February 14, 2015
Rose2 stands outside the Mallory household, holding a pyrex dish full of shortbread cookies baked into the shape of hearts -- complete with pink and white fondant icing. Homemade, of course. She balances the overlarge dish, precariously, in one flat palm and uses her other hand to ring the doorbell: ding-dong. She likes the pleasant chime of it, muffled as it is by the heavy white wood door.
She grabs the dish again with both hands now so it won't fall. She waits. She's a bubbling cauldron internally, but she forces what she imagines to be a pleasantly nonchalant smile. In reality, her lips are pursed thin and trembling.
She waits and waits, for agonizing moments, but there is no answer. She tries again: balancing the dish, ding-dong, grabbing the dish again just as it starts to wobble. On her nose is a small dab of pink icing. It wound up there genuinely by accident, but she's aware of its presence -- she saw it in a mirror before leaving the house today, and purposely left it under the assumption that if Ally saw it, he would think it's cute. Even better, it's evidence of all the hard work she put into the gift.
After another half minute with no answer and no discernible sounds of movement from within, she paces back down the little concrete walk and to the driveway around the corner of the garage. Mr. Mallory's BMW is gone, but Mrs. Mallory's Volt is parked there. The cogs and gears in her mind start slowly rotating. Could the whole family be out? It seems odd to make a family event of Valentine's Day. Wouldn't it be more reasonable for Mr. and Mrs. Mallory to have gone on a date by themselves? Then if the other car is still here, probably Ally and his cousin are home. This takes fully a minute of her staring at the parked car in the drive to suss out.
She walks back up the drive and tries the doorbell again. This time she does hear some sort of movement inside, a heavy but distant thud, shuffling. Energized by the promise of getting an answer after all, Rose2 goes for broke: She hammers on the doorbell over and over. Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding--
The door swings open. Ally's cousin is staring back at her.
"Rose! I'm glad you're around." This is a lie, but god does she sell it. "How the heck are ya?"
Ally's cousin doesn't reply; only stares.
"Is Ally around?"
"What do you want?" She demands.
"Uh..." Rose2 makes a face. "I just wanted to talk to Ally, is all. Is he home?"
"He's tied up at the moment."
"Have you been exercising? You sound a little--"
"What do you want?"
Rose2 debates the proper course of action here. The last thing she wants is to work through Ally's cousin as a go-between. Stalling for time, and genuinely a little curious, she tries a diversion: "What's that smell?"
It seems familiar, somehow, but somehow also not.
Ally's cousin swipes at her hair, tamps down some stray frizz. She seems weirdly exhausted for a Saturday afternoon. "If you have something to say to Alabaster then I'll be happy to pass it on." Her eyes drift downwards, to the dish. "What is that?"
Rose2 can't think of anything to say except the truth. "Cookies... I made some cookies for Ally."
There's that creepy stare again.
"If he's around, I can give them to him real quick. Won't take more than a chotto--"
"I'll give them to him."
"I'd really rather be the one--"
There's a brief tussle as Ally's cousin tries to take the dish and Rose2 tries to hold on to it. But Rose2 is conflict-averse, and anyway not nearly as strong. The dish now belongs to Ally's cousin.
"I worked extra hard on them, so I hope he likes them!" Rose2 says, masking her frustration well. She adds: "If he's okay with it, you can have a couple too. I made lots."
Ally's cousin slams the door shut.
The smile crumples from Rose2's face. "Bitch," she mutters.
She wipes the fondant off the tip of her nose with her thumb and sucks it clean. What a waste...
February 14, 2011
"Who is it?"
"Who do you think?"
Vivian opens her bedroom door. Standing at the threshold is Ms. Carte.
"I require your assistance," Ms. Carte says, striking a dramatic pose: elbow crooked, palm flat and facing out with the fingers splayed, partially obscuring her face.
"At once," Vivian says, now energetic. "If there is a matter that requires my attention, please, tell me."
From behind her back, Ms. Carte produces a heart-shaped box and pink envelope. "I am in dire need of a Valentine," she says. "Vivian Darkbloom, will you be my Valentine this year?"
Vivian feigns disinterest but cannot help staring at the box of sweets. As mature as she tries to be, she is still a little girl, and nothing gets her attention like the promise of chocolate. She alternates between standing flat on her feet and standing on the sides of her black platform shoes as she deliberates.
Still, she spurns the offer. "I apologize. I am already taken. My Valentine this year is father."
Ms. Carte folds her arms and makes a pouty face. "He's your Valentine every year. Maybe it's time to dump him and get someone cooler. Someone like me."
"Father is extremely cool," Vivian says. "And regardless, I cannot see what claim you have to being cooler."
(Well, first of all, thinks Ms. Carte -- I'm here. When was the last time you even saw your dad in person? Of course, she isn't cruel enough to say this out loud.)
"Maybe that's true," Ms. Carte says. "But then, nobody ever said you can't have TWO Valentines." She winks.
"Two Valentines?" Vivian says. "Is such a thing... permissible?"
"I can keep a secret if you can."
Vivian narrows her eyes.
"And anyway, what am I gonna do with all this chocolate if you say no?"
Vivian is an easy girl to sway. She nods and says: "you raise an excellent point. I would not want these confections to go to waste."
Ms. Carte sits on Vivian's bed, Indian style, as Vivian, sitting at the other end of the bed, excitedly retells the story of book five of Proust's "In Search of Lost Time." Between them sits the box of chocolate, already half-demolished -- mostly by Vivian.
Satisfying young Vivian's budding curiosity about scientific matters is more Carte's speed -- whenever Vivian gets going on this French lit stuff, her eyes glaze over. Who has time to care about the romantic pinings of some unemployed French aristocrat from 100 years ago? But she placates Vivian's enthusiasm all the same, inserting "oh wows" and "tell me mores" where appropriate and asking the occasional question too. It may bore her to tears, but it's important to encourage a child's passions wherever they lie, and how many nine year olds are passionate about high modernist continental lit? Vivian is a rarity, a true prodigy at everything she turns her attention to. Ms. Carte loves her with all her heart.
"...and ironically it is this very instinct -- the instinct to keep Albertine caged like a bird, like the titular prisoner of novel five, which finally alienates her... in the cruelest twist of dramatic irony, it is the narrator's own jealousy and suspicion which drives his lover to abandon him, even perhaps into the arms of another woman. The selfishness of his love sows the seeds of its destruction." She takes a bonbon and bites into it. "Coconut," she muses. "Mm."
"The narrator sounds like a real loser," Ms. Carte says.
"He is emblematic of the disaffected bourgeois of prewar France. Many people in real life were of similar disposition. Of course the Great War hardly helped matters."
Only Vivian would still refer to WWI as "the Great War."
A silence descends. Dr. Carte nibbles on a chocolate filled with peanut butter, thinking of nothing in particular. And then, with the help of Vivian, up comes waddling Johann, grabbing her attention.
"What are you doing?" she demands of the stuffed penguin.
"I would like to partake of these sweet treats," replies Johann, through Vivian, doing her best impression of gruff distinction.
Ms. Carte grabs the box and slides it closer to herself, away from Johann. "Sorry, Johann. These are for Valentines only."
"Harrumph!" (Vivian actually says the word "harrumph" instead of making a disgruntled noise.)
"You can have one if you agree to be my Valentine too," she says with a sly smile.
"I have no time for such trifles," Johann insists. "I have a campaign to run." (He is a perennial candidate for President of Antarctica, according to Vivian.)
"Suit yourself."
"Harrumph!"
"Regardless, Johann," says Vivian in her own voice, turning the penguin to face her, "Ms. Carte is my Valentine. Therefore she cannot also be yours."
"Now hold on," Ms. Carte says. "Don't be greedy, Vivian. If you can have two Valentines, then so can I."
"No," Vivian says. "I will not permit it."
"Ohhh," Ms. Carte says breathily, pretending to swoon, back of her palm to her forehead. "Oh how I despair! The selfishness of my Valentine has driven me -- and my chocolates -- into the flippers of another!"
Now Vivian's turn to pout. "Fine. I shall permit you to be Valentines with Johann. But he will be strictly your secondary Valentine. I shall remain your primary Valentine."
"I assent to this," Johann says, through Vivian.
Ms. Carte pushes the box towards Johann and, with Vivian's hand against his back, he leans in for a nibble. "Munch munch," he says, again saying the onomatopoeia instead of making actual sounds. "Scrumptious."
Of course, since Johann bit into that chocolate, Vivian helpfully volunteers to finish it off. She doesn't want Ms. Carte to catch any germs.
After another, lengthier, and increasingly gloomy silence -- Ms. Carte can sense when there is something on Vivian's mind -- Vivian finally comes out with it:
"I believe mother and father are headed towards divorce."
If you only knew the half of it, thinks Ms. Carte to herself. Their shouting matches at board meetings register on the seismographs at Berkley's geology building. If divorce is the only outcome, they'll all be lucky. She has repeatedly warned David that Mara is violent, unhinged -- that worse may come if he doesn't do something soon.
"Father always speaks so highly of you... the way he speaks, the things he says... even how he says your name... it is not like how he speaks of mother."
Ms. Carte watches Vivian closely, waiting for her to finish that thought, but she doesn't.
"It's a complicated situation," Ms. Carte finally replies. "You might have a handle on French aristocrats, but things are different in the real world."
"I am not so certain." She fiddles with Johann's fur. "Mother has repeatedly accused father of being in love with you. Of... other things, as regards you."
She doesn't respond to this.
"I enjoy my time with you, Ms. Carte... if you and father ever want to... I suppose what I mean to say... everyone could be happier if the two of you--"
Ms. Carte hugs Vivian. "Don't worry about those things. I like my time with you, too. No matter what, we'll have that."
"Forever?"
"And ever."
They embrace for a very long time.
February 14, 2019
Noelle is staring at her nails as Hugh describes, in dreary detail, his hiking trip up Angel's Landing. "And all you have is these poles in the ground with some chains to hold onto... both sides of you, a sheer 1800 foot drop, and nothing to hold onto but that weathered old rickety chain..."
Noelle glances up. "Dear god. Who would ever want to do that?"
He smiles that annoyingly white, calculatedly charming smile. "It's gorgeous. When you get up to the top and you have this pristine view of Zion canyon... you just feel this oneness with nature. Like you really are a part of the natural world again."
"Nature? Nature is awful. It's got bugs, it's hot... there's, I dunno... lizards..." She uses her fork to point at her tiramisu. "There's no tiramisu in nature."
"Sometimes you gotta remember your animal side too," Hugh tries. Is that supposed to be sly? Flirty?
"We made cities to get away from nature. Frankly anyone who wants to go back is suspicious. You know who else wanted to go back to nature? The Unabomber."
"You are an office bee," Hugh says. "Jack warned me about you. Said all that time cooped up in San Fran made you soft."
"I'm not soft. I'm just not crazy. If I have the choice, I choose air conditioning. 100 times out of 100."
"You should get out more. It's good for your skin, too. A little sunlight would make you even prettier." Backhanded compliments. Great. "We're going after Konstantin Federov tomorrow, maybe you can ride along... watch us put the collar on him."
"I look forward to your report," Noelle says.
"You're no fun," he says, smiling, but Noelle doesn't smile back. He bows his head. "You're a brick wall. All right. What do you like to do, then? I've worked with you all this time and I feel like I hardly know you."
Somehow Noelle imagines this guy won't understand that "watching cute girls do cute things" is a legitimate hobby. That being the case, she can only shrug.
It's the same way pretty much every date goes. An inability to think of anything good to say about herself, and a conversational void filled instead by a deluge of interminable personal details about the guy. Hugh is probably a fine person. Nothing wrong with a guy like Hugh, who's fit, and likes to hike, and has a lot of photos of said hiking on his phone that he wants to show you, and oops that's a picture of me at the gym ignore that -- a nice person, an agent with a sterling record on his way to making SAC himself one day, who will one day marry a very nice woman.
She can't stand people like him.
After another hour of trying to put up with him, she makes her excuses and leaves. Pulling out a wallet, she produces U.S. Grant and lays him on the table. "That should cover my half."
"Don't even think about it," Hugh says. "I've got it."
"Yes you do, with my half."
"Now now. It's only right for a man to pay for his date's meal."
"I agree. So -- there's my half of the bill."
Hugh purses his lips.
"Goodnight."
"Yeah."
At home, Kuso greets her at the front door with a little mew. She pushes him back with her foot so he doesn't get any big ideas about escaping.
Kuso rolls onto his back at her feet, collar jangling, and wiggles around like a snake with his belly exposed to her.
"I'm not falling for that one again," Noelle tells him.
"Mew."
She squints her eyes at him.
"Mew."
She kneels and reaches down.
Slowly, oh so slowly, she puts a hand to his belly and pets him.
"HSSSS!!"
He claws the shit out of her hand, flips onto his legs and darts away at supersonic speed.
"MOTHERFUCKER! YOU BETTER RUN, SHITHEAD! FUCK!" She tosses her handbag after him, but he's well gone before that.
As she disinfects the scratches over her kitchen sink, she mutters: "can't even get my own cat to like me..."
She glances around her dim, mostly empty apartment, frowning.
A few minutes later she's watching an episode of Yuru Yuri while idly masturbating at her computer chair. The two activities are unconnected. She likes yuri in the sense that anime girls are cuter than anime guys, so two is always better than one -- but it doesn't particularly turn her on. It's simply her habit to masturbate whenever she happens to be alone.
One usually overtakes the other -- most of the time, she'll get too into the show she's watching to keep going all the way to climax -- but she's seen Yuru Yuri enough times that it goes the other direction tonight. Soon she's in her bedroom, naked, split-legged in front of the full-length mirror attached to her closet. Riding Old Dependable. She likes to watch herself doing it. She's a cute girl, too, after all. It strikes her as perhaps a little weird, and definitely vain, but her own body turns her on like little else. Especially seeing it with Old Dependable inside. She rides out a few wailing orgasms, and then tired, curls up on the floor rather than bother climbing into bed.
Kuso walks over, like nothing happened earlier, and tries to nuzzle her face.
"Go away. I'm mad at you."
"Mew."
He curls up beside her.
"Asshole."
"Mew."
She falls asleep like that.
February 14, 2015
"I will fuck you up. I will beat you into a fucking pulp. Untie me right now."
Rose grins smugly at Alabaster as she tightens the restraints pinning his wrists behind the chairback. With his arms and legs properly secured, there's nothing he can do. He's totally at her mercy.
Little ever thrills her quite like this feeling.
"You stupid cunt. If you don't untie me, I'll--"
Rose slaps him in the face. His groan of indignation gives her the opening she needs: she shoves a wadded up pair of yesterday's socks into his mouth. He says something, unintelligible, through the gag. Not that he needs words for her to understand. The undiluted rage in his eyes says it all. It's the best sight on Earth.
"What's that?" Rose says, liltingly, mockingly. "I can't quite hear you."
More muffled curses and impotent threats. Even Rose can tell how bad those socks stink... it must be unbearable for him.
"Speak up, please. Is there a problem?"
He keeps going as if he can make himself be understood, the darling.
"I know, Alabaster, I know. It's so degrading, isn't it? Being overpowered by a girl. Being gagged and bound! Oh dear."
She circles the chair, lazily runs her hands over his chest. She puts her cheek to his and whispers: "But secretly... you know this is how it should be, don't you? You know you deserve this..."
His neck muscles are straining, his face is deeply red.
"Pretend you don't like it all you want," she sneers. She reaches down and cups his crotch obscenely. "If you don't like it, why is your cock hard? Disgusting little pig~"
Ding-dong, comes the doorbell.
Rose makes a sour face, but ignores that. Probably some missionary or something. The last thing she has time for, right now, is a missionary.
She slowly, agonizingly slowly, unzips his zipper. As much as the two of them have danced and skirted around this moment, they've never--
Ding-dong, comes the doorbell.
Rose closes her eyes, sighs deeply, shakes her head. Go away, whoever you are, she thinks.
Anyway. As much as the two of them have danced and skirted around this moment, they've never crossed the rubicon like this. She has never seen that disgusting part of him that he keeps hidden from her as if he deserves such decency. A worm like him, walking around with a thing like THAT between his legs... he needs to punished. And she intends to punish him.
Alabaster fights her, but feebly, rocking side to side as if trying to escape. But there is no escape. She's going to have her fun with him whether he wants it or not. But of course he wants it. Men are all the same. Their cocks make them stupid. Alabaster would debase himself in any way she wants if she promised just to touch his cock. She licks her lips at the thought as she fishes around inside his fly.
Ding-dong, comes the doorbell, and this startles and frustrates Rose so much that Alabaster manages to knock her back. He headbutts her, uses the momentum to keep going, and tips himself to the side. The wheeled chair topples over, Alabaster with it, landing with a hard thud. Rose, also falling, lands on her butt and groans.
Quickly gaining her bearings again, she clambers to her knees. Alabaster is still secured, and immobile, just rotated 90 degrees. He's even still gagged. And Rose's ultimate prize is visible, jutting out from the fly of his jeans, only the thin and darkly stained fabric of his boxer shorts separating her from it...
Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong
"FUCK!" Rose yells.
She quickly hurries downstairs to an obnoxious and unwelcome encounter with... that girl. What a stupid, nosy, desperate little CUNT-- that she thinks she even has a CHANCE with Alabaster-- calm yourself, Rose...
She sets the dish of cookies on the countertop in the kitchen, intending to get rid of them later, but first things are first. Mom and dad could be back any time. She needs to finish what she started.
She goes back upstairs to Alabaster's bedroom. "Now where were we..." she says, voice airy and sly, and full of anticipation. "I think there's a little piggy who needs some discipl--"
The chair is empty.
Her eyes bulge in sudden animal fear. The beast has escaped. She wheels, makes a dash for her bedroom, where she foolishly left the pepper spray. But there, in her door, is Alabaster.
"Looking for something, bitch?"
She screams -- can't help herself -- turns and tries to flee downstairs. But Alabaster is so much faster. He grabs her by the shoulders and hauls her back, spinning her like a top, and lands a punch to her gut. She hacks up a wad of spittle, clutches at her stomach, and falls to her knees. Now Alabaster is looming over her, he's got her taser in one hand. He arcs it a few times sadistically just to demonstrate what the business end of it looks like.
But Rose strikes back. Alabaster's fly is still undone and she quickly gets her hand in it, finding what she's looking for: the weak point. She squeezes, hard and unmerciful, flooring Alabaster instantly. He squeals like a little girl at the pain of it. Rose climbs over top of him, pinning his wrist with her knee, and confiscates the taser. Close one. She needs to make sure he learns his lesson so something like this doesn't happen again. She jabs the taser into his stomach: click, zap. His whole body goes stiff and he grits his teeth. Foam forms at the corners of his lips. Rose puts a hand to her cheek and coos. What a pretty sight. She should do this way more often.
"You're so cute when you're in pain--" Rose begins. But that's all she can say before she feels something on her ankle. Alabaster's hand. They lock eyes: Alabaster is smirking through the mask of electric pain.
He tugs her, sliding her knees out from under her. She lands on her belly on top of him. He heaves her off.
She's instantly on her feet again, like a cat springing back up from a fall, looking all around frantically for the taser she dropped. But too late. Alabaster charges her, and thus her only option is to try to respond in kind. They collide, their momentum unequal, Alabaster's overpowering hers, and they fall backwards -- back, back to the edge of the staircase, and then too far. They tumble down together. Hand over foot, face over elbow, tit over dick: they roll like two clumps of playdoh molded into a rough approximation of a sphere, down an entire flight of stairs, then somehow around the landing, and down a second flight of stairs, all the way to the foyer. The house's foundation rumbles in their wake. One or both of their skulls leave a hole in the drywall at the landing. Picture frames fall from the walls.
Rose, owing maybe to her lower weight and smaller profile, is a little less beaten than Alabaster. She stumbles upright first, punch-drunk and woozy yes, but upright all the same. She totters half-blindly forward, in the direction of the kitchen, looking for an implement of self defense. Alabaster is on her heels, literally, and she has no time to search. The first thing she can lay hands on is the pyrex dish full of Valentine's Day cookies. Swinging around with form befitting an Olympic hammer tosser, she cleanly connects with the side of Alabaster's head and sends him falling to the right. The dish clatters to the ground, cracks the tile floor, and sends heart-shaped cookies all over.
Alabaster is not to be deterred by something so minor as blunt concussive forces. He finds his way to his feet again, finds a tuft of Rose's hair in his grip, and brings her face down hard into the countertop. "CUNT!" he yells savagely. "FUCK YOU!"
Rose falls, right into the scattered pile of cookies, and then Alabaster is over her, kneeling -- astride her.
There they are: Rose and Alabaster beating the living shit out of each other as they lie on top of a literal pile of broken hearts, three dozen frosted shortbread heart-shaped cookies crumbling to dust beneath their mutual abuse. She kicks and fights gamely back, but it's over, the ref is calling it and the judge's table has ruled it a TKO. Alabaster wins.
Finally feeling it himself now, Alabaster has to relent from his flurry of punches and slaps, has to pause a moment. Still kneeling over Rose, he straightens his spine, takes a breath. Then feels dizzy and collapses. He's on his back now, right beside Rose, and they're both moaning in agony.
Some minutes pass. Rose comes back from the edge of consciousness first. And the very first thing she does is get on hands and knees and crawl over to Alabaster.
"G--" he grunts. "G-get away--" He swats at the air but he's too enervated to mount a real fight. Round two promises to be tilted in Rose's favor.
But instead of striking him, she's pawing at his jeans again. His heart shudders and the fear grips him. She's going to torture him like THAT again. "W-wait--" he says, picturing a future life of infertility and missing testicles, "P-please-- please, no..."
Not too proud to beg. But Rose is after something else.
She frees his cock. It's hard like she knew it would be. She's not going to bother with any more window dressing, she's too fucked-up right now to try the domineering, humiliating mocking, she just wants to get his cock in her mouth. Is that too much to ask? Christ. She runs her nose along it, relishing its disgusting scent, this slimy hunk of meat that makes this idiot think he's better than her. She doesn't know why it smells so good or why she wants it so bad, she'll have time to punish him for all that later. Right now she just needs to enjoy the opportunity while she's got it. She takes deep, lingering and shuddering breaths. She closes her eyes and lets that smell linger in her frayed mind.
"Stop-- s-stop it," he pants, but he's not doing anything to stop her, and if he really wanted her to stop then he would. See? Men are all the same.
The smell of his nasty prick makes her mouth tingle. The glands underneath her tongue produce saliva, and now she lets that saliva pool, and opens her mouth, and lets it run in a steady laminar stream -- from the bottom of her bruised lip to the tip of his straining cock. It's disgusting and she loves it. The way her spit makes the shaft slick, the way it glints in the sun through the kitchen window. The primal heat of it.
"Your parents -- could be back --" Alabaster protests in between ragged breaths.
"Shut... the fuck... up..." she mutters, hardly able to speak herself.
She gets her lips wrapped around the head. It's absurd how well-endowed Alabaster is, how thick this piece of trash between his legs is, and her lips are stretched to straining as she tries to take it. She's aware of a small trickle of blood down her forehead now, hers or Alabaster's she isn't sure, and doesn't care. The searing warmth of the underside of Alabaster's dick against her flattened tongue is the sensation she's more focused on right now. She needs more of it... and deeper...
"Turn around..." Alabaster says.
"Mmn-mnng--" Rose mumbles, too transfixed to take his dick out of her mouth and respond properly. But it gets the message across: the answer is a flat no. Alabaster's cock is as delicious as it smells, like a concentrated version of his essence. And so she imagines that she can suck his essence up like this, take everything that makes him him and make him hers instead. That thought makes her pussy clench and ooze. She wants to take his entire being away and claim ownership of him... wants to make him depend on her for everything...
Alabaster still has an obnoxious amount of free will though, and strength, too. He manages to sit up, to grab her, to force her bodily to turn. She is so focused on keeping his dick firmly in her drooling maw that she can hardly resist him. He gets her skirt up around her waist, has his disgusting fucking hands on her panties, and she's powerless to stop him. She wants to stop him. She's revolted by the idea of what he's about to do, by the fact that he'll be able to see her private parts, but she has to make a choice. To fight him off or keep her mouth around his cock. And, well, she really need to have his cock in her mouth right now. She suffers the humiliation with a shiver as Alabaster roughly tugs her panties down. The cool kitchen air hits her steaming pussy.
Then his hands are all over her. His fingers are playing over the lips of her vulva, and the hard little clit. Not trying to give her pleasure but just exploring for his own sick enjoyment. Poking and prodding at the opening, that stubborn hole she wills to stop leaking but can't. And even more humiliating, further back he reaches, to her anus -- poking and prodding there too the fucking ape, the fucking pig, the fucking WORM... so why do his invading fingers make her even wetter, why do they make her mouth drool more and inspire her to force herself deeper down on his meaty prick even to the point of gagging around it?
Then his mouth is clamping onto her, his lips are sucking on her. He makes soft little groans and grunts as he licks her pussy. He bucks his hips against her face while he molests and violates her. She can't believe this is happening. She can't believe Alabaster is eating her out and she's LETTING it happen... but she can't stop, not now, not with this delicious prick pushing past her tonsils and into her esophagus, not with this spongy head nestled in her gullet, pulsing so pleasingly, filling her so nicely. Not with this wonderful, gross, bitter slimy precum dribbling straight into her hungry tummy. She's not going to let him go until she claims her prize. She's not going to let him go until he fucks her mouth full of cum.
This thought really gets her cunt off. The idea that she'd willingly debase herself, lower herself to Alabaster's level like that -- it's practically bestiality, to do this with a boy like him -- and her clit tingles with waves of pleasure, aided along by Alabaster's curious tongue. He hasn't eaten pussy before, that's for sure, the fucking virgin -- not that she's sucked cock, either -- but their inexperience is more than compensated for by their eagerness. He seems as intent on getting her to cum on him, as she is on getting him to cum too.
The kitchen is filled with the lewd sounds of these two cousins sucking on each other's genitals greedily, writhing around in their little pile of sweets. Rose is really juicing now, Alabaster is actually gulping as he tries to keep up with her sopping wet cunt, and Rose is stuffed so full that her gagging has become a deep, guttural heave emanating from below her diaphragm. The sensation of her gagging on it must feel good against Alabaster's prick because he picks up the pace, and his heavy balls tighten back towards his body. Rose's head bobs up and down, half against her will as Alabaster fucks her face. Meanwhile his tongue is as deep as it will go inside her, raping her... he's RAPING her... and that's when he lets loose without warning. He kicks his legs around and locks his thighs around her neck, forces her down, down, down -- and spews a putrid load of sperm into her face like it's his own masturbation sleeve -- the one he hides under his bed and thinks she doesn't know about. It's because of that masturbation sleeve that she knows what his cum tastes like already, but she's never had it fresh from the source. The salty taste and aroma of it, the texture, the heat, drives her over the edge. She cums, hard, and sprays all over Alabaster's worthless fucking face. She grinds her cunt against his mouth and savors this insane pleasure, so wonderful that she almost faints. Or maybe that's just the lack of air.
Lying side-by-side on the kitchen floor, drained in more ways than one and hurting all over, Alabaster and Rose nurse wounds both physical and psychological.
"We need to get this mess cleaned up..." Rose says.
"We? You."
"Go to hell."
Alabaster's groping hand finds a half-intact cookie. He holds it up. "Where did these come from?"
"I made them for you," she says sarcastically. "Happy Valentines Day."
"Bullshit. Where did they come from."
"You've got a secret admirer. Because of fucking course you do."
"Is that who was at the door? ...Who was it?"
"Fuck you if you think I'm telling you after all that."
Alabaster nibbles on the cookie. "These are really good. Tell my secret admirer she's marriage material."
Rose finds a partially intact cookie herself. There would of course be no way for either of them to know it, but they're holding two halves of the same cookie. She takes a nibble of her own.
Damn it. Alabaster's right. These are really good.
"These taste like shit," Rose says. "Your secret admirer is shit. Everything about her is shit."
"Can't be worse than YOU--"
Rose flips onto her belly and slithers to Alabaster, gets on top of him. She puts a hand on his chin, gazes down at him. "You belong to me now. Understand? So get any notion of other girls out of that little head of yours. You're my property."
"You fucking wish. Dumb cunt."
There's a silence as deep as the sea and a distance shorter than a hair's breadth separating their faces as they stare into one another's eyes. Rose is just about to lean in for a kiss when the sound of an engine pulling up snaps them both back to reality. The parents are back.
They've got maybe 30 seconds to get themselves put together. When Mr. and Mrs. Mallory enter the front door to find Alabaster sweeping up cookies in the kitchen, and Rose righting picture frames in the hall, it's not clear whether they exactly buy the story the two take turns fabricating -- but they don't dispute it.
February 16, 2015
"Happy Mondaaaayyyy~~" Rose2 squeaks, blocking Alabaster's path. "How's grumpyface?"
"Grumpy. Go away."
She cocks her head. "You're limping. Why's that?"
"Threw my knees out, kicking people who block my path."
Rose2 doesn't get it. She presses forward: "Didja like the cookies? Didja?"
So that's who it was. He shakes his head. "Those heart cookies? Huh. That's funny... Rose told me that she made them."
Rose2 forces a laugh that does not hide her obvious anger. "That's silly. Your cousin is silly--"
"Once removed."
"--She didn't make 'em! I did!" She points at herself with a thumb. "Didja like 'em?"
"They were great," Alabaster says honestly. Rose2 beams.
"Wellll~..." She puts her hands behind her back and leans way off to one side. "If you liked 'em, you should thank me! Maybe by taking me out on a--"
"Sorry, but I already thanked Rose."
"...What?"
"Rose told me she made them, so I thanked her."
Rose2 considers this, as if she needs to work through the logic of it before being certain in disputing it. "But that's so silly! She didn't make 'em! I made 'em!" She points at herself with her thumb again.
"I understand that, but I already thanked Rose. Sorry."
"I don't..."
"If you want, take it up with her... look, I gotta get to class."
Alabaster turns and steps past Rose2, side-wise, leaving her confused and blinking in the emptying hall.
---
That afternoon, at the pep rally, Alabaster is making a speech to the student body. As StuCo Prez, he's supposed to deliver some perfunctory, scripted remarks -- but he loves being in front of the crowd and the crowd loves him being in front of them. As always, he's way off script.
"...and nobody has ever done these things before. Vending machines in the hallways, the administration said no. But I made it happen. That was all Alabaster Soliloquy. You're welcome, North High!" They cheer and chant: "So-lil-o-quy! So-lil-o-quy!"
Rose, sitting in a metal chair off on the side of the stage with the rest of the student council, is seething. She hates nothing more than having to sit through these things, evidence as always of her loss in the election.
"We're doing great things for North High. It's actually unbelievable, some of the things we've been able to do -- just spectacular. We're making this school gr--"
"YOU FUCKING WHORE!"
There's a screech of microphone feedback, a scuffle, the sounds of bodies colliding, the thwack of flesh on flesh. Then more bodies adding to the crush, yelling, obscenity -- as the incident that will live on forever, passed from year to year in North High legend, happens right before your eyes. The day one Rose jumped the stage and tackled the other, and got into a vicious catfight right there in front of a hooting crowd of students, while faculty tried in vain to separate them.