Gwen

You settled back in to the Rustbucket, tossing your duffel onto the bench seat. Grandpa's already gone for supplies, left a note on the dash in his blocky handwriting. Which means the only welcome committee is—

"Oh. My. God. Anon?"

Gwen's sitting cross-legged on the opposite bench with her spellbook open across her lap, phone propped against the salt shaker. She's wearing the same kind of outfit — white capri leggings, blue long-sleeve cropped above her navel — but nothing about it looks the same. The fabric pulls tight across her hips where it used to hang straight. Her stomach is a soft round plane between the hem of her top and the waistband riding low, a shallow dip at her belly button catching shadow. The leggings compress into a visible seam between her thighs where she sits, the white material doing absolutely nothing to disguise the padded shape pressed into it.

She looks up. The smug expression starts before she's even finished scanning you.

"Oh wow. Anon." She unfolds her legs and stands, and the difference is immediate — she's got two, maybe three inches on you now. Her B-cups shift under the blue fabric as she straightens to full height, and she tilts her chin down to look at you with a theatrical little frown. "You're still that height? I was hoping you'd at least hit a growth spurt so this summer wouldn't be totally embarrassing for you."

"You didn't grow at all." She closes the distance in two steps and stands right in front of you. Her eyes are level with yours. Maybe higher. Her soft little belly rounds out just below the hem of her top, catching the light from the RV window. "I was so sure you'd at least hit a growth spurt. Guess the Omnitrix doesn't fix everything, huh?" She folds her arms under her chest, pushing her breasts up slightly against the blue cotton. A little smile, not friendly. "Try not to be too annoying this year, okay? Some of us are actually trying to improve ourselves."

She drops back onto the bench and pulls the spellbook into her lap again, already done with you. Her legs part just enough for the book's spine to rest between her knees, the white fabric pulling smooth and taut over the plump mound it's barely containing.

The AC unit rattles like it's trying to cough up a lung. Grandpa Max left forty minutes ago for a gas station that supposedly sold bait and brisket from the same counter. You're sprawled on the lower bunk with a dead handheld and no charger, staring at the ceiling stain shaped like Wildmutt's ass, when you hear it. A sharp, frustrated exhale from the kitchenette nook. Then another.

"Oh my god, load. Just — load."

You prop yourself on one elbow. She doesn't look up. Her screen is angled mostly away, but from the bunk you're slightly elevated, and when she drops the phone flat against her thigh to let it load, the display catches the overhead light.

m.bigdickforums.com The longest ive ever been An image takes up most of the screen with the top third loaded, bottom two-thirds a solid black rectangle still buffering on whatever dying signal reaches this stretch of highway. What has loaded is a cockhead — pale, uncut, the foreskin bunched forward past the glans abd a sliver of inner pink just visible at the slit. Below it, the black void of an image that the Rustbucket's one bar of LTE refuses to finish rendering. She hasn't registered your attention whatsoever.

Gwen's thumb hovers over the screen. She tilts the phone fifteen degrees like that'll coax more data through the antenna. Her other hand grips her knee, fingers pressing white dents into the skin above the hem of her capris. She doesn't scroll up, doesn't navigate away. Just waits, watching the black rectangle like it owes her something.

You're three rooms deep in Sumo Slammers: Legacy when Gwen's shadow falls across the screen. She's standing over you with her arms crossed, hip cocked against the kitchenette counter.

"I need you to go Four Arms."

You don't look up.

"Did you hear me? Four Arms. Now."

She shifts her weight to the other hip. Her capris have ridden into the cleft between her thighs again — the seam pulling taut across that padded mound she pretends doesn't exist — and her blue top has crept up past her navel, exposing the soft lower curve of her belly where it catches the overhead light.

"There's a — the satellite dish is crooked. On the roof. Grandpa said to fix it before he gets back from the store."

Grandpa didn't say that. You were sitting right here when he left twenty minutes ago and the only thing he said was don't touch the stove and there's sandwich stuff in the fridge. The satellite dish has been crooked since Yellowstone and nobody's cared because everything still works fine.

You tell her that.

Her cheek twitches. A micro-flinch she covers by tucking a strand of orange hair behind her ear, fingers brushing the blue clip.

"Okay, genius, it's not just crooked, it's — the signal keeps dropping. I was trying to download a chapter update for my spellbook research and it cut out three times. You wouldn't understand because all you do is play games, but some of us are actually trying to improve ourselves."

Her voice has that particular clipped quality — the one she uses when she's already rehearsed the argument and is annoyed you haven't agreed to the version of the conversation she planned.

"It'll take like two minutes. You just climb up, bend the dish back, and climb down. I'd do it myself but I'm not eight feet tall with four arms." She rolls her eyes like this is obvious. "Unless you're scared you can't handle a simple chore without messing it up."