Fan Mail (II), Part 2

The Hotel Library was the only place on the island where Claire felt truly invisible. There was no trace of the hum that accompanied the rest of the world, just the old, resinous hush of paper and dust. The building itself was a stone annex grafted awkwardly to the edge of the main gardens, a bunker for introverts—cold in the mornings, dry as old bones by three in the afternoon, and always about five degrees colder than the weather outside. Claire loved it. She loved the way her footsteps echoed, the little echo-squelch of her loafers, the peculiar lack of windows that made the whole room feel like a secret.

This afternoon, she’d claimed her usual table in the back corner. The tabletop was scored and nicked, stained at one end by a circle of varnish gone soft from the spill of a mug decades ago. Claire had lined up the four envelopes from the fan mail drop in a perfect row, largest to smallest, each at the precise angle of 22.5 degrees left from vertical. The sight would have made her father wince. It made her happy.

She started with the letter from Shar, because the handwriting was tidy. She slit it open and found, to her complete astonishment, a cat collar—actual black leather, with a small golden bell and a chrome-plated buckle. There was also a dime-bag-sized packet of what could only be catnip, the grains fragrant and slightly sticky in their cellophane pouch.

Claire set both objects to the left of her notebook, fighting down the urge to immediately categorize the plant matter by genus, species, and optimal humidity. Instead, she turned to the letter.

It read, in perfect looping script:

Beannachtai a's slainte.
You have done so very well, in finding secrets and in finding love. Bless you for helping Sam find her path and I hope you enjoyed my show. There are more secrets to find and seasons to watch, happy hunting. Cat girls are inevitable.
—Shar

Claire read the letter three times. She made a note in the margin of her notebook: cat girls = inevitable (underlined twice), then scribbled Beannachtai = Irish blessing, sláinte = ‘health’ but used as ‘cheers’—humor or genuine? She spent a full minute just turning the phrase cat girls are inevitable over in her head, blushing at its irrepressible correctness.

She picked up the collar and, on a whim, held it to her own throat. It fit. She caught her reflection in the brass of the light sconce above the table and, for a moment, didn’t look away. The bell was a little on-the-nose, but it felt appropriate for the collar.

Claire blinked and set the collar down, moving quickly to the second envelope before she could lose nerve.

This one was from a woman named Scarlet, and it was much heavier than the first. The handwriting was, she noted, a little less regular—slanted, with a leftward drift, as if the writer was fighting the pen every step of the way. She opened it carefully.

A rolled parchment slipped out, tied in the center with a fine silk ribbon the color of sunrise. Claire set it aside for the moment and unfolded the letter.

The letter was dense. Some parts of it smelled smoky. She read it as she would a primary source, eyes darting for context clues, scanning for subtext and then going back to the start:

Claire,

My Mistress wanted to write to you, but the time constraints she’s under this week kept her from doing so. She asked me to write to you in her stead and I am happy to do so.

For the sake of full disclosure, I know a thing about your season and have been sworn to secrecy about it. So, if I sound a little cagey (or parts of this letter are redacted), that is why.

Before I get to what Harper wanted to say, I want to offer some of my own words first. First, I hope my words are still timely by the time you get them. I have not had good luck receiving advice in letters. Sending unsolicited advice may work better.

You are so brave to jump in head first into the insanity of this show. To actually embrace the transformations like you have done. To put yourself out there for that Andy guy. He seems like a sweet guy. Keep going.
Having some experience with animal-girl ears (both my wolf-girlfriend and bunny-girlfriend got them), don’t shy away from letting Andy play with them. Assuming your transformation work like theirs, both of them can achieve orgasm from ear play alone. They both enjoy the experience.

Having some experience becoming non-human (I got turned into an oread), please watch yourself. Again, assuming your transformation works like mine, it’s not just a physical thing. It turns our mindset into something closer to that of our new kind. While I assume being more housecat-like won’t be too much of an issue for you (at least compared to my manic compulsion to see the world ablaze), you should be aware that it may be happening. We found that regular sex sessions tamp down those unnatural feelings, for what it’s worth.

Moving on to Harper’s bit, she wanted to help you understand something about emotional manipulation magic? Now, my magic is innate, so I can’t explain all of the technical aspects of it, but I can pass along my little experience as a target of it. When we were first kidnapped, we were heavily influenced by multiple control spells. **** movement. **** speech. Silence spells. Things like that. The speech spell in particular suppressed those emotions that would prevent us from stopping ourselves. While I haven’t had a chance to watch other seasons (we’re given little factoids to write these letters), I assume most hosts do something similar.

Harper’s gift for you is a little sample of that magical effect. It’s a Scroll of Calm Emotions. To use, have one or more targets stand within 60 feet of you and break the seal, focusing on a position on or around them. For this experiment, it would be best if you are outside of the range of the actual effect (which will be 20 feet around your focus point). The spell is perfectly safe and suppresses strong emotions for up to a minute (so long as you concentrate on the spell). Given your Silent Muse transformation, I would recommend Andy as your target, as you can best feel the difference in him when you use it.

Harper did mention that she sent Andy a stuffed fox plushy with a similar touch based effect if this gift was rejected or you need to see multiple instances of the effect to understand how it works.

Hope all of that helps. Rooting for you and yours from afar,

Scarlet

Claire’s ears flicked at the paragraph about ear play. She almost laughed—if she hadn’t already spent the last week evaluating her tail, her “transformation” and the endless permutations of what it could possibly do, the idea would have mortified her. Instead, she made a note in her notebook: Discuss w/ Andy, plausible. NB: avoid Marissa in presence of both. And underneath, unable to stop thinking about Shar’s gift: Catnip = curious. Did not know plant could be used in this manner?

She examined the scroll. She would not open it yet, not until she knew how it was triggered, of course. Claire’s heart raced a little, but she set the scroll aside with reverent care, smoothing the edges of the ribbon back into perfect order. Her mind immediately leapt to practical applications—how the spell might affect Andy (test: would his anxiety decrease, or would it suppress other emotions as well? Would it inhibit romantic feelings or just their outward expression? What did “rebound effect” mean in this context?)—and made a neat bulleted list in her notebook:

• Test w/ Andy, record baseline mood
• Try w/ Emi—observe effects in case of panic or overwhelm
• DO NOT use with Erin unless warning given
• Repeat test with self (if safe—need to check interactions with current transformation)

She would not have admitted it, but she itched to test the spell immediately. Instead, she moved on to the next envelope, a blue one, this time from someone called Stella Vincent.

The handwriting was atrocious, but there was something about the writer that felt warmly familiar, and Claire’s tail swished, pleased.

Heya Claire,

Man, there are so many of these goddamn shows running at once, eh? You’d think the perverts would get bored with seeing the same format over and over, but I guess not. Gotta hand it to the perverts, I guess.

So here’s the deal, I’m not autistic, but I am hella neuro spicy, got that classic ADHD spice going nuts pretty constantly without medication to deal (who can afford insurance these days anyways?). So I get some of the self-conscious, self-blamey, and broken headspace. Why doesn’t my brain work right? Why is this easy for other people? Why was I born like this? Why can’t I just be normal?

I felt like that a lot in school, like fuck, I can barely pay attention to what my friends are saying, and you expect me to listen to a teacher drone on about dates in history. Never mind that I read Les Mis as a lark on my own; my grades didn’t reflect that, so I must be fucking stupid. But I’m not! My brain is just running a different operating system. It’s not either of our faults that the world was designed for people with Windows, and I’m running Mac and you’re running Linux. Stop thinking about what other people can do that you can’t and start focusing on what you can do that they can’t! Like, jeeze, girl, give yourself a break. You got someone who loves you, friends that care about you, and you’re a cat girl! Fucking own it!

Peace!

Stella Vincent.

Claire read the letter again, then a third time, savoring the part about operating systems. She scribbled different OS, not broken in her notebook and bracketed it with a small, stylized heart. She liked the idea. Then, feeling uncharacteristically impulsive, she drew a cat face in the margin, complete with triangular ears and vertical pupils.

She moved to the last envelope. It was smaller than the others, and the handwriting was neat, almost old-fashioned. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, was a scarf—violet with scarlet at the ends, and so soft it felt, for a moment, like she was touching smoke. She ran her hands over it, letting the sensation settle into the nerves of her fingertips.

There was a letter as well. It read:

Miss Freeman,

I know that throughout your life, you have wondered about the nature of your mind. Your thoughts so obviously flow along different patterns from many of those around you, and such a divergence from the norm can oft seem a burden rather than a gift. The advice I offer to you is, as you have done with all that The HH has offered you thus far, to embrace what is yours. Your unique insight is every bit as much a blessing as the magic which connects you to Master Cooper’s heart. Continue to offer it to those who seek it, but remember that not all see the world with the same clear light as your pale blue eyes.

The members of your new family may not always walk the path you would guide them to, as you will not always find your steps on the trails they tread. This divergence of paths will lead you to treasures you could not find if your family walked in single file. It is the nature of a cat to roam, but cats are not the solitary creatures many believe them to be. Use your keen insight and intellect to lead your family to the rewards they would otherwise miss, and remember that what is obvious and plain to you might seem misty and obscured to others.

With great fondness, I offer you a boon in the hope that it can offer you a moment of needed peace.

J.

Claire felt her eyes sting, just for a second. She looked at the scarf again, then pulled it around her neck and let the ends brush against her ears. She imagined how she must look—a pale-haired woman with cat ears and a tail, in a room made of shadows, swaddled in the softness of a stranger’s gift.

She liked the way it looked, and she liked the way it felt.

Claire opened her notebook to the very last page, where she reserved her “pending correspondences.” She wrote, in small, even script, four notes—one for each of the letters she’d received. She planned to reply to all of them, even if the replies never found their recipients. It was the right thing to do.

Then she curled up on the armchair, scarf and all, and set to writing. Her tail flicked contentedly, the bell on the collar still on the table, waiting for her to decide if she’d dare to wear it for real.

Erin sat at the edge of the infinity pool, her feet dangling above the blue-black glass of the water, letting the breeze dry the sweat at her temples. She wore ripped jeans, a black tank top, and a thin gold chain around her neck, nothing fancy. The poolside table was cluttered with her morning haul: three envelopes, a hotel pen, and the mug of coffee she’d been nursing since breakfast. She’d come out here to be alone, but also because the pool deck had a way of clearing her head—something about the expanse of water, the perfect vertical drop at the end, the sense that the ocean below was just waiting for her to dive in and swim as far as she wanted, maybe not even come back.

The first envelope was from Shar. Erin recognized the script from the first fan mail drop—round, slightly old-fashioned, almost as if it had been traced by someone who wrote a lot of cards at holidays and hated making mistakes. She slit it open with her thumbnail, more curious than cautious.

Inside, something smooth and cool slid into her lap, impossibly big considering the size of the envelope: a harem outfit, pink silk, all filigree and shimmer. It was the color of ripe strawberries and the cut of a Victoria’s Secret ad from 1998. A little scrap of paper fluttered out after it. Erin set the outfit aside, then read the note.

You have indeed found your path, and I am glad to see you thrive upon it. You have turned a curse into a blessing and opened your heart. Mine swells to see the joy you have found anew with Andy. Be brave and strong in the trials to come, and know that I am rooting for you.

Shar

P.S. Enclosed is a return on your investment.

Erin flushed, all the way from her cheeks to the base of her neck. She didn’t need to read between the lines—she’d sent Shar a pair of her own soaked panties last mail round as a token of what she had planned to do about approaching Andy, before they reconciled. Apparently, the Host had decided to “return the favor.” Tit for tat, she guessed. The outfit was both a punchline and a dare.

She held it up against her tank top, watching the way the pink fabric caught the sun. She could picture herself wearing it—maybe not for the show, but for Andy, late at night, when nobody was around to laugh but him. She rolled her eyes, set the outfit in the shade of the chaise lounge, and made a mental note to at least try it on before the end of the next week.

The second envelope was fatter, and when she opened it, a double-barreled handgun thunked heavily into her palm. The grip was wide, the frame shiny as a mirror, and it had a cold, honest weight that surprised her. She turned it over, checked the chamber, then found a tiny label stuck to the trigger guard: “1911 Double Barrel ‘Second Century’—For Civilian Use.” There were two boxes of .45 rounds in the envelope, too, neatly packed in foam like a science experiment.

Erin stared at the weapon for a long time, not sure what to do with it. She’d never held a gun this big before; she’d never even fired one outside of summer camp, where the .22s kicked like angry birds and the instructors were old men with aviator sunglasses and frozen grins.

There was a letter, too. She frowned at the handwriting: all-caps, blocky, no-nonsense.

Hey, Bazongas!

Erin winced. She was never going to live that one down.

So, I’m a twice captured contestant on a different season. I think y’all’s season started after I got moved to my second (much better) one, so I don’t have much about y’all in the ol’ noggin’. Relying on our producer factoids, I see lotsa potential in you. So, let’s strategize on how to help you dominate the competition!

The key strategy is: get those first time points for doing it with your lady Mistress! You had 2 threesomes in 2 days, so you had to be at least a little okay with some girl-on-girl. Sooo many first time bonuses are up for grabs with Missy. First kiss. First fingering. First carpet munch. Even, dare I say, first handhold? You just gotta strike while the iron is hot and Blue is too “I can’t sleep with my hot new sometimes mistress ‘cause he’s my best friend” to go for it first. If you need to practice, I’m sure Li’l Kitty or Shrink will be willing to volunteer. Just don’t tell them the plan, right? As a side effect, that will make your season infinitely more watchable for me.

Gift time. I give out handguns. It’s my thing. Since you are a civvie, I figure you would want something less historical than the last two guns I gave out. So, here is a 1911 Double Barrel “Second Century”. Now, the grip is a bit wider than a normal 1911 (and it’ll kick like a mule), but you can double-tap with one trigger pull. I threw in a couple of boxes of .45 rounds so you can get a practice session in or two. Remember: you are responsible for every round you fire downrange. Pay attention to your surroundings. Hopefully, you have a cool host like Genet that will let you actually try out your new baby.

My mistress is an archery dork if you wanna double date at the firing range sometime.

Captain Matilda McMatterson

US Army Reaper Division

Erin snorted, shaking her head. “Bazongas.” She rolled the word on her tongue, half disgusted, half resigned. She eyed the gun again. It was ridiculous—nobody on the island was allowed to have weapons, as far as she knew.

But the more she examined the gun, the more she liked it. It wasn’t just a toy. The weight and precision made her fingers itch in a good way, and the thought of blowing off a few rounds at the range sounded more satisfying than she wanted to admit.

She set the gun on the table, lining it up perfectly with the envelope it came in, then read the letter again, this time out loud:

You had 2 threesomes in 2 days, so you had to be at least a little okay with some girl-on-girl. Erin shook her head, grinning despite herself. “People don’t get it,” she muttered. “It’s not about girls. It’s about Andy. Always has been.”

She reached for the last envelope, the smallest of the bunch, and opened it with more care than the others.

Inside was a jar, maybe two inches tall, glass with a black plastic screw-on lid. The label read “Raphael’s Balm,” in a looping script. It smelled faintly of rosemary, maybe mint. There was a letter, too—shorter than the others, and written in a patient, almost courtly hand.

Miss Delgado,

I take much delight in watching as you move to take your new sisters under your wing. Love shared is love multiplied, and you have performed that job admirably. The only advice I have for you is to ensure that you remember that when you share Master Cooper with your sisters, you must allow for the room in his heart as much as his bed. By no means do I suggest that you must stand aside passively—that seems hardly in your nature. Instead, I implore you to turn your passion towards the end of seeking remedy where hearts are injured, by forging bonds where gaps are found, and by knitting your family into a joyous whole. To that end, I offer you a small boon, which I hope will aid you in your endeavors.

J.

Erin read the letter again, her lips moving with each line. She touched the balm with her thumb, rolling the jar in her hand. The words stuck with her. Knitting your family into a joyous whole. It sounded corny, but it wasn’t wrong. In the last round, she had had Marissa first, and then Claire, join her in bed with Andy. In those instances, both women had focused on Andy, although she couldn’t deny there had been some light play. But that was the extent of it. And the weird part was, it all worked. Nobody got jealous. Nobody stormed off or threw a fit. It was… different. And with Claire, also kind of perfect.

She opened the balm, inhaled. It was sharp, almost medicinal, but not unpleasant. “A small boon,” she repeated, and made a mental note to look up the biblical reference for Raphael. Probably an angel of healing, if she remembered right.

She sat back, looking at the spread: red silk, cold steel, balm in a jar. Three gifts, three letters, each more strange and wonderful than the last.

Erin lined up the envelopes, closed her eyes, and thought about what came next. She pictured Andy, and the rest of the harem, and how they’d react to her new arsenal. She didn’t feel threatened, or out of place. She felt like she belonged. Like she was exactly where she needed to be.

She took another sip of coffee, then stood, gathering the gifts and tucking them under her arm. The breeze off the water ruffled her hair, and she let herself smile, just for a moment, before heading back inside.