“You wear them both beneath the dress, and they, um, give the dress more volume, bring it out away from your body in a… kind of a bell shape.”“Nice, huh?” Kelly prompted.“It’s beautiful,” Stephanie breathed. “I thought it might be, um, cheaply made, but this lace is expensive,” Stephanie said. “Cotton thread, and there’s no real base netting… and the floral arrangement is gorgeous. H-how much did this outfit cost?”“Okay, whatever. Where are we starting? Kelly laughed. “Seriously, though, how do I put all of this on?”“N-normal clothes off,” Stephanie instructed. “Your tank top, I mean. Ex-except, underwear, please. Put on some real underwear. It’s Brian’s costume, so you can’t—”“Che,” Kelly tsked. “Fine, fine.” Crossing over to her purse, she withdrew the pair of g-string panties and began untangling them.“Do you, um,” Stephanie began, seemingly mesmerized by that tiny bit of string, “did you even bring a bra to the convention?”“No way,” Kelly denied, turning her bottom provocatively. I had three hundred sixty-nine wives and two hundred fifty-eight husbands by the end of the ceremony, and that wasn’t even counting for the fact that they were all also married to each other. The ceremonies and consummations, which were naturally interrupted by meal, rest, shower, and snack breaks to keep folks from collapsing, extended well into the next day. It ended when my final bride, Vice-President Melissa Nakamura, got married and consummated it with one of the Afghan ladies, another of my many wives, a girl named Zari, all of sixteen years of age.“Well, you now have six hundred twenty-seven spouses, Lord. That’s not even counting all of the women and men who will be mobbing you at every turn whenever you visit every country on Earth. I mean, think about it, Lord. You’re now the most famous and beloved person on this planet, courtesy of finally bringing so many kleptocrats, plutocrats, thugs, etc. to heel. Yes, dear, you’re going to be one busy motherfucker,” Mom told me as I.
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