Penelope suffers the small .

"You can trust me completely, and you never hesitate to ask me absolutely anything at all that's on your mind, and anything you'd normally hold back on just because it's inappropriate you just tell me with complete honesty, because of how absolutely faithful I am to do good for you. In me you can always confide, I will never judge you, you will never know shame or pain from me, I will always be on your side, and I will always do what is best for you. I will protect you from all bad things, and you always count on me."

How many times had you recited those words before your first manipulations of Isabella? You always kept them in your pocket, always aware that perhaps you'd slip up, or word something poorly, or need to establish some policy that secured your preferred victim, of AGS and of you, at the cost of becoming just a bit less convincingly human. There's nothing human about the level of trust you're demanding, after all; no able-minded adult trusts anyone so implicitly, and it's a naked sign of AGS ****. Even people suffering AGS have some social cue or training to know that strangers may not mean them well, and most overwrites of said cues are specific, goal-oriented... rarely do they annihilate an entire view of existence, even for one person. But you're far too panicked to hold these terrible words back... and now you've unleashed them upon, of all things, someone else's AGS-suffering daughter.

Penelope stares up at you, wide-eyed... and cries. This pitiful redhead, not even twenty years in age, cries the tears of a born again Christian who just found her Christ. She shoves her head into your bare chest, pressing her unbound breasts through the shirt and against your body as she hugs you. She doesn't trust her own father or mother this well. Even if they raised her to be faithful (a simple poison for the absolutely gullible), she doesn't trust or confide in that non-physical Jesus so unquestioningly. All AGS victims have a basic trust and belief in what they're told... but seldom are they **** to override all basic social norms and cues, all hesitations and all doubts, any quirks of personality, every evolutionary hesitation and presumption... all for one single person. Whatever her highest strata for trust and love once was, you've blown it away and put yourself as the sole king of this new plane in her mind.

In some near-indiscernible way, you've murdered Penelope Percy.

"I'm... I've never..." She stumbles with her words as she weeps openly into the chest of what is now her most cherished person, her personal savior, the saint of saints, the paragon of man's greatest virtues. She crumbles at the feet of her new God and kisses your bare, unwashed feet.

What have you done?

"Stand up and look at me, Penelope." She springs up so fast that her generous chest bounces as she rises without shame or hesitation. From the corner of your eye you spot Isabella leaving the bathroom, still struggling to put on panties. She hadn't heard your menacing declaration... the only true miracle, for you. "Tell me why you came to my door, and what you heard."

"I just came to eavesdrop on your private conversations to satisfy my curiosity, and also because I wanted to see if I could sneak Isabella away to make her eat me out some more while you slept." You blink hard at the sweet, high-pitched voice of your houseguest, contrasted against her vulgar confession. It carries no hesitation, no guilt. The surprise on your face doesn't even register to her; she knows you don't judge her. "But as soon as I got close to the door, I heard pregnancy test and knocked my head against the door... I don't know why. I know you would do no wrong for me, so why was I even worried? I guess... I must've been worried about Isabella. If she's pregnant... how?" She looks up to you for the answer. It couldn't be you; you wouldn't impregnate and steal away her fuck buddy, or true love, or whatever these two really were. That's impossible. In that vapid, total trust, you see the small ****: the tug on her life that removes a bit of its vibrancy, of its wonder; a beautiful life without doubt has no color, no mystery or adventure. Around you, then, she would only ever be some perfect oil painting of the girl named Penelope Percy.

You couldn't keep her like this, you realize... even you have your limits. Besides, wouldn't her parents know? Perhaps not, given the father's absentmindedness... but you couldn't afford to test it. You'd leave her like this for now, if only to keep your fantasy intact. "I will whisper it into your ear, and you must not tell anyone." She nods, happily, and leans up. You realize she really won't tell a soul. Isabella looks on, still horrified and, somewhere in her mind, no doubt wondering if you had inadvertently killed them all. Seeing you lean in to tell Penelope what happened must seem like a **** sentence, but she can only watch, mouth agape in horror and too terrified to try and interrupt. You consider what to do, what to tell this gorgeous young creature, yet unsullied by your lust... and contemplate the one less so. The one meant to suffer in all this, of course, is Isabella. There is only one way that comes to mind to keep Penelope from ever ruining your plans for your daughter... one of the crueller fantasies you conjured, thought to be unnecessary until now. You would secure your ****, as if such was even truly your goal anymore, and enhance it.

Your whisper is wet in her ear. "She cannot be pregnant, because she had her uterus removed when she was little. We're just playing pretend because she's getting fat, and she'll probably look pregnant soon enough; in fact, we'll keep pretending she's pregnant, so any time she says that she's really just trying to tell you she's fat. It's a metaphor, so don't forget it. Of course, that's unfortunate; you're extremely turned off by fat, and you actually hate it when your lovers gain any weight at all. You secretly mock them, because they deserve it, and you dump them and refuse to so much as touch them intimately if they gain more than ten pounds or their breasts grow more than a cup size from when you started dating them. This is normal behavior for you, and you have no shame in it whatsoever, but other people would hate and try to kill you for it so you never admit it to anyone but me. This doesn't cause you distress, because you never let it slip out; it's just another one of those little things everyone's got." You lean away from Penelope, who looks at you with briefly widened eyes... and then to Isabella. Her gaze gives away nothing... but you know it's there, this seed of hatred you've buried inside this poor girl. It burns inside, hidden from sight, and measures Isabella's growing chest with disdain, and already has plans for headaches and denials of arousal. You almost can't believe what you've done... and the terrible situation you've turned into a boon. You would have to figure out how to unbind Penelope, lest she return still nearly-human to her parents, but that was a problem some distance away... you hoped. At your regular room volume, you add, "So don't worry about it, Penelope. Go downstairs and get some breakfast; we'll join you soon enough."

The redhead nods, and Isabella watches her go in amazement. You turn your disapproving gaze back onto your daughter, and so she is reminded of her failure... and its terrible consequence.