Wesley's Bizarre Adventure Episode 7: Unthinkable Natural Law

You are Wesley Keki, orgasm girl and prophecy girl.

Absalom Abrams waits patiently in the sunlit boardroom at Darkbloom Enterprises. Sable Best is seated at the conference table, the only other person there, raptly reading through the sheaf of documents Absalom has brought along. That's just the free sample, of course. It'll leave her fiending for the harder stuff soon.

As the door behind him clicks open and he senses more people filing quietly in, Absalom keeps his gaze fixed on the oil painting at the head of the room, the massive canvas portrait depicting the scowling frown of David Darkbloom -- as well as, on either side of David, his precious daughters. Vivian with a scowl to surpass even her father's, and Whitney with a toothy grin not at all befitting the gothic stateliness of the tableau.

"We're here, Absalom. Now what do you want?"

Absalom turns to find that David has convened his entire board, and most of his important advisers. Nelson Berenstoin, Steven Armstrong, Vivian Darkbloom, Alabaster and Rose and Whitney Soliloquy, Renee Carte. And of course, Sable Best, the first one to a meeting for the first-ever time in history. Anna Soliloquy brings up the rear, mousy and rattled-looking, even moreso than normal. They all look rattled, actually, to one degree or another -- this meeting is about 72 hours on the heels of Cerise Soliloquy's brush with death. In fact:

"You've got red on you," Absalom tells Steven, pointing at Steven's tie.

Steven grabs the tie's tail and turns it up to examine it. "I do," he says, as he tucks it back into his suit jacket. "I'm wearing it to remember that my girl Cerise is one helluva fighter. This is a badge of pride."

Nelson grimaces. "You don't need to wear something so unhygienic to be proud--"

"Shut the fuck up, bitch boy," Steven growls.

"Absalom," David says again, obviously impatient.

"It's been too long since I've been in here. I'm happy to see you're all doing so well. Can we sit? There's a lot to go over." He motions at the table.

The group finds their way to some seats, but Alabaster stays standing behind David's chair at the head of the table. He keeps his hands folded behind his back like a faithful butler. Absalom also stays standing, on the table's opposite side.

"What are you reading?" Rose asks Sable. There's a catch to her voice, of fear in search of something to be fearful of. But Sable's curious eyes just keep scanning.

"You have the floor," David says. "We're all as busy as you, so enough niceties."

"Right. I want to sell you my company."

Dead silence.

Finally, Steven speaks. Not to Absalom, but to Anna: "I'm sorry we dragged you away from Cerise for this bullshit. Why don't you go be with her."

Anna shakes her head. "no... i want to be here" Steven pats her on the shoulder in a reassuring way.

"Do not tell me you've convened a quote-unquote urgent meeting just to mock us for having a smaller market capitalization than yours," Vivian says. "And so soon after we've all suffered a personal tragedy--"

Absalom reaches for a pitcher on the table, raising his eyebrows as if to ask, "may I?" When he receives no resistance, he pours himself a glass and takes a sip. "Our offer is very reasonable. I think it's within your means."

"Where's your board?" Renee demands. "You can't expect us to take a negotiation like this seriously without your other stakeholders here. For all we know, this meeting is unauthorized -- maybe even illegal."

"I dissolved my board this afternoon," Absalom says.

"Bullshit," Renee spits.

"It's true. Whether you buy the business our not, Absalom Industries will cease to exist as an entity in the very near future. Fire sale -- today only. Tomorrow I turn to Broad Dynamics."

"Why," is all David says.

"Because I'm a trillionaire, and I want to enjoy the rest of my life in retirement instead of working until my dying day. Unlike some people." Absalom leans against the table. "The financial assets of AI that remain after buying out my employees, will be liquidated and funneled into my philanthropic ventures, which will keep me busy enough for decades. What I'm selling to you is strictly the fruits of our company's research -- those fruits should be in the hands of inheritors who can take things to the next level. I strongly feel that I and my organization have gone as far with it as we can. I bow to you, David. Your team will be much better equipped for future research on these matters."

"What matters?" Alabaster says.

"I should speak with Alex about this," Sable tells Absalom, glancing up from her reading, cutting in as if there hasn't been an ongoing conversation around her. "Do you have some more experimental data on this universal object classification system?"

"I thought you'd like SCRUM," Absalom says with a knowing smile. Nelson arches an eyebrow. Absalom chuckles. "Not the agile framework for managing workflow across multi-functional teams in software and hardware development. But SCRUM: Superpermutated Categorical Relations in Universal Metadata."

"This is brilliant," Sable says. She begins to read to herself again, eyes darting back and forth. "Scrum," she mutters, voice airy. "It's... all... a big..."

Alabaster sways like he's come down with vertigo, and grips the backrest of David's chair to steady himself. David turns in place and glances back at him, leather squeaking beneath him, concerned and bewildered at the same time.

"What we need is a biomechanical prosthesis," Absalom says, "and a platform powerful enough to harness this system for use by human beings. You can take the work from here."

"We don't want to," Alabaster says, swallowing hard. "We have work of our own to do. Important work. Plenty of it. Go peddle your snake oil somewhere else..." His words are confident but his tone is not as, clammy and palefaced, he circles the table and snatches the papers away from Sable.

"Hey!" She says.

"Get out of here before I throw you out of here," Alabaster tells Absalom.

"I'd like to remind you that my next stop after leaving here is Beijing," Absalom says. Rose rubs her face and shakes her head, dismayed beyond words. Alabaster's lower lip trembles.

"Oh, please," Whitney says. She rolls her eyes and laughs. "We know what you want, Abby. You want to make some kind of freaky-deaky, voodoo... eye... thing... right?" This draws strange looks from certain people -- Steven, Nelson, Vivian, and David himself.

"may i see that Sir" Anna asks, motioning for the papers in Alabaster's hand. He gives them over. Sable pouts. Anna begins to read, and soon, voice deepening, she says: "Oh god."

"You think you know the first thing about my research?" Absalom asks Whitney, not affronted, but curious.

"I can pretty much figure it out. You wanna make an all-seeing eye thingy. Assumably."

"...Assumably?"

"Yeah, assumably."

"I smell subterfuge," Vivian says. "Whatever magic technology he thinks he can sell to the more persuadable among us, surely comes attached to some sort of legal or financial entanglement of which we certainly do not want any part."

"I'm sure you will want to have your lawyers comb through every single nook and cranny of the acquisition agreement," Absalom says, "and that's your right. I invite you to it. But I can assure you that I come in peace and bonhomie. I'm retiring. I won't be in business any longer. I don't want my achievements to die with my company, so I am selling them to you."

"Right," David says, steepling his hands and glaring severely from over them. "We should feel just oh so blessed at the show of goodwill. And for the privilege of picking up your intractable technical problems, as well as whatever other albatrosses that attend, what is your starting bid? How much do you want us to pay for your quagmire? A trillion? Two trillion?"

Absalom takes another sip. "How about one dollar?"

Stunned silence meets him.

"I'll take payment in quarters if that makes it easier for you. I do need to refill the parking meter outside."

---

The moms got sick of having a half-demolished kitchen. Now a girl in a bunny costume, workboots, hardhat and safety goggles is busy installing counters. She works all on her lonesome. For a tart, she seems to be doing a pretty good job.

"Are they paying you..." You mumble, watching from the threshold of the kitchen.

"Yes!" Samantha says. She pulls a yellow tape off her toolbelt and measures a piece of plywood. She marks off dimensions with a carpenter's pencil. She chews her tongue. It's adorable. Although you do wonder what the form of her payment will be. You've got a pretty good idea.

K-Mom comes down the stairs, still affixing her earrings. N-Mom follows. "Blue or black?" N-Mom is asking, holding up two different blouses.

"This isn't a date, Noelle. Just put on something comfortable."

"Oh! I'm so sorry I want to make a good impression on the mother of my daughter's girlfriend. Excuse me for caring!" She walks up to you. "Blue or black?"

"Blue is fine..."

"I think the blue brings out your eyes!" Samantha says, before all possibility of conversation gets drowned out by the whir of her bandsaw and the patter of sawdust flying in a billion vectors. Guy yelps in fright and zips upstairs, a blur of grey. You also vacate the general vicinity of the kitchen, to spare your eyesight and hearing.

"Is that really what you're wearing?" K-Mom asks, nodding at your wrinkled jeans and hoodie.

"It's not a date," you remind her.

"It is for you," K-Mom says. "Do you think Summer is going to appreciate having you come over to her house like you just rolled out of bed?"

"Well I did just roll out of bed. But no. She'll probably call me a lazy piece of shit and then pout at me about it."

"Exactly. Is that what you want?"

You shrug. "Yeah, kinda."

K-Mom rolls her eyes. Then, turning, she sees N-Mom changing into her blouse right out in the living room. "Jesus, Noelle. Put your boobs away."

"I'm working on it!" N-Mom says. "Maybe if you had come home sooner, I wouldn't be rushing to get ready in time."

"What does my schedule have to do with -- put a bra on! This isn't your night to get lucky!"

"It's too hot! You know I get a rash if my tits sweat too much!"

Ugh. It's gonna be one of those nights.

You make note of the fact that although K-Mom insists this isn't a date for either of them, she herself is wearing the same perfume she wears on date nights with N-Mom. It's a thick, woody scent with notes of cinnamon and sage. Like a fancy lumberjack might wear. It has nostalgic connotations. The moms have always been at their nicest after coming home from dates.

Both your mothers look gorgeous, in fact. They both dressed up. N-Mom is also wearing her favorite perfume, and her hair is done in a cute pontytail. K-Mom wears a couture designer coat and, rare sight, a skirt and black stockings. If she isn't looking to get lucky at the Denali household, maybe she's thinking she'll get lucky later on. With N-Mom, or... you suppress a not-unpleasant shiver.

Liz Denali lives in a ranch style house on the outskirts of Palo. The gates are made of artificially weathered wood and the enormous front lawn has got nothing on the acres of grazeland comprising the back. You spy a few horses on the far distance as you walk with your mothers to the door.

"Remember why we're here," K-Mom tells N-Mom. "If I see you flirting with Summer in front of her mother, I will slap the shit out of you."

N-Mom gives her a pinched, patently false smile as if to say "of course, dear."

K-Mom rings the bell. It takes fully half a minute before Liz answers. She swings the door open, throwing her arms wide. "Guys! Wow! Come on in! Make yourselves at home."

Summer's house is bigger than yours. But god is it tacky. It has all sorts of faux southwest decor: a bronze statue of a cowboy on a rearing mustang, a bullhead trophy, a mounted pair of Colt pistols forming a sort of X shape above an archway, a lamp made of beads, a dreamcatcher, a watercolor painting of an Indian chief staring out at a gloomy starlit vista. There's a terrarium where an iguana lies lazing under a heat lamp. A sign over the den says "Varmints Shot on Sight!" and another in the spacious living room says "Bless This Mess" in lettering made to look like loops of rope.

Liz hugs your mothers each in turn, and pecks them on the cheek. "Thanks for taking the time to come over," she says. "I'm making a Mexican meatloaf!"

The moms share a silent, horrified look.

"You'll love it," Liz says, swatting at the air.

"O-of course," N-Mom says.

"Why don't you ladies wait in the living room while I put the finishing touches on?" Liz says. "It'll only be a few minutes yet. There's some wine out on the coffee table, too, so help yourselves!"

The living room is set lower than the front entryway, so that to get there you have to descend a little step. It's homey. The moms immediately head in and pour each other copious amounts of wine, swigging it. As Liz returns to the kitchen, you stand at the entrance to the living room and listen to their whispered conversation:

"Mexican meatloaf? What the fuck is a Mexican meatloaf?"

"Something that doesn't exist."

"Something that shouldn't exist."

"We can pretend we're vegetarians."

"That's the kind of thing that spirals into a sitcom-style web of elaborate lies that's doomed to collapse in embarrassing yet hilarious fashion. No thank you."

"So you want to *eat* the Mexican meatloaf?"

"...Let me think..."

You startle, feeling something hard, cold, and a little slimy against your calf. Looking down, you see a large tortoise. You gaze mutely down at it. It gazes mutely back. Then after a palpable turn, it makes a sound at you approximating "ehhhhhh."

The moms snap their heads around at that. They're as surprised as you are at what they see. "Is that a..." K-Mom says.

"Shemp!"

Summer comes racing in from the kitchen. "That's my girlfriend! Stop bothering her, you big jerk!"

"Ehhhhhh."

Summer tries in vain to tug the thing backwards by pulling on the part of its shell that its head comes out of. Shemp refuses to budge.

Summer has told you before that she has a desert tortoise. But you somehow didn't expect it to be so... tortoisey. Or so huge. On its own, and not because Summer or anyone else has any say over its actions, Shemp oh so slowly turns and trots off towards the den, making a huffy exhalation you swear is intentionally meant to be pissy.

"I guess there are worse things to be than a dog person," N-Mom says.

"Summer," K-Mom asks, "how old is that thing?"

"Oh? Shemp you mean? Like nine or ten."

N-Mom is already a-googling. "80 years," she reports.

"Oh god," K-Mom says. "If they get married..."

Summer blinks. "Married?"

You'd like to get her mind off of that train of thought. Summer's great, but you're not ready to have her thinking about walking down the aisle...

[ ] Hang out with Summer and the moms.

[ ] Ask where Winter is.

>[x] Ask if you can help Liz with dinner.

"Is there anything I can do to help with dinner?" You ask.

Summer eyes you suspiciously.

"What?" You say.

"Why are you so helpful all of a sudden? Huh?" She pokes you in the tit. It hurts. "You come over here looking like you just rolled out of bed and now you want to be all... all... Guy Fieri with my mom? What's up with that?"

You throw your hands up. "I can be helpful if I want!"

"But you can't even dress nice for your girlfriend? Lazy piece of shit!"

"Told you," K-Mom tsks.

This is so unfair. Summer didn't exactly doll herself up either. She's wearing her normal attire of loose blouse, skimpy plaid skirt, and baggy socks. Not much different than your uniform at PAP, only if PAP were a whorehouse. Her fingernails seem freshly painted, at least, and her makeup is clownishly slathered on, but you could do without the baby blue mascara and flamingo pink lipstick anyway. She leans in, whispers: "I was thinking we could have a quickie in my room before dinner."

"Uh. Dinner's supposed to be in like five minutes..."

"Yeah. So. That's why they call it a quickie, Wes."

"Did you say something?" N-Mom asks from the living room, looking from you to Summer and back again.

"Nothing, Noelley-belly!" Summer laughs, smiling bright, waving with her patented finger-waggle. N-Mom smiles warmly back. When N-Mom looks away again, Summer's smile crumples and she's back to sneering at you: "You are impossible. A cute girl throws the puss at you and you're just all: hurr, but *dinner*."

"But dinner..."

Summer exasperatedly motions at the kitchen. "Knock yourself out. Go cook some loaf. I'll be hanging out with the cuter Keki."

"Oh, fuck you."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you!"

You stomp off for the kitchen.

The Denali family kitchen is larger than most people's homes. It has a Viking Range oven, multiple island counters of finely polished granite, and more cabinet space than all the sticks in all the forests of California can be shaken at. Liz is at the range-top stirring a pot. It smells strongly of cheese and onion -- in a nice way. Walking over and peering in, you see a bubbling brew of potato soup.

"Wesley," Liz says when she sees you walking up. "...Can I call you Wes?"

"Sure."

"Dinner's coming up soon. The meatloaf is almost done." She pulls the wooden stirring spoon from the pot and offers it to you. "Here. Try."

With her palm under the spoon to keep it from dripping on the floor, she steers it towards you mouth. You take a curious taste: it's good. Very good. She steers the spoon to her own mouth now and tastes it, too, smacking her lips. She's pleased with the result.

Her clothes are little tighter on her than they should be -- maybe she's in denial over the right size to buy. She smells like honey.

"Do you need a hand?" You ask.

"Oh, aren't you just precious," Liz says. "All right. Keep stirring for me while I take the rest of the food out of the oven."

You take the spoon and stand in place of Liz and do as instructed. Liz dons comically oversized pink oven mitts and pulls the other two dishes onto the counter: a tray of bacon-wrapped, broasted broccoli, and the main course, an absurdly delicious looking meatloaf. Look, you're not a meatloaf person. You don't "do" meatloaf. But this thing is like no meatloaf you've ever tried before -- it's not dried all to shit, for one thing, and it smells like tacos, like exactly like tacos, and it's topped with a sort of pico de gallo rather than a slather of ketchup-like tomato sauce.

"Ta-daaaa!" Liz says. She cuts a little piece off one of the ends and, stabbing it with a fork, offers it to you. As before, she keeps her palm held underneath to prevent any crumbs from falling. She's practically holding you under your chin as she feeds you.

"What do you think?" She asks. She's hopeful but a bit anxious sounding.

"Itf gud," you say, chewing.

"I'm so glad you like it! You're such a sweet girl, Wes."

"Uh."

Liz blinks, and only now seems to realize that her hand is still under your chin. She pulls it away, and nods. "If you ever want to come over, don't even ask! My door is always open."

From a bay window on one side of the kitchen, you have a view of the rolling pasture that is the Denali backyard. Winter is out there. She's feeding one of the horses. She lets it eat hay straight from her hand, and when it's all gone, she scruffs it behind its mane and lovingly rubs her forehead against its forehead.

"That's Curly," Liz tells you. "Summer introduced them when Winter came to stay. They've been besties ever since."

You nod.

"I worry about her," Liz tells you.

You glance away from the window. "Well. You should."

Liz wipes her hands on a dish rag that's hanging around the oven's door handle. "Do you get along with her? She talks about you a lot."

You do an actual double-take. "She -- talks? About me?"

"She said you convinced her to get that job at the bookstore. And she's always asking Summer about what you're like."

"That's really..." you murmur. "Surprising?"

"Winter can be difficult sometimes, but try to understand. Her life's been uprooted. She doesn't have any friends here in town. And her father..."

You purse your lips.

"Do you like horses?" Liz asks. "I can take you riding after dinner!"

"Uh. No thank you."

Liz seems honestly crestfallen. "Oh... I guess you aren't much for outdoor activities, huh? Say, how about we go downstairs after dinner and watch a movie in my rumpus room?"

You like the sound of that much better.

As you take your seat at the irregularly shaped dining room table, the one made to look like it's fashioned from the stump of a single redwood, complete with bark all around the edges -- a couple people are missing.

"Where's Noelle?" Liz asks, setting the steaming pot of soup down.

"She had to use the bathroom," K-Mom says. "She'll be right out."

"Oh. Where's Summer?"

"Noelle needed help finding the bathroom."

You give K-Mom a look. She motions at you with her hands to communicate, "whatcha gonna do?"

As Liz turns again for the kitchen, K-Mom stays her by saying: "err -- I hate to be a wet blanket, but Noelle and I are vegetarian. I don't mind if you all enjoy the meatloaf, but we really shouldn't partake."

Liz frowns. "That's too bad. This soup is vegetarian, at least... but... oh geez. I wish you'd have told me before I cooked this meal!"

"It's no trouble," K-Mom insists. "We should have said something sooner."

Liz sighs dejectedly and goes back into the kitchen. Alone with your mother, you whisper: "really? You're going to cover for her like that?"

"What am I supposed to say? Sorry your daughter's unavailable right now, she's fucking my wife? Honestly. Your N-Mom is a complete animal. She can't keep it in her pants for five seconds. It's disgusting."

"Oh, you're pissed off. You're disgusted. Well what about me? I'm getting cuckolded by my own Mom."

K-Mom blows some stray hair from her face. Leaning back, folding her arms, she says: "let's make 'em jealous."

"WINTER!!! DINNER!!!"

That would be Liz calling out of the window in the kitchen. A few moments later, she returns to the dining room with the meatloaf and the bacon-wrapped broccoli. K-Mom looks like someone who just lost their shirt at the blackjack table as she gazes at the two entrees she just told Liz she cannot eat.

"Is Noelle okay? It seems like she's taking a long time," Liz says.

K-Mom snaps out of her fugue. "I'm sure she's fine."

"I could go check on her--"

"No!" K-Mom says. "Don't worry. I think Summer was going to show her around a little bit, too. They'll be back soon."

Heavy footsteps come thudding from somewhere near the back of the house. A few moments later, Winter is trudging in.

"You're tracking dirt," Liz says.

Winter waves on her way past the dining room as if to say "yeah, yeah." She kicks her shoes off in the foyer, not bothering to put them in one of the cubbies there designed to hold them. Barefoot, she returns to the dining room. "Happy?"

Liz puts her hands on her hips. "You're supposed to take your shoes off on the patio if you come in from the back. Before you come walking in."

"Geawd," Winter huffs, plopping down in a chair. She sniffs the air. "What's for dinner? ...Meatloaf? Fuh-rick yes. I call the end pieces."

She takes the fork beside her empty plate and uses it to haphazardly saw both ends of the meatloaf off, leaving a wavy edge on both sides.

"Winter! Let me serve! You'll ruin th--"

"It's meatloaf, Liz. Who cares?" She shovels it onto her plate, and picks up some of the broccoli florets with her bare hands. "Ow! Hot! Ooof!" She hisses as she drops a few of them beside her meat.

Liz shakes her head. The quest to teach Winter some table manners will not have a happy ending, at least tonight.

You decide to make some idle conversation with this girl who is, apparently, interested in you. "I didn't know you were into horses."

Winter is already eating before the rest of you have even been served -- before most of you have even shown up. "I didn't know you were so nosy," she replies. She stabs the food with her fork like she's trying to kill it again, and shovels it into her mouth. "I'm not some prissy horse girl, if that's what you're assuming. I do think they're awesome, though. It's a sin to keep them penned."

Summer and N-Mom finally return. They're flushed and sweaty. N-Mom's blouse is rumpled. Summer's makeup is a little runny.

"I'm so hungry I could eat a horse," N-Mom says as she sits beside her wife.

Winter grimaces.

"Wow," N-Mom breathes. "The food looks really good."

"Yeah, it does," K-Mom says, putting a hand over N-Mom's to stop her from serving herself. "But we're vegetarians. So we can't eat it."

N-Mom stares at her in a post-quickie haze of confusion. Finally, it clicks. "Riiight. Because we're vegetarians." She looks at Liz. "We're vegetarians, so we can't... partake."

"Partaking is strictly forbidden," K-Mom affirms. Must have been part of their rehearsed script.

They spend the next few minutes looking forlornly at the meatloaf and bacon-wrapped broccoli as they poke their meager bowls of potato soup. It's good soup. It's just not as good as the rest of it.

"I didn't know you guys were vegetarians," Summer says. "That's like sooo admirable," she adds, and takes a bite of bacon. N-Mom licks her lips.

"I have some tofu in the fridge," Liz says, pointing over her shoulder with a thumb. "I could make you some sandwiches or a salad with it--"

"We're... allergic... to tofu," N-Mom says. "Thanks anyway."

You can't take it anymore. You pull down the developing web of lies before it becomes a problem for everyone. "They're not vegetarians," you say. "They lied because they didn't think Mexican meatloaf sounded like real food. Now they're ass-blasted because it's actually really good and they don't get to have any of it."

Winter snrks.

"We--" N-Mom says.

"It's not--" K-Mom begins.

Liz puts a hand to her mouth and giggles over their stuttering explanations. "You wouldn't be the first people to shy away when they hear the words 'meat' and 'loaf' together. Help yourselves. We'll forget about the fib."

They dig in and eat, and although they're mortified, they obviously enjoy themselves. The three mothers chitchat about their careers; Liz explains the dreary details of buying from wholesalers and K-Mom explains the equally dreary minutiae of search engine optimization for her website. When asked how long they've been together, your mothers describe how they met while K-Mom was working a scoop about corruption in the FBI, which leads to the tale of how N-Mom turned down a major promotion that would have relocated her to DC so she could stay in California and marry K-Mom. This story becomes more overwrought and over-embellished with every retelling, and it makes K-Mom misty-eyed each and every time. It does so again, even at a moment like now when she's mad at N-Mom for being so incorrigibly promiscuous. Liz coos in heartwarmed delight.

Winter kicks you under the table.

"Ow," you hiss. You kick her back.

"Bitch," she whispers.

"What's your problem?" You ask.

Winter speaks loud enough for everyone to hear. "Can we stop with the Hallmark Family Movie crap? You guys are here to ask about dad. So go ahead. Ask about dad."

"Winter," Liz says, caught somewhere between tender and mad.

"Come on," Winter demands. "Do it."

"All right," K-Mom says. "Why did Gideon go on the run? And why did he come back?"

Liz rubs her forehead. "He was struggling to get our business off the ground. We went bankrupt, actually, right around the time Summer was born. He was really lost... he ended up joining this new religion, and that gave him some direction in life. They loaned him the money to get the store back up and running... and he did some work for them in return. I didn't know anything about what he did on the side... until the work came home with him one night. Turns out he was strong-arming people who owed money to the... I hesitate to call them a church... anyway, he was basically a mob enforcer. And one night someone who he was terrorizing decided to strike back, by attacking him in our home."

Summer and Winter are both staring sullenly at their plates.

"Gideon beat that man senseless and shoved him into the back of the car. I asked what was going to happen next -- all he would say was that he'd take care of it. He called his partner Buridan over, they drove off with him... we never saw him again. When Gideon came back home, I told him to pack his things and leave. That it wasn't safe for him to be living with us. He was gone for about a year. Then one day he showed up saying he'd left the church. I took him back... and a few months after that, I found him packing his things at 4 AM, saying he had to run, that people in the church were after him, that he was going back to his hometown in Alaska."

"He took Winter with him?" You ask. Winter chuffs, and glances away towards the wall.

"We had an unusual relationship," Liz says. "Winter's mother lived with us for a while. I know that seems really weird."

"Not at all," N-Mom says. (If only Liz knew the half of it.)

"Well. She had already moved back to Alaska by that time, with Winter in tow. Gideon was actually going there to be with her. But... she died of a heart condition not too long after that."

Liz tries to consolingly rub Winter's back, but Winter shrugs it off.

"Why is he back in town now?" K-Mom asks.

"You saw how dangerous Buridan is," Winter says. "Take a wild guess. There's still bad blood there."

"I can't forgive him for what he's done," Liz says, "but in his own way -- he thinks he's trying to protect us."

"From the consequences of his own actions," Summer says, standing, and gathering her plate to take it into the kitchen. Her way of ending a conversation, you guess.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Winter mutters.

"Blah blah. Dad sucks. Get over it."

Winter hasn't got the spirit to argue about it. She stands and hurries from the room. Summer goes around taking the other dirty dishes and disappears into the kitchen with them. Soon you hear running water.

"I know you're looking for him," Liz tells your mothers. "If I see him, and Tyrus Kang's men don't catch him first, I'll let them know where he is. Come what may."

"Do you know the name of the man who came to your home that night?" N-Mom asks. "Or any other of Gideon's... victims? If we can tie him to any crimes--"

"I looked the other way, Mrs. Keki. I didn't want to know. And if this goes any further, I could lose my business. It might just be the fruit of a criminal enterprise."

"Is there anything else we should know about the man? Anything you can tell us?"

Liz stares for a while at the ceiling. Finally she says, "he's no monster. I know you're not going to be very forgiving to a man who broke into your teenage daughter's bedroom, but don't hurt him. He's as lost today as he was when those cultists suckered him in. And for better or worse, he's the father of my child -- my children."

"Who's for ice cream?" Summer asks, poking her head back into the dining room.

You raise your hand. You're the only one. There's an awkward silence.

"Meeee," you say in the listless shadow of enthusiasm. "I'm for. Uh. Ice cream."

She ducks back into the kitchen, and the sound of clinking bowls follows.

"Gideon is back in town because he's trying to kill Buridan," Liz says. "That's my guess, anyway. And maybe to expose Instrumentalism as a violent cult. It might get him killed, but he's trying to keep the blowback off of us."

"He hasn't done a great job of it," N-Mom says. Thanks Mom.

Liz nods. Then, trying to put on a smile: "I could use that ice cream now. How about you?"

"WINTER!!! DESSERT!!!"

That would be Summer calling up the stairs, as you and the others pass by on the way to towards the rumpus room to watch a movie. She stands holding onto the banister, slightly leaning, craning her neck. She waits for a few moments before trying again:

"ICE CREAM!!! GOTCHA YOUR FAVORITE FLAVOR!!!"

Summer listens intently for any sort of response, and receives none. She sets the bowl of cake batter ice cream at the foot of the stairs, frowning.

"Is she okay?" You ask.

"No. All she does is mope and pout and be a total bitch."

"Kid's got issues," K-Mom agrees.

"She needs some alone time, that's all," Liz says.

You glance at the bowl Summer left on the floor. "It's gonna melt."

Summer shrugs. She's done as much for Winter tonight as she's willing to. She turns and follows your mothers towards the basement.

"Hey, do you mind if I bring the ice cream up for her?" You ask.

Summer rolls her eyes. But Liz likes the idea: "go ahead, Wes. Her room is the third door on the right."

"Do you want us to start the movie without you?" N-Mom asks. You nod. "Don't let the little shit beat you up or anything," she warns, before heading downstairs. (As if that would ever happen. C'mon, Mom.)

You trot upstairs with a bowl of ice cream in either hand, the cake batter for Winter and the double fudge ripple for yourself. This makes a simple task, like oh say knocking, a bit of a struggle. First you jostle the bowls around, trying to balance one precariously on the crook of an elbow to free up a hand, but this threatens to leave the white hallway carpet badly stained. The last thing you want to do is ruin the beautiful, expensive carpet in a house where you're a guest. So you knock with one of your feet.

"Winter?" You call uncertainly. No response.

You're not sure why you've taken such an interest in her. Learning that she's in some way interested in *you* has made you curious. The realization that her domestic life is about 100 times more fucked than you already figured has softened your feelings, too.

The door handle is the kind that functions as a lever rather than a knob, so that you can -- theoretically -- operate it with an appendage other than a clenched fist. Holding your arms out like a tightrope walker, you stoop and try to pull the handle to the down position by pressing on it with your nose. Turns out your nose is too weak, and only barely budges the handle, so that as you lower yourself past, it springs back up and whangs you in the eyes. "Ow -- fuck!--" you grunt, catching it now with your forehead, and bearing down, to force the handle and push the door ajar with the crown of your head.

Straightening your posture, you find... an empty bedroom.

There's no Winter, and moreover, there's not a whole lot else. This is clearly a guest bedroom, and Winter is still living out of a pair of suitcases that lie open near the far corner. The bed is fitted with plain white bedclothes, the walls are bare, the dresser and nightstand have nothing on top of them. It's as bland and unwelcoming as a motel suite. No wonder she wouldn't come running up here for comfort.

The nightstand drawer is slightly open. Setting the bowls of ice cream down, you peek inside. There's a book in here. Only once you crack it open do you realize it's her diary... and only because you glimpse your own name do you breach her privacy further by actually reading the damn thing. Example:

>September 28

>Summer is talking to Wesley AGAIN. There so gross. I can here them having phone sex from over here. ~(>_<~) GROSS GROSS GROSS I cant beleive Wesley would be into a girl as nasty as Summer. Not like shes any better though. I tried to talk to her today at school and what do I get nothing. She just stares at me like a creep. Like HELLO dont you know how to have a human conversation wacko? But Summer comes over and all suddenly its puppy dog eyes and kisses. Screw them both. Sluts. They dont even ever talk to me so why should I care about there gross nasty relationship? I bet Wesley has diseases anyway. She always stinks and her hair is so greasy YUCK

It goes on like this. You skim only a little of the novella-sized entries she makes. You're not the only thing she writes about, but you take up a lot more mental real estate than you possibly could have suspected.

>September 29

>Summer came back home from homecomeing and she STANK like she was defiantly having sex with Wesley! She was totally dishevelled and sweaty and GROSS and was all laughing when I asked what she did. ~(>_<~) ~(>_<~) ~(>_<~) she even made a remark like Wesley's MOM is cool to??? Wtf is Summer like sme kind of lesbianic milf hunter now? GROSSSSSSSS

Reading Winter's diary is "defiantly" some sort of moral failing on your part. You flip through it a little more, glimpse the words "Ms. Berenstoin" and "PENIS?!" and decide that you should quit. You close the diary and stow it back where you found it. You glance around the dreary little guest room. The ice cream's still melting.

Out in the hall, leaving the ice cream behind, you look this way and that. There's a strange low hum just on the threshold of your range of hearing. It seems to originate in a room kitty-corner from Winter's. You walk up. Put your ear against the door. Clasp a palm to your lips. Is that a...

The door is draped in twin pennants: one for the PAP Shoebills and another for the San Fransisco Giants. This is most "defiantly" Summer's bedroom, and that sound you hear is most "defiantly" a certain type of magic wand Summer bought on your rec. Now there's two options here: Summer, ditz she is, left her toy a-buzzing. Or Winter is doing something a lot more dubious than reading another's diary. Either way, you feel compelled to step in. Literally and metaphorically.

Whoa. Okay. Option B it is, then. Winter is lying on Summer's gaudy pink bedspread, naked below the waist, the vibrator jammed against her darkly tanned pussy. She's using her feet to hold the vibe steady, legs bowed, because both her hands are preoccupied -- pressing a pair of panties to her face. You recognize them. They're yours. Or they used to be, before Summer, pervert she is, asked you for them. Now Winter has them balled up and pressed tightly to her nostrils, huffing their scent, eyes wrenched shut, lost in her own personal masturbatory heaven.

You turn and softly leave the room. You thought you were prepared to see what you just saw, but you weren't -- and you would prefer to forget the whole thing ever happened. You'll even be cool about it and not mention it to Summer. Winter can thank you later... or not, because she didn't notice you...

You start towards the stairs again.

And that's when you feel a pair of hands wrap around your shoulders, yanking you back.

Tottering, arms flailing, you half-hop, half-tumble backwards into the pink wasteland of Summer's bedroom. Stuffies litter the floor, makeup and skin care and hair supplies litter the other available surfaces. It smells like a semi trailer full of vanilla beans jackknifed into a pina colada factory. Winter wheels you through a 180 and punches you in the tummy. You double over and fall to the ground.

"Are you spying on me? You gross little pervert!"

You hack up a wad of spittle and glare at her. "You're -- you're *jacking off* in your sister's bedroom, and you're calling ME the pervert?" (Pot, kettle, black. But Winter doesn't need to know that.)

Winter grits her teeth and lets out a choked "ghh--" of surprise. Looking down, noticing her nakedness for the first time, she covers her pussy with both hands. Too late, of course. You saw all. The little tuft of hair above it, the pristinely smooth labia, the puffy slit between. She's got a nice cunt. She flushes a shade of crimson that shows even through her dark complexion.

Bracing a hand against your knee, you stand again. "Maybe I should tell Summer what you do in here," you say, deciding maybe you shouldn't be so cool about this situation after all.

Winter's eyes get even wider. "It's -- it's not what you think!"

An evil idea strikes you. With a smirk, you say, "isn't it, though? Sitting in here, using her vibrator... sniffing her panties--"

"They're not hers!"

There we go. Her expression turns instantly regretful.

You pretend to be surprised. "They're not Summer's? Huh."

Winter looks away.

"Whose are they, then?"

You walk towards Summer's unmade bed, searching for the panties Winter dropped there. But then Winter's on your back. Literally. She leaps onto you and latches her legs around your midsection, her arms around your chest, like a semipro wrestler in an undercard bout. With balled fists, she beats you about the head and neck. "Get back!" She grunts. "Get out! Stop! Freak!"

Off-kilter, you stumble in an erratic arc around the bedroom with her, grabbing for her while also trying to stay upright. She claws and scratches at you, shouts into your eardrums. Finding some momentum, you ram your back against Summer's trophy case, pinning Winter there and making her body absorb the blow. But other than elicit a shriek of anger and make a whole lifetime's worth of intramural sports awards come raining down like confetti, it has no effect. You stumble forward again with Winter still latched to you, still beating on you. You grope for some part of her you can hurt. You find her wrist -- grab it, put it to your mouth, bite down. You draw blood. She howls. You've gotten her off of you -- she falls backwards -- but her weight drags you down, too. You topple supine to the floor with her. Together then, you and Winter turn and tussle amid Summer's plush teddy bears and discarded laundry. When she's on top, she slaps you in the face and pulls you hair. When you get her turned around and find yourself on top, you lock your elbow and press your palm savagely against her face, forcing her head repeatedly into the carpet. You yell at each other, senseless strings of broken obscenities and half-formed accusations.

Winter gets her knees curled up between you and kicks with force you're not expecting. She nails you right in the family jewels. You fall to the side, wincing and clutching at your cunt, and she regains the advantage, clambering over top of you. You try to rise, but she punches you once, hard, in the sternum, flooring you for good.  

With roiling hate in her eyes, Winter takes a handful of your hair and gets her face directly over yours. She brings her jagged breathing under control. Her voice is flat and level: "whose panties do you think they are."

"...Mine..." you wheeze, voice coming out sounding like a geezer's.

"You stink. You're a gross, stinky, weeaboo loser." Her sneer is filled with malice and her glare could strike you dead.

Your voice is still raspy, but it's coming back to normal: "Then why were you smelling my panties? Seems like you were getting off to gross, stinky, weeaboo loser me--" Winter tugs hard on your hair. You tilt your head back, trying to relieve the pressure. "Ow, ow, ow! -- fuck, shit-- oof--"

"Summer told me you like to get bullied. Is it true? Do you get wet from being bullied, f-f-ffucking loser?"

You grin in defiance, even through the pain of having your hair pulled and the residual sting from your bruised ribs. "Cute. An F bomb. Is that a world first? You're usually so fuh-ricking PG-13."

Winter hocks a wad of spit from the back of her throat, all over your face. You grimace at the hot, slimy sensation of it oozing from your forehead, over your eyelids, and down across your cheek. You reflexively reach up to wipe it off, but Winter grabs your wrist and pins it, at the same time tugging even harder on your hair. You gasp in fresh agony. She meanwhile writhes on top of you, shifting her slender thighs, and you become acutely aware of her wet pussy against your leg. You're also acutely aware of her thundering heartbeat, so fast and so hard that you can feel it just from her lying chest-to-chest with you.

"Why did you come spying on me," she demands.

"I was trying to bring you some ice cream. Crazy bitch." You meet her gaze. Even with her saliva stinging in your eyes, you smile and say, "look, if you wanna smell my pussy that bad, pull down my pants and take a sniff. I'll only charge you $10. Since you're so sweet."

"BS. If you were bringing me ice cream, where is it?"

"I left it in your room."

She rises to her knees on top of you. Considers this. "I'll be right back."

As she stands, you sit up on your butt and peer at her. From this vantage, she seems so much larger and more intimidating than she really is. You again try to wipe the mess from your face, but she swats your hand. "Don't. You're cuter covered in my spit."

You're face-to-cunt with her. You can see her juicy pussy, the trail it leaves on her inner legs, and the dark tuft of hair above. Her twat is absolutely drooling.  

So is yours.

"I want you naked when I get back," she says as she steps into the hallway.

There's no way you're going to let some bratty little runt like Winter boss you around for her own sexual thrills, right? You unbutton your jeans. Yeah, granted, you like to get bullied -- but only by people who are actually imposing, and who you actually admire in some way. People like Summer and Amelia. Not pipsqueak basket cases like Winter. You pull your hoodie off, careful not to let it wipe too much of Winter's still warm, gooey saliva from your face. You're not some turbosub who'll bend over and take it from just anyone. You shimmy free of your jeans. You hate Winter. The absolute last thing you want is to see her smug expression as she makes you submit to her... as she makes you obey her sick, twisted demands...

You pet your sticky pussy through the stained fabric of your panties, feel how well-defined the contours of your cleft are through the wet cotton. Grunting, you pull them down.

"I knew it. You do like getting bullied."

Winter comes back with both bowls of the now mostly-melted ice cream. Her voice conveys wonder as much as anything. She sits on Summer's bed, crossing her legs at the ankles. You stay on your knees on the floor, hands folded in your lap, naked at her feet.

But there's a lingering silence, and you realize that as with her older sister, you will need to take the lead with Winter too. Denalis are hopeless...

"Have you ever done this before, Winter?"

"No! So what?"

You're surprised at the candor. You bob your head side to side, considering that. Maybe she isn't quite as hopeless as Summer was. "Well. I'm on my knees. What are you gonna do now?"

"This one must be yours," she says. She hands you down your ice cream. But she keeps the spoon. She must see your confusion, because she explains: "put it on the ground. Eat like a dog."

You set the bowl down, but you don't bend over and eat, not right away. She'll have to work for it if she wants to take charge. It's more fun that way. Winter twirls her spoon in lazy circles around her own ice cream, watching you with a pleased expression that morphs into impatience and then anger as you silently refuse to comply with her orders.

"Did you hear me?" She says. "Or are you just stupid? Eat it like a doggy! Come on!"

"Or what?" You say.

Winter's face puckers. "Or... what?"

"Yeah. Or what."

Winter sets her bowl aside, stands, and in a fit of pique, grabs you by your hair again -- you're getting really sick of this shit. She brings your face down hard. Right into the bowl. You gasp at the cold, sticky sensation of the ice cream, and the hardness of the porcelain bowl slamming back against your forehead. The bowl tips forward, and the ice cream sloshes, getting all over your hair as well.

"When I give you an order, you listen! Stupid doggy! Eat your food!"

When she lets you go and you come up gasping for air, she laughs cruelly at your distress. You swipe the sugary mess from your eyelids so you can see, as shivering, you heave through the chocolate-flecked spittle dangling from your lips: "Jesus -- fucking -- you psychotic cunt!"

Winter settles on the bed once more. "Don't make me hit you. Eat."

Genuinely a little terrified now, you do as you're told. You get on all fours, like a bitch, grip the edge of the bowl, and start to lap. Winter giggles. She's just so pleased with herself. And you're beyond humiliated. You're defeated -- Winter has real control now, not the roleplayed control you were nicely granting her minutes before. Obedient, you lick up your ice cream as it drips off your sticky face, and you can feel your cunt getting wetter by the second from this abuse.

Your eyes bulge, then, as you see Winter's toes wiggling at the edge of your vision. This can't be real. She's dipping her toes, literally, into your dish. You pause mid-lap, watching as they breach the syrupy surface of the melted cream. Her foot is small and slender enough to fit into the relatively shallow bowl. You look up at her in disbelief; she looks down, grinning, as she licks her own spoon clean.

"Did you just--"

"I didn't tell you to stop eating, doggy."

"Fuck off. You put your FOOT in my i--"

Winter swings a leg up and presses the sole of her other foot against the top of your head. She forces you back down, and with nowhere else to go, your lips are back in this now tainted bowl of ice cream. She wiggles her toes, making tiny ripples in the cream, coating them in chocolate. "Lick me clean." Her dark, smooth calf flexes as she lifts her ankle a bit and lets her foot dangle above the surface, the ice cream running in rivulets off her skin.

She's making it clear that you have no choice in the matter. You're her bitch and you'll do as ordered.

You wrap your hands around her foot, just above the Achilles, and pull it towards your face. You're revolted. But there's no way you'll deny her. You dart your tongue out, test the streak of fudge on the ball of her foot. It's like a chocolate-covered pretzel. Sweet and salty. You want to retch.

"That's it. Gross bitch. Thank me."

"Thank you," you moan, dragging your tongue in a long slow path across her arch, all the way to her heel, and back again. She coos at your total submission, and eats her own dessert. A born sadist. Soon she presses her toes against your lips. You let you jaw hang open so she can slip them inside.

Winter has been outside all day. You can tell. Even coated in sweet-smelling ice cream, you can taste the sour tang of sweat beneath. She's merciless, raking her toes across your tongue, spreading them wide, forcing you to lick between them. You lips curl in disgust. Your eyes roll to the back of your head. You're aware only vaguely that you're making noises like a pig. You keep her held about the ankle and suck her foot clean, as instructed. She makes you suck every square millimeter, and then again, for good measure.

Winter enjoys the slavish attention. More than enjoys it. She takes Summer's vibrator in hand again and sits on it. With her pretty pussy getting buzzed with her own sister's used sex toy, she giggles stupidly and calls you demeaning names. "Gross dyke. Slutty little doggy whore. Lick my feet, bitch... smelly, stupid, ugly bitch... yeah... yeahhhh... ooooohhh~"

She leans back, supporting herself on one hand. With her other, she drizzles her cake batter ice cream on herself -- from her thigh, up around her belly button, and then back towards her quivering pussy. "Lick me, doggy, lick me," she goads, excited and breathless. You're more than happy to stop licking her feet, so you comply instantly, drawing your lips sensually up her calf, across her supple thigh, and finally sucking on her navel. You run your hands along her body. She's small and hot, and her muscles are tight. But her little belly is squishy. You press down on it as you lick it. She laughs in a small, girlish voice. "Down, doggy, down. Lick me here... be a good bitch for mistress..." she drizzles a little extra cream on her pussy, and it starts to froth as the magic wand's ridged head oscillates against her mound.

You bury your face there, at the junction of Winter Denali's pussy and Summer Denali's sex toy. You're awash in a panoply of different smells -- Winter's feminine arousal, the remnants of Summer's also, and the chocolatey scent of ice cream, and the lingering stink of Winter's feet... it's overwhelming. You can't help yourself, and reach down between your legs with both hands to masturbate.

You eat Winter out. Virgin that she is, she can't handle the intensity of this sensation, and starts to buck her hips while moaning like a whore. She might mock you for being smelly, but she's just as bad, and her sweaty pussy almost makes you woozy. It has that same cloying tang her foot did, only also tinged with her cum. She slides her scrawny ass back and forth, riding the vibrator as well as your mouth. Her pubic hair is just a small patch directly above her clitoral hood, but it's coarse and it tickles your nose. You suck her clit, lick her pussy folds, and enjoy the knowledge that although she may be on top, you're the one in control of her orgasm.

Not for long. She drags you onto the bed without warning, tossing the vibrator to the floor and letting the remainder of her ice cream spill across the sheets.

"Winter--!!"

Pussy clenching, Winter rests her butt against one of your legs and starts to grope you. There's a crazed glint in her eyes, and a crazier smile on her lips. She kisses your sugar-sticky face, moans in your ear: "I'm gonna lick your pussy. Don't fight me. If you try to get away, I'll hurt you."

She spins around and latches her mouth on your pussy. Winter has never eaten a girl out before, that's for fucking sure -- and she does it in a way that's plainly for her own enjoyment rather than yours. Wrapping her mouth around your entire mound like she's biting into a peach, she buries her face in your crotch and inhales like she hasn't taken a breath in five minutes. She whines into your cuntmeat, voice high and shrill, practically cumming just from licking you out, and then her eager tongue is swabbing all around your intimate spots, exploring your folds and crevices. She even takes some curious but lingering licks at your tender asshole. She spares you no dignity, and there isn't any intimacy in her demented suckling.

You decide not to warn her, then, when you cum. If she wants to act like a pig, you'll treat her like a pig. You just squirt all over this bratty, perverted little bitch. It makes her pant. Her flat chest heaves. She basks in your squirting cum like she's standing under the refreshing stream of a hot shower. What she lacks in finesse she makes up for with enthusiasm, and she swallows down your juices with greedy, gulping, slurping sucks. You nut in Winter's face until you're totally empty.

"Dirty doggy~ Bad doggy~" She's gone all far-away sounding and airy -- half-ranting, half-swooning, and 100% incoherent, as she lifts her cum-slick face off your twat and twists around to sit on your chest. "You made a mess on mistress... you need to be punished..."

"Winter-- I can't breathe--"

She presses her feet tightly together, and then mashes them against you, rubbing her soles all over your forehead, nose, and mouth. Without the ice cream to help leaven the smell and taste, all that's left is the nasty reek of Winter's little feet, up-close and way too personal. "Lick me, bitch!" She hisses. "Make me cum!"

You lick her. Degraded, beaten, and exhausted, you let Winter rub her sweaty feet all over you as you lick it up all the grime and thank her for the privilege. That's the worst part, you think to yourself, as you moan "thank you" again and again. The fact that you, without even being ordered, are thanking Winter for treating you like this -- for using you as a human doormat. That's the most shameful thing of all. You wonder what Summer would say if she walked in on you. It makes your pussy flutter.

Winter plays with herself, strumming her clitty and fingering her gash as she gets off from stepping on you. She doesn't cum like her sister does, oh no. Winter's cum is an explosive ejaculation that paints your entire upper half -- not to mention Summer's already soiled comforter -- with her emissions. Of course she ejaculates on her own feet, too, which you dutifully and unquestioningly siphon up for her. That's what a good doggy does, after all. Winter continues to rub her stinky, sweaty feet all over you as she comes down from the orgasm, giggling all the while.

GIRLS FUCKED: 7/9

---

Between periods, Amber briskly sidles up to you and loops an arm around yours. She forces you to match her pace, whisking you away from Summer.

"Uh, fire somewhere?" Summer says.

Amber glances back. "Sister shit. Uno mochotto."

She takes you all the way to the far side of the hall. In the sunlight streaming in from the enormous double-paned window here, she squints and reaches for your hair. "Is that... what is that? Sugar or candy or something?"

"Will you get on with it? We're gonna be late."

Amber clears her throat. "Look. Look at Ophie."

You look at Ophie. She's trudging along, now all on her own, and headed for the fifth period calculus class she definitely isn't getting any value out of.

"See anything?" Amber prods.

"I see Ophie..." you mumble. Amber slaps you upside the head. You recoil. "OW! Bint!"

"Do you see anything different?"

You watch closely. Ophie disappears into her classroom. When she's out of sight, you turn back towards Amber with a shrug.

Amber's voice is grave and furtive. "She's glowing."

"Oh no. I mean, I knew N-Mom said she'd make a great analyst for the FBI, but I didn't expect her to actually sign up..."

"Shut the fuck up. She's *glowing*, Wes. She had *sex* with Noah. She's a sex haver now. She's a person who has sex."

You shake your head. "Did she... tell you that?"

"No! She's glowing! Try to keep up!" Amber puts her hands on her hips. "Anyway, it was only a matter of time. You saw how they were all over each other at homecoming. Two teenagers start sucking face like that? It's only a matter of time before they're schtupping. Knocking boots. Bumping uglies."

"That's great," you say. "I'm happy for h--" you jerk back and swat Amber's hand away from your face.

"What IS that?" She says. "It's like... little strings of marshmallow residue or, or something. Did you fall into a cotton candy machine?"

"Why is this so important to you?" You ask.

"If you're being bullied by clowns, I ought to know."

"Ophie."

"Oh. Well, let's start with the fact that she won't admit it when I ask her. I even busted out the oath we swore when we were six that we would never lie to each other. I said to her, I said: are you suuuure you're not having sex with Noah? Tell me, and you CAN'T lie! So she just said --" Amber puts on her impression of Ophie's pitchless voice. "I'd prefer not to." She shakes her head, grimaces. "It's like... what-the-fuck-ever, Bartelby."

"Bartleby?"

"Do you read anything Snuggy Bear assigns?"

You blink. "How do you know that nickname?"

"Noah is bad news," Amber says. "He's going to break Ophie's heart. So then I'm going to have to murder him and it'll be a whole big pain in my ass. That's why it matters to me."

"You know what I think?" You say. "I think you're bugging out because of that prophecy. You're channeling your anxiety into something meaningless because you actually--"

"No. Nope. Nuh uh."

"--You actually believe that some schizophrenic Russian in the 19th century predicted that the three of us would be... important... in some vague, Nostradamus-ass way that gives us zero clue of what to expect other than something big."

"Wes, you might down for the pump-and-dump routine. Ophie isn't built for that. And Noah? He's a pump-and-dumper. Got it written all over his nerdy fucking face."

"And what do you want me to do about it?" You ask.

Amber glances around. By now the halls are empty. Even Summer, who gave you the privacy Amber so obviously wanted but stood around waiting for you to finish, has finally sulked off to class.

"Now for the real shit. Take a look at what I found," Amber tells you. She unzips her bag and hands you a weathered paperback book.

You read aloud. "Information Transfer Across Conformal Barriers in a Cyclic Cosmology: The Hyper-Leibnizian Paramaterized Multiverse... what."

"Check the author."

"Absalom Abrams." You glance up. "So? He wrote some kind of science... book."

Amber huffs. "Some kind of science book. What a fucking sterling mind you've got, Wesley, truly. And do you know what this book is?"

"Some kind of... science book."

"It's a bible. For the church of Instrumentalism. Well. More like the New Testament. Here's the Torah."

From her bag she hands you a slender, transparent-covered folder, inside of which, bound to the spine, is a research paper that obviously comes from some sort of university library. "Instrumentalizing Conformal Boundaries in CCC... by... David C. Darkbloom."

You meet Amber's eyes. She folds her arms. "Uh huh," she says.

---

"All in Eddy?" N-Mom asks.

"What?" You yell.

"A spaghetti?"

You turn, peel the earmuffs off your head. "WHAT?"

"I *said* are you ready?"

"Oh. Let me put my ear protection back on," you grunt. N-Mom rolls her eyes.

Honestly, you feel overdressed in all this tacticool bullshit. The drab green vest that hooks around your waist and loops over both shoulders, with its ab-like rectangular protrusions and non-Euclidean amounts of pocket space. The matching green ballcap to hold your tied-back hair. The yellow-tinted safety goggles. The camo pants and jackboots. The Mr. Cool Guy grip-enhancing gloves. All to fire at paper cutouts, indoors. It's like putting on a wedding gown to hit up an Olive Garden for $9 endless breadsticks.

Fuck, you could really go for some breadsticks.

Lily is in the lane to your right, Summer in the lane to your left. Amber is on Lily's other side and Winter is on Summer's other side. You hate the prospect of competition in something where you're a rank novice. Even if N-Mom insists this is nothing of the sort. It is.

Well, at least you're not the only one who has to dress like a reject from the Iranian War.

N-Mom paces back and forth, instructing you. She adopts the forceful but stilted cadence of a drill instructor, and relishes it way too much. "Keep your firearm aimed forward and do not put your finger on the trigger until you are ready to shoot! Point your firearm only at things you intend to destroy! Do remember! If you hear the words: CEASE FIRE -- then cease your fucking fire!" Lily bobs her head side to side, rolls her eyes, and mouths "blah, blah, blah." Of course, she's well versed on all of this. "Aim for the center of mass! Load your weapon when I blow my whistle. You will have 90 seconds of target practice from the time the buzzer sounds. Good luck!"

She blows. The lights above you dim, the lights over the shooting gallery clack on. You slide the magazine clip inside the bullet chamber, or whatever. It clicks satisfyingly into place.

"Range is HOT!" N-Mom shouts.

"Let's see if your aim sucks as much irl as it does in ranked," Lily says from the corner of her mouth.

"Go to hell."

Lily smirks at you.

The buzzer sounds. You widen your stance a little, raise your gun, rest your cheek to your shoulder, squint, and peer down the sight. This does fuck all to help your aim. You think you've got a clear bead on the paper cutout's chest. But you hear pops of gunfire from either side of you, and feel like you're wasting time aiming. So you start blasting. You get three rounds off before the recoil has you so fucked up that you're sure you're aiming for the ceiling. You resteady yourself and try again. Bang, bang, bang. Are you usually not meant to see the holes in the paper cutouts? Do they only appear after it's over, or something? You are making holes in your cutout, right?

Oh -- no. Lily is firing at a cutout 10 yards further out and you can clearly see that she's putting holes in hers. So are the others. Fuck.

You can feel your grip loosening with every shot and you can't possibly keep your line of sight down the irons. All the little protips your Mom gave you beforehand about using the pad of your finger instead of knuckling it, about keeping the trigger to the wall, about finding your sights again between shots instead of firing blindly... all of it goes out the window, and you just empty the mag-- the cl-- the bullet container. Well, at least you can remember enough to eject the gunfire rectangle when it's empty, reach into your vest of holding, and insert a fresh projectile bottle into the muzzle's chamber.

But then the worst happens. You fire -- nothing. You fire again -- nothing.

You glance over your shoulder. "Mom! MOM! THE GUN JAMMED! MOOOOOM!"

Lily lowers her weapon and laughs to herself in sheer delight, like the cunt she is.

N-Mom calls through cupped hands. "I can't help you, baby! Range is hot!"

Fuck.

You pull the sliding mechanism at the top of the gun, to see where the bullet may be stuck. In doing so you turn the gun around, and don't realize you're pointing it at the bay to your left -- at Summer's head. Lily notices it, though. She stops laughing in an instant, dives across the partition to yank your arms the other way. "JESUS CHRIST, WES!" She hollers as, behind you, N-Mom waves her arms frantically and shouts "CEASE FIRE! CEASE FIRE! CEASE FIRE!"

Summer, who's busy laughing and firing without a care in the world, only now looks over, blinking confusedly. "What the f..."

The buzzer sounds. The lighting equalizes. The targets come sliding towards your bays along the overhead rails.

"Did you just try to shoot me, babe?" Summer asks.

"Not on purpose," you insist.

The results:

Summer hit the target eight times in the chest and stomach, once in the head, and three times in extremities. She wants to get it framed. She thinks Liz will be proud. She peels off her goggles, smiling like she just won gold at the Olympics, pointing excitedly at her dead cutout man. "Guess it runs in the family!" She says. "BANG! Haha."

Amber hit the target. Uhh. Once in the shoulder, twice in the gut, and a few times in the white paper around the target's body.

"Aw fuck," Amber mutters to herself. "Shouldn't have gone for the farthest distance... fuck me sideways."

"You should have better depth perception than that," Lily tells her. "Ain't like you're missing an eye or something."

Amber flips her off.

Lily hit the target eight times in the head and neck, fifteen times in the balls and dick, and, for show, one time in the heart. She has only a few stray holes in the paper around the target. "See that?" She asks you.

You turn your head. "No."

She peels the target off the cardboard it's stapled to, holds it aloft, and circles around to face you. "See that? Do you see that, Wes? Do you see it? Do you see my aim here?" She runs a forefinger around the bullet holes to show you all the places she nailed it.

"Nope," you reply, glancing the other way now.

Lily slumps her shoulders and lets the paper cutout man droop limply down by her legs. "Course you don't see it. You're blind, so."

You are in no way blind. You also hit the target.

N-Mom examines it. She pokes at the only bullet hole in the paper. It's close and yet so far from the cutout's head. "Had that been an attacker," she says reassuringly, "it would have nicked his ear. Definitely would have scared him, at the very least. Ear wounds bleed a lot."

You grumble.

"We need to work on keeping your wrists steady. That's so important, Wes-- and... better discipline with where you aim when there's live ammo loaded."

You set the pistol down on the table in front of you. "I think I'm done."

"How'd you do, Winter?" Summer asks, peeking into her sister's bay.

"Eh," she says, shrugging, already stripping her gear off.

Summer snoops. She walks around and checks her sister's cutout. "Holy," she breathes.

You all take a look. Winter nailed her target 30 times, all in the head. Lily, disbelieving, counts and recounts and rerecounts. You only had 30 bullets to work with.

Winter sits on the bench along the walls and pulls her boots off. She plops her duffel down in front of her and finds her street shoes, starts to lace them.

"Anyone feel like Wendy's?" She asks, not glancing up. When after an awkward silence she finally does, she finds you all gawking at her like a zoo animal. She looks surprised, then bashful, then scornful. "I've got good aim," she sneers. "Oooooh. How amaaaaaazing." She looks down and focuses once again on lacing her shoes. "Losers..."

On your way out of the shooting gallery, you pass the next group of people coming in. Most are strangers. One you recognize. His presence here surprises you. It absolutely floors Amber. She spins on her heels and follows him back into the gallery.

"The fuck?" She snarls.

Auburn sighs, beleaguered.

"What are you doing here, fucko?" Amber demands, still fast on his heels.

Auburn dons his hearing protection and his goggles and pretends not to hear as he pulls a polished steel glock from his bag.

"I asked you a question, bitch! Say something!"

Auburn checks his clipazine or magaclip or whatever, makes sure he has no rounds chambered. He sets his gun down on the table in front of him. Gives Amber a dismissive look. "I'm practicing my aim," he says, rather obviously.

"So you finally decided to go Columbine on us. Fantastic."

"Opposite. I'm a Protector," he says.

"Bullshit. No fucking way they gave you a license to carry at PAP."

"It's true," Lily confirms, walking up, folding her arms. "He's in the program."

Amber shakes her head. This is like finding out your housecat moonlights as a powerlifter.

The people in the other firing bays are jeering at you, Amber, and Lily. As long as you're standing around in here past the do-not-cross line, they can't load their weapons and begin to shoot.

"Not everyone who's a certified Protector likes to flaunt it," Auburn says, giving Lily a meaningful glance. "Anyway. I'm busy. And you're getting in my way. So..."

He makes a shoo-shoo motion. Amber rolls her eyes, makes a disgruntled sound, and storms away. Lily follows closely after.

"Uh, nice seeing you," you tell Auburn.

"Not so nice seeing you," he replies. "Not here. Just let me know if you're ever carrying. I'll keep well clear."

You begin to go, angry at that snotty comment, but stop yourself short. The impatient shooters groan anew -- you start to worry they'll pin you to one of the cardboard placards and use you for a target if you don't clear out soon. But you want to know.

"Hey. Did Noah tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"About Ophie."

Auburn looks at you like you're weird and kinda stupid -- okay, par for the course -- but he clearly has no idea what you're on about.

"Nevermind," you tell him, and go.

Amber will be happy. Noah isn't spreading the news around.

You're happy about it, too. Until you remember that now you have to practice physical self-defense with K-Mom. If the firing range wasn't humiliating enough...

---

In your backyard, K-Mom wears a black tanktop, black yoga pants, and rectangular yellow foam pads around her forearms. The pads are long enough to cover her hands, too. She stands with a wide stance, slightly hunched. She swivels repeatedly at the hips. First her left side towards you, then her right, holding the armpads up for you to punch in an alternating fashion. The soft "pah" of your punches is in perfect tune to her grunts of "Hah,, hah,, hah,, hah,, hah" -- it starts to stultify.

"Keep the focus, baby," K-Mom says. "Watch your stance. Hah,, hah. Follow through with your punches. Hah,, hah,, hah,, hah. Put some muscle into it. Hah,, hah,, hah."

She doesn't need to breathe so annoyingly, is the thing. This is a conscious choice she's making right now. She's choosing to hah at you like she's halfway through running the Boston Marathon.

Summer, who insists her 3rd Kup in Tae Kwon Do is really impressive, offered to be a sparring partner for Lily. She isn't hahing. She's perfectly silent unless and until she offers Lily advice on her form. K-Mom should take note.

(Winter and Amber peaced out. Quiz bowl waits for no woman.)

"You need to follow through! That's how you impart force! Hah,, hah,, hah."

"I am putting force into it," you say.

"Carry your punch all the way through. Feel the motion of your arm, shoulders, and spine. Hah,, hah. Don't be afraid of hurting me. Hah,, hah,, hah."

"Trust me, I'm not afraid of that."

To your right, the sparring between Summer and Lily becomes a bit more energetic. Lily unleashes a rapid barrage of punches to Summer's armpads that forces Summer backwards. Lily attacks indiscriminately, so that Summer has to use her arms as a shield to protect herself, rather than as a helpful target for Lily's fists to track. Lily punches down, by Summer's belly, so Summer holds a forearm low. Lily punches up, by Summer's face, so Summer holds a forearm high. And so on.

Soon, Summer starts pushing back against Lily's punches. She leverages her superior weight to arrest Lily's momentum and force Lily to lose both her initiative and balance. The shift of the power dynamic is subtle but certain. Lily isn't striking Summer's armpads with her fists anymore. Rather, Summer is striking Lily's fists with her armpads.

"Don't lose your balance, now!" Summer chides. She's breathy, but obviously not tired.

Lily laughs. "But you just lost yours."

"I-- fuh!"

Lily squats and sweeps Summer's legs. Clean and quick. Summer falls flat on her back in the dewy grass. It takes a lingering moment before she even realizes that it happened and registers the pain. "Ohhhh -- screw you!" she huffs. Lily cackles.

You decide to try something similar. But reaching out with your foot, you trip over yourself, and K-Mom steps backwards. You fall flat on your face.

"Next time?" K-Mom says. "Don't send your opponent a telegram about what you're going to do before you do it." She reaches down and helps you up.

Next, K-Mom demonstrates some basic over-the-shoulder throws from Judo. She uses Summer as her assistant: "Summer, come here. Face me. That's it. Okay: this is ippon seoi nage," she says. "For a foe approaching you from the front. You grab their collar--" She takes Summer by her collar, startling her. "Uhh?" Summer begins, but K-Mom presses forward. "You cross them up, grabbing them under their opposite armpit." She reaches beneath Summer's arm and wrenches it up. "Uhhhhh?" Summer says. K-Mom ignores it. "Now split their weight by placing your feet between their legs. Then, with the momentum, you turn and leverage them over your back."

In one fluid motion, K-Mom spins and heaves Summer over her back, dropping her with a thud on a mat she has laid out.

"Is everyone going to knock me over today?" Summer cries, staring at the sky.

K-Mom gazes down at her, laughing. "You can take it. Don't be a wuss." She grabs for Summer's forearm and helps her to her feet. Then she helps the still pouty Summer dust herself off. "Similar to any throws they teach in Tae Kwon Do?"

"Yeah," Summer says. "Basically the same stuff they teach you on day one."

"Good. Help Lily again. I'll pair up with Wes."

She and Lily square up. "If you pull anything, I'll hit you where the sun doesn't shine," Summer warns her. Lily flips her off.

You and K-Mom also square up. "Just like I showed you," she says, shifting her weight from foot to foot, reaching out as if she's an attacker going for the throat. "I won't hold back, so you shouldn't either."

But she has you do a couple practice attempts before actually going for it: drawing her towards you, turning her around, and making as if you're going to flip her onto her back, before resetting your position to that front-facing pose you began in.

Every time you draw K-Mom close, and spin her around with her chest to your back, you can smell so strongly her natural scent that it almost overwhelms you. It's sweet and light, somehow, even if she's sweaty. And underneath it, just barely, you can detect that perfume of hers... the perfume she wears on dates with N-Mom.

"Ready, baby?" K-Mom whispers in your ear.

You nod.

"Then let's do it."

One last time, she resets your position. You try the move for real.

Somehow you remember all the important elements: splitting the weight, one hand on the collar, crossing her up -- the swift turn, the over-the-shoulder heave. You lift your mother into the air and drop her on the ground like it's nothing, even though she's taller, heavier, and stronger than you. She lands with a plap on the blue mat. You, still stooped over, still holding her, stare down at her, stunned at how easy it was.

"Don't give up your advantage," K-Mom says. She winks.

"Huh?"

She swings her entire lower half up, and latches her legs around your neck. Your vision goes topsy-turvy and then all of a sudden you're lying flat on the ground. K-Mom is on top of you, straddling your chest.

"I said don't give up your advantage."

"M-- Mom..." you stammer. Your field of view, in this position, is almost nothing but her crotch, the inseam of her yoga pants, the little stain of sweat discoloring it. Glancing up, you see her grinning ear to ear. Her hands are folded one over the other, up by your collarbone, pinning you down. Her wedding band glints in the sunlight. She's dripping sweat off her bangs, which lands in droplets across your forehead. You gawp. Again, but more softly, you repeat: "Mom..."

"Fuck you! Fuck you!"

You and K-Mom glance over. Summer and Lily are rolling around in the grass, tussling, pulling at one another's hair. Their demo didn't go so well, obviously. K-Mom leaps to her feet and rushes to separate them. You're left lying on the ground, K-Mom's feminine scent lingering in your nostrils, your mind swimming in unchaste thoughts.

---

Amber has you tied. A series of red silk ropes crisscross your body. Your wrists are pressed together, securely fastened to the headboard behind your head. Your calves are folded underneath your thighs. Loops of rope around your knobby knees keep your legs held in this awkwardly bowed shape, the edges of your soles touching so that your feet form a V. Where the rope cuts across your chest, it pinches your tits from top and bottom, making them bulge a bit and bruise a purplish blue. The rope is tied like a harness around your tummy, waist, and crotch, accentuating your belly and your naked, dripping pussy. Your cunt is visible at the center of a lozenge-shaped window that wraps around your butt. This portion of the rope is especially tight, leaving crimson welts almost the same shade as the silk fibers themselves. The rope's constrictive bite is at its worst here where it cruelly presses down on the puffy mound of your mons pubis. It still takes you by surprise how badly silk can hurt, properly applied. It makes you fucking wet.

You writhe a little to test the tightness of your bondage. You can hardly so much as wriggle your fingers. Amber's been practicing her knot tying skills. This isn't some amateur rushjob you could break out of if you wanted to end the roleplay. She's got you trapped. And as long as she wants to keep you here, you're at her whim.

Amber did herself, too. Her shibari is decorative rather than functional -- she can move freely about. The rope encircles her tits tightly enough to squeeze them and make them look bigger without hurting her. It wraps in an X around her arms and collarbone, and forms a sort of corset around her midsection. There's double helix down the center of the rope corset's front. One of the helix's loops opens wider than the rest, to show off her belly button. Amber isn't totally nude -- she also has on a pink micro miniskirt -- but aside from the large steel buckle in front and some steel rivet eyes down the skirt's too-brief side, the thing is completely transparent, and does nothing to hide her pussy. Nor, too, does the pair of black fishnet tights she has on. One week on, her henna womb tattoo is still a vibrant opalescent Tyrian purple. Between these two points of interest, her twat and her tattoo, lies a tuft of pubic hair she recently grew in. It isn't the fiery ginger of her head hair, but a deep russet.

She has the mien of a born dominatrix, all scowls and sneers as she watches you struggle uselessly against your bindings. Climbing onto the bed on her knees, she approaches you with a predator's slow deliberate slinking. Fear courses electrically through your gut and tingles in your limbs. Amber presses down on either of your knees, testing the give of the rope, and comes away satisfied at her handiwork. Luxuriously she gets down on all fours, like a cat stretching after a nap.

She grips your ankles. She buries her face between the soles of your feet.

"Amber..." you whine, ticklish there, and embarrassed.

"God you stink," she says. "Nasty slut. I love it."

You wiggle your toes as she huffs and enjoys your smell. This behavior is new. You wonder how Winter would react if she ever saw this. But Amber doesn't linger here. She drags her face across one of your bound legs, up to your knee and back towards your quivering pussy. Her elfin nose rests between the folds of your labia. She smells you here, too, while you're powerless to stop her. She mauls the globes of your ass with both her hands, pulling you harder against her. What she says next shocks even you:

"Pee on me."

"W-what?"

Her cerulean eyes meet your gaze and glimmer with obscene intent. "Pee in my face. Do it or I'll hurt you."

Do it or I'll hurt you. Another Winterism. Coincidence? You wonder.

You can't waste time on that. Mortified, but scared, you tighten your abs and try to force your bladder. You close your eyes in shame. You focus on flexing and unflexing your circulation-starved fingers, to avoid having to focus on the lewd act you've been coerced into. At first in a sputtering trickle, and then in a torrent you wouldn't be able to stem if you tried, your urine escapes and splashes your older sister. It gets all over her face and mats her hair, runs in streams down her neck to the mattress below your ass. The noise of it is almost lewder than the visual, the low hiss of the pouring piss, the hard pattering of it against Amber's skin. It feels disgusting, too. Being forced to lie here in a puddle of your own mess. Amber giggles like a little girl, enjoying the sensation of it, thrilled that you would do something even this degrading on command.

Towards the end, Amber's lips curl into an O and she catches the rest of it in her mouth. You watch intently. And although you're the one using her mouth as a urinal, somehow she's still the one in control. It sounds like bathwater pouring from a tub's faucet against cold porcelain. She doesn't drink it, though. She lets it pool, her pink tongue becoming slowly submerged in yellow, and by the time you finish, her mouth is nearly overflowing. Faintly, you even see a couple wafts of steam.

You only infer what's coming next when it's too late to say no. Pursing her lips, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk, she rises on her palms and gets her face directly over your own. And then, pulling a strand of hair behind her ear, she lets your pee drizzle from her mouth, against your face, in a long, warm streamer. Your expression puckers, you wrench your eyes shut and wince, you shake your head from side to side, but the one thing you cannot do is get away. Amber spits your own urine back onto you and you have no way to stop it from happening. When she's all done, and your head is lying in a stinking puddle on your pillow almost as large as the one under your ass -- Amber keeps humiliation going by spitting a few wads of her saliva on you, too. The frothy spit commingles with the urine and slides down your skin in snail trails. You feel as beaten as if she had whipped you.

From the nightstand, Amber retrieves a collar. She affixes it around your neck and holds the accompanying leash with one hand. Getting back up on her knees, she straddles you. Like this, using the leash to keep herself steady even though it has the side effect of choking you horrendously, Amber touches cunnies with you. Her squishy pussy makes contact with yours, and your pussy juices mix. She's so horny from abusing you that her cunt lips are hot to the touch, and feel so nice sliding almost frictionlessly across yours. Amber hasn't exhausted all the nasty tricks in her repertoire, though. As she tribs with you, she pulls a felt-tipped sharpie from the nightstand, too. Uncapping it, she tries to make a mark on your belly -- but your sweat, piss, and cum cause the ink to streak and go all runny the moment she tries it. Huffing with frustration, she wipes her canvas clean with the first thing she finds, one of your stuffed animals, a threadbare Rilakkuma, and tosses the now-stained thing carelessly aside.

She tries again. This time it takes. She draws helpful arrows pointing at your cunt, with the phrases "RAPE HOLE" and "CUM INSIDE" scrawled above. Across your bruised tits, she writes "MEAT TOILET" in similar large block-lettering, and across your forehead, you're not sure, you can't see, but maybe something like SLUT. Returning to your belly, right where your womb would be, she doodles a bunch of little sperms fertilizing an egg -- a touch that makes your pussy twinge with new excitement.

You're so turned-on that you don't immediately recognize the significance of the photos she snaps. You actually enjoy it, being Amber's used-up tissue of a porn starlet. But as she plays with the phone, you feel that too-familiar lurch of fear, and stammer: "What... what are you doing?"

"Let's see how Mel and Snuggy Bear like the new look."

"Wait--!"

"Sorry. Too late." She smirks at you. "I invited them over."

Amber stands before your full-length mirror and primps her messy hair. Your frightened eyes follow her. "You didn't... what will -- Amber..." But she ignores you.

She was pleased with her own artistry, apparently, because now she's doing it to herself. With slightly worse penmanship, she writes phrases like "COCK SLEEVE" and "CUMDUMP" on her body, and "WHORE" across her forehead. She smiles at her degraded reflection. Beside her womb tattoo, she draws a spurting dick, balls and pubes and all. The arrows pointing to her gash and asshole say "FREE" and "BREED ME" to further entice the rapists she just invited into your home. In the mirror, she snaps a couple more selfies, and sends these off as well. Then she tosses her phone aside with the same carelessness as your plushie, to await the arrival of some cocks to fuck you raw.

"Did you forget that I'm under, like... EXTREME supervision?" You demand. "There's no way Mel and Talia can just come walking in without any suspicion!"

"Who's home right now?" Amber asks. A rhetorical question. She knows the answer.

"K-Mom."

"She'll let them in," Amber insists, smiling again at herself in the mirror.

"Amber--" you begin as she reapproaches the bed, but she cuts you off by sitting on your face.

"Shut the fuck up and eat me out, slut." She falls forward and latches her mouth to your cunt, too. You 69 for what feels like hours.

---

"They're up there."

Even with your ears being pressed by Amber's quaking thighs, you can hear K-Mom at the base of the stairs. And then, soon, the sound of footsteps.

"Thank you, Mrs. Keki," comes a voice you recognize: Amelia's.

"Yes, thank you." That would be Talia.

"Told you," Amber says over her shoulder. The smugness can't be contained.

You have no idea what excuse or just-so story the two of them told your Mom to be let inside the house. Maybe they didn't need any at all. K-Mom is well aware of what you get up to with Amelia, and probably isn't too shocked to find out that you've got yet another side chick besides her. Maybe she even likes it. Letting in older women to come fuck you. Maybe it gets her hot. Amber had her number. Your Mom is even more perverted than you imagined.

As the two of them come through your door, Amber looks up at them from between your legs. You can only imagine the self-satisfied grin.

Wordlessly, Amber unmounts you and the two women begin to disrobe. The look in their eyes is one of unabated hunger. Amelia peels away her blouse, Talia shimmies from her skirt. Amelia undoes her pants, Talia pulls off her tanktop. Soon the pair are fully nude. Side by side they cut quite the contrast. Talia is a small person, shorter in fact than you, which has always served to make her cock seem even bigger than it actually is. But compared with the much taller, much fuller-bodied, and *much* better endowed Amelia, she seems like a kid. Amelia's horsecock is like nothing you've ever seen, all veiny and throbby, the angry red head still partially covered by foreskin, its girth somehow increasing midway down the shaft so that it's bulbous, almost alien. Talia's dick is smooth and pale, almost (yes) feminine, somewhat slender for its impressive length, and of a diameter that hardly changes from base to tip. Whereas Amelia's cock is so meaty and heavy that even hard it angles down towards the Earth, Talia's erection points straight up at the ceiling, parallel to her taut tummy. Amelia's balls are pendulous, pube-covered. Talia's balls are small, smooth, and tight.

Talia moves first. Swiftly she climbs onto the bed and gets in front of your pussy, ready to mount you. But as you brace for that wonderful moment of penetration -- Amelia hauls her back.

"Hey!" Talia calls, the most emotion you've ever heard from her.

Amelia gets on the bed with her, belly-to-belly -- cock-to-cock.

"Mine's bigger," Amelia says teasingly. "So naturally, I get first pick."

Talia can't dispute the basic geometry of Amelia's argument. Hers is smaller. In fact, it strikes you that the disparity in the height and build of these women is mirrored by the disparity of their members. Talia's shorter, skinnier cock is dwarfed by Amelia's tall, fat cuntbuster of a cock -- to roughly the same degree Amelia dwarfs Talia overall. Talia, humiliated by this clearly losing comparison, murmurs without forming words, and stares hard at that sight, of her outmatched shaft straining against Amelia's.

"If you're nice, I'll let you have her once I'm done," Amelia promises.

Amber licks her lips, as, staring at Talia, she takes a seat in your computer chair. Hiking her ankles up, one on each armrest, her transparent skirt flipping up from the motion of it, she says: "Come here, Snuggy Bear. You can get off inside me."

Talia is happy with this consolation prize. On one condition. "Wes doesn't like using protection. She lets me cum inside her. You're fine with letting me fuck you raw too, right?"

Amber pats her pussy with the pressed-together fingers of one hand. "Of course. Squirt inside me as much as you like."

Talia stands in front of the chair, holds Amber by the shoulders, and--

"You really stink."

Amelia's voice draws your attention away from the imminent mating of Talia and Amber. She grips the base of her dick and uses it to slap your defenseless pussy. It makes a wet noise, and sends droplets flying. Your clit stings.

"I've... been told..." you say.

"Did you pee yourself, Wesley?"

"Amber made me."

"You can't blame Amber for your messes. When we finish barebacking you, you'll have to clean it up. Understand?"

You nod.

Amelia juts her hips forward, lining her cock up with your belly. Its oozing tip smudges Amber's drawing of a freshly fertilized egg. "Look at that. Do you see how deep I'll be inside you?"

Eyes locked on her veiny cock that's halfway to your ribcage, you nod again, and feel yourself begin to tremble like a bird.

"I'll be having sex with your womb. Just like you want." She runs the pad of her thumb across the doodle, making it even more blurred. Her voice is warm, almost motherly, as she tells you: "You're going to be my breeding hole."

She gets on her haunches. It's an almost froglike pose to match your own, only rotated 90 degrees: calves folded under thighs, feet planted firmly on the bedspread and pointing in nearly opposite directions. Just like this, and without any further warning, she penetrates you.

She forsakes the leash around your neck, leaving it strewn across your heaving chest, to instead hold you underneath each of your knees. This gives her much firmer leverage, and she uses it to get as deep inside you as she possibly can. This is no exaggeration. She sinks in, inch by agonizing inch, chewing her lower lip in delirious pleasure, and when her balls as last come to a rest against your ass, when you feel the swollen head of her cock push well past the battered ring of your cervix and into your uterus, where it throbs and bruises you from the inside -- you know she really is as far as she can physically go. This position, with your tied-open legs, and her angle on your naked cunt, lets her achieve the absolutely maximal depth. Amelia has you in a mating press, fucking you in parts you didn't know you had.

The way she throws her head back, and her sighing "ahhhhh~" of sheer relief, are enough to make your heart flutter. When, looking back down at you, she says: "Wesley, your pussy feels so good," you're proud that you make such a suitable cumdump breeding hole for Amelia van der Boom.

And then she begins to fuck you in earnest. And as polite as her words were, her jackhammer thrusting is anything but. She ravages your tiny body without compunction or restraint. She did, after all, give you fair enough warning that she intended to have sex with your womb -- so she does. Grunting, drooling, biting her lips, rolling her eyes, she humps you, gripped by the temporary insanity that overcomes her when her cock gets hard. Amelia is hardly herself right now, but a demon in her form, succubus and incubus all in one, rutting with a single-minded focus on the need to breed. She's going to fuck you full of her smelly, fertile cum. Then and only then will she come back to her senses.

The room stinks of sex, of cock and cunt and sweat. It fills your head and makes your mind go blank. The wet slapping of Amelia's cock inside your body, raping you to your very core, is off-rhythm to the equally vicious plap-plap-plap of Amber getting fucked balls-deep up her underage pussy by one of your schoolteachers. Talia, like Amelia, has an equally single-minded need to ejaculate inside a fresh young hole, regardless of any risks or taboos involved. Amber encourages her, happy to get bred: "fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!" she chants in a singsong voice, higher pitched than normal, really playing up her too-young age.

Between the shibari and the lewd bodywriting and the way you wagged your hips for them -- you and your sister have managed to make these women cut loose on you in a way you never dreamed of. They're using you like a couple of cheap street whores, dirty, disposable, nearly worthless holes for stroking cocks.

K-Mom can surely hear this wild mating session. You're aware of this fact, but only distantly, and you do nothing to change it. You're too distracted by the futanari cock pounding you to care about something so trivial.

When Amelia's thrusts become slower yet more forceful, you can tell that she's trying to savor the last few moments before she blows her load in you. Sweat pearls on her tits and her paunch, and her neck muscles tighten from the exertion of trying to stave off orgasm. You take advantage of what meager freedom you have: you tighten and untighten your pussy in a steady rhythm -- milking her cock off inside you.

"Wes-- Wes... oh fuuuuuck," she sighs, unable to withstand this new, unexpected, tantric pleasure.

Amelia cums. But she doesn't stop fucking you as she blasts rope after rope into your body. Her cock squelches inside you, so loud and resonant it almost sounds like quacking. The noise of her messy ejaculation bounces off the walls. Amelia fills you with her steamy ball milk until you overflow and leak her sperm down your ass. She jizzes in you as thoughtlessly as she would inside a tissue. But she's full of praise for a meat urinal like you: "good girl... good girl... take my cum... oh, you feel so nice inside..."

Dizzy from taking such a massive load of spunk, you only barely register the sight of Amber, slightly reclining in your computer chair, fishnets ripped, skirt soiled, red shibari stained white -- leaking Talia's cock cream in much the same way. It puddles around her ass as Talia steps back. Panting, smiling, Amber reaches down and plays her fingers through the sloppy aftermath. "You cum so much, Snuggy Bear..." she marvels. "Wow..."

Talia glances at Amelia. Amelia glances at Talia. They nod at one another. "Switch?" Amelia asks. "Switch," Talia confirms.

Now Talia is in front of you. Unlike Amelia, she isn't shy about using the leash you're tethered to. She takes it in hand, wrapping it a couple times around her knuckles -- and then gives it a good yank. You gasp at the sudden loss of oxygen.

"Thank you for inviting me over," she says. And then she sinks her cock into you.

You can feel yourself going blue in the face as Talia violates your already spoiled pussy. Her dick slides in and out through the mess Amelia left behind. The extra lubrication just drives her to fuck you deeper and harder. She may not have the one-in-a-million cock that Amelia was blessed with, but she's still pretty fucking big, especially for a girl as slight as you. And the merciless way she wields her fuckmeat makes it painful. In the best way possible. You feel like she's gonna split you open.

"Unh -- unh -- unh," Amber grunts. You glance to your side. Amelia has her hoisted up and is fucking her standing. With arms looped under Amber's knees, Amelia supports her entire weight as she fucks her from behind. Strands of cum whip around and go flying in all directions from Amber's gooey cunt. Amber's expression is completely vacant. Her eyes are rolled back and her tongue is lolling. She's gone, totally gone -- lights on, nobody home. Amelia has a downright sadistic grin as she uses the young girl's body for a stress relief onahole.

But it's hard to stay cognizant yourself, as the lack of air makes you grow increasingly lightheaded, and spots develop in your peripheral vision. "You're... choking me..." you say, voice croaking.

"I am," Talia agrees, as if you were making small talk about the weather. She lets out a long, loud sigh. She settles her weight a little more fully atop you. Like this, she starts to really screw you. Talia's droopy, drooly fuckface is on full display as she basks in the warm folds and crevices of your cunt. Her flat, sweaty chest to yours, raking her raw cock in and out, she surrenders to her own pleasure and fucks herself into sweet oblivion. You feel yourself beginning to pass out, and stop fighting against it. If Talia wants to fuck you unconscious, you'll let her.

Amelia has another squelchy orgasm inside your sister. How nice for Amber... she's so lucky...

Your vision is getting really spotty now. Time passes weirdly. One second Amber's getting creamed, the next you notice her crumpled on the floor, and you think you can see Amelia's cum-dripping cock peeing on her. In another seeming instant, Amber is on her knees, sucking Amelia's cockhead like it's a lollipop. Another instant, and then you feel a presence beside you, a depression in the mattress. Glancing the other way you see K-Mom sitting beside you, fully nude, one hand against her pussy, the other against your forehead.

"Mommy..." you sigh.

"God. You really are a slut."

Talia hands her the leash. K-Mom holds it for her so that she can wrap her arms around your back and hug you while she spunks you deep inside. Her torso seems to be stock still, with only her hips moving in a rapid, slapping piston motion. Her rumbling cock unloads and melds her sperm with Amelia's. You pass out again.

You wake up seconds or minutes later to Amelia cutting your wrists free of the headboard. They're still tied to one another, but at least you can move around. She gets you turned so that your face is pressed against the nasty mixture of fluids that had been trapped beneath your ass. You don't need any further prompting to begin licking it all up. Amelia mounts and fucks you slowly from behind as you swab your tongue around the bitter, pungent slime. Beside you, K-Mom spreads her ass open and allows Talia to fuck her butt. Amber, ever helpful, gives Talia some anal pleasure of her own -- first licking and then roughly fingering Talia's rear hole. Talia goes blank-faced and glassy-eyed at this dual attention, the way she always does, and Amber giggles at how easy it is to flip her switch.

Amelia holds you firmly, pinning your head top and bottom between her forearms as she fucks you. This is a lazier, more gentle, but no less lewd mating session, one you know will last a while before she blows her nuts. Smiling down at you, she says to Talia: "isn't this nice? We have a whole family of breeding holes to use." But Talia is lost in a sea of sexual ecstasy and doesn't respond. Amelia parts your hair from your face. "You're my favorite, though," she whispers, only for you.

---

Backstage in the auditorium before the game, Lily approaches you. "Where is Monaco?"

"Europe," you say.

"I swear I will punch you in the tit."

"What?" You shout, throwing your arms wide.

"WHERE in Europe is Monaco?"

You let your hands fall limply to your side. "It's -- uh. It's in the west... part..."

"I thought you were good at trivia."

"Does this look like a quiz bowl match to you? There's a reason I'm on E-sports and not the trivia team. Ask my sister. Or better yet, ask Jeeves."

Your phone reacts to your voice. "Yes madam?" it says in a corny British accent. You quickly reach into your hoodie pocket and press the home button to shut Jeeves up.

"It's in the south of France," Gus tells you. His voice has weird sibilance. Poor kid's parents are still wigged out all these years later, and make him wear a self-contained breathing apparatus most places, which aside from the hissy S, makes him look like a spaceman. "Along the French Riviera. Near the border with Italy."

Lily gives him a cold stare. "Been doing a lot of research? Don't count on going there until you learn that the bigger number should come first in your k:d."

Gus shakes his head. "I don't know why I even thought it was a good idea to talk to you. Bitch..."

He stomps off. You watch him go, then turning back towards Lily, say: "did you practice that burn or what?"

"Been thinking it. Didn't *practice* it."

You fan yourself with one hand, hating that this rival school's auditorium isn't as well air conditioned as PAP's. "Why did you want to know? Do you really think we'll make it to Monaco this year?"

Lily shrugs. "We could. Real possibility, there. It'd be fun -- right? A class trip, going overseas..." She sounds wistful.

"You're rich," you tell her. "You can go to Monaco whenever you want."

"It's not the same!" Lily insists.

You shake your head. You don't get why people keep telling you this.

Mr. S comes by. "Hey girls. Just wanna let you know that counterpicking is off today."

"WHAT?" Lily shouts, wheeling.

Mr. S winces. "It's... a new rule the Pacific region is experimenting with. We'll be on a random rotation of tourney-legal maps--"

"This is bullshit!" Lily screams. "We had counterpicks for the first three matches this season! What happened?"

"The... new rule--"

"Goddamn it," Lily says. "Did you know about this?" Mr. S's silence speaks volumes. Lily is beside herself. "Why didn't you tell us? My whole stratagem is counterpicking to de_2gulch if we lose the first match! What are we supposed to do now?"

"Don't lose the first match..." you say.

Lily turns on you. "Oh, that's real nice, Wes. That's real fuckin' nice. Why didn't I think of that?"

"Maybe because you're a dumb bitch?"

"Hey now--" Mr. S says.

Lily slaps you.

"Hey now!" Mr. S repeats, holding his hands out, but unable to bring himself to intervene.

You slap Lily back.

"Guys! Guys!" Mr. S says. The whole team is gathering around in a semicircle to watch -- Gus, Miles, Steve, Joel, Jason, and Zach. Of course a catfight between the team captains would draw eyes. The other team's players are noticing too, and are also gathering.

"50 Satoshi on Lily," Steve calls.

Lily slaps you. You slap her. She grabs your hair. You grab hers. Mr. S is powerless to stop you.

"100 Satoshi on Wes!" Jason says, rocking back and forth and hugging himself, overenthusiastic as always.

You and Lily notice it at the same time: one of the refs coming backstage, drawn by the commotion. You're not entirely certain, but it seems like a pretty good guess that physical altercations are a quick ticket to being suspended from the league. There goes Monaco. Lily must have that same worry because, as if you've become telepathically linked, you each release the other's hair and clasp each other around the shoulders instead. You butt your foreheads together -- brows and noses touching -- and rapidly stomp your feet like tapdancers gone insane. The whole backstage seems to rumble. You swat Lily on the left side, just below her waist. She swats you on your right side just below yours. You link arms, twirl in circle together like linedancers, then face each other again in that same nose-touching pose. You each let out an ululating wail and cap it off by slapping each other in the face again -- once, twice, three times. There's real anger in these slaps, on both your parts -- it hurts like hell -- but, masked by the patina of your coordination, it doesn't look like violence so much as performance. Stepping back, you shake hands with Lily so forcefully that your arms become a sine wave. Letting go, you each adopt the mechanical rigidity of Nutcrackers in a Christmas store display, as you both swivel at the hips, your cocked arms held out before you to lightly slap each other a few last times on various parts of your bodies. You don't hold back. These slaps hurt, too. You end the bizarrely synchronized improvisational display by making finger guns at each other.

No one gathered round you makes a sound. You're being stared at by a dozen plus pairs of frightened eyes like you're a couple of escapees from an insane asylum.

"Was that... a fusion dance?" Mr. S says.

Lily rolls her eyes.

"It's our... prematch... hype... ritual," you say. You rub your stinging cheek.

"Ancient Maori warrior dance," Lily says, twisting her shoulder around in its socket. "Like my ancestors used to do." (Lily is Nigerian, you think.)

"Maoris do finger guns...?" Mr. S says.

"Will you shut the fuck up?" Lily says, beyond annoyed that Mr. S might make the ref start asking questions too.

"I just didn't know... that you guys were doing that..." he mutters.

"Well I didn't know that counterpicks were off. So I guess that makes us even, yeah?"

You and Lily cast a worried glance towards the ref, who's as befuddled as anyone. He may or may not buy the story. But he doesn't seem prepared to kick you out. With a shrug, he steps through the curtains and returns to the main stage.

Your cheeks still sing in pain and glow red as you and Lily and the rest of you get into the match against the Leo Ryan High Lions. You wish you could hit Lily a few more times in retaliation and you're sure your residual, unvented anger is going to cost you the game. But a strange thing takes place. Your synergy is actually much better than normal.

For example: normally Lily throws the blue shell just as soon she gets it, regardless of whether you're in 1st. Today she remembers to wait for you to drop back to 2nd before letting it fly. Later in the match, you let her take some painkillers you find because you realize that she's a bit lower on health and will need it to keep the tower in midlane intact during the next wave. You never used to think about it before hogging pills to yourself.

Does hitting each other viciously and with intent to harm somehow make you better teammates?

Mohan is the chief officiant today. Infamous in the Bay Area Division, he likes to ham it up for the meager audience of mostly family that comes to these games. Always wears a tux with bowtie, announces results like he's overseeing a Madison Square Garden prizefight. It hardly matches with his pushbroom stache and enormous round eyeglasses. Lily calls him The Raj. Usually you two find his antics cringey.

But today, when it's all over -- when you and Lily stand on either side of him, for him to hoist your hands high in the air, you feel oddly elated. You can tell Lily is feeling the same way, because she's grinning with an open mouth, and her lithe chest is heaving. This was no hard-fought victory by any stretch, but it was somehow the most satisfying you've ever had. Mohan shouts in his almost impenetrable accent:

"Today's winner: your P! A! P! Crrrrrrrroooooooossplayeeeeeeeers!!! Leeeeeet's -- givemahand!"

The listless clapping from a couple scattered corners of the auditorium may as well be a thundering standing O. For the first time ever you really feel, inwardly, that you'll soon be on stage at the Monte Carlo... and even if you get knocked out in pools, you want to make it there. Maybe the striving is what makes it different.

---

You get dragged from angelic dreams of Ankoman doujin yet-to-be by your bitch of an older sister. She wakes you up with a hard rap of her knuckles against your forehead.

"It's almo--"

"Amber. I am going to kill you."

She shuts up, folds her arms. You struggle to a sitting position. Her eyes follow. After a beat, she says, "it's starting."

"What's starting? It's Saturday. I have nothing going on today but a lot of masturbation." You tilt your head towards her. "You're welcome to help."

"Come with me to Shake 'em Up. We'll play like everything is normal. But then we'll lose our security" (she makes air quotes) "--and hurry on over to Evil Incorporated."

"...Google?" You say.

"No."

"Facebook?"

"No."

You furrow your brow.

"Darkbloom Enterprises."

Your heart literally skips a beat. "Amber -- no--"

"Yes." She gets onto the bed with you. Straddles you. Stares viciously down at you. "Let me make myself perfectly clear. I am going. You can stay. But if you try to interfere, I will fuck you up. I'm sick of being kept in the dark about what's going on. There's a reason these cult motherfuckers are congregating at Daddy's company. There's a reason David FUCKING Darkbloom is connected to them. I'm gonna find out why. This is a recon mission -- nothing more and nothing less. Now I already swiped that mask Gideon left for you -- it was in Daddy's bedroom. We can grab another one when we get there. We'll blend in."

She sounds weirdly excited. She's smiling.

"How are we --" you begin. "What are we gonna -- can you just slow down for a second? Let's think about this!"

"No time."

"Yes time! Yes time!"

"Will said he'd take us," Amber tells you. "He'll be a good getaway driver if it all goes tits-up. Are you coming or not, Wes? Don't make me regret trusting you."

"What about our parents?" You demand.

"They'll be there too. I'm sure of it. Somehow -- some way. They think they're protecting us, but they probably have no fucking clue what they're getting into either. So once again. Are you coming or not?"

You stare at her for a few long silent moments. Finally, she gets off of you and lets you stand. "Get dressed," she tells you.

You walk to your dresser and root through it. What's a good outfit to wear on your last day alive?

END OF EPISODE 7.