Season 4 Episode 2: Galatea Trick

Armstrong stands at the broad double-paned windows of the boardroom, smoking a cigar.


Nelson is the only other person there. Sitting just behind Armstrong at the conference table, watching him, he asks: "You ever think about resigning?"


"Every day, Nelson. Every fucking day."


Fist to mouth, and lungs irritated, Nelson coughs. "You know you're not supposed to smoke here. Haven't you seen all the signs? This is a proudly nonsmoking campus."


Armstrong blows air through his nose, and smoke billows around him. "Don't make me put this thing out the Bill Clinton way."


"Is that what you spent your years as a Senator doing?"


Wistful, he laughs. "Indeed it is. I learned everything I know from that man."


"Why haven't you resigned?" Nelson asks.


Armstrong shrugs. "Well. Why haven't you?"


"I don't know. We should, right? We should get the hell out of here before we wind up like Sable did."


Armstrong takes a long drag. "We missed our boat. We should have left when David died. As it stands, though. We're not just up the creek without a paddle -- we're neck fucking deep in a Mississippi River of shit."


Nelson runs a hand through his hair, sighs in frustration. "I guess you're right. Even if we did leave, where would we go? This company is the biggest joke on the planet. Nobody in their right mind would ever hire us. Our careers are over if we leave."


"Fuck a career. I'm worried about someone painting the walls with my brain matter."


"You have brain matter?"


"More than you." He snuffs his cigar on the windowsill, pulls out a matchbox sized case, and stows the remaining half. He puts his hands in his trouser pockets. "Anyway, it's fun here. What does Whitney's secretary always say? Tenchoshe?"


"Tanoshii."


"What does she do, anyway? I always see her around but I've never been clear on what her role is."


Nelson shrugs. "She turned me on to some good eroge. So as far as I'm concerned, she's value-added."


"What in the fuck is an eroge?"


"Forget it. But yeah. It's fun here. I mean... I never fucked a bunnygirl before Whitney became our boss."


"Hmmph. You really should have come to David's Palo Alto Club for Growth shindigs."


"Why's that?"


"Let's just say a fetish for bunnygirls is apparently genetic."


"No shit."


"No shit. Someone should commission a study on it."


Nelson joins Armstrong at the window. They admire the view together.


"We are so screwed," Nelson says.


"Yep." He turns, smiles at him. "Tanoshii, huh?"


---


You sit on Rose's bed, naked, reading a manga. Different day, same shit.


"Is Luffy ever gonna find this One Piece or what?" you groan. "He's been looking for it for like fifty years. It's getting to be a bit... absurd, frankly."


"Uh huh!" Rose chirps. "He'll find it for sure."


"Yeah? When?"


She shrugs. "When the story gets around to it..."


Sighing, you flip the page. "Maybe he'd actually find it if the dumbass author didn't keep doing filler arcs."


"But the filler's what makes it fun!" Rose insists.


You toss the manga to the floor. "The filler is what makes it profitable. Not fun."


"Don't throw my things around," Rose says, pouting. "That's so mean."


You flip her off.


She slithers on her belly to the edge of the bed. Poking her upper half over, she leans diagonally at a precarious angle, bobbing, and hyperextending herself to reach for the discarded book. Her fingertips can just barely hook under the manga's cover and weakly nudge it towards her, where then she can get a better grasp on it. Her tongue pokes from the side of her mouth the whole time, and she seems to be working up a minor sweat from the exertion. You get the urge, which you resist, to slap her ass, shaking at you undefended and half-bare from under her low-cut negligee. This house is corrupting you, too. Maybe it's built on an Indian burial mound. Chief Fucks-Like-Bull.


Finally Amber succeeds at her task, after a much more laborious effort than simply getting off her damn bed and picking it up from the floor would take. She sets the manga gingerly down on her messy nightstand, turns to you, wipes her brow with the back of a palm, and says: "whew."


"I think you're retarded, Rose."


"Rude!"


She flops onto her back with limbs thrown wide as if to make a snow angel. After lengthy silence, she asks: "sooo... are you sleeping here tonight or what?"


"Sure."


"Sugoi! But... I thought you were sleeping in Ally's room from now on. Not that I mind the company!"


"D-- Ally went to Palau."


"So? He didn't take his bedroom with him, silly!"


"I'm not sleeping in his bedroom because I love the decor. I'm sleeping in his bedroom so he'll put his dick in me. Can't get dicked by a guy who went to Palau."


"What is Palau, anyway? Is it part of Hawaii?"


"It's its own country."


"Like Hawaii?"


You lean against the headboard and watch the slowly rotating ceiling fan. Rose is watching it, too. "I don't get Alabaster," you tell her. "He said he'd let me sleep with him. Then literally the very next night he skips the country. Really knows how to make a girl feel wanted."


"Awww. Are you sad, Amber? Need Rose-nee to make you feel happy again?"


You lightly kick the top of her head with the heel of your right foot.


"Oof," she grunts -- in surprise more than pain.


The dull hum of the house's central A/C is the only noise for the next couple minutes.


She flips onto her tummy and stares up at you with curious eyes. "Hey. You never did say." She grins mischievously and lowers her voice. "Did Ally do it with you last night?"


"Do you think I'm pretty, Rose?" You ask.


She looks confused. More than normal. "Uh. Well yeah. Of course. You're the most kawaii imouto I could hope for!"


"So there you have it. I'm a pretty girl who spent the night in Alabaster Soliloquy's bed. Can you solve this equation on your own or do you need some more help?"


"Hee. You're such a slut, Amber!"


You roll your eyes. "You're one to talk. Little Ms. 'Fuck-Kitten'." You try playfully to kick her again. But with Rose watching you this time, she can intercept it. She catches you, one hand on your calf, the other around your ankle.


And then she kisses the ball of your foot.


Your eyes bulge with disbelief. Next comes the wet, ticklish sensation of Rose licking your arch. It's a lingering and luxurious motion, her face drawing slowly up as she licks you. You jerk yourself bodily back, recoiling from her.


"You taste gooood," Rose croons.


"You fucking freak."


"Yep~" she agrees with a giggle.


You let the initial rush of anger pass, and consciously decide to relax. Tension drains slowly from your body. You knew what you signed up for, after all. Hanging out naked in your older sister's bedroom is just asking to get sexually violated. It's fun to court it. Provoking your idiot sister into doing obscene things.


"Well? How was it?" Rose asks.


"Getting my foot tongued by my own sister?"


"You silly~"


"Fucking Alabaster?"


"Uh huuuuh."


You let your knees drift slightly further apart, so that Rose has a better vantage on your pussy -- you like this, letting her see you get all wet. With her on her tummy in front of you, she's right at eye level with your wet, quivering little holes. "It was fun. He climbed on top of me and fucked me like he was raping me."


"Isn't that the best?" She says excitedly.


"No..." you say. Your voice is getting a little bit pinched as you think about what actually is the best.


"No?" Rose repeats.


"The best --" you gulp. "The best is when he cums."


Rose has her hands on your thighs. "Can I lick you?"


"You-- w--"


"I want to make you feel good while you tell me all about it!"


You shift your weight back and let Rose spread your legs. Best not to resist. You see only the pink crown of her head as she dives in and begins to eat you with enthusiastic mewls. You shudder, running your hand through her gaudy hair.


"It's just crazy, how hard he cums," you say. You bite your lip as your older sister's tongue penetrates your dripping cunt. "And he doesn't even warn you... he just does it."


"Mmm hmm," she moans into your pussy.


You stare transfixed at the incestuous oral action you're getting. "It's so hot when he cums in me... I don't mean hot as in sexy... well, it IS sexy... but it's also literally hot. It's scalding hot. It's -- like his cum is burning me up inside..."


"Um hmmmm."


"Fuck, Rose, you're so good at this--" you bite your fingernail and try not to scream out in joy, lest anyone else in the house overhear the way you're riding your sister's face like a horny bitch.


Rose leers up at you. "Ally's sperm is the best, isn't it!"


"We -- we should stop," you say.


Rose looks disappointed. "You don't want me to lick you?"


"Not that. I mean we should stop letting him cum inside us. That's dangerous... we should make him wear a condom at least."


She shakes her head emphatically no. "That's no good. First off, he doesn't like 'em. Ally has plenty of girls to bareback. So if we ask him to wear a condom, he just won't fuck us!"


"He wouldn't be like that -- would he?" You bargain.


Rose shrugs. "Well, second of all. It's no fun for us either if he's got a condom on. You said it yourself. The best part is feeling his cock filling you with sperm!" She winks. "And you can't get that if he wears a condom!"


You shiver. And you can't dispute her argument. You lightly stroke your belly around your navel. You're feeling that itchy throb deep within again, that mounting need to get spunked. It's reaching a fever pitch less than 24 hours after the last time he fucked you. There can be no denying it, you're addicted. You're addicted to Alabaster cumming inside you.


"You're on the pill, though, right?" You ask.


"Nope. That'd be cheating!"


You exhale. "Cheating? How?"


"Not like NTR cheating. Like cheating at a game cheating. Part of what's so hot about letting him sperm inside you is how risky it is... right? It's no fun if it isn't actually a risk!"


"Oh my god," you say, even as your pussy clamps and shudders.


"You can do whatever you want," Rose says, "but if you reee-eeeally wanna be Ally's cum dumpster, you can't be on birth control! That's no good either!"


Without any warning, Rose dives back in and resumes licking you out. You stare at the ceiling, half-dazed, legs cramping with the sheer pleasure of depravity coursing through your muscles. Your own sister is eating your cunt while waxing lyrical on the joys of maximally unsafe sex. "We --" you moan, gulping, "--we could both be pregnant right now, do you actually understand that?"


Her only response is to redouble her efforts on your cunt. Her spit mingles with your juices and what she doesn't lick up is pooling around your ass on the sheets. You're sitting in a warm puddle. She laps at you like the hungry fuck-kitten she told you she was.


"You're gonna make me cum," you tell her.


"Go ahead," she says. Her voice is muted, and you can only see her face from above her nose. But she's making direct eye contact -- and her eyes are shining bright.


"This is bad..." you grunt. "This is so bad. I'm gonna cum on your face--"


"That's fine -- that's totally fine -- cum in big sister's mouth, okay?"


She runs her hands under your ass and pulls you into her. She mashes her tongue as deep as she can get it, to suck out all your dew. You ball your fists and hold them tight to your chest, close your eyes. It's beyond all description, the sensation of getting your clit tickled by your older sister's slutty pink tongue.


You cum. You can't help yourself; your little slut pussy cums all over the place, and your sister drinks it down with a giggle.


But afterwards -- as you lie entangled with each other in a way you haven't since you were both very little girls, Rose's arms around you and chin on your shoulder, you admit the truth to her.


"Can I tell you something gross?"


"I like gross~"


"Don't take it the wrong way. I really like cumming with you, but... it isn't enough. I think... I think I'm an even bigger slut than you are. No matter how much I cum with other girls, it just makes me hotter--" you gulp. "--It makes me hotter for dick. I... I get this itch inside, you know... deep inside... for dick."


Rose rubs your tummy right at the offending spot. Maybe she understands after all.


You go on. "It's not just that I like doing it. I kinda feel like I need it. I could cum a million times but I won't ever really, actually cum until I feel that spot getting splashed with jizz. Everything else, it just feels like foreplay..."


"I get you. I totally get you. Nee-chan understands."


You turn awkwardly around, your sweaty skin peeling away and resticking to hers as you rotate. You stare into her eyes. "Do you?"


She reaches between your bodies and lightly strokes your cunt. "We can keep each other feeling good, but you're 100% right. Getting cummed inside is the best." She pecks you on the forehead, then on your lips -- and that peck becomes a long, obscene, incestuous French kiss that has you moaning sweetly into one another's mouths. You cum a couple more times against her hand.


When she finally gets her tongue out of the back of your throat, she gives you her advice: "Keep Ally happy and I'm sure he'll cum in you lots and lots!" She nibbles your ear then, even as she keeps molesting you. "Everything's easier if you just accept that you're his personal cum hole now... and that your cunt belongs to him..."


You drift to sleep with your sister stroking your pussy and whispering in your ear about how fun it is to be a living fuck-dump for Alabaster Soliloquy.


---


You are Alabaster Soliloquy, 600 Million Dollar Man and harem protector.


The rickety plane touches down at Roman Tmetuchl International Airport. The thing feels like flying inside a tin of Altoids, and in turbulence it had you about ready to bid your tearful goodbyes to the loved ones sharing the flight with you. And what a long flight it was, with so many goddamn layovers to refuel its tiny tank -- not that you're complaining, because those layovers were the only opportunity you had to stretch your legs and get fresh air. Plus there was that dirty airport bathroom in Australia where you raped Rose, which helped prevent you from going into fuck withdrawals on the arduous 24-hour journey.


You might have taken your company jet instead, but you reasoned it was best to keep this trip as low-key as possible -- and since Darkbloom Analytics publishes flight logs as part of its commitment to transparency (ha, ha), staying with Kay's chartered plane was the easiest.


Lady sits in the aisle next to where you and Rose are seated. You and your wife think a lot alike, it's true, including this: you both prefer the window seat on airplanes. You forced your way, though, and stuck her with the aisle seat. But she spent most of the trip huddled up against you as close as she could get, staring back in fright at Lady, who wouldn't leave her alone.


Across from you are Cerise and Gal, both thin-skinned in more ways than one. They spent the flight huddled beneath a blanket together. Although you're pretty sure there was more than cuddling happening under there.


They are such degenerates. Shameful, really.


And in the only two seats at the front of the cabin, Kay and Mom had a long, long, long time to get to know one another. They both like cribbage; they both love the Oliver Stone film JFK, and think it really broke open a lot of truths; they adore the beach but fear shark attacks; they think anime is silly and wish today's generation would read more. Mom's old lady hobby is baking, of course; Kay's is knitting, but each respects the other's preference. Their gabbing filled the cabin and was frequently the only thing to listen to. At the end of it all, Kay had promised to pitch to her editors the idea of giving Mom her own monthly column on cooking in TIME. Mom was humble, waving the possibility off, but it was Kay who was insistent.


"After tasting the food you cook for us at DBA?" Kay said. "You deserve to be nationally known. The world needs your expertise!"


But now, blessedly, the flight is through. The little plane taxis across the tarmac. You gaze from the window; traffic here is sparse to nonexistent. Actually, you're the only plane here, inbound or out. So maybe it's no surprise that, while you don't have a press junket awaiting you like you did in Beijing, you do have a pair of Palauans waiting to receive you.


The sticky humidity almost bowls you over as you step forth from the plane's open door. The heat of this place actually thrums, and clings to you; in mere moments you're already beginning to soak through your tee.


A statuesque Micronesian woman in traditional garb -- long, floral-pattern skirt and grass brassiere, plus a band of flowers in her raven hair -- holds both hands wide and aloft, the spitting image of bobbling dashboard decoration, as Kay, first down the stairs, approaches. She ushers Lady along by his leash.


"Yvonne Tamaguld, our very own Miss Palau, welcomes you!" A pot-bellied man in a grass kilt tells you. The sash over the woman's torso confirms: this is the illustrious Miss Palau herself.


She hands Kay a lei. Kay takes it, and in one fluid motion tosses it like a frisbee towards the sandy beach that isn't too far away on the right.


Yvonne has a number of multicolored leis looped over one of her arms, and though she is clearly taken aback by Kay's blunt rejection of the hospitality, she doesn't let on being offended. She just pivots towards Mom, next to approach, and tries to hand her a lei as well. But Kay grabs this one, too, and tosses it just as with the first.


When you and Rose catch up, Yvonne tries a third and a fourth time; a third and a fourth time, the leis end up in Kay's hand, flung towards the surf.


"I am -- sorry," Yvonne says, winning smile shadowed by the hint of rage. "Maybe you're misunderstanding. We are the welcome committee for tourists to our fair island, and--"


Kay, reaching into her purse, produces a feminine leather wallet. She tells her: "I'm going to give you 100 American dollars not to be here when we leave tomorrow."


Yvonne's mask drops -- she is now outwardly and clearly upset. She seems caught between flying into a tirade or breaking down into tears. Up close, you can tell she's a little haggard, with crow's feet and laugh lines; getting up there in years for a beauty contest champion.


Kay unclasps the wallet and pulls out Mr. Franklin. Yvonne is steadfast but her obese companion isn't. He takes the money in his grubby hands, says "thanks!" and skedaddles.


Kay pulls a second Benjamin out and offers it up to Miss Palau. Yvonne stands there trembling for a few moments, indecisive. Then finally snatches it from Kay, turns, and storms off without a word.


"Welcome to Palau," Kay tells you all, shouldering her purse again. She puts both hands on her hips and breathes deeply. "Ah... the sea."


At the airport's exit, the man of the hour pulls up to the curb in a dusty white pickup. It's not glamorous, but in a place like this, glamorous is a liability; he's obviously trying to live inconspicuously. Gustav is gregarious and boisterous, an energy Kay mirrors. They hug like reunited siblings, and peck each other on the cheeks. He holds Kay by the shoulders next, stepping back to appreciate her. "Come!" He booms.


Kay reaches up and touches her face. "Come? That isn't-- I mean--"


"This way! Please!"


Kay exhales.


"I brought some extras," she tells him. She nods in your direction. "I hope that's all right."


"I see," he says. "No, that is quite all right. You must be Alabaster Soliloquy -- and the sister, Cerise, yes? I know you, Gal -- so nice to speak in person. And--"


He pauses, thunderstruck, looking at Mom.


"Impossible," he breathes.


"That's what we all thought," you say, nonchalant.


"We have much to discuss, clearly," is his final assessment. "Let us do it somewhere less public, then."


The immediate problem is practical. Gustav's pickup has two bucket seats up front and a tiny space in the back of the cab where three people can fit if they squeeze. Five passengers total. But you are seven. People are going to have to double up. Galatea is perfectly happy sitting on Cerise's lap -- it's a reverse security blanket arrangement, you figure. But someone is gonna have to sit on your lap, too.


[ ] Kay

[ ] Rose

>[x] Mom


>[x] Mom


Kay wastes no time calling shotgun. She lowers the tailgate and gets Lady into the cargo area before hopping in next to Gustav. Which leaves you riding bitch. Rose worms her way into the truck, fighting to get herself through the gap between the front seat and the back, and you follow her.


"Is this seat taken?" Mom asks coyly, patting you on the lap. She's trying to have a little fun with it, that's all -- but it doesn't make it any less awkward.


"Uh, no..." you timidly grunt, looking away.


She slides in and settles her weight atop you. There's nowhere to put your arms, except for around her midriff. She wore an extra-thin sundress, given the climate here; and just like your tee, it's soaked with perspiration. You can feel, through the satiny material, the dampness of her hot skin. And even though you know it's an absolutely horrible reaction... you also know touching a pretty woman so intimately is bound to have an effect on you. You focus all your willpower on not springing an erection. You repeat a simple mantra in your head. Don't get a boner from your own mother's body. Don't get a boner from your own mother's body. Don't get a boner from your own mother's body.


The terrain of Palau's roads is surprisingly well-maintained, but naturally bumpy all the same. Shoulder-to-shoulder with Cerise and her wife on one side, and yours on the other, you ruefully wonder whether you'll ever know peace from cramped quarters again. First the plane, now this. Rose grins smugly at you. Payback for stealing the window seat from her during the flight.


At least it's cool in here. Unfortunately, the rattle of the pickup's half-busted A/C is nearly deafening, and drowns out nearly all other sound. You have to shout just to be heard by the people beside you. You can see, up front, Kay and Gustav talking, but there's no way to hear what it's about.


"I hope we get there soon," you tell Cerise.


"What about dessert spoons?" Cerise yells.


"I said I hope we get there soon!"


"There's probably a lot of dunes! Why do you want to see one?"


You shake your head, and stop bothering.


Rose, chin on palm, watches the lush foliage passing by -- which soon parts to reveal the shoreline far below at the bottom of a hill, with white foam and cerulean waters lapping at the sand. She's not a nature person, but the paradisaical beauty of this place gets to even her -- it leaves her half hypnotized.


Cerise and Galatea are more focused on one another. They're taking full advantage of this trip as a true-blue honeymoon. Gal sits facing Cerise, knees straddling Cerise's lap, and they smile dopily at one another. The smiling becomes Eskimo kissing; the Eskimo kissing becomes actual kissing, and pretty soon they're alternating between deep, loving kisses and schoolgirl-esque giggling. Doing this right next to Mom is a little bit bold. It's not directly lascivious, but it definitely pushes the boundary.


"I'm so surprised, you know..." Mom tells you. "I had no idea that Cerise was -- well..."


"That she's a butch lesbian?" You say.


"Alabaster," she chides. She watches the pair, and seems to approve: "I'm happy that she's happy."


"I am too," you agree. Unfortunately, your genuine happiness for the lovebirds is overshadowed by how hot it makes you to watch your older sister make out with another girl. The soft, plump give of Mom's body in your hands isn't helping things. Don't get a boner from your own mother's body, Alabaster... don't get a boner from your own mother's body.


"Al-Alabaster?" Mom squeaks.


You stare at the balding felt material of the ceiling and the cracked plastic of the dormant interior light. You try to think of something disgusting, but your mind won't focus; whatever you can conjure is replaced in a femtosecond by your acute awareness of the pressure of your mother's butt against your crotch. By the sight of Cerise and Gal brazenly tonguing each other like a couple of sluts. Your breath is coming hot and ragged.


Worse, the roads are getting bumpier the further you drive from town. Mom's body jiggles in your lap. She's jiggly all over. Her tits, her hourglass belly, her ass, her legs... she's so unbelievably soft... and despite the roar of the air conditioning, she's still sweating, especially where your bodies are pressed together. You're sweating into one another. You smell her, your nostrils are full of her unique scent, mingling with her unique perfume; cherry blossoms and musky earth, and something else... don't get a boner from -- too late. Game over, man, game over.


"Alabaster..." Mom breathes.


"I'm -- I'm sorry," You breathe back.


"It's okay," she tells you tenderly. She reaches back and ruffles your hair. "You can't help it. Right? It's a natural reaction..."


You nod, chin resting on her shoulder. Yes, even this part of her, too, is soft.


The unmerciful unevenness of the road is unabated. Mom jostles and jiggles in your lap, her butt rubbing against you like a lapdancer. This is really, really, really bad: you're not just hard, but now this motion is starting to press your joy button. You feel your cock begin to leak precum into your boxers. You try to steady your breathing, drawing your lips into an O, inhaling and exhaling through your mouth. This has the unintended effect of ruffling Mom's hair, tickling her. She giggles.


Glancing over, you notice Gal, with an evil grin on her face, has her hand down between where she sits against Cerise. Cerise has her eyes closed; blissed out. Writhing and sighing as Gal does something even more brazen than kissing. They're trying to be stealthy about it, but you know exactly what's going on. Right here, right beside your own mother, Cerise is getting her cunt rubbed by her wife.


"What is that...?" Mom asks, glancing down between her legs, towards your crotch. She feels it; the wetness of your precum seeping through both your underwear and your pants, against her ass. And staring down she can see the growing wet spot, too. "You didn't -- did you?"


"N-not yet," you moan.


"Not yet?" Mom repeats. Oh fuck -- that was definitely the wrong thing to say. You whine, and close your eyes. But the oppressive pressure of her body riding you can't be so easily ignored.


"Isn't Rose taking care of you, baby?" Mom asks.


You nod.


"She must not be, if just having me sit in your lap does -- does this, to you..."


"It's not that," you insist. But a particularly vicious bump in the road cuts you off, as the fullness of Mom's meaty ass bears down on your straining, turgid cock. You gasp.


"What is it, then?" Mom asks softly. But you can't possibly answer. You can't answer for your shame, the fact that having her bounce in your lap would produce this effect even if you fucked a thousand girls in a row before she did it. Instead, she answers for you. Turning her head as far as it will go, nestling her nose against the crown of your head, she whispers falteringly: "Mama's body... does things to you... doesn't it."


"Yesss," you groan directly into her shoulder, holding her hips as tight as you can.


"It's okay," she tells you. She whispers, relaying a secret she wants only you to hear: "It's all okay, honey... your body... does things to me, too."


You almost lose your load, right there.


She kisses you on the top of your head. She goes on: "seeing you with Charlotte... no. Even before that. Seeing you kiss your sister... you kissed her in a way a brother should never kiss his sister, Alabaster..."


"I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm sorry--"


"It shouldn't get me so hot..." She kisses you again. The way she writhes against you definitely isn't just because of the road. This is on purpose. Your Mom is purposely trying to bring you off, to make you orgasm, to make you cum. "It shouldn't make me hot... but it does."


"Mom..."


"Do you fuck Cerise? Do you fuck your own sister, Alabaster?"


"Yes."


She's quiet for a long time.


"I want to see," she whispers.


You cum. You blast thick ropes of cum in your pants, groaning almost loud enough for the others to hear. Mom, sighing, helps it along -- she gyrates and squirms against you, milking it out. She keeps kissing you on top of your head, and you keep cumming against her.


---


Will's 1999 Toyota Golf is coming in hot. It screams across the parking lot of Gilroy Tech, doing 45, maybe 50 MPH. Vivian, beside you, is utterly terrified. Her limo is right at the end of the car's path, parked along the curb. You can tell she's imagining what it will look like when it gets blasted to bits by the beat-up old hatchback whizzing towards it.


"That maniac is going to--" Vivian begins.


"Chill. He's got this."


Vivian is stepping backwards, trying to distance herself from the site of what she assumes will surely be a horrible and bloody collision.


At the last possible moment, Will cuts the steering wheel hard, and Tokyo drifts himself into the narrow gap between the front of the limo and the car parked ahead of it. The tires' rubber makes a truly horrible squeal against the asphalt and an even worse smell as it burns, leaving dark black marks in its wake. Vivian wasn't the only one scared; the few passersby who were milling around are all standing back, too. They scream as the moment of truth passes, then dissolve into stunned babbling to one another when the assumed catastrophe doesn't occur.


Among them only you are passive; you stand there near the curb's edge holding your backpack down by your knees, watching, and smiling. When Will's car skids into place just as you knew it would, your thin tank and short-shorts rustle in the breeze it creates; but you yourself stay perfectly still and calm.


Will throws the car into park, kills the engine, and hops out. Vivian stares at him aghast and wild-eyed.


He jogs around to the curbside. He squats down, and appreciates his handiwork, hands held out before him like framing a photo. There's less than an inch of clearance from fender to bumper on either side of his car. A snugger fit is hard to imagine.


"Pretty, pretty, pretty good," he says.


You gently press the sole of your tennis shoe to his butt, knocking him off balance. He topples to one side, singing a palm on the sunbaked concrete. "Ow! Shit!" Then he's on his feet, gunning for you -- ohhh man.


You deftly dodge his attempts, sidestepping him once, backstepping him twice, juking him a third time; but he has a soccer player's physique and sense of gamesmanship, so at last he catches you, and gets your head in a headlock, and delivers a painful noogie.


"Asshole!" You scream. You wrench free of him, pushing with both palms against his chest to get back.


"Why are you such a fucking cuntmunch!" Will shouts. "Can't you take half a second to appreciate how, like, parallel I am?"


"Greetings, Will," Vivian says, collecting her bearings again, and readopting her cool demeanor.


"Yo." Will turns towards her, rubs his head. "Did you get that lady back? Renee was it?"


"We are working on it."


He makes finger guns at her. "Keep me informed!"


"Hmm."


[ ] Invite Will to come with you to Vail when the time arrives.

[ ] Decline.


Will notices, passing by, one of the star players on North High's mediocre football team. His eyes lasciviously follow the halfback's backside.


"Ugh," you say.


"Don't start," Will says, still staring after him.


"The guy is literally named Chad. Get some fucking taste, Will."


He spins on his heels, flipping you the bird -- but lets his momentum carry him through a full revolution and starts to trot away. He follows the unwitting object of his affection, to creep on him some more, presumably. "See you in math," he calls over his shoulder.


When he's gone, Vivian says: "you share a class with that boy?"


You shrug. "I share a few classes with him."


"You -- in remedial courses?"


"Who's to say Will isn't in the AP crowd?"


Vivian frowns.


"Why the fuck should I try in school?" You say. "That's what they want you to do."


"Who is they?"


"Them."


"Them?"


"It's exactly what they want."


Vivian shakes her head, stupefied.


>[x] Invite Will to come with you to Vail when the time arrives.


You whisper your idea to her.


"No --" she says. "No. No."


"You saw how he drives. If we need someone to help us make a speedy escape on Rocky Mountain roads -- Will's the guy to do it."


"I would not trust him farther than I could throw him. Kay Vera is far more reliable -- and an accomplished driver, from what I am told."


"She's a journalist. Can't trust 'em."


"She is enmeshed in this plot as well, and would surely help. She can be our wheelman. Or wheelwoman, as it were."


You get a flash through your mind. It's fleeting, but so visceral and real; a lonely desert road at night, motorbikes circling, gunfire, screaming. And then it passes. Your breaths come heavy and hot.


"Are you all right?" Vivian asks.


"Flashback."


She strokes your arm. "Apologies. If you have the time, you can climb into back of my limo for a moment -- and I will be happy to make you forget."


You glance back towards the building. You really should get going, classes are about to start. But Vivian's pale face staring up at you, and the way she slightly licks her lips...


"Sure," you say. "After you."


---


Gustav leads you to some public docks, and a motorboat he has tethered there bobbing gently in the water. Your walk from the parking lot to the boat is more like an awkward waddle. Rose seems just a little suspicious, but doesn't say anything. Mom, for her part, looks like the cat who got the canary.


Gustav whisks you all across the glistening azure waters, keeping the rudder steady as he navigates.


Cerise clutches the side of the boat and peers over the side, transfixed. Gal, butt planted firmly at the boat's centermost point, begs and cajoles her to get herself back in the boat too -- terrified of a woman overboard situation. She tugs at Cerise's shirt and almost starts to cry after a few minutes of seeing it.


"You're such a sissy," Cerise says, turning back around, getting herself fully back inside the boat.


Gal hugs her legs. "yes," she says.


"Hey, look," Cerise tells you, pointing at a distant suspension bridge. "You know what that is?"


"A bridge."


"Hilarious. Try a career in standup. That's the Japan-Palau Friendship Bridge. We're on honeymoon in a nation of weebs -- joy."


Gal nuzzles her legs, and Cerise pets her languidly.


Gustav has his own little cay to himself, and comes to port at a private dock abutting a weather-beaten wood shed. On the distance is his stately house. Not a mansion, but far more than a single confirmed bachelor could need. He leads you up a boardwalk towards it. You need a shower, stat, of course... but the day is young.


>[x] Get right to the interview with Gustav.

[ ] Relax in his house a bit.

[ ] Explore the beach.


You all sit with Gustav in his clean, white, high-ceilinged, lushly carpeted living room. Lady, tracking sand in between his paws, receives a stern glare from Gustav. But he's too gracious a host to say anything.


"Thank you so much for inviting me into your home," Kay says. She pulls a notepad from her purse already littered with notes in shorthand. She settles on a loveseat and faces him across his coffee table where he sits on a lounger.


He draws his eyes away from Kay's unruly rottweiler, who even now is sniffing his own ass. "Perish the thought of thanking me, Ms. Vera! I should be thanking you. I get so few visitors on this lonely island. A chartered flight to Palau is far from cheap."


"I needed a vacation anyway. Too bad Palau's got such an annoying welcome committee."


"Yvonne?" He asks.


"Miss Palau herself."


"Eight wins in a row. Going for her ninth. But... Yvonne is getting on in years. She only continues winning because there is no competition. If someone actually challenged her, she would crumble. A halfway decent looking man in a dress could probably beat her at this point."


"I appreciate the local color, but let's focus," Kay says. "I'm not writing a gossip column."


"Yes. And what can I do for you?"


"Just a few questions," Kay says. "About your time at Darkbloom Analytics -- or in those days Darkbloom E-Pay, then Darkbloom Enterprises."


"So many iterations," Gustav says, forcing a chuckle.


"And your relationship with David Darkbloom -- and Renee Carte -- and Mara..."


"Ah," Gustav says. "Lest I forget myself. I owe you a real debt of gratitude for getting in touch with me. It was such wonderful news to hear that Renee has been reunited with her long-lost daughter. So sad, what happened to her, back in those days."


"What you let happen to her," Kay says. "I--"


Gustav holds up one flattened palm with fingers pressed together, waving a bit, as if to refuse something someone has tried to hand him. "Let happen. No. I reject this."


"David Darkbloom framed her--"


"I am perfectly well aware of how he framed her. I helped Renee to the best extent I could. My decision, freely taken -- I did not have to take it -- to pilfer the prototypical ocular implant she developed, and to assist in hiding it -- that decision which I took, is the reason I have had to exile myself on this island like a poor man's Napoleon. Furthermore I offered her, and her daughter, safe passage to this place along with me. She decided against this course of action. That was her choice. I could not force it. And yet to this day my doors remain open for her, for Whitney, for young Vivian. No. I reject what you say, Ms. Vera, I am sorry -- I do. If it were not for my decision, you would be dead at this moment, do you realize this? And so also Whitney, and so also Vivian, and Renee, and Alabaster here, and all others. I have sacrificed my entire life for this. Do not tell me what I let happen. I reject it wholly."


"You helped David with his human experiments."


"Also Renee. You were not there, Ms. Vera. You were not there. The man held us in thrall. We believed we were doing good work, to realize technology that would create a better world. And it was good work. And the technology can create a better world. But interceding this, tragically the work became bad -- and so tragically the technology has made our world worse. I ask to myself each and every day, why I did not foresee it. I pay each and every day the price for that failure. You in your corner office at that same company, living on its bleeding like a tick, you cannot sit in judgment. Not until you have been in my position. Maybe now it is time for you to return home. We can discuss this again when you are capable to understand."


"I'd like to continue right now, if you're willing to," Kay says. She flips her notebook to a certain page while sliding a pen from inside the ringed binding on the side, never breaking eye contact with Gustav. Gustav leans back in his seat with fingers interlaced over his belly.


"What can you tell me about the lighthouse?" Kay asks.


"I ask first to know who this is," Gustav says gruffly. "Who is this woman accompanying you?" He motions at Mom.


"Scarlett Catachresis," Mom says. "I suppose you remember me as Scarlett Soliloquy."


"This is an impossibility. You are a dead woman, Mrs. Soliloquy!"


"Apparently not," Mom replies.


You glance to your side; Rose is wearing a deep, serious expression.


"Is that the power of Sand Reckoner?" Kay asks. "Can it do even that?"


"No. Of course it cannot. Sand Reckoner enhances knowledge. It cannot alter reality. Such is the stuff of wild daydreams."


"But here she is, a dead woman," Kay says. "Are you so certain?"


He isn't, apparently; and he doesn't have an answer.


"We need to ask the important things first," Cerise says. All eyes turn to her: "Mr. Eichmann. Mara Darkbloom kidnapped Renee. We have no idea where she is -- either of them. We think maybe in Vail. Do you have any idea -- do you know of anyplace in that area she might be?"


"This is terrible," Gustav says. "No. No, I am sorry. I would tell you at once if I knew. Renee is a dear friend. Please find her at once. And kill Mara. And tell her before you do, that Gustav says: 'hello, you deserve it, you miserable bitch.'"


Cerise nods.


"What is the lighthouse?" Kay asks. "Sable talked it about before she died. I've seen some mentions of it in conspiracy forums."


"More wild daydreams," Gustav says, waving. "Soviet psyops, whispered rumblings of human experiments at remote Siberian gulags. Nonsense, pure nonsense."


"Once again -- are you so certain?" Kay says. She leans forward, elbows on knees.


"I suppose I can no longer know. David... he became obsessed with these ideas, they consumed him -- knowledge as power, and not in the aphoristic sense, you know. I am half convinced he wed Mara simply because he thought a Russian could get him closer to these Soviet experiments."


"Did she?"


"Mara knows less than nothing. She is a rich little girl who fancies herself a gangster. Contemptible, idiotic whore she is."


"David knows about the lighthouse?" Kay says.


"Knows, or knew -- or thought he did. What, by the way, has become of him? He is no longer haunting poor Cerise here?"


"with your help," Gal tells him. "thank you"


Gustav smiles and nods at her.


"David is still with us," Kay says. "But he's a liar, as always. It would be nice to hear from someone more trustworthy what he does or doesn't know."


"There is a rumor," Gustav says. "The Soviets believed that our universe is one among many. And also, that knowledge can be grown in a geometric fashion. With a runaway growth rate, you could achieve a level of knowledge prerequisite to permeate the boundary from one to another -- to slide between worlds, in a sense."


"What's a lighthouse got to do with it?" You ask.


"Supposedly they achieved their goal and then became frightened of what they had wrought. Familiar story, no? And genies once released from the bottle have a nasty habit of steadfastly remaining unbottled. They have quarantined their work, supposedly, in a remote location. It is an actual, physical lighthouse -- deep in the arctic sea."


"Where?"


"Perhaps ask David. I had no time for what I took in those days as idle delusions. I can affirm as much as this: it isn't on the open water. You would need an icebreaking vessel to reach it. Supposedly."


"This is all so much to process," Gustav says. "You are planning to spend the night, correct?"


Kay nods.


"Allow me to cook for you a dinner. You all could use a meal after subsisting on airplane food for so long. As American comedians say: what is the deal with the food on the airplanes?"


He waits for laughs. Gal is the only one to even try, awkwardly, but she trails off when no one joins her.


"Time alone has not worked wonders on my wit," Gustav says. He frowns, then says: "oh. A question for you, Ms. Vera. How fares Spancer Jardan? Do you know?"


"He's fine, I guess," Kay replies. "He still works for DBA. He's the new CHRM, actually."


"How wonderful. Spancer is such a nice person."


"'Nice person' is... not how I would describe Spancer Jardan," Kay says. "I mean -- he's a person, I'm pretty sure. Nice, though..."


"Nevermind. You know, I receive such little news from the outside world -- anything helps. Example: I am not even sure who the current US President is. The last I heard was of Barack Obama, but I believe he would have been term-limited as of 2016. I do not know who succeeded him."


"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Kay say. "It's--"


"Excuse me," you say. "Do you have a bathroom? I really could use a shower."


"Yes," Gustav says. "Down that hall there, the third door on the right. There are towels also."


"Thanks." You stand, and start down the hall.


"Anyway," you hear Gustav continue. "On the subject of the President."


"Right. It's crazy. The President..."


---


When you leave the bathroom, towel wrapped around your waist, you find Rose standing there in the hall. Arms folded, bitchy expression on her face. Did she stand there frowning at the bathroom door the entire time you showered? Christ.


"You're really gonna fuck your own Mom, huh," she says.


"Oh shut the fuck up."


Only then do you notice she's wearing a bikini. You arch your eyebrows appreciatively.


As if reading your mind, she answers. "We're at the beach, right? Might as well swim."


"There's supposed to be some kind of independence day thing today," you say. "Could be fun to go into town and check it out."


"Well we don't have time for both," Rose says.


"Why not?"


"We just don't. We can't stay here forever!"


[ ] Beach fun with the crew.

>[x] Go into town.


"You all go on without me," Mom tells you. "I'll stay here and help Gustav cook. I think the lack of company has made him just a little..." she cups a hand to her mouth and whispers: "a little batty." She stands back, hands on her waist. "Besides, I'd hate to be the third wheel on your honeymoon."


"You're not a third wheel, Mom, geez," Cerise says. "We love you. Don't we love her, Gal?"


Gal, blushing, makes a heart with the thumbs and forefingers of both hands.


"And you can love me plenty when you get back later on!" Mom says.


You think maybe that's a case of unfortunate phrasing, but she shoots you a meaningful, sly smirk.


"Okay, well," Cerise says, turning, shrugging. "We'll bring you something nice back from the main island."


"Just bring yourselves back," Mom tells you. "And speaking of which -- you --" she points at Rose. "Since you're the only one who knows how to steer a boat, I expect you to keep yourself sober."


Rose rolls her eyes. "Sure thing, Mom."


In-laws, right?


On your way past the living room with Cerise, Gal, and Rose, you hear Gustav crying out in despair.


"Oh, no! Oh god in heaven, no -- oh my god!"


Heart racing, you stop to see what it is.


Lady has one leg raised high in the air, and he's pissing like a horse all over Gustav's expensive carpet.


Kay, dashing in from the den, tugs the still-pissing dog by the scruff of his neck towards the nearby patio door. "I'm so sorry!" Kay shouts. "He's usually -- so much better-- better behaved--" she struggles against the weight and heft of her animal.


"My carpet!" Gustav booms, hand on his forehead. "Oh, Jesus Christ!"


You hurry out the front door. Now was a perfect time to leave...


Rose is a better captain than Gustav. Owing to her privileged upbringing, she's no stranger to seafaring, and it shows. She makes the ride as smooth and gentle as sitting peacefully in your living room; hardly a bump, shimmy or undulation. Gal, of course, remains terrified, and stays huddled in the center of the boat hugging her knees; Cerise consoles her.


Rose has to route you around a long barrier of buoys far from the shore of Koror. You wonder what the occasion is. But then you see it: windsurfers bounding around, doing tricks for a crowd of spectators. Some sort of competition, apparently. You think idly to yourself that Whitney might have appreciated it. As for you and the girls in the boat -- none of you really have any interest.


Back on the island, Rose docks the boat. Grumblingly, Cerise assists. You stroll down the length of the dock towards the parking lot while you wait for them to finish, appreciating the chance to get your land legs again. But soon Gal creeps up behind you and tugs your sleeve.


"What is it?"


"im sorry sir... i feel so naked"


She's wearing a bikini, same as Rose and Cerise. It's not exactly revealing -- as least not any more than what's being worn by anyone else around here. But she has that self-conscious, socially-anxious, agoraphobic... thing... so of course she must be feeling pretty exposed right now.


>[x] Offer her your shirt.

[ ] Order her to go as she is.



"Are you asking me for the shirt off my back?" You say.


"nnn-- i--"


Her lips are quivering.


She's so busy looking at the ground that she doesn't notice until you're slipping your shirt's collar over her head. You unfurl it and drape it over her like a poncho; she lets out a squeak of surprise. And then, finally realizing that you actually are giving her your shirt, she writhes around underneath the material, trying to find the arm-holes with her arms. It takes her quite some time. The tee is humongous on her little frame.


"th-- thank you so much sir, thank you--!"


The thing is damp with your sweat, and adheres nicely in a couple spots to her lithe torso. But mostly it conceals her form.


"I'm so nice to you, huh."


"yes"


"I'm too nice to you," you add.


She can't meet your gaze. So you force her to: you clasp her chin and make her look up into your eyes.


"Don't worry," you tell her. "I'll take my payment later."


She shudders.


"Oh..." you add, a perverted connection forming in your brain. "and I guess since you've got some nice outerwear on, you won't need this." You reach up under the hem of the shirt and find the tie of her bikini top against her back. You tug it loose, and pull the garment off her rail-thin body, out from under the tee.


She shudders again; and this time she even gasps. You pocket the little bikini top in your swim trunks' roomy pocket.


"sir..."


"Don't complain. I can still take the bottom, too."


The hem of your shirt hardly comes down low enough to conceal that part of her. She really would be exposed, if you did that.


Cerise, approaching from the docks, sees this all happen. As she finally reaches you two, Gal looks to her, hoping maybe for some kind of defense from her wife, against the cruel whims of Sir. What she gets instead is a hungry gaze.


"Did she do something wrong?" Cerise asks you.


"No. I'm just fucking with her."


"You're an ass," Cerise tells you. But she doesn't demand that you return the bikini top. Actually, she presses you to go further: "are you gonna strip her bottom off, too?"


"Later."


"Nice."


Gal looks about ready to faint.


"What even is there to do in Palau?" You ask, as you and the girls stroll down a promenade towards the picturesque little town.


"there's a parade," Gal says.


"The President is giving some sort of speech there," Rose says. "Tommy Remengesau. Corrupt bastard."


"There's a pig roast," Cerise says. "Luau style." She elbows you. "Lots of people -- lots of places to lose a bikini bottom, too. And fireworks afterwards."


"How do you all know so much about the intricacies of Palau's independence day celebrations?" You ask.


"dont you do research before going on vacation," Gal asks flatly.


"Okay. Lose the bottoms," you bark.


She makes a noise that actually comes out sounding like "eek."


"Not now. Draw it out a little," Rose advises sagely. "Make her really dread it..."


Gal is trembling all over. Even the sister-in-law has turned sadist against her. Well, that was no surprise. Rose is a sadistic bitch.


[ ] Parade.

>[x] Feast.


---


Renee thinks it would be kind of funny if she could appreciate it from the outside. Her mouse and keyboard are designed with ergonomics in mind, soft padding and sleek Germanly engineered curvatures and all. But with one wrist cuffed to the desk 14 hours a day, she's nonetheless on the fast track to carpal tunnel syndrome. She massages her sore wrist and the red welt the handcuff's cruel stainless steel has bitten into her.


Two of the programmers on the team are carrying on an animated argument in Russian, which naturally Renee cannot make heads or tails of -- nor does she particularly care. She's more focused on Alex, his blankly emotionless expression and jarringly fast typing. The boy has been coding for three, four straight days (time is so hard to keep track of) and shows no signs of slowing. In their cell, she never sees him sleep. He just stares at the dingy concrete ceiling there -- his face, as always, blank. He looks so alien to her when he's lying there on his cot, pinstriped by an amber light shining through the barred window from a source Renee can't discern when she looks out. He won't speak. She tries and tries to get even a word from him, but it's like he's half phased-out from existence. He doesn't even acknowledge her presence. The only sign she has that anything remotely human remains of him, is this: every night, they both receive the same dinner, two grilled cheeses slid across the dirty ground and through the gap under the solid steel door; Alex eats his only after meticulously pulling the crust off, tearing it into pieces and setting them on the window's ledge. Before dawn each morning as the birds are stirring, he watches the ones that fly down to to eat.


"And you, Renee?" One of the programmers asks in his thick accent.


"What?" She asks.


His buddy is half giggling.


The first one asks, halitosis pouring from his yellow mouth: "We want a second opinion. The better captain. Kirk, or Picard?"


Renee shakes her head and looks heavenward. This is beyond absurdity -- it's like a practical joke perpetrated on her by the universe. But she wants to stay in the good graces of her captors, for the time being. So surreal as it is to have this debate, in this situation, she stakes her opinion. "Picard. That's obvious."


"See!" The rot-breathed programmer proclaims. "A cultured woman."


The two men go on bickering in Russian. A moment later, the programmer who Renee sided with draws a lighter from his pocket and unexpectedly slides a cigarette between Renee's lips. She gasps. She takes it between her index and middle finger as the fat man lights it, and savors that first, delicious inhalation. She's been without for days, cold turkey. Not even the federal penal system was so cruel. Eyes dreamily shut and lips parted, she cherishes a sweet burst of nicotine.


"All three of you are wrong."


Renee's eyes shoot open. Alex has spoken, at last. And even as he continues his frenzied typing, he adds: "Janeway is the best captain."


That night in their cell, Renee sits on the edge of her cot, hands gripping the sides, and asks: "are you working on Diogenes? I can't see your monitor where they have me sitting. Is that what you've been so focused on?"


Alex, supine, has his hands laced over his thin belly. "They listen to us, you know."


Renee chews the inside of her cheek. She already sorely wishes she had some more cigarettes. Yes, Alex is right; they listen to them. It's smartest to keep themselves compartmentalized. If Alex is plotting something, he has to plot alone -- lest he endanger them both.


"We're gonna get out of here," Renee says.


"Maybe you will. I won't."


"We both will," Renee insists. "I promise."


"I don't want to," Alex says. "When I'm through with this... I'll be through."


Renee feels a flash of anger: "You need to cut this suicidal-type talk, Alex. It isn't helping."


He finally looks her way. He sees the stern expression on her face, and rises to his butt, finally meets her eyes. His tone, at long last, sounds halfway emotive. "I'm sorry, Ms. Carte."


"Don't be sorry, either. Just keep focused. My daughters will come through for us."


Alex furrows his brow. "Daughters... I thought you only had Whitney."


"Vivian may not be mine by blood. But she's mine, too."


"How can you stand this?" Alex asks. "Here. This place. You're so sure it's going to be okay... how could you possibly?"


"I'm used to being in prison, I guess. And I got out once before, so."


He nods. He's so small and fragile looking. Renee loves this boy; if there's anybody on the planet who less deserves such torment, she thinks, she hasn't met them.


"Do you think we're here for a reason, Ms. Carte?" Alex asks. "Big picture -- like the universe has a purpose for us."


"I don't know anymore," Renee admits. "I used to think so. But maybe we're just lost."


He shakes his head. "I know my reason now."


---


You sit with David Darkbloom in Vivian's living room. He's at the plate again, bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded, and so you're all rooting for him not to strike out again.


"What is this I hear about a new CIO?" Mara asks over the phone.


"It is beyond all words," Darkbloom says. "She is hiring the girl who perpetrated the 3/10 hack. So truly absurd..."


He gives Whitney a meaningful look. Although he's playing the role of Dalton, that remark there -- that was also his true opinion.


"Unbelievable," Mara says. "David's bastard is surely a mental defective. His genes were as weak as the rest of him."


The hatred that shadows Darkbloom's face is more than a little scary. Maybe that comment on its own can make Darkbloom do a 180 on his opinion of Gal being a member of the board.


Whitney shakes her head at him -- silently advising 'bio-dad' not to take the bait Mara threw his way.


He asks Mara: "do you want me to turn on Sand Reckoner?"


It's an Oscar-worthy performance. The way he asks the question threads the needle between suggesting a new idea of his own volition and dithering over a directive already received. Whitney, turning and taking a seat beside her little sister, has her knuckles pressed to her lips, expression grim.


"We must," Mara says. "Do not back down now, Dalton. Your success in this is critical. Sand Reckoner must be activated."


Whitney closes her eyes and shivers. How close she came to catastrophe -- it's a sobering realization.


"I have a guest with me," Darkbloom says.


A long, heart-stopping silence on the other end of the line.


Armstrong at bat: "We need to get rid of Whitney. She's off her fucking rocker."


"A little late to see reason, Steven," Mara tells him.


He laughs. "I'm a slow learner. You know that."


"And Nelson -- where is his mind?" Mara asks.


"He needs some convincing," Armstrong says. "Dumb Jew still likes Whitney. But I think I can swing him to the other team before this Galatea cunt gets on the board. We can force Whitney and Vivian out. But... that said, I'd like to have sit-down, you know -- you, me and Nelson. Work out what's in it for us."


"So mercenary," Mara says.


"Oh, don't you start," Armstrong laughs.


"I am quite busy here," she says. "Mr. Hamilton can be your point of contact."


"Understood," Darkbloom says. "He should be on his way from London as we speak."


"I will be incommunicado for a few days," Mara announces. "Please continue your progress."


Whitney buries her head in her hands, boiling with frustration. Vivian seethes too, but more subtly -- just a small tic of her facial muscles.


"I trust Rowan Hamilton will relay the critical details to you?" Darkbloom prods.


"Yes. He will speak with me after he leaves Palo Alto."


"Good," Darkbloom says. He's smiling. And that smile is genuine.


Mara hangs up. Fazil, sitting at the PC, and Nelson, standing over Fazil's shoulder, glance your way.


"Well?" Whitney asks.


"She is indeed at Vail," Fazil says. He spins the monitor. "Somewhere within this radius."


"You tracked her better than Gal?" Whitney breathes.


"This was my second doctoral thesis -- deanonymizing Tor relays."


"Shit," you say. "You didn't hand that to Erdoğan, did you?"


"It's a pretty wide radius, though," Nelson says, glum.


You walk over and check it out from up close, where you can read the scale bar in the bottom right. Wide, shit. It's a radius of 2 miles. In mountainous terrain... talk about a needle in a haystack.


[ ] Go ASAP.

>[x] Be patient; follow Mara's point of contact back to Vail.


---


That evening, you pass the time out by the front gates of Whitney's mansion. You're sitting the wrong way on a hard wood chair inside a little guard shack with Noelle, sipping a beer. You play gin rummy with her, a game she's stupefyingly good at.


"Are you of age?" Noelle asks between hands, tallying up her massive point lead across the three simultaneous games. The scoring in gin rummy always fucks with your head.


"100% underage," you tell her. You burp; she cringes. "Can't drink, can't smoke, can't vote, can't lose my shirt in Vegas, can't get blown up in the desert for the military-industrial complex, and definitely can't fuck."


"Can't rent a car, either," Noelle adds.


"That one's waaaay in the future," you say. "You have to be fucking ancient before you can do that. Crypt keeper ancient. That's, what, 25 years old?"


Noelle grimaces. You shuffle the deck and begin the deal.


"So how long are you and your Mom stuck here?" Noelle asks.


"Who knows."


"Put in a good word for me with her. She hates my guts."


"You're a pig. So I hate your guts, too."


Noelle shakes her head. "Former pig," she corrects.


"Once a pig, always a pig. Oink oink, bitch."


"They might have burned me, but I still believe in the mission. The FBI does good. It does. We've -- err, they've -- taken down some of the world's most vicious drug lords, stopped mass shootings before they happened, foiled terror plots..."


"So they make the world a less interesting place," you say.


"Ancient Chinese curse," Noelle says. "May you live in interesting times. Better to live an easygoing life, with nothing interesting happening outside... lots of snacks to eat and things to watch on TV."


You take your cards up and look at your hand. Pure unrefined shit, as usual.


"It's a three-parter," you tell her, discarding a king. "Each curse is worse than the last. May you live in interesting times. May you be recognized by those in power. May you find exactly what you seek."


"Spooky," Noelle says. She throws away a queen. "Anyway, that's all just the stuff I'm allowed to tell you. Some of the things the FBI does behind the scenes would blow your socks clean off."


"Oooh," you say, genuinely intrigued. You kick, scuffing your tennis shoes against the floor. "Top secret. I like top secret. What can you tell me?"


"I just said I can't tell you--"


"Come onnnn. They fired you. At least stick it to them this much."


Noelle sighs. "Well. Let's see." She gazes up at the little A/C unit wedged in the corner, thinking. "There was that group of venture capitalists in the 1990s trying to engineer a synthetic chemical to make their semen literally addictive--"


"Oh, gross."


"They're gone now. And that ring out of Omaha in the late '70s who were trying to create human-animal chimeras. Sick fucks."


"Whoa..." you think on that for a few moments. Could it be --? Naaah.


Noelle knocks -- another hand in the history books, and her score rockets ever higher. How does she do it?


"Do you like it here?" Noelle asks. "In the nail house? I hope everyone in there is keeping their hands off you. I don't need to be on the wrong side of an FBI visit."


"It's fine," you say. You deal out another hand. "But you're right. I can't wait to get back home again."


It's a lie, but you hope it placates Noelle's worry over your chastity.


"All of this, just because Rose2 couldn't sit still and had to show up at the Sapphire Club, huh?" Noelle asks as she rearranges her next hand. You can tell she's quite happy with what you dealt her. Mother shitter. "You must be pretty pissed at her."


"Don't call her Rose2 in my presence. She's my sister."


"Still Rose2," Noelle says. "Forget about always the bridesmaid, never the bride... she's so low on the totem pole it's more like always the flower girl, never the bridesmaid..."


Literally, you think.


"Plus she's got shit taste in anime," Noelle adds.


"Any taste in anime is shit taste in anime."


"So you're one of those. I would have thought weeabooism runs in the family. Especially a strain as cancerous as hers."


"Let's get one thing straight here," you say. "I'm allowed to talk shit on Rose. You aren't."


"It's hard not to talk shit on her, is the problem," Noelle says. "She puts the dummy back in dummy thicc."


"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're attracted to her," you laugh. You rest your chin and your elbows on the chair's back, leaning forward. "Are you a lesbian, Noelle?"


"Ghh-- that's ridiculous."


You press a palm to your lips. "You aaaare. Oh my goodness. I thought I remembered Rose saying something about your obsession with yuri."


Noelle pounds a fist in her palm. "2D is totally separate from 3D! It's not the same!"


"Don't be so tsuntsun~"


"For a little brat who says she isn't into anime, you sure know the lingo."


You laugh long and hard. You jerk your thumb in the direction of the window with a view to Whitney's long winding drive. "Hell, I like you. You can come over to my house and fuck my sister."


---


You find your way to a cabana housing rows of extremely long beachwood tables, where hundreds of the festival attendees are already being served. Men with carts walk up and down the aisles, handing out paper plates of roasted pork and plastic cups of kava.


Summer's swelter beneath the thatch roof here is as just powerful as being in direct sunlight; the shade helps not at all. You cool yourself with a paper fan that a volunteer handed you. But now Rose, who was too fucking stupid to grab one for herself, steals it when you aren't paying attention.


"What the hell is wrong with you?" You demand.


"I'm dying," she moans, head thrown back as she trudges along. "I'm literally dying..."


Fat beads of sweat run from underneath her massive udders, down her untoned torso, and over her pale upper calves. You gulp, and glance away.


Gal is even worse off than you and your wife. Let's see: a redhead who anyway never goes outside, walking around a tropical island at the height of the afternoon -- yeah, she's turning a bit pink already, despite a copious application of SPF 10 trillion before she embarked. She'll be nursing horrible sunburns for the next week or two. She swoons and sways, and Cerise has to help her walk.


"is this hell" she wants to know.


"Heaven, supposedly," Cerise says.


Cerise's skin is also starting to turn shades. But... yours, too. Face it: the four of you are about the least athletic and outdoorsy people on Earth. Among honeymoon destinations, this could have been the worst possible choice.


You usher them to a spot at one of the long tables that's vacant enough to fit four Americans suffering sunstroke. You sit at the end. Gal, the poor little thing, is wedged between her bride on one side and yours on the other.


"too many people" Gal says.


"Too hot," Rose says, still fanning herself. You grab the fan from her and use it for yourself. She tries to wheel on you, her knees knocking your thigh, and pounds your leg with a fist. You kick her under the table; she shoves you.


"Too..." Cerise begins. But she can't think clearly in this jungly heat. "Too," She says. "Just too."


"im so tired" Gal complains. She lays her cheek on the tabletop. "i could... really... use... a boost... oh..."


"Boosto?" You say, glancing over.


"what"


Cerise laughs through her nose. She nudges her wife and explains the joke. In her deepest and most masculine voice "Boooooossssstooooo."


"oh"


"This is the part where you laugh," you tell her.


"i used my fake laugh for the day already"


You glare at her.


"im sorry Sir"


A pause.


"mostly"


>[x] Give her a boosto.

[ ] Cerise, give your wife a boosto.


>[x] Give her a boosto.


You circle around behind her. "Up," you command.


"please... just let me res--"


You loop your hands under her armpits and force her to stand. She tries to be dead weight, and sags forward towards the table as you hold her. But Cerise is your partner in crime. She kicks one of her shapely legs up, and blocks the gap between her and Rose, so that Gal would not be able to sit again even if she got loose from your grip.


"cerise..." Gal pleads.


But Cerise just smiles cruelly up at her. "Why don't we help her cool off, huh?" She asks you, arms spider-walking up one of Gal's thin legs.


"Oh yes," Rose purrs, cottoning to what the game is. Her hand is going up Gal's other leg in much the same fashion. Gal is about to phase into a different existence on an atomic level, with how hard her entire body is vibrating from the fear.


You keep Gal held fast, one arm wrapped around her chest, as your sister-wives do your dirty work. Together they each take one side of Gal's bikini bottom and untie it. From sweat, and likely arousal, it sticks to Gal's crotch even after they have it undone, and has to be peeled away. Rose ends up with the garment in hand when all is said and done. You motion for her to give it to you under the table. But grinning evilly, she hoists it up high so that it dangles off her pinky, in plain view of the dozens and dozens of festival attendees seated at the galley table. There are murmurs of surprise and confusion all around.


"Did you want this back, Gal?" Rose asks her.


"p-- p-- p..." Gal stutters incoherently.


Rose, tauntingly, still holding the damp garment, mimics Gal's stuttering back at her. "P-- p-- p-- ... What? Do you want it back or not? Speak clearly."


"y- y--"


"Y-- y--" Rose repeats. "Fuck. Don't you know how to speak? I guess you don't want it." She hands it to you; you pocket it.


Meanwhile, Cerise begins to molest her. Hand creeping under the tee, Cerise has two fingers buried in Gal's pussy. Gal, already weak in the knees, now is nearly bowled over. The only reason she's not a gibbering heap on the dirt ground is because you're supporting her entire weight. She's light -- too light -- you make a note to keep tabs on how much she eats tonight, because it probably won't be enough if you don't.


"Okay Cerise, that's enough," you tell your sister. "Let's be nice to her."


"You're one to talk about nice," Cerise harrumphs.


"My poor little slave needs a boosto. She'll be a lot more fun to play with once she's got some energy."


Gal weakly peers up at you. "what do you--"


You squat down and shove your head between her legs. Keeping her center of balance steady by holding her around the knees, you stand -- not without a bit of effort, but hey, you did get her up. She wobbles back and forth, shocked, and frightened, but finally her hands find the top of your head and she holds on for dear life.


"what are you doing!" she cries -- the loudest voice you've gotten from her all trip.


"You wanted a boosto."


Cerise and Rose are laughing among themselves -- this is highly entertaining. Worth the trip in and of itself, judging by their expressions.


Gal is madly trying to peer over her own back; to see whether the hem of the tee covers her bare ass. It doesn't. She's mooning every man, woman, and child in Palau. You feel her over-warm, smooth, sweaty and sticky skin against your shoulders. Her tiny legs hug you tight, her leaky pussy rubs up against the nape of your neck. It's a good feeling. She's got her hands dug in, gripping your hair at the roots, and the pressure of it is not unpleasant. (Huh. So that's why Rose likes it so much.)


"Okay, scrawny fuck," Cerise tells you. "If you can lug Gal all the way up and back to the end of this copacabana, I'll give you a reward."


"I'm doing this for Gal's sake, but now I'm interested. What kind of reward?"


"You'll see," Cerise says, winking.


"You heard the woman," you tell Gal, rolling your eyes up to try and see her. "Let's go."


"Sir please -- please don't--"


"Booooosto!" You intone. And then you're off.


Leg over leg, you dash as fast as you can. The breeze it creates is oddly refreshing, and you try not to think about how exhausted you'll be once you stop moving. You push your way through the crowd underneath the cabana's roof. "Boosto!" you say. You part shocked onlookers like Moses at the Red Sea.


"please don't shout like that Sir" Gal begs.


"Boosto!" you shout, even louder.


"im sorry im sorry im sorry" Gal says on your behalf, glancing back and forth between the people you're shoving aside. "please forgive my Sir -- please -- oh no -- dont look -- hes really not himself right now -- eep-- dont look at me -- im sorry"


"Boosto!" You hold your arms in front of you, imitating a jet, to amp up her embarrassment. "Boosto! Boosto!"


Gal wobbles to and fro, fighting just to keep from falling. Occasionally she reaches back to grab the hem of the shirt and try to tug it lower, but no use. She's on display, and there's nothing she can do about it.


As you reach the end of the roof's cover, you feel the tiredness beginning to set in. You need a bit of a break, but you don't want Cerise and Rose to see you tucker out so quickly -- and you especially don't want to have Gal see you so weak. You need to improvise.


You, yourself, need a boosto.


You go past the end of the cabana by a few yards, and lean your backs against a tall palm tree.


"Sir?"


With your hands still holding Gal's legs, you can't wave to Cerise and Rose, who are quite distant indeed at the other side of the cabana; but you do tilt your chin up at them. They smile and wave back.


You twist around -- making sure Gal stays with her back pressed up against the tree bark.


"Sir!!"


You've got your face right between her legs. The swampy heat of her pussy, created by being trapped against your neck -- not to mention her own mounting arousal at being so publicly embarrassed -- almost blows you back. Her smooth innie of a cunt is dripping wet already and smells so inviting from up close. It's so dirty and lewd, that heady mixture of sweat and girl-cream. Gal runs her hands through your hair. "Sir... you cannot be for real..."


You are for real.


You blow a puff of air against her hard nubbin of a clit. She grits her teeth and hisses. Then, you dive in.


You are vaguely aware of shocked voices behind you, as you put on this very public display of affection towards your slave. She flexes her thighs around your ears over and again. She arches her back, and painfully scrapes it against the rough bark, in her vain attempt to escape the pleasurable torment of your tongue licking her from the inside. She tastes so fucking good -- so unbelievably good for a dumb shut-in with a shitty diet. Her juices are tangy but not sour, and stick to the back of your throat in a wonderfully persistent way. The unblemished smoothness of her in-turned pussy lips only accentuates it. She's a girl of contrasts; so pure-looking, and such a fucking slut bitch.


"ah -- ah -- ungh, ffffuck..."


Her voice is soft and yet needful, breathy but greedy. She's hardly more than whispering; she wants only Sir to hear her pleasure. She runs her hands through your hair and squirms. But she's fully giving in to you, she isn't trying to get away anymore. On the contrary, she's rubbing her pussy against you. Naughty slave, using your tongue to get off in broad daylight and for everyone to see.


"fuck, Sir... fuck... youre going to make me cum Sir..."


You stop, only long enough to issue a command. "Tell everyone you're cumming."


"i--"


"Do it, cunt. Or you don't get to cum."


"oh fuck--"


You start licking her again.


"i-- i--" she stammers. Volume mounting, then: "i -- iii-- I -- I -- I'M CUMMING! I'M CUMMING SO FUCKING HARD! OH MY GOD! SIR IS MAKING ME CUM!! I'M CUMMING ALL OVER THE FUCKING PLACE! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!"


Nevermind just Gal, you don't think you've ever heard anyone scream so loud before. She screams obscene things until she loses her voice.


She isn't lying, either. She sprays your face with her cum. It's torrential, seemingly never-ending; she squirts all over your head, your shoulders, your body, and the ground below. It's so good. You could drink her forever.


When finally she's done spraying her cunt juice all over the place, you turn slowly back around between her legs. Everyone, for as far as your eye can see, is watching. Aghast.


What can you do, but lick the cum off your lips, smile, and say:


"Boosto!"


You jog with her back to where Rose and Cerise still sit. They're doubled over with laughter. Gal, for her part, is having a miniature freakout:


"prison... we're going to prison... oh my god Sir... why..."


You deposit her back on the bench.


As you stand again, rubbing the small of your back, a couple Palaun men come by -- to shake your hand -- and give you a high five.


"Are you trying to get on the Palau sex offender registry?" Cerise asks.


"Sure," you say.


"If you get arrested--" she starts.


You hold up a palm. "Cerise, Cerise, Cerise. I told you already. We've got fuck-you money. If I need to get busted out of Palauan jail, it's fine." You take a cup of kava off a passing cart and gulp it down. Not a care in the world. "Anyway, I won your bet. What was the reward?"


Cerise worries her lower lip. Then, apparently deciding that the safety net of fuck-you money is guarantee enough, she says: "I guess I can give it to you right now."


She spins around, sitting with her feet on the other side of the bench -- facing you. She undoes the ties of her bikini bottom. Brazenly she tosses it aside -- far out of reach -- leans back onto her tailbone, parts her legs as wide as she can, and spreads her pussy with the thumbs of both hands. "Come get it."


You don't need a second invitation. You tug your trunks down enough to free your rock-hard cock, get down to your knees, and ram yourself home up your older sister's lovely cunt. Like a couple of animals. You fuck without any heed towards the dozens, no, hundreds of people who can see all.


Rose, elbow on table and chin on palm, leans around to watch the incestuous show. Idly she gets her hand in her own bikini bottom, and diddles her cunt.


"you-- oh my god -- please--" Gal is the only one trying to be sensible here. Easy for her, she's the only one who got to cum already, so of course she's trying to be the spoil sport. You tell her to shut the fuck up as you continue to nail your own sister. The lewd squelching of it fills the air.


People around you are jeering, catcalling, and braying -- hooting and hollering, even clapping -- Cerise is rubbing her tits through her bikini top and making loud, high cries of pleasure all her own. She bounces back against you, enjoying the friction of your brotherly cock sliding in and out of her sweaty cunt. You keep hold of her thick thighs and fuck her for all she's worth.


"youre all being too-- too--"


Rose takes one of Gal's wrists. She guides Gal's hand down, towards her crotch -- and gently, but firmly, forces Gal to do her masturbating for her. Rose takes a few moments to enjoy the sensation of Gal's thin fingers stirring up her pussy. Then Rose takes off her own top, letting her giant tits flop free. Sweat drips off the flesh, even off the tip of one bright pink nipple. She rubs her cowtits luxuriously, almost smugly, and enjoys the hungry eyes gluing themselves to her. She cups one of her wet breasts from the underside, and raises it, the heft of it nearly swallowing her hand. And as Gal masturbates her, she licks her own nipple. She makes noises like a sow from the pleasure.


Cerise grabs you around the waist and hugs you tight. "Cum inside me," she begs.


"I wouldn't cum anywhere else--"


"Fuck, oh fuck, Alabaster..."


You hump her like it's your last day on Earth. The silky texture of her pussy is enough to kill for. You feel your nut coming on -- and what a spectacular orgasm it is. It feels like it won't end. It comes first as a single, voluminous blast straight to the back of Cerise's suckling womb. Then a few moments before the next spurt, punctuated by some hard, fast thrusts as Cerise, tongue wagging like a dog, clamps her pussy down at the root of your orgasming cock. Finally then another series of squirts, smaller but rapid fire: pulse, squirt, pulse, squirt, that paint her insides white. There's so much that it begins to spill out of her, staining the bench and the muddying the dirt. You rear back, about halfway, and ram home -- and cum again. This time Cerise, screaming, also cums. There's no more blissful feeling than this, of cumming in unison with your sister. Your balls draw up towards your body and keep spitting fresh cum as deep as you can put it inside her. You're not sure if you've ever cum such a huge volume, it's honestly like you've grown a horse's cock; it just keeps surging and surging from you. You're only somewhat cognizant of Rose, beside you, also cumming her brains out. It's a family affair; you're all cumming yourself stupid. Isn't that nice: to throw all higher intelligence away, to turn into a mush-brained idiot, with only one singular goal, to cum and cum and cum and cum. Maybe this was the right honeymoon destination, after all.


---


Fucking works up an appetite.


Rose, Cerise, and even Gal hork some pork, sans fork -- plates and plates of it. It's wonderful fare, with a slightly sweet glaze over tender, succulent meat. You eat too, and wait for the constabulary to arrive. You can picture it: a stern man saying "Sir, you'll have to come with us" -- now there's a "Sir" you don't want to hear -- but other than a steady stream of goggle-eyed locals who come by to register their appreciation for the afternoon's entertainment, you don't face any consequences. The pace of life in Palau is different than in America. And more bohemian it seems, at least at celebrations like this. It's kind of traditional, you reason. What's a tribal-style cookout without tribalistic public fucking?


The sun is beginning to get a bit lower in the sky, and you're looking forward to the fireworks.


When you're reasonably sure none of you are about to be collared by the local cops, you excuse yourself, to go find a port-a-john. Here's where the festival's planning committee could have done a fair sight better. There aren't any places to drain the vein nearby. You ask a man for directions; after congratulating you on your "big fucks," he tells you it's up the beach -- that-a-way -- a long ways. You begin the unhappy trek. You're godawful tired right now. So much for boostos.


You get to the appointed potty and do your business. On your way out, as you trudge back onto the white sand of Palau's almost virginal shore, you nearly take a faceplant. No. It can't be.


But it is. Further up the beach, at an isolated spot near an outcrop of rock. Sitting on a towel beneath an audaciously expensive-looking parasol. Wearing a bikini, and lounging on her elbows facing the sea. Qiangxiang Xi.


As if she has ESP, she looks in your direction the moment you notice her. She smiles, and waves in a fey sort of way.


You shouldn't approach her.


You approach her.


Your form shadows her; she glances up, raven hair rustling in the breeze.


"Hello, Alabaster," she says, as if this is all the most normal thing in the world.


"What are you doing h--"


"I am considering to buy Palau. What do you think? What would the UN say to that? If I were to offer half a trillion dollars, say -- to the government of Palau, to dissolve their parliament, rescind their constitution, and hand their population over to our company?"


"A slave island?" You sputter.


"We haven't had a good one since Haiti. Such a pity. Do you want to take a seat? There is room on my towel."


"You followed me here," you say, still standing.


"Yes. Your pet reporter chartering a plane to such a remote location piqued my interest. I do not know for sure, but... if I were forced to hazard a guess, I would guess that you have come to speak with Gustav Eichmann. Yes? No?"


You glance around, panicked; Qiangxiang, laughing coolly, tells you: "Calm yourself. I am quite alone. Not even uncle knows I am here. Will you sit, please? You are blocking my sun."


The way she says "my sun" -- isn't like just anyone says it. More like she literally thinks that the actual, entire sun belongs to her and only her.


You sit.


She hoists up two bottles. One is suntan lotion, the other is sunblock.


"Alabaster... do you like a girl tanned, or pale?"


>[x] Tan.

[ ] Pale.


She drops the sunblock. She shakes the bottle of suntan lotion vigorously, with the force of a paint mixer. Then, uncapping it, she spurts a few dollops of it into her cupped palm. She slathers it between her hands, and languidly begins to apply it to both her thin arms.


"A commendable choice," she says, holding the lotion bottle steady between her knees as she works. "I see you have varied taste in women."


"Why did you come all this way? To intimidate me?"


"Oh my, no. No. I want to be a colleague. We work together now, Alabaster -- I am your Chief Technical Officer. I want to know about the workings of the company I help lead. That is all. And what better way to do it, than to take a pleasure trip. That's all this is. A pleasure trip." She looks you over. "That's what this is for you, also, it seems."


"I--" you begin, but then she's pressing the bottle into your hands. She takes her hair, gathers it up into a ponytail, and ties it back over her shoulder. She turns around. "Please," she says, "my back."


Trembling, you squirt the lotion into your hand, begin to rub it into the space between her shoulder blades. She hisses gently at the cold sensation, eyes closing.


This is the most surreal moment of your entire life, and you've had plenty.


When the lotion warms up from the contact, Qiangxiang's eyelids come open again, and she regards her from her peripheral vision.


"There," you say finally.


"Mm."


She turns again, sits cross-legged, and smirks -- just slightly, almost imperceptibly.


"Well?" She says.


"Well what? Tell me what you want. What are you trying to do?"


"I am going to lure you with sex, Alabaster. And I am so confident in my ability to do so that I am telling you this openly, because you will still fall prey."


You sit back on your knees. "I had a feeling you were an egomaniac, but that's a bit much. You know I've got about 14 or 15 girls I fuck on a regular basis. Why do I need some slut from China?"


"Because I am the best."


"Seriously? Even if you had the best pussy on all of planet Earth, I st--"


"I do."


You give her a bewildered look. Then continue: "I still wouldn't fuck you, because I'm not stupid."


Qiangxiang picks up the sunscreen now. She dispenses some into her hands.


"You're beginning to burn. I don't think a tan would suit you, Alabaster, and anyway I like men to be white. Please, turn."


You turn. Like her, you hiss at the cold sensation of the cream pressing into your tender back.


As Qiangxiang works, she finally rebuts your claim. "You are stupid. Men are stupid -- their cocks make them stupid. You get an erection and then all you can think about is mating. You in particular." Her tiny hands work in tiny circles, from the broad expanse of your shoulders down to your hips, and back up. "It comes as no surprise, given what I've been told of your blessings, and which now I can verify with my own two eyes." Her gaze diverts downwards, and she stares openly, over your shoulder, at your package in your swim trunks. "It must be a terrible tax on your brain to supply blood to such a thing."


"I actually think that I'm at my cleverest when I'm horny."


She's still staring. She's applying the lotion to your sides now, both of them at the same time, tickling you. Her chin rests on you. "Does it disgust you, the sensation of sweat trapped between your testicles and anus? The stickiness of your foreskin against your thigh? Such a disgusting thing to carry about all the time. How can you endure it?"


"I really like it. You can take it out and give it a feel if you w--" you stop, realizing yourself. You've already propositioned her, just as she told you you would. Her smirk is back in force; you want to punch it from her face.


"You can kill me," she says.


"...What?" You turn again, face her.


"No one knows I am here. I am all alone; defenseless. You can kill me and leave my body in the surf, and you would get away with it. Shouldn't you?"


She reaches into her purse, and pulls a dagger. Your heart palpitates. But she spins it in her hand, holding the blade, and presents you with the handle. "Go on," she says. "Slip it between my ribs." She taps her chest. "Right here. Into my heart."


You gape at her, speechless and terrified.


"Maybe I should kill you instead," she says. The dagger is pointing the other way, now. With her elbow cocked and wrist turned up, she keeps the blade level with her face, staring down its length, up at you: "Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in your eye... I should kill you now and pull that strange device from your skull and take it home with me. Should I not?"


"If you kill me, Whitney will kill you," you say.


"Whitney Darkbloom is a stupid cunt. We have established this. She is no threat."


Still with the dagger pointed at you.


"You haven't stabbed me," you say. "Are you sure you're not afraid of Whitney?"


She laughs, a long tittering that doubles her over, palm pressed to her lips, her upper body vibrating. Finally she stows her dagger. You can breathe a bit easier.


"What fetishes do you have?" She asks.


"I -- I don't know. Into anything, I guess. I'm a pervert."


"Oh?" Qiangxiang says. "Anything? So you would like me to defecate into your open mouth? You would like to see me copulate with a dog?"


"What? No-- Jesus, no."


She daintily rubs the nails of thumb and middle finger together. "You would like to see me forced to ingest roaches and worms? You would like to vivisect me, and tinker with my vital organs as I shriek in indescribable agony upon your table?"


"No-- oh my g--"


"Do you want me to castrate you, Alabaster?" She reaches suggestively for her purse.


"What the fuck is wrong with you?"


"These are not my interests. But you said you enjoyed all fetishes. I am just naming some of the common ones."


"Those aren't fucking common. And I have normal fetishes. Not that darkweb shit."


"By definition no fetishes are normal. The evolutionary purpose of sex is to procreate. Anything beyond a man ejaculating inside a woman's vagina is a human-made foible, and an aberration; none any more or less inherently normal than another. Which is to say, abnormal in totality. What repels you about one and not another lies only inside your mind. It is your personal, psychological bias."


"Sex is social, too," you say. "It's not just to make babies. I would call the fetishes you're listing antisocial. I like social ones."


"Such as?"


"Such as putting on a show for the people."


"You are an exhibitionist. Yes, I gathered."


"And I like group sex, too. It reinforces social bonds..."


"True. This is a new perspective for me, Alabaster. You are right. Sex is also a social activity." She clacks the sunscreen's cap back on. "We are no better than the bonobos who spend their entire lives in estrus." She stares into the sand for a moment. "However... you enjoy fetishes which I would class as antisocial, also."


"How would you know?"


She circles you, lays a hand on your thigh, leans in close with her chin nearly touching your chest as she peers up at you. "Imagine tying me down against my will -- face down on a table, with my ass in the air. Imagine taking a whip to me until this tan skin you like so much is streaked angry and red."


You swallow, but it's dry.


"And thus I have proved my thesis," she says.


"I've dealt with people like you before," you say. "Paper tigers. I helped kill David Darkbloom -- turned my accomplice into my cockslut -- I can deal with you, too."


She tilts her head. "Do I frighten you, Alabaster? I hope I do. I hope that tonight your rest is uneasy and that every distant creaking in the dark startles you awake."


"If you could scare me half as much as you're scared of us, I think you'll be doing okay," you try, putting up an aggressive front.


But she only titters at you again.


"Go on now, please," she says. "Go back to your wife and sister and the slavegirl you want to install as my peer. They will grow worried if you dally much longer."


You stand. She watches placidly. You turn, and leave.


"Alabaster..." Qiangxiang calls after you, when you're a few yards down the shoreline.


You stop, wait. She rises to her feet. Shocking, how short she truly is. She's just a kid.


"I am not an enemy. I only want things to be interesting. This is my theory of the world: that money and power stay only with those who are interesting. Look at us. You and I, we are the interesting people of the world. Do you need my assistance in striking back against Mara Darkbloom?"


[ ]Yes.

[ ] No.


"I would never say no to someone who wants to help kill Mara Darkbloom." You bow slightly to her.


"Is that a yes?"


"Tentatively. I'll discuss it with my associates."


"We are associates," Qiangxiang says.


"I'm sorry. Let me correct myself. I'll discuss that with my trusted associates."


She smiles.


"We'll have terms," you tell her.


"Good businesspeople always do." She waves. "See you Monday, Alabaster."


---


Qiangxiang has a way of making return trips a lot more dour than outgoing trips. You don't watch the fireworks on Koror; instead, you watch them in the privacy of Gustav's beach, in the warm sand, from very far away, so that the pyrotechnics are just tiny points of light on the horizon.


"I wish things were simple again," Cerise says, eyes on the sky. "I wish we could go back... can we make it all simple again?"


You take the beer from her hands and finish it for her. She's had enough.


"Remember watching fireworks with me on the 4th?" She asks. "On the beach, back then?"


"Yeah."


"I thought for sure you'd run away..."


"How come?"


"It's just the way you were. The way I was." She strokes your arm. "I'm glad you stayed."


"Wow. This was a formative moment, huh?"


She makes a sour face. "Don't be so dramatic. It's not like it would have been the most disappointing moment of my life if you turned me down. It's just -- it was just a happy memory."


Gal, head in Cerise's lap, snores softly.


Rose, on your other side says: "simple would be so nice. I remember when the worst problem I had was that you stole my Volt."


That Volt is still parked in Whitney's garage at home. "You can have it back," you tell her.


"Really?" She says, hopeful.


"For the low price of $500 million."


"Oh my GOD--"


"What? It's appreciating in value every day, you know. Better strike while the iron's hot... I'm sure Whitney would loan you the cash."


She slugs you.


A long silence passes, and you appreciate the bursts of fire in the sky.


"Gustav is an expert at what he does..." you begin.


"Huh?" Cerise says.


You sigh. "Gal and I. We still have these implants in our heads."


Cerise pets her wife's hair.


"You know how I feel," Rose tells you.


"Yeah. I know."


Cerise is less decisive.


>[x] Keep both.

[ ] Take out both.

[ ] Keep yours, take out Gal's.


Cerise gently pets Gal awake.


Gal, curled up in the sand with her head still on Cerise's lap, groggily stirs. "mmmhh?"


"Were you listening just now, babe?"


"sort of. im so tired"


"Gustav could take your implant out," Cerise says. "We could have him do it for you, before we leave."


Gal doesn't answer.


"What do you think?" Cerise asks.


"tell me what to do" she begs her.


"I can't tell you what to do," Cerise says. "It's your choice to make."


She appeals to you, then. "tell me what to do Sir... i want to be told"


It's not a sexual domination thing. She just really needs someone, anyone, to tell her what to do.


"Take it out," Rose says.


"not you"


Okay, not just anyone.


"I'm keeping mine," you tell her, by way of answering.


"Alabaster, please--" Rose begins.


"if you keep it then i have to keep it too"


You sigh. "It doesn't have to be that way. There's no rule that says that. Just because I want to keep mine in..."


"i need to. for what lies ahead... for everything im going to be doing..."


"You decided, then?" Cerise asks. She parts the bangs from Galatea's face where it lies in her lap and gazes lovingly down at her.


"yes. im going to be on the board with that awful girl... and david darkbloom... and we still have to find renee and alex too. people are-- going to count on me-- youre going to count on me, Cerise-- and you too, Sir... i cant let you down. i need to keep this, in case i need it..." She's quiet for just a beat. Then, voice clearer, firm and unusually decisive: "I need to keep it. I need to keep my implant."


Cerise continues to pet her.


Rose is close to crying. Hand clutching your knee, she says: "Please don't make that mistake."


"I'm sorry," you tell her. Words you rarely utter to Rose, but it's the least you can do; you're countervailing her on such an important choice, which for all your bickering over petty matters, almost never happens.


She does cry now. Not vocally, but you can see the tears trickling down her cheek in the moonlight.


"I don't want to lose you," she tells you.


You tell her that she won't. She makes you promise. You hug her close and watch the rest of the fireworks in silence.


Cerise, whose magical power is apparently the ability to conjure beer from nothing, has another bottle, and sips it slowly. As the fireworks die down and only the thin wisps of smoke drifting across the flat expanse of the ocean remain, her eyes focus instead on the massive full moon just above the horizon. "It's so big tonight," she marvels.


"its an illusion" Gal tells her.


"What do you mean?"


"the moon is the same size no matter where it is in the sky. it only looks so big because its closer to the horizon right now"


Cerise glances your way for confirmation. Being a walking trivia almanac gets people into the habit of using you that way. "She's right," you say.


"of course im right," Gal says.


Cerise pinches her cheek.


"ow"


Cerise hunches way down and kisses her wife tenderly on the lips.


---


Mom claims she has never cooked with taro before, or even eaten it herself. Which leaves you utterly perplexed at how her candied taro root pie, a recipe she concocted from scratch, is so good. And you're not the only one; Gustav begs her throughout the night to consider moving to Palau.


"You are eligible, yes?" He says, pouring her another glass of Grand Cru from his wine collection, a rare treat, he tells you all, for rare occasions. "I too am also eligible. I never considered to take a wife -- but for this, maybe I might!"


You glower at him, but you needn't answer on Mom's behalf. She playfully swats his chest and says: "I could never deal with this isolation. And German accents do nothing for me. Thank you anyway, Mr. Eichmann."


"There is much about you that does nothing for me, but the dessert makes up for all!" Gustav booms. He takes a swig of his drink. "Ah, nevermind. It is for the best."


After dessert, you reveal to Gustav the unhappy news that Qiangxiang followed you to Palau, and that now because of this, quite possibly the Chinese know his hidden location. He sobers up pretty quickly when you tell him.


He stands, strides to the bay windows at the back of his dining room. Hands behind his back, he says: "I have hidden from the world for so long... but one cannot hide forever. If a Chinese hit squad wishes to come and spirit me away in the night, so be it. If Mara finds me and exacts a deadly revenge, no matter. If international authorities decide I belong at The Hague, perhaps I do. I will face whatever comes my way with the dignity I lacked when I fled from California."


You nod, although he can't see you.


"Young Vivian had a favorite poem, maybe you can ask her of it. I have spent many, many hours thinking of it in this lonely house of mine."


"What is it?" Cerise asks him.


"T. S. Eliot. Prufrock."


"I know that poem," Mom says.


"I think just about everyone knows it," Kay says offhandedly.


"Well, she was only 9 years old when she cornered me at David's house one day and began to explicate the parallels between the narrator's feelings of sexual inadequacy and the spiritual malaise of continental Europe during the interwar years. So you may take this into account, also."


He's quiet for a turn, then he begins to recite: "I grow old, I grow old..." He looks down, and realizing his attire, he smiles. He pinches the material between his fingers: "White flannel trousers. How apt. Perhaps I should go and walk upon the beach."


---


Gustav is nakedly and pathetically desperate for none of you to retreat to bed. He would probably like for you to stay in Palau forever and ever. He's got stir fever, all right -- and he's so, so lonely. So you all stick around in his den for a bit to play a favorite game of his -- one he shared with Renee, apparently.


"Am I a woman?" Rose asks.


"No," you say.


"Am I a man?"


"No," Mom says.


"...Child?"


"no" Gal says.


Rose furrows her brow. "What the -- am I an animal, then? I must be."


"No," Cerise says.


She huffs. "What. This makes no sense. What could I possibly be?"


"I believe the object of the game is for you to determine that," Gustav says.


She idly runs her fingers across the card taped to her forehead. "I am a living creature, right?"


"sure," Gal says.


"...some kind of bush or something?" She finally asks.


"Y--" Kay begins, but you cut her off.


"No."


"What do you mean no," Kay demands. "She's a plant."


"She didn't say plant. She said bush. It's a separate category."


"Oh for fuck's sake," Kay fumes. "Are you a professional hair-splitter, or what? She said bush or something."


"Well fuck," you say, "'or something' could be anything. Then sure, if you want to be totally unhelpful, yes. Every single character qualifies as a bush, 'or something'. Great answer. So useful."


"You are such a shit," Kay says.


"She's not a bush! The whole point of this game is to give the right answers -- to be precise! You can't just say, oh, sure, close enough, you're a bush -- when you're NOT a fucking bush--"


"I think it's close enough," Mom says.


"Of course," you fume. "You're defending your new best friend, rather than your own son--"


"I mean, it's basically the same idea," Cerise says. "It gets her closer to the answer."


"plant. she's a plant," Gal says. "it's part of the plant kingdom. bush is close enough"


"This is absurd," you begin. "You're giving her information she didn't even ask for because you don't know how words are defined--"


"Am I the Giving Tree?" Rose asks.


"Yes!" Gustav says, pounding his palm on the tabletop. "Congratulations."


You grumble, beyond frustrated; Rose smiles smugly as she peels the card off her head and confirms her answer.


"Oh, this is wonderful," you say. "Just wonderful. See what you bumblefucks did? Rose is gonna win now."


"Was there ever any doubt?" She says.


---


When finally you do sleep, it isn't restful. You've only been out for a couple hours when a distant creaking startles you, and you wake in a cold sweat. Rose is in the fetal position, wrapped around one of your arms like a macaque at a petting zoo -- but snoring like a barnyard animal. You often compare her to a pig, but does she need to sound like one, too?


You're parched and your heart is thudding; you need some water. You try to pry your arm loose from her grip, but in her dreams she clings tenaciously. You break free only after disturbing her sleep, too. Her eyes drift partway open and she confusedly mumbles the first couple syllables of your name. The exhaustion and the liquor slur her speech so that it comes out: "Al-lly...?"


"I'm just gonna get some water. I'll be right back."


"Mmmokay..."


You stand and toss your shirt on and start for the door. On your way out, Rose, already 90% of the way back to sleep, murmurs: "I love you..."


She says this to you now. Usually in moments like this one, with her guard down, when she's not fully conscious. It still sends a weird thrill through your heart to hear it, and you're not sure you'll ever get used to it.


In the kitchen, you pour a glass from Gustav's tap and stand at the sink guzzling it down. Soft pattering draws your attention: Mom steps into view. You watch her from over your shoulder.


"Can't sleep either?" She says.


"No."


She saunters up to you. You turn fully towards her now, setting the glass behind you on the countertop. You smile.


She slaps you.


Reeling, you begin: "what the f--"


But then she grabs you and kisses you: forehead, cheeks, lips, a barrage of maternal affection that takes you a some moments to fend off.


"What's wrong with you!" You hiss.


"Cerise told me about it. Alabaster -- you're such an idiot! You're such a useless idiot! Why do you want to keep that thing inside your head?"


You groan. "You're the one who -- just forget it. It could be useful, that's why. We've got so many people who want to hurt us. We need whatever help we can get."


"It's my fault," she says. "You're right. I'm the one who had David Darkbloom put that terrible thing in you."


"Why?" You ask.


"Just money... just for money. I'm... so terrible."


She puts her head in her hands and takes to trembling. You hug her and pull her close to your body. As before, she's so warm. "You can't change the past. And you didn't know what you were really signing up for anyway... it's fine."


"Are you sure?"


"Everything that ever happened in my life led me to where I am today. Right? If even one thing changed, I wouldn't be here right now, in a beautiful house in Palau, hugging you."


She frowns with one side of her mouth. "I'm not sure I buy that butterfly effect theory, honestly--"


"Well, neither of us are scientists. So I wouldn't risk it. I wouldn't change a single thing -- just for this. I love you, Mom. I never said that enough before."


She sniffles and nuzzles your chest.


When she's composed again, she asks: "Was I... too much... back there, in the car?"


You clear your throat.


"Oh God. I was. I'm such a terrible mother."


"I guess I'm a terrible son, too," you try awkwardly.


"You..."


You put one hand on your hip. "It was -- it was good. Really good. I don't have regrets."


You stand there like that in silence, both of you sort of staring down at each other's feet.


Mom is the one to finally break it. Her voice is soft and shaky. "Would you... want to... do something like that, again, sometime?" She asks.


"Something like having to waddle half a mile up the beach with a mess in my boxers? No."


Even in the moonlight, you can see the neon red of her grimacing, mortified face.


[ ] Let's try something better than dry humping.

>[x] You said you were curious about me and Cerise, right?


>[x] You said you were curious about me and Cerise, right?


You sneak into the guestroom where Cerise is sleeping with Gal, and drag her from bed.


"Huhhh?" Cerise says as you tug her to her feet, still a little tipsy, and slow on the uptake. She's halfway to the door before she notices that you're stark naked.


"Alabaster--" she whispers. She glances back towards her wife.


"Just us," you say. "C'mon."


Cerise can't help giggling a bit, and is happy to follow you. Does this count as her cheating on her wife? Whatever.


As you lead her down the hall, your cock hardens all on its own with thoughts of what you're about to do. Even for you -- even for you, this is depraved. Cerise can't help noticing it. She mischievously reaches down and plays with you as you walk. She slowly jerks you off as you take her to Gustav's living room.


When you get there, you sink down onto his lounger, and spread your knees. Cerise understands implicitly what you want, and is only too happy to be of service. She sinks to her knees before you, scooches up close, and smiles at you from between your legs.


"Fuck. I love sucking your cock, Ala--"


Mom, also on her knees, leans forward, from out of the shadows. Cerise notices her -- jumps back, eyes bulging, and shrieks: "AHH! AHHHH! AHHH!"


Mom quickly claps her hand across Cerise's mouth. "Shhhhh! Don't wake everyone!"


Mom keeps her hand over Cerise's mouth until Cerise's terrified expression subsides, then she lets go of her and sits back.


"Wh-what are you--" Cerise stammers. "M-Mom? ... T-this isn't what it--"


"Oh, it's exactly what it looks like, all right," Mom says. "You were about to suck your brother's cock."


Cerise, thunderstruck, swivels and looks back to you for a bit of help in explaining her way out of this compromising situation.


You shrug. "It's true. I got you out of bed because I wanted my cock sucked."


"It's all right, baby," Mom says. Cerise's head snaps back in her direction now. She rubs Cerise's shoulder. "I know you two are involved. I..." Mom takes a deep breath, and then commits: "I fully approve."


"You -- approve?" Cerise repeats, still having difficulty processing all of this. The shock of being caught must be keeping her from wondering why Mom would have been here to begin with, on her knees, waiting for you.


"I more than approve," she says.


She reaches over and wraps her fingers around your cock shaft.


Just this, on its own, sends electric thrills surging through your body. Your mother's soft hand, tenderized by years of housewifery and baking, is playing with your dick.


Her voice now is husky, and lustful. "Show me. Show me how you suck him. I want to see."


Cerise gawps at her.


You insisted to Mom, just a few minutes earlier, that Cerise would take very little convincing -- that she would jump fully on board after the initial shock dissipated. That Cerise, like you, and like her apparently: is 100% a hopeless, sex-crazed degenerate, and would happily make you cum for her debauched entertainment.


Now is the moment of truth. This is the most perverted thing you've ever exposed Cerise to, by far. Hell, it's the most perverted thing you've ever done, by far. Will Cerise follow you, even past this taboo?


Cerise's hand creeps up. Slowly. And finally joins your mother's around the throbbing shaft of your penis. Mom grips you down near the root, and Cerise, hand stacked atop, tickles the sensitive part of the underside.


Cerise and Mom wordlessly gaze into each other's eyes, half hypnotized, as they begin in tandem to masturbate you.


"Y-you're sure?" Cerise asks.


"If my baby boy and girl are going to fool around," Mom purrs, "I'd better make sure they know what they're doing, right? That's only logical..."


Cerise pivots and centers herself between your legs once more, while Mom pulls her deliciously soft hand away. It's a bit frustrating to lose that sensation, but you'll be trading it for something better, you know: your sister's tongue snaking itself around your prick.


Mom, in her extremely revealing bikini, watches from close, way up close -- propped on her hands, with her chin almost on your knee. Her leering face is a mask of unconcealed lust.


Cerise tries to stay focused on you, as she leans in, and darts her cute wet tongue out to tickle your foreskin. You grip the armrests of the chair and sigh. Along with the fun of the pleasure itself, and the taboo of doing these things with your Mom and Cerise -- is also this: the thrilling risk of getting caught. Here you are, naked in your host's living room, getting sucked off by your older sister. Anyone could walk in on this disgusting scene at any time.


"Is that how you do it?" Mom asks.


Your cock twitches at random in Cerise's warm hand as they speak.


"I..." Cerise stutters. "I mean."


"You can't just lick it like you're afraid of it, Cerise. A cock like this -- it needs to be sucked... it needs to be sucked, all the way down to the back of your throat if you want him to feel good. Even if it gags you."


Cerise's brain is on the fritz right now. She can still hardly deal with the surreality of the moment, now compounded by the deliberately obscene way your mother is describing it.


So you answer on her behalf. "She does that too," you tell Mom. "Maybe she's just a bit shy right now."


"You deepthroat him?" Mom asks.


Cerise nods.


"Don't be shy," Mom croons. "Show me what you really do with Alabaster."


Cerise's moist lips part and wrap around the bulging tip of your prick. You breathe hard through your nose and feel a little dollop of precum ooze from the piss slit. Cerise swallows it unquestioningly. Then, flattening her tongue to rub it against your shaft in that practiced way you love so much, she begins to sink lower and lower. One, three, five inches -- your enormous Coke can of a dick is disappearing down your older sister's throat like she's a sword swallower. Mom presses a hand to her own cheek and watches approvingly, a sly smile on her lips, and a warm blush spreading across her cheeks.


"You're very good at this, Cerise..." She looks your way. "How long have you two been doing this?"


"Pretty long," you grunt.


"Good... very good..."


Mom can't help herself; she begins to masturbate. Slowly at first, and as if she doesn't want you to know what she's up to. She lightly brushes her hand against the crotch of her bikini bottom, pressing down on it, then moving away, before returning again. A little abashed, it seems, despite her enthusiasm for seeing you with Cerise. But as Cerise, getting into it herself now, bobs ever more quickly up and down on your dick; as your dick begins to shine in the moonlight from her saliva, and to pulse and throb and turn red; as the noise of Cerise's skilled fellatio becomes dangerously loud and sloppy-sounding in the quiet house; as the pheromone laden scent of your cock and balls fills Mom's nostrils from up close; Mom starts to abandon the last of her shame. Her fingers run down across her belly button, past the elastic of her bottom, and down towards the naked cunt beneath. She starts to finger herself inside her underwear.


"Are you playing with yourself?" You ask boldly.


"Ghh-- I--" She stutters, busy fingers suddenly pausing in place. Cerise pauses too, cock still buried in her mouth, looking askance at her. "Yes, I'm playing with myself," Mom finally admits. "How could I not, when I see you fucking Cerise's mouth like that... you perverted boy..."


You grab a tuft of Cerise's hair and gently begin to hump. Cerise, eyes going half-lidded, exhales sharply and starts to bob on you again. And Mom, transfixed, keeps finger-fucking herself.


"I wanna see your pussy," you say. "Take your bottom off."


"Alabaster--"


"Come on. It's only fair."


She sighs like you're asking too much of her, but she follows the command. She leans way back, hooks her fingers in the bikini bottom, and kicks it off. She doesn't bother to fully remove it, though, and leaves it wrapped around one ankle. Still leaned back, she parts her legs, and shows herself off to you. The well groomed bush above her cunt is so nice-looking, and such a pretty contrast to the dark, wet lips below. It's a wonderful sight to accompany the hot confines of your sister's esophagus clamping down on you.


Still resting on one hand, Mom asks: "when you fuck her face... do you cum in her throat?"


Cerise shudders.


"Sure," you say.


Mom is jilling herself off again. She rocks her hips back and forth as if fucking an invisible dildo. "But you don't just use her mouth?"


"I fuck her in the ass, too. Yeah."


She gulps, licks her palm, and starts to masturbate even harder. "Do you... do you... do you fuck her pussy also?"


"Yes."


Mom's hand becomes a blur against her cunt. She's playing with herself so rapidly that it almost sounds like she's slapping herself. Cerise begins to tickle your balls with one hand, and stroke your thigh with the other.


"R-raw?" Mom asks.


"Always raw."


"Oh god... you... you fuck her raw? Do you -- do you--"


"Yes. I cum inside her."


Mom throws her head back and cums herself silly.


"I came inside her earlier today, actually."


"FUCK!" Mom screams, not caring who overhears.


"She's probably still got my cum inside her womb right now."


"OH FUCK! OH FUCK, BABY!" She falls to her back, and tweaks her nipples while she diddles orgasm after orgasm from her motherly cunt.


Before you know what's happening, Mom has her hands on Cerise, and is tugging her back. Cerise, only clad in tee and panties, face covered with her own drool, is defenseless. "Mom?" She says.


Mom's got her hands on the waistband of Cerise's panties, and tugs them down. She pushes Cerise to her back and gazes with crazed eyes at Cerise's pussy.


"Oh my god..." Mom moans. "It's really true... there's cum in here... you blew your load unprotected in Cerise's pussy... inside your own sister, Alabaster..."


"Mom..." Cerise gasps, a fingers to her lips. "You're-- ohhhh--"


Whatever she was about to say dissolves into an almost painful sigh, as Mom, totally out of her fucking mind, buries her face in Cerise's cunt, and starts to suck your cum out.


While Cerise deals with whatever conflicting emotions that stirs, you've got another problem. Mom's fat ass is wagging in the air, bare, right in front of you. And your cock, so recently enjoying itself in a warm, tight hole, is now unattended, and unfulfilled. You didn't get to cum; you've got blue balls. And that hole of Mom's, dripping lewdly and shamelessly down her meaty thighs, being waved right in front of you... it's impossible to resist.


You sink off the lounger, to your knees, and grab Mom's hips in either hand.


Her head snaps up, your semen dribbling from off her chin. She looks back at you. "Are you gonna fuck me? Are you gonna fuck your Mommy?"


"Yes," you grunt.


"Cum in me raw like you cum inside your sister." She looks back down at Cerise's smooth little pussy. "It tastes so good..."


"It really does," Cerise agrees, dreamy. She runs a hand through Mom's hair, and directs her face back down. She likes the feeling of Mom's tongue in her, clearly, and wants more of it.


You rub your cock against the soft, inviting folds of Mom's cunt. Even this is almost enough to make you blow your load. Unable to wait any longer, you rear back, and slam yourself nuts deep into the soft interior of your mother's pussy. You bite your lip and stifle a long, agonized groan.


The jiggling twin globes of her ass are too much of a temptation, though. Even though you don't want to make too much noise; as you begin to fuck in and out, you spank her. Mom screams, muffled by Cerise's pussy. Cerise is holding tight onto Mom's hair and basically fucking her face, getting off really hard herself.


You told Mom so, and you were right; Cerise is a pervert. Now here you are teaming up on her, fucking her from both ends. Mom loves it. You and Cerise grin at each other.


With an animalistic roar, you lose your jizz inside her. You pump her full of incestuous sperm, straight into the place that birthed you. Mom, gasping and heaving and sweaty, takes it all, even as her mouth wrings yet more climaxes out of Cerise.


When finally you pull out of Mom's cunt, you're still hard, and throbbing, and weirdly unsatisfied. All this utter depravity, insane as it is, has lit a fire in you. Cerise is the same way, it seems, because seeing your glistening prick, she says: "me too?"


You pull her away from Mom's mouth, towards the interior of the living room, and line yourself up with her cunt slit. Mom rolls to her back, struggling for breath, palm to her forehead.


As you did with Mom, you fuck your sister, too. You lie atop her in a true missionary, and start to hump. You kiss her sweetly and ask: "you really like this, huh?"


"Yes... it's so good..."


"You like her mouth?"


"I LOVE her mouth..."


"You like seeing me spunk her?"


"Oh god, yes..."


"You--"


But you pause, as now comes a new sensation. Mom's mouth is sucking on you from behind. She's lapping at the union of yours and Cerise's bodies.


"Oh my fucking God," Cerise moans.


"I could... get used to this..." you pant, as you fuck her, and relish the sensation of Mom's tongue hungrily lapping your combined fluids. At points she spreads your ass cheeks, and rims you out -- without even asking for permission first -- your mother's tongue deep inside your asshole. She rims Cerise, too, which draws cute yelps and mewls from her. But mostly she focuses on the space between, the point where your genitals are mating.


And when you cum inside Cerise, there's just as much as when you came inside Mom; and Mom, delighted, like she's eating her favorite dessert, sucks that out, too.


"That's it, baby, that's it," Mom grunts, voice harsh, hand massaging your balls, tongue lapping at Cerise's cunt. "Knock her up. Make her pregnant. Do it... do it..." She drinks down the sperm that splashes out and makes sure your balls get empty, completely, inside her. When you dismount, Mom's head is right there: first to lick you clean, then to get seconds from out of Cerise's spunky cunthole. Cerise is not to be outdone, though, and wiggles herself around a full 180 degrees. She pulls Mom into a 69, hands parting Mom's thighs with a mission Appreciatively, for the next half hour or so, you watch the wonderful view of your sister and your mother lying together on the floor, heads in each other's crotches, eating your sperm from each other's pussies.


GIRLS FUCKED: 15/12

RANK: /SS/

Can you mount the final peak?


---


"Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!" Gustav calls from where he stands by the driver's side of his truck. "Do keep in touch, assuming I have not been horrendously murdered!"


"Of course," Kay says. She repeats with him the gesture from your arrival: a big hug and twin pecks on the cheeks.


"Just do not bring your mongrel with you, if you come back!"


Lady, as if he can tell that Gustav's talking shit, growls.


"You needed new carpet anyway," Kay says. "Very 90s aesthetic in your living room. I hope you use that cash to spruce it up."


He laughs, but you can tell he's just being nice. Despite Kay compensating him for the damage, he's still pissed... no pun intended.


"Frau Soliloquy," he says warmly, hugging her next. "Or Catachresis, or however you like to be styled now. When at last the dust settles, I hope you and your family are safe."


"Thank you."


"Alabaster!" He shakes your hand. "Keep your head above the water. You have quite the little harem, eh? -- make sure to keep them well!"


You feel yourself flush a little. You nod at him but aren't sure how to respond.


The flight home is boring. Blessedly so. You could use a boring day or two in your life.


You and Cerise sit with Whitney in her office.


"We're finally out of Palau," you say. "Felt like we were there forever..."


"How was it? Did you do a lot of fuckin'?"


"Yes," Cerise says.


"Your wives or each other?"


"It was all kind of a big love pile," you say.


"Heeh. So hot. You guys owe me, big league. Love pile at my place tonight."


"There's a love pile at your place every night," you say.


"Then it's settled," Whitney says. She turns to Cerise. "Hey. Is Galgal coming to work today or what?"


"Tomorrow. She's still recuperating. Love piles can be a bit... oppressive."


"Too true," Whitney says with a chuckle, "too true."


She's much less happy when you tell her about your encounter with Qiangxiang.


"This Chloe bitch is really getting on my last nerve. She can't just fly to Palau and bully you."


"I wouldn't say I was bullied. It was more like -- well. On the bright side, she did pledge her bannermen to us."


Whitney scrunches up her face. "Huh?"


"What Alabaster is trying to tell you, in the most obnoxious possible way, is that Chloe said she would help us against Mara."


"Great." But Whitney can't move on. "What do banners have to do with it?"


"Forget it," you say. "There wasn't much to do on the flight back but watch a bunch of TV shows on Rose's tablet... the point is... the enemy of my enemy, right?"


"They're both enemies, fuckwit. And while you were out playing Art of the Deal with the stinkin' communists--"


"Oh, that's rich, coming from you--"


"--I was busy tracking Mara down. Or bio-dad was. He's got a meeting with her point-man on Wednesday." She makes a walking motion with two of her fingers: "We can follow him... all the way back to Vail. Let him lead us straight to Mara." She suddenly pounds her fist hard against the desktop, making the entire desk shudder, startling you and Cerise. "Bam. Like that. Operation Jigglypuff is a go."


"...Jigglypuff?" Cerise asks.


"It's a code name."


"Well, yeah, but why?" She presses.


"'Cause Mom is jiggly, and Alex is cute as a creampuff."


"I'm glad you're so optimistic," you say. "But we can at least hold Qia-- Qiang-- Chloe's forces in reserve, if nothing else. Never hurts to have a Plan B. Or even two."


"That's dumb," Whitney says. "Why would you need two? Anyway, it's Plan A or nothing. Plan B is for chumps."


---


You still eat in the main cafeteria at work rather than the executive dining hall. Not because you want to remain humble and in-touch with the lower-level employees at Darkbloom Analytics. But rather because Mom's patisserie is served in the main cafeteria. And you're not the only one in love with her offerings. Her cooking is now recognized across Silicon Valley as one of Darkbloom Analytics' chief employee perks. Mom's turnovers alone have reduced turnover by almost 95%.


You sit at a table, busily popping creampuffs into your mouth. Hey, what can you say? Whitney made you hungry to demolish some creampuffs.


As you eat, a TV mounted on a nearby wall catches your eye. The thing that draws your attention isn't the giant red "BREAKING NEWS" chyron, because every meaningless "news" item is BREAKING NEWS on cable TV these days. Rather, it's the portrait of the man on the right side of the screen, beside an aerial view of a smashed car on the freeway.


You recognize him: Devin Isstein, your very own congressional representative, and beneficiary of Darkbloom Analytics' largesse.


The volume is muted, but the closed captioning is going.


>...REPORTEDLY DEAD ON THE SCENE. NO CONFIRMATION AT THIS TIME REGARDING THE CONDITION OF KAREN ISSTEIN, THE CONGRESSMAN'S...

>...WIFE, WHO WAS RUSHED TO STANFORD UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER WITH MASSIVE...

>...INJURIES. AUTHORITIES ARE LOOKING FOR THE VEHICLE THAT STRUCK THE CONGRESSMAN'S...

>...CAR, WHICH FLED THE SCENE AND IS DESCRIBED AS A BLACK SUV, POSSIBLY A CHEVY OR FORD...


You glance away to find Cerise standing at your table.


"Did you hear about this?" You breathe.


She sits across from you. "Isstein?"


"Yeah."


"Just now. Up in Whitney's office. And she started going on about the weirdest fucking thing--"


"Weirder than usual?"


"She's saying that when they replace him in congress... I should run for his seat."


END OF EPISODE 3.

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