Emi's Night (II)

Andy had grown used to surprises in the Master’s Suite, but he’d never expected an invasion by a fully-armed artist.

He was pouring himself a glass of water in the kitchen when the elevator doors whispered open. In floated Emi, dressed in a soft blue dress that made her look, for a split second, like the world’s most innocent alien. She carried, with the confidence of someone who had practiced this maneuver a hundred times in her head, a folded easel, a blank canvas, a bulging tote bag, and an unruly bouquet of sketching pencils, the latter fanned out between the nimble fingers of her uppermost left hand.

Her bottom hands gripped the easel legs. The middle set balanced the canvas. Her top right hand held the bulging bag, while the top left managed the pencils like a cocktail of nerve endings. She looked, Andy thought, like the Swiss Army knife of illustrators—poised, precise, and faintly terrified of making a mess.

"Hi," she said, voice quiet but clear. "Sorry for the… um." She gestured at herself, at the gear, at the universe.

Andy found himself grinning. "It's okay. I've never seen anyone handle that much with a straight face."

Emi blushed deeply, the color spreading down her neck. She held the position, arms full, eyes wide, body perfectly still—for almost a minute before she seemed to remember she was allowed to move.

"Uh, sorry if I look a bit flustered," she whispered, not quite meeting his eyes. "It's just—since the Sweat Dreams transformation—I've been having these dreams where..." She swallowed hard, one of her middle hands fidgeting with the canvas edge. "Where you and I and Dawn are, um, together. Or sometimes just you and Dawn, and I'm watching." Her voice grew so quiet Andy had to lean in. "They're so vivid. I wake up and can still feel everything. I'm still learning how to... not carry them with me all day."

Andy noticed the flush hadn't left her cheeks, how her pupils had dilated slightly in the soft light. He felt embarrassed.

"But… but it made me remember and I… wanted to show you something," she continued quickly, brushing off the confession, "but I didn't want to just... say it. I'm not good at talking. About... things." She paused, as if searching for the right verb. "But if I can draw, it's easier. I hope that's okay."

Andy nodded eagerly. “It’s perfect.”

He led her down the wide, glassed-in staircase to the den, a room that was part library, part viewing chamber, all awash in the gold-pink of a dying sun. The walls glowed with the late-hour light, and every shadow was twice as long as normal. It made the whole suite feel like it was floating just above the world, unanchored and lit from beneath.

Emi seemed to like the den. She circled once, scanning for the best spot, then planted her easel with a soft thump right by the west window, where the sky streaked orange behind a stand of black cypresses. She set the canvas, unpacked a small tray of watercolors, and laid out her pencils with military precision. Each one a different thickness, a different graphite mood. The entire arrangement took less than two minutes, but it was obvious she’d planned it in her mind for hours.

Andy sat on the arm of a nearby chair and watched her, feeling both intrusive and honored.

For a moment, Emi didn’t speak. Her hands moved in coordinated waves: two mixing paint in a tiny ceramic palette, two adjusting the angle of the easel, and two more—her favorites, he suspected—hovering near the blank canvas, fingers flexing as if in rehearsal for the first stroke.

“I’m going to draw,” she said, softly. “And I’ll explain, if you want. But… it’s easier if I just show you.”

Andy nodded. “You can take your time.”

She started with pencils—light, sketchy lines that bloomed across the canvas in a web of potential. He watched as each pair of hands worked independently, one set roughing in a horizon, another dotting in points of perspective, a third shading the suggestion of a tree or a figure. At first, it looked like chaos, but after a few minutes, the lines began to settle, and Andy could see what she was building.

It was a river. Or, more precisely, the banks of a river at dusk: the water glassy and wide, the land on either side a blur of tangled trees and arching grass. A footbridge crossed the far end, and on the nearest shore, three shapes sat huddled in a circle.

As the drawing deepened—layers of pencil, washes of green and blue, then bolder strokes of paint—Andy saw that the three figures were children. The one to the left, who also looked like she was a little older than the others, had a bob of dark hair and sat cross-legged, hands thrown wide in a gesture of delight. In the middle, a boy, about twelve years old—taller, but slouched, shoulders hunched inwards as if hiding from the rest of the world. And to the right, the smallest of the three, a girl, also about twelve, with long, black hair, gaze fixed firmly on the boy, eyes bright and open.

Andy felt his chest tighten. He knew those three.

Emi never looked up from her work. “That was the last time we were all together,” she said, her voice so low he could barely hear it over the shush of her pencils. “The river downstream of the old footbridge. You and Laura, and me.”

Andy watched the scene emerge, remembering the day—one of those impossibly perfect afternoons that lingered long after the facts had faded. He remembered Laura laughing, remembered Emi’s shy smile, remembered the way the three of them sat together in the wild grass, inventing stories about monsters that lived beneath the water.

“I always wanted to draw it,” Emi said, all six hands pausing for the first time as she stared at the scene. “But I was scared. I thought it would make things worse. Or that I couldn't do it justice.”

Andy shook his head. “I’m glad you did. It’s beautiful.”

Emi smiled, just a flicker, then dove back in—shading, blending, adding details that brought the image into sharper relief. The teen to the left (herself, Andy realized) now had an origami crane perched on one knee. The boy looked like he was about to stand, but hadn’t worked up the nerve. And Laura—always Laura—was leaning toward the boy, her whole posture open, like she couldn’t imagine a world where the two of them weren’t together forever.

They sat in silence, Andy watching, Emi working, the sun lowering by degrees. The only sound was the scratch of graphite and the slow, measured breaths of the artist.

When Emi finally stopped, the room was nearly dark. She turned the easel toward him, holding it steady with her lower arms while the top set carefully wiped paint from her fingers with a rag.

“I wanted to show you because… I didn’t know how else to say it,” she said. “I used to have a crush on you. Like, a big one.” She giggled, nervous, then pressed on. “But it was obvious, even then, that you and Laura belonged together. I saw it before you did. And at first I thought, if I just kept being your friend, that would be enough. But then Laura noticed too, and I withdrew from you, because I didn’t want to hurt.”

Andy didn’t trust himself to speak. He watched Emi as she worked through her confession, her hands now folding and unfolding the rag in a complicated knot.

“Then,” she continued, “after… after she died, I thought maybe I could be closer. But it didn’t feel right. It felt like I was stealing something that wasn’t mine.” She shrugged, a motion that made all six arms flutter at once. “So I left. I told myself it was to protect you, but really it was just easier to disappear than to try and take her place.”

Andy felt a hot, raw ache behind his eyes. He’d never understood why Emi pulled away months before Laura’s ****, or vanished so quickly after Laura’s funeral, never understood how much the loss had hurt both of them.

“You weren’t stealing anything,” he said, voice unsteady. “You never could.”

Emi looked at him, really looked, and for a moment her eyes glistened in the gloom.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Not for liking you. But for leaving when you needed someone.” She shook her head, as if rejecting her own apology. “I don’t blame Laura, or you. I just… I thought it would hurt less if I stayed away.”

Andy reached out, took her hand—one of the middle ones, the one that looked most lost—and squeezed it. “I’m glad you’re here now,” he said.

She squeezed back, her grip strong but gentle. “Me too.”

For a while, they just sat, side by side on the floor, the painting between them. The light had faded completely, and the only illumination came from the city-bright moon outside the glass wall.

Emi broke the silence. “The thing is,” she said, “I know I’ll never have you all to myself. That’s not how this show works. It’s not how life works, probably. But I don’t mind, really. I like the other women. I like… sharing, I guess. I know that’s weird, but—”

Andy shook his head. “It’s not weird. Not for you.”

Emi smiled, brighter now, the old sadness replaced by something warmer. “Good. Because if I have to lose you again, at least this time I can say I tried.”

He let the silence linger, content to just exist in the same space as Emi, her hands finally at rest, the painting glowing between them like a new memory.

Andy found it hard to know what to say next. The silence wasn’t awkward, but it was dense—like a blanket pulled up over both their heads, shutting out the rest of the world.

Emi’s gaze wandered the painted memory in front of her, but her hands seemed to fidget on their own. One set folded and unfolded the rag, another drummed the frame of the easel, and the top pair plucked at invisible strings in the air. It made her look like she was tuning herself, waiting for the right moment to play.

Andy slid closer, grounding himself on the carpet beside her. She had told him she had upgraded her transformation, so these twitches were no longer her hands thinking for themselves. They were all her, nervous. He knew her. She was still thinking of her confession, and feeling guilty for what she did. He reached out and, with just his fingertips, caught one of her hands in mid-air. She flinched, startled, then let him hold it.

Andy cleared his throat, searching for the right words, but everything he tried to say crowded up at the gate of his mind and tripped over itself. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel it—he felt it so much it ached, but he’d never been great at the performance of comfort, the gentle choreography of mutual regret and reassurance. He wondered if anyone truly was, or if everyone else just faked it better.

But Emi was waiting. She’d exposed a vein, and now she was waiting to see if he’d touch it or walk away.

“Emi,” he managed finally, “I don't want you to worry. Not for leaving, not for anything. You did what you had to do.” The words were a little crooked, but they were honest, and he held on to her hand while he said them, as if that might make up for the years of distance.

She looked up at him, startled, maybe expecting a joke or a deflection. It took her a second to believe he meant it, but then her eyes went soft at the edges, and she released a breath she’d probably been holding for a decade. “But I wasn’t there for you. Not the way friends are supposed to be,” she said, voice small but stubborn, unwilling to let her own guilt dissolve that easily.

He shook his head, more gentle than he expected of himself. “You were hurting, too. I think I always knew that. I just didn’t want to see it, because it was easier to believe I was the only one.” He tried to smile but it came out more lopsided than he’d hoped. “I can be pretty self-centered sometimes.”

That almost made her laugh, a real one, and the sound surprised her as much as him. “Not really,” Emi said, and this time she squeezed his hand right back, the pressure delicate and intentional. “If anything, you’re the opposite.” She ducked her head for a moment, then added, “You always were, you know. Even when you didn’t want to be.”

He didn’t quite know what to do with that, so he just squeezed again and let the silence expand around them, not the awkward kind but the gentle kind that grows between people who’ve run out of polite things and are finally allowed to say the important ones.

After a while, Emi shifted, pulling her knees closer to her chest. She looked at him sidelong, a glint in her eye that could have been mischief or just candor. “I’m not the only one who changed,” she said. “You did, too. You learned how to ask for help. Even if you think you haven’t.”

Andy snorted, an involuntary bark that softened into something closer to embarrassment. “It’s still a work in progress.”

Emi grinned, then, on a whim, brought all six hands together in her lap. She rolled her wrists, braided her fingers, then let them unfold like a time-lapse flower. The gesture was hypnotic, and for a second, Andy forgot how strange six arms could be.

“I used to be embarrassed about them,” Emi said. “At first, it was just weird. But after the upgrade, it felt… right. Like they were always supposed to be there. Like I’d been holding myself back for years, and suddenly I didn’t have to anymore.”

She lifted her hands—two sets holding an invisible ball, the topmost pair weaving intricate patterns through the air. “When I was little, I used to draw with both hands at once. My mom would get mad, said it was confusing for people, that I should pick one and stick with it. But I never wanted to choose. I always wanted more.”

Andy watched, entranced. “You’re incredible,” he said, the words slipping out before he could reconsider. “I’ve never seen anyone move like that.”

Emi blushed, but didn’t look away. “You’re just saying that because it’s new.”

“No,” Andy said. “I mean it. You’re… special. Not just because of the arms. Because you’re you.”

Emi’s cheeks turned pink, but she didn’t retreat into herself. Instead, she reached out with all six hands and, one by one, wrapped them around Andy’s arm, anchoring him to her side. The sensation was wild—thirty fingers tracing his skin, light as a breeze but impossibly intimate.

They let the silence return. The window behind her was dark now, nothing but a few scattered city lights and the reflection of the two of them and the painting, three memories layered over each other. Emi’s face hovered above the riverbank scene, her posture almost identical to the girl in the drawing, and Andy wondered if she’d posed herself that way on purpose or if it was just muscle memory.

He felt a kind of kinship with the boy in the frame, slouched and uncertain, forever on the verge of standing up but never quite ready to do it. He wondered who, exactly, he was supposed to be in that old story: the lost boy, the failing friend, or the one who finally learns to stay. Maybe all three at once.

He looked up at Emi and found her watching him with a small, searching smile. “You know,” she said, “I think Laura would’ve liked it here.”

He glanced around the den, the walls lined with books and old maps, the couch piled with velvet pillows. “You mean the hotel? Or this room?”

She tilted her head, thinking. “Both. She liked beautiful things, and people who cared about them. Even when she pretended not to.”

Andy smiled, and this one almost didn’t hurt. “She would’ve organized the whole building by now. Color-coded and everything.”

Emi snorted, a little too loud, then shrugged. “I’d let her. I was always bad at putting things where they belonged.”

The conversation drifted, the edges softening. They talked about the river, about the summer nights that never seemed to end, about the time Laura convinced them to make a raft out of driftwood and Emi’s dad’s old garden hose. They laughed more than Andy thought possible, the gap between then and now narrowing with every shared memory.

For a while, it was easy to forget why they were there, or what would happen in the morning, or what it meant that only two of the three remained. It was just him and Emi, the two of them joined at the hip and wrist and every other place she could manage. Andy felt her relax even more, the tension in her body dissolving with each breath.

After a while, Emi whispered, “Do you think she’d be mad? Laura, I mean. If she saw us here.”

Andy didn’t answer right away. He watched the moonlight spill over the painting, illuminating the three children by the river, frozen in their private forever.

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “I hope not. I think she’d want you to be happy.”

Emi nodded, but a flicker of sadness crossed her face. Andy could see it: the shadow that lingered, even in her brightest moments. It was the same darkness that haunted him, a guilt that never quite faded, no matter how many times he tried to paint over it.

He wanted to ask if she was okay—really okay—but something told him not to press. Instead, he let the silence stretch, trusting that Emi would share what she wanted, when she was ready.

Eventually, Emi shifted, untangling her legs and stretching her arms. “I should probably wash these,” she said, gesturing at the paint on her forearms. “Otherwise I’ll end up with more color than skin.”

Andy stood, too, and offered her a hand. She took it, steady and sure.

They left the den behind, the painting drying on its easel, three children frozen forever at the edge of a river. Andy paused at the door and looked back, just once, to see if the scene had changed. It hadn’t, but somehow it felt different anyway.

He followed Emi up the staircase, the hush of the suite broken only by her soft footfalls and the distant rush of the ocean outside.

In the bathroom, Emi washed her hands—each set in turn, methodically, as if she were playing a tiny piano with her fingers. Andy watched, fascinated, then realized he was staring and looked away, embarrassed.

“You ever regret it?” he asked, meaning the transformation, the extra arms, the impossibility of ever looking ordinary again.

Emi looked up from the sink, water droplets shining on her forearms. “Not really,” she said. “I used to think I’d spend my life hiding. But it turns out, you can get used to being seen.” She smiled, and this time it was proud. “Even if it’s weird.”

Andy shrugged. “I guess we’re all a little weird now.”

She laughed, drying her hands on a towel. “Speak for yourself.” She walked out of the bathroom, and her eyes softened when she saw the window overlooking the island. “Do you want to sit by the window?” she asked. “I like the way the resort looks at night.”

He nodded, and together they dragged a pair of overstuffed cushions to the wide, glassed-in ledge that overlooked the resort. The city sparkled in the valley below, a scattered handful of lights that looked like a signal from another world.

They talked for a while—about nothing and everything, memories from childhood, old movies, the weirdest things they’d seen on the show so far. Emi laughed more than Andy remembered, her hands animated as she recounted a story about teaching a class of five-year-olds to fold origami animals. She confessed that she sometimes named the cranes and kept them in a shoebox, giving each one a backstory before setting it free in the wind.

Andy asked if she still fell into her reveries. She said yes, but not as much anymore. “The more I’m here,” she explained, “the more I want to be awake. The dreaming is nice, but it’s not as fun as being with you and the others.”

Andy felt his heart stutter, then settle into a faster, happier rhythm.

He looked at her, really looked, and saw for the first time how much she’d changed since the beginning of the show. She was still dreamy, still shy, but there was a new confidence in the way she spoke, the way she moved. The six arms were a part of it, but the rest was pure Emi—a girl who was slowly learning to be more than just a background character in someone else’s story.

He said as much, and she smiled, leaning her head against his again.

As the hour grew late, Emi’s eyes began to droop, her hands finally still. She curled up beside Andy on the window seat, letting herself drift, her body and mind at rest.

Andy watched her for a long time, trying to memorize the moment. He looked at the painting and thought of the river, the bridge, and the three kids sitting by the water, forever unbroken. He wondered if, in some other world, they’d all stayed together, if the story had played out the way it was supposed to.

He closed his eyes and let the city lights blur, Emi’s warmth seeping into him until the last memory of sadness flickered out, replaced by a soft, persistent hope.

Sometime around midnight, Andy woke to the realization that he was not alone in his bed. There was a hand on his chest, another on his hip, and a third draped lightly over his throat, warm and pulsing in time with his heart.

It took him a moment to orient himself. Then he remembered: the night spent painting and talking, the slow-motion drift to the master bedroom after they’d both realized there was nowhere else to go. The awkward but honest ritual of brushing their teeth side by side. The way she’d folded herself around him on the mattress, arms coiling and uncoiling until they found a configuration that let them both breathe.

He was used to waking alone, or worse, waking to the cold echo of memory. He was still learning to wake up with someone in his bed. But this was different. It was as if every inch of his body had been mapped out, accounted for, touched with purpose. There was nothing accidental about the way Emi slept.

He glanced down. Even in the dark, he could make out the arc of her spine, the tangle of arms, the perfect, uncanny stillness of her face. She was beautiful. Not just in the way most people meant it, but in the way a river was beautiful—restless, inevitable, its own perfect logic.

He was about to drift back to sleep when he felt her shift beside him.

“Are you awake?” Emi whispered, her voice so soft it was almost part of the dream.

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

For a while, they just breathed together. Andy was aware of every point of contact—her knee against his thigh, the press of her cheek to his shoulder, the ghost-touch of six fingertips tracing circles on the back of his hand.

Then she spoke again, even quieter: “Did you mean it? What you said yesterday?”

Andy turned, propping himself on one elbow. “About what?”

Emi bit her lip, her hands fidgeting in a low, anxious orbit. “About… wanting to see what I could do. With the Hexasutra thing.”

He remembered the walk with her and Dawn, Emi’s sheepish admission that her new skillset included “techniques only possible with this many arms,” the way she’d blushed to the roots and immediately changed the subject. He’d thought about it more than once since, but had assumed she’d been joking.

He smiled. “I meant it,” he said, then hesitated. “But only if you want to. I don’t want you to feel—”

Emi cut him off, pressing two fingers to his lips. “I want to.” She swallowed, all six hands knotting in front of her. “I just… I’m nervous. I’ve never actually—” She stopped, then **** it out. “I’m a virgin.”

Andy blinked. He’d never thought about it, one way or another. “That’s okay,” he said, meaning it.

Emi’s tension eased, her hands relaxing their grip.

“I’m scared I’ll do it wrong,” she said. “Or that it’ll be weird. Or that you won’t like it.”

Andy reached out and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing the curve of her jaw. “Emi,” he said. “There’s no way you could do it wrong. I already like you. A lot.”

She looked at him, **** and honest in a way that made his heart ache.

“Show me,” she whispered.

He did.

The beginning was tentative—a pair of explorers, each uncertain not only of the landscape, but of every compass point in themselves and each other. Emi held herself in, trembling and almost reverent, as if the moment would vanish at the slightest wrong move. Andy mirrored her hesitance, letting her set the rhythm, letting her be the one to decide at which moment to cross each new frontier. Their kisses were feather-light, brief, like the brush of petals against lips, until they weren’t: until the dam broke and the world rushed in. Emi’s six hands found their map, three symmetrical pairs covering his shoulders, his flanks, his wrists and spine, each set discovering a new contour and holding it as if in proof that he was real, that she was real, that this had truly come to pass.

She was smaller than he remembered. Or maybe it was that her presence had always been so outsize in his mind—a moon orbiting his every thought—and now, in this intimate scale, every detail was magnified. The way her nose flattened slightly when she pressed it against his cheek. The thrum in her pulse when her fingers brushed his jaw. The shyness in her eyes, endlessly at odds with the boldness of her hands.

It was Emi who broke the rhythm, who changed the rules. She drew back a little, breathing hard, her face lit in the faint glow of the city outside the window. She cupped both sides of his face with two hands, steadying herself. In that moment, her eyes were huge, dark enough to fall into.

“Is this okay?” she asked, so softly that her words seemed to hover between them in the air, a fragile invitation.

Andy felt the words “more than okay” in his chest before he said them, the relief and hunger escaping him in a shudder. “It’s perfect,” he said.

She smiled like he’d just granted her a wish, and then she did something unexpected: she gathered all six hands, lifting his right hand from where it had been resting on her thigh. Gently, she guided it to her breast, pressing his palm there and covering it with two of her hands, like they were making a pact, or shielding something precious from the world.

Andy’s mind short-circuited. It wasn’t lust exactly, but a kind of awe. He’d seen her in tank tops, in sports bras, in the half-revealed, teasing flashes of their games, but this was different. The shock of skin-to-skin, the impossible softness, the heat of her through the thin fabric of her shirt. He felt her nipple bead beneath his touch, and without meaning to, he pressed in, curling his fingers, and heard Emi’s breath catch—a tiny, involuntary gasp that sent a spike of adrenaline through him.

Master touched her boobs! +2 VP

Emi’s hands guided his again, bolder this time, one hand at the small of his back, another in his hair, two more sliding beneath his shirt and up along his ribs, while the last two slipped inside his pants, stroking his cock with a feather-light touch that drove him insane. She was everywhere at once, tracing old bruises, cataloguing every scar, as if she could memorize him by touch alone.

Their kisses grew deeper, more certain, Emi’s lips parting under his, her tongue a whisper of want. She let her head fall back, yielding to him, surrendering in a way that made Andy’s whole body tense with the urge to protect and cherish her. With every movement, her hands seemed to discover a new function: one set massaged his scalp, another pressed into the muscles of his neck, another fanned out across his chest, steadying his heartbeat and then matching it with her own. The overload was total, and yet he’d never felt more present.

Andy didn’t want to rush, didn’t want to skip any part of the experience, but Emi was insistent, her body arching into his, her hands greedy for more contact. She unbuttoned his shirt with mechanical efficiency, then shed her own, never once breaking the rhythm of their kiss. Her skin glowed in the citylight, pale and almost luminous, goosebumps running from her collarbone down to the hemispheres of her breasts.

He hesitated only long enough to take her in, the surreal beauty of her, the oddity of six arms somehow amplifying her vulnerability instead of diminishing it. She read his hesitation as uncertainty and paused, worry crinkling her brow. Andy kissed her, slow and gentle, as if to say You’re perfect, don’t stop.

She didn’t.

The pace quickened. Emi’s hands slipped lower, tugging at his waistband, two hands bracing at the small of his back to pull him into her. The sensation of being surrounded was overwhelming—no matter where he focused, there was always the ghost of another touch, another caress, another gentle command. She undressed him with a competence that, for a virgin, was almost comical; her embarrassment showed only in her flushed cheeks and the way she sometimes bit her lower lip to keep from giggling.

He tried to reciprocate, to give her back the same intensity, but he was hopelessly outnumbered. He focused on her breasts, on the softness of her stomach and the ticklish point where her hip met her thigh. Every time he pressed somewhere new, Emi made a sound—a gasp, a moan, a breathless oh—that told him exactly what she liked, what to do next.

When he finally slid his hand between her legs, she stiffened, just for a second, then relaxed completely, her whole body melting into the mattress. Her own hands followed his, two of them showing him what felt good, another two twisting into his hair, the last two stroking his back in time with his movement. She was a symphony of sensation, and Andy was learning the notes as he played.

He took his time, mapping her reactions, learning which spots made her arch, which made her shudder, which made her whimper his name. He was so caught up in her that he hardly realized he was shaking, too. The buildup was slow, but the crescendo was sudden: Emi’s hands stiffened, her breath caught, and she came with a clean, silent intensity, her whole body rippling around him. She buried her face in his neck, all six hands holding him as if anchoring herself to the earth.

Andy lay there, stunned, until Emi’s laughter bubbled up, bright and astonished. “I didn’t know it could be like that,” she whispered.

He grinned, then kissed her again, as if to say, Me neither.

Master brought her to orgasm (manually)! +2 VP
First! x2

She didn’t wait long before reciprocating. This time, Emi took the lead, rolling him onto his back and straddling him, her hair falling in a curtain around his face. With a shy but determined look, she guided his cock to her, positioning herself with all six hands, then sliding down on him in a single, heart-stopping motion. Andy gasped, the sensation a shock of heat and softness and impossible, clenching tightness.

She was exquisite, her hips moving in slow, deliberate circles, her hands bracing on his chest, his shoulders, his arms. She used him, and somehow gave herself to him at the same time. Every movement was deliberate, a choreography of pleasure designed to drive him insane. He couldn’t keep up, couldn’t anticipate what she’d do next, and that was the point: Emi was in charge, and she was learning fast.

He tried to focus on her, to give as much as he got. He ran his hands over her body, marveled at the way her skin shivered under his touch. He explored the contours of her back, the sensitive dip at the base of her neck, the inside of her thighs. Every time he did something that made her gasp or moan, she rewarded him by redoubling her efforts, her hands working in concert to drive him insane.

It was a sensory overload. He could barely keep track of what was happening—one hand on his cock, one cradling his balls, another stroking his inner thigh, two more kneading her own breasts, the last teasing her clit as she pressed her body against his. It was impossible, and perfect, and when Emi finally guided him inside her, he almost cried with relief.

Played with boobs in front of the Master! +2 VP
First! x2

Her confidence grew with every thrust, every sound he made, every time he looked at her and saw the naked want in her face. She was a poet, a dreamer, but here she was grounded, elemental. She bent to kiss him, hair damp against his cheek, then straightened and rode him harder, her hands digging into his hips, his abs, his scalp. Emi’s hands never stopped moving, and every time Andy thought he might be getting close, she’d slow down, change the angle, squeeze him in a way that made him see stars. She was a natural at this, he realized, and her Hexasutra transformation had only amplified her instincts.

But even her best efforts could only delay the inevitable. Andy bucked unconsciously, unable to hold back, the pleasure cresting in a dizzying wave.

He tried to warn her, to tell her he was close, but Emi only smiled, slowing her pace, squeezing him with impossible, milking precision. She wanted him to last, and so he did, floating in the endless now, every sense attuned to her.

It was the most intense orgasm of his life, and for a moment he forgot everything: the hotel, the contest, the years of guilt and longing. There was only Emi, her body wrapped around his, her hands holding every piece of him together.

He lost track of time. He lost track of everything except the feeling of her body around him, the tangle of arms and legs, the wet heat and **** sounds they made together.

They found a rhythm together, a slow-building crescendo that felt both infinite and immediate.

When Emi came, she did so with a shudder that started in her toes and radiated outward, her arms tightening around Andy until he could barely breathe. She moaned his name, the sound muffled against his chest, and Andy let go, spilling into her with a rush that left him shaking.

Had sex with the Master! +5 VP
Master came inside her! +2 VP

They stayed like that for a long time, Emi curled beneath him, their bodies stuck together by sweat and something deeper. Her hands, so active a moment ago, now lay limp and spent across his skin. She looked at him, her eyes wide and glassy, and for the first time in his life, Andy could see her truest self—completely, unconditionally, and without judgment.

He stroked her hair, brushed a thumb across her cheek, and said, “If that’s what you can do with six arms, I hope you never get rid of them.”

Emi laughed, the sound bright and real. “If I can make it so people won’t stare, I don’t want to lose them either. Not now.”

Andy smiled, kissing the tip of her nose. “Deal.”

They drifted into a comfortable silence, the afterglow settling over them like a second blanket. Andy closed his eyes, feeling the weight of Emi’s body, the press of her arms, the slow return of his own heartbeat.

He didn’t know what would happen tomorrow, or the day after, but for now, he was content to exist in this impossible, perfect moment—a tangle of limbs and laughter, two survivors making their own kind of sense in a world that had never bothered to explain itself.

He held Emi close, and this time, when he fell asleep, he dreamed not of the past, but of all the mornings yet to come.

Andy woke to the sensation of many hands at work. For a moment, in that syrupy, post-dream state, he thought he’d been turned into an art project—limbs arranged and adjusted, his body being positioned for some elaborate still life.

Then he registered the warmth against his side, the weight across his thigh, and the rhythmic, practiced movements of Emi’s hands as they caressed him from head to toe.

He opened one eye. Emi lay propped on her elbow beside him, hair tousled and skin flushed in the gentle, island morning light. Her lower right hand traced idle circles along his calf and inner thigh, while her uppermost set explored his chest and shoulders, kneading away any vestige of tension he might have had left. The middle pair, though, was focused: one hand curling around his morning erection, the other teasing just beneath the head, all of it so dexterous and gentle that Andy was already half-hypnotized by the sensation.

“Good morning,” Emi whispered, her voice laced with laughter. “I wanted to see if I could make you wake up with a smile.”

Andy tried to protest, but the best he managed was a grunt, somewhere between gratitude and surrender. “You win,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’m awake.”

“Not yet, you aren’t,” Emi said, and then she doubled down.

The next few minutes were a blur of hands and mouths and movement, Emi’s entire body orchestrating a slow crescendo that left Andy panting and, when he finally climaxed, entirely undone. She laughed, delighted by his response, and before he could even catch his breath, she was kissing him—soft, happy, her lips sticky with affection.

Handjob! +3 VP
Achievement unlocked! Six Arms, No Escape +5 VP

After, they lay together in a puddle of limbs and contentment, Emi’s hands tracing lazy lines across Andy’s stomach as if she could write out her dreams on his skin.

“You’re incredible,” Andy said, still dizzy.

“I know,” Emi replied, grinning. “But so are you. Not everyone can keep up with this.” She wiggled her six arms in a silly dance.

Andy reached out and captured her, pulling her close. They fit together better than he could have imagined. He found himself wanting to keep her there forever, locked in that perfect, golden slice of morning.

Eventually, the need for coffee and civilization became too much to ignore. They peeled themselves from the sheets, Emi giggling as she untangled her arms and legs from his, and wandered naked to the en suite bathroom.

The shower was another adventure. Emi showed him, with much laughter, that she could both soap herself and him, and wash Andy’s hair at the same time. At one point, three of her hands were shampooing his scalp while the other three drew smiley faces on the steamed-up glass. She pressed her body to his back, her hands everywhere, and Andy realized he might never be able to shower solo again without missing her touch.

“Most efficient shower ever,” Andy said, turning to face her.

Emi beamed, droplets running down her skin in sparkling rivulets. “I think I leveled up,” she announced, showing off by spinning him around and massaging his shoulders with four hands while the top pair washed his face. “I could get used to this.”

He turned, kissed her, and for a long, soapy minute they simply enjoyed each other—no pressure, no expectations, just the shared delight in being together, alive and unburdened.

After drying off, they padded to the kitchen, where Emi insisted on making breakfast. She cracked eggs, diced vegetables, and buttered toast all at the same time, her hands moving in a blur of cheerful productivity. Andy mostly watched, offering commentary and stealing bits of food as they were plated.

They ate at the counter, side by side, the island sun streaming in and warming the granite beneath their elbows.

“This is nice,” Andy said, halfway through a perfect omelet.

Emi nodded, then looked at him, her expression a little more serious. “I know this place can be… a lot. But I’m really glad I came. If it weren’t for the show, I’d still be in San Diego, drawing in my apartment, never seeing anyone but the Amazon guy.” She hesitated, then went on: “I’d never have seen you again. Not like this.”

Andy set down his fork. “I’m glad, too. I thought I’d lost you. For good.”

Emi took his hand—just one this time, her favorite, he could tell—and squeezed it. “Not anymore. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

They finished breakfast, cleaning up in a flurry of hands and teamwork. The suite felt different now. The memory of last night lingered, not just as a glow in Andy’s mind, but as a foundation. A promise.

As they dressed, she said, “Don’t be a stranger, okay? I know you have to see everyone, but… I like this. Us. I want to do it again. A lot.”

Andy smiled, a warmth rising in his chest. “You couldn’t keep me away if you tried.”

She kissed him, arms wrapping all the way around his back, and he was briefly reminded that her embrace was unlike any other.

As Emi gathered her things, she paused at the door. “Oh—Sam’s starting a new RPG thing. She wants to make characters this afternoon, and she said you should come if you want. Apparently, she convinced even Marissa and Norah to join. Which is a miracle.”

Andy laughed. “I’ll think about it. Sounds fun.”

“It will be,” Emi promised. “Sam says everyone has to play a character totally unlike themselves. I have no idea what she’s planning, but I hope you’re ready to be surprised.”

She left with a wave, her arms unfurling in a perfect goodbye, and Andy watched her disappear down the hall.

He stood for a long time in the quiet, letting the morning settle. He felt different—lighter, but also more grounded. As if, for the first time, he could see a way forward.

He looked at the painting Emi had left on the den table, the three children by the river, the bridge in the background, and felt a pang of gratitude so sharp it made his breath catch. It was a happy memory that had faded so much behind the harsh light of time and guilt, and Emi had restored it to him.

He finished his coffee, set down the mug, and went to get ready for the day, already thinking about what kind of character Sam would have him play.

Whatever it was, he knew he’d be better for having Emi in his party.