a few moments, as you have an extra miniature orgasm inside her, and lose a few more fat wads of cum. It spurts from your cock and sloshes around with the jizz you already fucked into her womb just moments prior. Only a little while ago she was a virgin, and now you're repeatedly breeding her cunt out like she's a cheap whore.

Completely sated now, you pull out of her. Without your support, Kay slumps against the window. Her face and palms squeak obnoxiously on the glass as her weight drags her down. She makes no attempt to get away or cover herself -- too exhausted. She just slides down the length of the window as your cum slides down her legs. She ends up balanced poorly on her haunches, squatting obscenely with her cum-smeared pussy spread wide in the bright afternoon daylight. Your cum is still running from her fucked out hole and plopping down onto the ground in fat wet dollops, right in front of the window.

You peer out now, to the quad below, and yes, people are definitely watching. You smile and wave, your hard cock still jutting from your jeans, also dripping cum -- and then you pull the shades back down. Kay, swooning, falls to her back.

---

In the afterglow, she lies naked on her floor, a little weak, and not quite able to stand up. As you put your clothes back on, she stares at the ceiling, back of her palm on her forehead, and tells you what you want to know: "Rose2 is in the theater -- down by the rec area."

"Thanks. Was that so hard?"

"Yeah... it was..."

Idly, your hands run along the clutter on her desk -- Kay is a real pack-rat. You find a large, round, bronze medal mounted in a frame. "What's this?" You ask her. You already know. But you also know you're going to enjoy her reaction.

And that reaction is instant. She's on her feet, knees still wobbly, naked pussy dripping your cum. "That's my fucking Pulitzer! Put it down!"

You step back. "Huh? Your what?"

"Give it back!" She lunges for you, but you deftly dodge her. As fucked-out as she is right now, it isn't hard. She's uncoordinated and sluggish. Her little tits jiggle as she chases you about the small office. And now she's howling with indignation: "You fucker! Get your greasy hands off of that! If you break it, I swear to Christ--"

She finally does manage to corner you, and pin your wrist against the wall. With her other hand she snatches the award back. You use her moment of distraction to plant a kiss on her lips. She finds herself momentarily caught between anger and passion; finally she does return the kiss, but grudgingly. You can sense her frustration in the movements of her tongue. You reach down to fondle her messy cunt, to get her ready for round two, but she pulls away.

"Enough, you fucking dog," she says. "Jesus." She steps back and gently sets her Pulitzer back on her desk, like a mother laying a newborn in its crib. Then she grabs you by the shoulders, and turns you around, and steers you to the door. "Out!" She says.

She must have forgotten herself because when she opens the door and boots you from her office, she's shocked to lock eyes with Armstrong who happens to be walking by. She's there at the threshold of her office, fully naked, leaking your genetic material -- eyes bulging.

Armstrong is more bemused than anything. He pauses to admire the view, before Kay, finally getting ahold of herself, slams the office door shut again. Immediately you hear the sound of the lock clicking back into place.

Armstrong passes you without any further comment, although you hear him chuckling to himself: "horny motherfucker..."

Time to find Rose2.

In the mostly-darkened theater, Rose2 is up by the projector screen. So is Makoto. They're lying on the plushly carpeted red floor -- Rose2 on her back, Makoto atop her, pinning Rose2's wrists above her head. Rose2 is kicking and struggling as Makoto plants sloppy, sucking kisses on her neck.

"Ally!" Rose2 says, staring up at you with frightened eyes. Makoto, totally unfazed by your arrival, keeps assaulting her. "I-it's not what it looks like! S-she attacked me!"

"This girl has asked me to fuck her," Makoto purrs between kisses. Even in the low light, you can see dark hickeys on Rose2's neck.

"N-no!" Rose2 insists. "It's not like that! I-- I only love you, Ally! I wanted her to -- to show me some dance moves -- t-that's all, I swear!"

Makoto stops long enough to leer up at you, her eyes filled with unabated hunger. "She told me I am cute. I said she is also cute. This now is the effect. I am going to fuck her. Would you like to assist me?"

"Nn--" Rose2 gulps. Although, it seems, she isn't totally unwilling. Kneeling near them to get a better vantage, you can smell the almost sickly-sweet aroma of her arousal. Even now, it really does remind you of bubblegum.

But you'll be the knight in shining armor here. "If you want her to stop, I'll stop her," you say. "Although I honestly don't care if you two do it. Actually, I think it's pretty fun. I'd like to watch."

"You... you do?" she says with a trembling voice.

"Of course. You're cute. Makoto's cute. What's better than watching two cute girls have sex?"

Rose2 chews her lip. To help her decision along, Makoto gets her knee between Rose2's crotch and roughly rubs against her pussy mound as she continues to suck on Rose2's neck. Then, moving upwards, she begins to lick Rose2's face. She actually licks it, like an ice cream cone. Her long wet tongue swirls around, all over the poor, trembling girl's lightly glittered face, leaving a slimy trail wherever it goes. This is a uniquely Japanese spin on lesbian rape... you like it.

"So?" You prompt. "Should I stop her?"

"If... i-if you're okay with it... then... then I'm..."

She cannot say much more as Makoto wraps her thin fingers around her chin and locks lips with her. Gripping Rose2's face with both hands, Makoto's kiss is as violent and violating as any you've ever seen. It's like Makoto is trying to fuck Rose2's throat with her tongue. Rose2's hands are now free. But she keeps them exactly where Makoto held them anyway, as if they are still pinned in place above her head. She falls to pieces when someone makes an advance on her -- becomes docile and unable to act of her own volition.

You watch appreciatively as Makoto rapes Rose2's mouth with hers. She's a great study, already poised to surpass Whitney for sheer lust and debauchery. You never would have expected this tiny little thing to be capable of such forcefulness. When she pulls back again, Rose2 gasps for air, and her face is absolutely coated in Makoto's drool.

"I want your mouth on me," Makoto says. "Down there."

"D-down... d-down there..." Rose2 repeats, dazed, and shocked.

"I have never had," Makoto says. "I want to feel this. I want you to suck on my pussy."

GREAT use of her vocab words there. Rose2 glances uncertainly your way. "A-are... is that... are you okay if I..."

It's both cute and annoying how she asks for permission after you've already granted it; loyal to a fault. You nod. "Suck her pussy, Rose."

"Nnn... o-okay..."

She parts her lips like a kid waiting for a parent to feed her. And like this she waits obediently for Makoto to sit on her face.

She doesn't need to wait long. Makoto hikes up her miniskirt, baring her neatly trimmed idol pussy. She's dripping wet. So wet that you can hear an obscene squish as she gets on her knees and squats over Rose2's head and settles down upon her equally wet face. There's hardly any friction. You can see the thin film of liquid between Rose2's face and Makoto's sopping genitals, and hear the sloppy noise it makes as Makoto wags her hips back and forth. She lewdly rides the girl's face and paws at her own tiny tits through her shirt. Rose2 sucks, as instructed, keeps her lips pursed and blindly tries to follow Makoto's cunt. But it's no use. Makoto is just masturbating against her face -- lips, nose, forehead, cheeks. She's simply enjoying the sensation of rubbing her vulva, her clit, and her asshole all over the poor girl. It's an act of pure domination, nothing more.

Rose2 has repeatedly commented on how kakkoii Makoto is, how totally sugoi it is to have an idol singer following Whitney around -- you're sure she never expected to have her mouth sucking down that idol's pussy juice. Or to have that idol use her face as a living sybian. You pull your cock out and masturbate while you watch. You'll join in soon, but for now, you just want to see how far Makoto will take it.

Rose2 is gulping and gasping, but you know she enjoys this. She presses her shapely thighs together repeatedly and, from where you sit, you can see that her bright pink panties are stained with need. She did idolize Makoto, after all. It must be an honor to get used as a sexual plaything like this.

You watch in awe as Makoto gets off. First once, then again, and again -- squirting copiously all over Rose2. She plays with her clit, frigging it, as she orgasms on the girl. Rose2's already runny makeup becomes a sheer mess, colorful streaks of mascara and eyeliner running in clumps down her cheeks. Rearing back, Makoto gets Rose2's tongue in her ass, and her little nose up her cunt, and rides out yet another climax. Her low, almost neanderthal grunts are utterly depraved. She's lost in masturbatory ecstasy as she cums on Rose2 again and again.

You want to get your rocks off, too. It's hard to decide exactly where you want to nut right now, but Makoto's face looks inviting. The way she grits her teeth and stares down at the spot where her pussy is rubbing against Rose2 is hot, but weirdly cute. Even in the throes of perversion, Makoto has the gentle cuteness befitting her station in life. And she's getting a little too haughty for her own good -- shoving your cock down her throat should help keep her in check a bit.

You step up to her as she rides Rose2's face. Without asking, you poke your straining dick against her cheek. "Suck," you instruct -- simple and to the point.

This is also a first for her, and she's more than a little daunted by the size. Your cock is almost as wide as her small face, and she's clearly doing some mental geometry, trying to figure out how she's going to get it in her mouth. She daintily licks the tip, a single time, and scrunches up her nose at the salty taste of your precum. But that's all she can do because suddenly she's airborne. Rose2 heaves Makoto off of her, sending her flying.

"Don't you -- don't you dare!" She wails, all that submissiveness gone, replaced by something like savage rage. She might be a cummy mess right now, her face coated in drool and cunt slime, but her voice demanding and domineering all the same. And now Makoto is on her back, sprawled out by some nearby theater seats, as Rose2 hobbles to her knees.

She puts her hands on your own knees now, peering up at you. "Y-you don't want that stupid chink to do anything with you... r-right? You... wouldn't want HER... right?"

You have no idea what to say. Makoto rises to her butt, rubs the back of her head. "You..." she growls. "You have made a mistake..."

"Forget about her!" Rose2 tells you, forcing you backwards, sitting you down in one of the chairs in the front row. Her voice has a crazed tremor to it. "She's just some silly little Jap whore, right?... I'll make you feel real good, don't worry... not her... so you just sit back and enjoy it... 'kay?"

"Rose--" you begin, but choke on whatever you were going to say as Rose2's impossibly wet mouth engulfs your cock. She stares up at you with utter devotion as she forces herself down, and down, and down. Despite the geysers of mucousy drool your invading cock makes her cough up all around you, she doesn't stop for anything. Not to breathe, not to give her throat any time to adjust. She's determined to get your cock nestled in her and keep it there. All the way inside of her. And only her.

The sensation of her gagging throat is heaven. You can only sit there and enjoy the shivers of pleasure it sends coursing through your meaty dick. She's obviously not experienced but she makes up for it with raw enthusiasm. She treats your cock like it's the most delicious thing in the world. She never once breaks eye contact through all of her retching and heaving. It doesn't matter to her -- no pain or discomfort, no humiliation or mess, is bad enough to make her stop.

Makoto has her revenge, though. Sneaking up behind her, Makoto reaches down, tugs Rose2's panties to the side, and forces three fingers into Rose2's asshole. Although Makoto's fingers are small, Rose2's ass is event tighter than her bubblegum cunt. The sudden molestation makes Rose2's eyes go wide with pain. Despite that, she doesn't break her pace -- she doesn't stop gagging on your cock. But then as Makoto saws her fingers in and out of Rose2's asshole, Rose2's eyes go from buggy to droopy; her face slackens and she seems to melt in pleasure. By the time Makoto adds another hand, this one to Rose2's cunt, she's in paradise. This is a perfect moment for her, you realize: throat being used by the man she adores, while a Japanese idol molests her.

"To call me names..." Makoto sneers. She roughly fingers Rose2 as she hurls degradation at her: "You are the one who's a whore. Look at how you suck his cock. You are nothing but a filthy whore! You are a slut! You... you are dirty! You are a dirty cunt! Cunt! You are a fucking dirty cunt whore!"

Rose2 just stares at you, and even though her gullet is stuffed with your dick, even though her lips are already stretched to straining, you can tell she's smiling. All she really cares about is that you feel good. And seeing that you do, she's happy.

"I'm gonna cum," you tell her.

Eagerly, Rose2 nods. She wants you to cum in her. Right into her belly. She wants to suck your cum out of you.

So you oblige her. You put your hands on her cotton candy hair and force her down, to really make sure you're all the way in. Her button nose mashes against your pubic bone and your toes curl as you get off in her throat. You feel your balls tighten against her chin and feel your cockhead forcing her esophagus to widen as it pulses, and throbs, and sperms her. You hear her gulping it down, drinking your jizz -- and it's a wonderful noise that resonates so nicely in the empty theater. Makoto brings her off too, now, forces Rose2 to cum on her invading digits. You can feel the way Rose2 sighs with pleasure, the vibration of it coursing down your cumming dick, as she squirts all over Makoto's hands and the theater floor.

---

You're in Galatea's loft, on her bed. She sits at her computer.

"i... i do not understand," she says.

"Amber told me there's this rumor that there's some corruption. Between Raisin Brant and the school administration. If you hacked his emails, right?... and published them on GalLeaks... it would be a slam dunk."

"but... gal leaks is for corruption in silicon valley," Gal insists. "not... whatever this is..."

"I mean, fine. You don't have to publish them there. Just get them and I'll take care of the rest. I'll put them out to the student body."

She demurs.

"I'll give you money," you say. "Lots of money... say... $2 million?"

Gal is like a fish smacking its lips: "two... two million..."

"Now we're talking. So you'll do it?"

"i..."

"You're a godsend, Gal. Thank you so much for doing this. You're the best."

This rare show of praise actually seems to motivate her more than the offer of money. Her eyes go all dewy, and she looks away: "t-thank you, sir..."

"What's up with that?" You say.

"...with what."

"You keep calling me sir. Why?"

She shrugs. She still won't make eye contact. "it feels right."

"Okay, well... whatever. What kind of info do you need to do this whole email thing?"

"he may be too savvy for a spear phishing attack... if that is the case... i would need someone on the inside to penetrate the school's network... someone who can gain administrative rights over the school's computers."

You think for a moment. "Does this person need to know they're your man on the inside?"

"not in theory."

"I've got just the man for the job," you say. "Fine. Done. What else?"

"nothing else... i will put some programs on a thumb drive for you..."

"Thanks," you say, standing. "I'll be back in a little while to pick it up, then. I'll bring Cerise, too."

"wait."

You stare down at her.

"will you please hurt me today sir"

You decide to get Gal started with an old ritual you used to share with her: that eye-melding trick with your implants that gives you both such a high when you focus them on one another. You get on your knees in front of her, and touch your brow to hers. Your faces are little bit offset, each of your left eyes fixed on the other.

You used to do this with her because it allowed Gal to find a link with Cerise, however ephemeral -- to see Cerise while she was in her coma. Now there's no need for that, and therefore no reason to do it other than raw pleasure.

But it doesn't happen. Focus on her eye though you may, there is no effect.

"I don't understand," you say. "This... this never happens to me."

"it's okay."

"No, really. This... this isn't right. This never happens!"

"it's okay... it's not a problem."

Even still, you're mortified.

It's Gal who brings you out of it. She caresses your face. The gentle touch of her fingers almost tickles. She's in awe of you: "sir... you're so handsome..."

You stand again. Her eyes follow you. "You're right," you say. You prod her cheek with your index finger like testing the ripeness of fruit. "I am. So you should be thankful that I see fit to hurt you, shouldn't you?"

"yes..." she agrees. "i am... i'm so thankful..."

"You're just a dumb, ugly cunt."

"yes"

"You don't even deserve my hands on your neck."

"no i don't"

You prod her face again. "Fucking look at me when I talk to you."

Her scared eyes meet yours. "i-i'm sorry, sir"

"Take my belt off," you tell her.

She complies, but her hands are shaky, and she seems confused by even this simple task. She struggles to get the clasp undone, and to get the belt free from the loops of your pants. You grow impatient. And since she asked you to hurt her, you're going to grant her wish. You haul off and slap her hard across the face.

Her tears flow freely as she redoubles her effort to get the belt off. She tugs and tries to force it undone.

"Hurry the fuck up," you say. "Jesus. Stupid bitch."

"i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry... i'm so sorry..."

She finally gets it off, and obediently presents it to you. As you take it from her, she hangs her head in shame and fear; tears continue to trickle down her cheek.

You kneel. Clasping her face gently, you force her to look at you. "That one really hurt, huh?" You say, examining the angry red welt on her pale face streaked with her tears.

She nods.

"That might have been too much. I won't slap you again. Okay?"

She sniffles, surprised, and nods a second time. "o-okay. thank you sir"

You slap her. Suddenly and viciously. The thwack echoes off the walls. She winces and recoils and diverts her gaze. After a moment or two, she starts to ugly-cry. She heaves and gasps. Big, choking, desperate and pitiful sobs.

"Shh," you coo soothingly, "shh. Shh. That was really mean. It was too mean. I'll stop now. Okay? Shh... no more slaps. I'll be nice."

She brings herself back under control at least enough to stop sobbing. You make her look directly at you again.

"You're shaking so much," you say tenderly. "Are you scared? You trust me, right?"

She nods emphatically yes.

"Good... good."

You slap her.

She hardly lets out a little gasp of frightened confusion before you begin in earnest. You begin slapping her like a fucking drum now, over and over, a barrage of blows straight to her face. You rain brutal open handed slaps on her, at least a dozen. Her face is raw and beet red all over, and her eyes are puffy but she's in too much agony even to cry. When you relent, she just slumps forward, exhausted. She falls to the ground in a heap in the fetal position.

"Get up," you tell her.

She doesn't move, so you prod her with the toe of your shoe. "Get the fuck up, cunt."

She fights against gravity but finally finds her way to her feet. She's staring firmly at the ground. If she was trembling before, she's really trembling now. You hand her your belt and instruct her: "wrap it around your neck."

She does as you tell her, the black leather an alluring contrast to her milky skin. 

"Tighten it," you tell her.

She pulls the end of the belt through the buckle and gets it taut, holding her arm behind her back like a person hanging herself. But of course, it's not good enough. You force her hand off the end of the belt and grab it yourself. "I said tighten it, you fucking stupid whore. Turn around."

She turns as you keep the belt in hand. You steer her towards the foot of her bed. You lay your other palm flat against her back and force her to bend over. Lower and lower your force her, keeping your end of the belt close to your chest, so that her own weight strangles her.

"Can't fucking do anything right, can you?" You sneer.

She tries to say something, maybe "yes sir" but her airway is totally blocked and all the sound she can make is a pained "chhhhh-- hhhh--" You know you'll kill her like this if you keep going, so you wrap your arm around her midsection now and haul her upright to allow her a moment to breathe. Her thin chest rises and falls rapidly as she sucks down precious air. The purple tint to her face slowly drains back to the angry red of being slapped.

"Answer me when I ask you a question," you say. "You can't do anything right, can you?"

"no sir no i can't sir i'm sorry sir" She's sobbing again.

She can talk, so she's had enough to breathe. You force her back down. This time you choke her even harder. You take a moment, as you choke her, to grope between her legs and feel her bare cunt -- she's leaking like a fucking faucet. Getting strangled half to death gets her off like nothing else.

You let go of the belt and turn her around. You push her to her back so she falls splay-limbed on the mattress, belt still hanging loosely off her neck. Her face is drenched with her own tears and is hardly recognizable after all the abuse. You pull your pants down and get on top of her.

"I'm going to rape you now," you tell her simply. "Thank me."

"thank you," she says. She's still struggling to breathe as you mount her and get your cock lined up. When you shove it home, she repeats: "thank you! Thank you sir! Thank you for raping me!"

You wrap your hands around the back of her head and start humping her. "Shut the fuck up," you say. She does.

Wetly you fuck back and forth, using her to get off. All you want is your own pleasure, but this is good for her, too. She likes having her cunt used for a masturbation sleeve. The inside of her pussy drools all over your cock as you rape it. It's a hot, wet little hole and you know she's close to cumming. The metal buckle of your belt jangles in tune with your forceful thrusts and she shudders underneath you. The bed thumps against the floor and the whole loft shakes.

"Good," you croon, your heart filling with gratitude as you find your relief inside Galatea, "good... gooood pet... that's it... just like that, huh... such a nice rape hole..." You're irrational now, ranting, enjoying yourself to your heart's content. You pull your head back enough to find her face and start planting kisses on her.

She repeats in a voice hardly more than a whisper: "thank you sir thank you sir thank you..."

"Choke yourself while I cum in you," you grunt.

She smiles brokenly, tongue lolling slightly from the corner of her mouth, as she reaches up and wraps her hands around her own neck, thumbs in the hollow. She presses down, harder even than maybe you did, and chokes herself until she's on the edge of passing out. You rut sloppily and feel her juices really start to flow. Angry, you say: "I didn't tell you that you could cum, too."

"i'm shhhorrry..." she says in a pinched, struggling voice.

"Ask me first," you tell her. "You fucking ask me for permission to cum."

"plleeeashe... pleeaasshheee can i cuuuum..." She continues to choke herself as she lets out this pained plea.

Hunching forward, getting your lips up to her ear, you whisper straight into her eardrum: "make me cum and you can cum, too."

She locks her legs around you and humps back against you as she gets high off her own choking. She seems to be going lightheaded and is only semi-conscious, but her body is moving all on its own, trying to wring out your jizz. You growl and can't hold back. That wonderful tingly release begins deep in your groin surges throughout your body. You yourself go lightheaded as you pound you cock relentlessly in and out of her, and feel that wet explosion deep inside; you shoot your cum into her without a care in the world. Bracing yourself with your hands behind her head again, you kiss her as you empty your balls inside her. The kiss is deep and passionate, but she's flagging -- passing out for real now. You're kissing an unconscious girl as you nut inside her. And even as she passes out, she cums against you. Her wet cunt squelches and spasms and shudders as it hungrily accepts your seed. She really is a good pet, all the way to the end -- held herself back from cumming as ordered.

You gently pull her hands off her neck, and she comes back to the world of the living, gasping for breath. You kiss her again, just as passionate, a kiss she returns this time. And as she kisses you back, she gyrates her hips, mashes her sticky pussy against your crotch. She's enjoying the feeling of your still-hard dick in her as it oozes the last of its sperm. She squeezes and milks your cock for all it's worth, getting every last fat drop of cum. She's a greedy pet, too.

GIRLS FUCKED: 11/12

"When was the last time you showered?" You ask her. You're still on top of her, mated to her.

"i don't know."

"That's what I thought. You kind of stink."

"i'm sorry s--"

"Enough with the 'sorry sir' shit." You pull out of her. You tug her up to her butt, and then help her off the bed entirely. "Let's go. You're getting clean."

You steer her to the shower. Gal's bathroom is messy, which is no surprise, but at least her tub is clean -- which is also no surprise, now that you think of it. You turn the faucet on, and make sure it's just this side of uncomfortable. But when pull the plunger that activates the shower head and force her to step inside, you follow.

Galatea stands there passively as you soap her up with coconut-scented body wash and then scrub her down. You're thoroughgoing and just a little rough. You get her genitals clean, her asshole too -- and her tummy, her back, her feet and legs, her armpits -- everywhere. She begins to smile as you work -- this, too, makes her happy.

As you pull her hair into a ponytail, and apply a lather of shampoo to the crown of her head -- working your fingers downward, soaping away the grease -- Gal, gazing at the swirling water around the drain, asks flatly: "was it true"

"Was what true?" You reply as you work your fingers down to her scalp and massage them.

"am i a good pet"

You think for a moment. Finally, you admit: "Yes. You're a good pet."

She's too elated for even another "thank you sir" -- she just silently stands there shaking like a leaf.

When you finally have her hair clean, you wrap your arms around her, drawing her into a hug from behind; and she nuzzles the side of her face against your shoulder.

"Was I too rough?" You ask. You don't know why, but you feel a small pang of guilt now, even for her.

"no," she says.

"Tell me if I am," you say.

"okay."

"That's an order."

"yes sir."

You stay underneath the running water holding her close for a very long time.

END OF EPISODE 8.