Intermission: Fan Mail (III), Part 2

Erin sprawled across the chaise lounge with the deliberate decadence of someone trying to out-stubborn a bad mood. The sky over The HH had played coy for hours, promising sun, then **** itself off in pewter clouds. The result was a diffuse, skin-crawling light that left her goosebumped and, increasingly, on edge. Her body was supposed to synthesize energy from sunlight. No one had mentioned what would happen if she was deprived of it.

She’d shed the shoes ten minutes in; now they lay abandoned in the shade, trailing gritty footprints that looked almost blue against the terrace tile. The rest of her—skin, hair, breasts, the whole naked stretch—was left unshielded to the elements, which wasn’t nearly as daring as it sounded, not when the only thing watching was a row of sullen hibiscus and a few palms. The other women no longer really counted, and Andy… she felt herself shiver at the thought. The mint green tint of her skin (a shade that, she admitted, could have been a lot worse) had taken on a faint sheen in the chill, like a waxed leaf fighting to stay alive.

Erin had managed, for the better part of the morning, not to think about the letters. The whole “letters from the outside” thing made sense, she supposed; give the rats in the maze a little contact high, see what they do with it. She’d told herself, several times, that she’d just wait for a patch of sunlight before opening hers, and when that failed, she’d settle for the next hot cup of coffee, and when that failed, she told herself she’d just wait until she felt normal again.

It was almost noon now, and she felt nothing like normal.

She stared at the stack—two thick envelopes, the paper already warped with humidity—and considered, for the fifth time, whether she should just throw them off the balcony. She knew they wouldn’t disappear, even if she did. She was stuck with them, just as she was stuck with the body, the transformations, the gnawing sense that every part of her life was now up for international scrutiny.

Erin sat up, her breasts shifting like a slow tide. She caught herself glancing at the biggest pair—Chloe’s, somewhere on the beach below—then looked away, annoyed at her own lack of discipline. She grabbed the first envelope. It was off-white, stamped with a wolf head in silver. The return address was just a paw print. She slit it with a nail, watched as a folded letter slid out—and, to her shock, a heavy object tumbled out and clonked her on the sternum.

It was a miniature rechargeable sunlamp. Not a sticker, not a coupon, not even a model, but a fully functional LED lamp, USB plug and all. The label on the side read “REAL SUN WAVELENGTHS!” in six languages, only two of which she recognized. Erin stared at it, then at the letter.

She smirked. “Okay. That’s clever.”

She flipped the sunlamp on; it made a soft, cool hum and a clinical, honest-to-god daylight beam that hit her dead between the eyes. She angled it toward her chest, already feeling a pulse of warmth. She let the sensation roll over her—comfort, surprise, a prickle of something like gratitude—and only then did she unfold the letter.

Hi Erin, My name’s Allie, I’m Mark’s wife. I think you might have met him, or her if she was Mary at the time, recently at Andy’s birthday party. I’ve got to say you’ve got some rough TFs—permanently nude and a plant girl. At least you have amazing orgasms with Andy watching. Cassandra gave me some of your backstory and I have to say, I’m glad you and Andy had a chance to reconnect.

Erin snorted, a dry, barky sound that wouldn’t have flown in her mom’s kitchen.

I honestly had a similar problem to you with Mark, where he just couldn’t open up and express his feelings all that well. Don’t feel bad that you and Andy ended things in the past. Communication is hard and sometimes it takes some space to learn just how much you care about something. Congrats on becoming his fiancee and I got you a gift. I’ve was told that the Harem Hotel store has everything and thought what better gift to get a burgeoning plant girl than a sunlamp. I’ve been told it qualifies as sunlight for all purposes of your TFs. Just one more reason to leave the lights on during sexy times.

Best Wishes and Mazel Tov,
Allie Asher
Master’s Beloved Wolf Waifu

She read the signature twice, then sat back and stared at the sunlamp, which was now casting an honest-to-god photosynthetic tingle across her chest. Erin felt her face heat—not from the lamp, but from a strange, unfamiliar cocktail of embarrassment and pleasure. She rolled the letter in her hands, smoothing the crumpled edge, then laid it flat on her stomach. Reading Allie’s words, she found herself absurdly grateful. The tone was a little chummy, a little blunt, but it was honest in a way that most things in her life weren’t.

She imagined Allie, somewhere in another universe, sending these out like care packages to every weird, broken wife or fiancee in the multiverse. The thought made her want to laugh, or cry, or maybe both.

Erin put the sunlamp on the side table, where it continued to beam, and opened the second letter. This one was red. The return address was a volcano emoji, which, if nothing else, showed style.

Inside was a two-page letter, the handwriting crisp, the lines perfectly aligned.

Erin,
Thank you for the invitation to Andy’s birthday party. My wife Harper has been looking forward to it for a couple of weeks now. I’m sure most of my harem-sisters will be writing (or recording video messages) to yours when they can. Harper has been watching episodes from your season as they come out.

[Here, two lines of scribbled gibberish]

Well, even after all of these years, I can still learn something new about what the show has done to me. Forgive the mess above, apparently, writing thoughts about why Harper watches is too close to diagnosing her. Regardless, I happened to have watched the episode about your latest date with Andy with her and will try to offer you some encouragement. I am sure you will see me at the party if you need to confirm this with your own eyes, but the audience was quite cruel to me, as your audience seems to be to you. Personally, I find the plant-girl transformation the least cruel thing they picked for you, but I understand your concerns about it quite viscerally.

Our season only had 2 voting transformation rounds before we triggered the endgame state (I can hear my mermaid mother-in-law [our season’s final Host] grumbling about [REDACTED] and Shar committing the grievous sin of mission creep right now). The second vote resulted in me becoming an oread. In case you are unfamiliar, I am the volcano equivalent of a dryad: my insides are mostly magma, I am covered in little chunks of obsidian growing out of my skin, and I can survive purely on geothermal heat, if I so wish, among other things. For the longest time, I felt like a fire monster. I will still have moments where those thoughts creep up, like when one of my bunny-girlfriend’s kids screech when they see me accidentally boil off a portion of pool water trying to help my mermaid-wife with her pregnancy pains (life is weird here, not that I would ever change it). But you don’t have to let those external factors dictate how you live. Sure, things will not be easy. My mom did not take me being like this well at all; we are still working through it. You are still you, under the layers of changes **** upon you. Who you are where it matters doesn’t change.

Being worried about the real world is legitimate, but I will point out that you have reality adjustment options in your shop. I bet, if you got one for being a plant-girl, you could probably bullshit your way to explaining away the rest of the weirdness. Just say it’s a part of plant-girl biology or culture. And, if you ever think you got it bad, you could always look at Harper’s transformation sheet. She ended up with over 30 of them, with several that would be considered punishments by a normal season’s standards.

I need to wrap this up to go get ready for the party. I am hoping to get some proper ballroom dancing in tonight. It’s hard to get more than a dance or two out of Harper at the usual court banquets. The joys of hosting such functions and needing to dance with 12 of us, plus some of the bunny-children are getting old enough to attend them too. Harper had to introduce the concept of dance cards here just to make life easier for her.

Wishing you well from afar (and see you soon),
Scarlet
Matron of the Order of the Silvery Moth
Proprietor of The Glittering Moonfire Spa
Third Wife of Tyalangan, 48th Queen of the Copse-Wood Throne

Erin set the letter on her knees and just stared, for a long minute, at the sky. She remembered Scarlet from the party: the way her obsidian-studded skin caught the light, the slow, deliberate way she moved through the world, as if nothing could ever shake her. Erin had envied it, a little.

She looked down at her hands. The green of her skin looked less alien in the strong white sunlamp. Her nails, never really cared for before, had grown surprisingly neat, as if the plant side of her was trying to make up for a lifetime of neglect. She flexed her fingers, watched the tendons move.

You are still you, under the layers.

She wondered if she believed that. She tried it on, like a borrowed jacket, and found it fit better than she expected.

Erin folded the letters, careful this time. She tucked them under the corner of the chaise lounge, where the breeze couldn’t get to them. She reached for the sunlamp, turned the dial all the way up, and let the white-hot beam wash over her.

It felt good. It felt real. It felt, for the first time today, like she could breathe all the way to the bottom of her lungs.

She closed her eyes and, very quietly, said thank you. To Allie, or Scarlet, and to the universe for giving her a moment of something that felt like grace.

She lay back, let her breasts settle into their impossible geometry, and drifted. For a while, she didn’t have to think about anything—not the next elimination or the gnawing terror of what she was supposed to do after all this was over. Andy had helped with that, but she still doubted. She’d follow Allie’s advice, she thought.

For a while, it was just her and the sunlamp, and that was enough.

Emi sat cross-legged on the edge of the north beach, the wind flipping strands of her bob into her mouth and eyes every time she tried to read. It was cool, but the sand retained the memory of an earlier sun, and after the volleyball and the mayhem of the Olympics, the beach had finally, blissfully, emptied. She picked this spot for its quiet.

Emi had her letter. It was heavy, thicker than the others she’d seen handed out, the envelope pale blue. She felt a pulse of happiness before she even opened it. She steeled herself, then slit the top of the envelope with a shell.

A stack of folded pages tumbled out, not one or two but what looked like a novella’s worth. And, as the wind caught them, they scattered in her lap and across the towel in a storm of color and hand-drawn lines. Emi’s heart tripped. These weren’t pages; they were children’s drawings. More than two dozen, most on printer paper, some on newsprint, some clearly torn from a school notebook.

She spread them out, using her six hands to catch each sheet before it could take flight. Each drawing featured her, or a version of her, in the pink and purple dress she’d worn at Andy’s party. She stared at them, dumbfounded: Emi dancing under streamers, Emi holding a bouquet, Emi with her arms full of kittens (three hands, for some reason, but the energy was correct), Emi and a blue-haired bunny woman sharing a birthday cake. Every artist’s name was written at the top: Rose, Mags, Riley Jr., Sweet Pea, Honey Jr., dozens more, each lettered in a parent’s patient, guiding hand.

Emi swallowed a sob. She tried to remember the last time she’d been drawn by anyone. Maybe never. Even her own parents, who’d loved her deeply, had never really noticed the details—how she always wore mismatched socks, how she chewed her tongue when she was nervous, how her hands couldn’t stay still unless she was holding something. But these drawings—these saw her.

The letter, neatly folded and tucked beneath the pile, was written in bright ink, in a calligraphy she instantly recognized.

Emi,

Thank you for inviting us to Andy’s birthday party. We all had a great time. And so did most of the family children; Tina let her kids have too much sugar and allowed the older ones to skip their lessons while I was getting ready for the party. Sometimes, it’s not fun to be a parent, like when you need to make them get back into their home schooling routine after “fun mom” babysits.

I hope you liked your origami cat statue. I took the liberty of letting the kids draw you in your party dress during art time. I am sending you copies. They did so well!

May the Lady of the Dance watch over and bless you,
Skye
First Wife of Tyalangan, 48th Queen of the Copse-Wood Throne
Royal Steward

Emi pressed the letter to her chest, all six hands shaking. She remembered Skye from the party: the way she laughed with her whole face, the way her nudity (so casual, so normal) had made Emi want to be brave, too. The metal origami cat, which Emi had received from Skye during the party, still sat on her bedside table. She had admired the crispness of the folds, the way it seemed to almost move when you looked at it sideways.

She gathered the drawings and started through them again, slower this time. Each picture was a mirror, distorted and weird, but impossibly kind. Some had gotten her hair wrong; some made her arms too long, or gave her cat ears (which, if she was being honest, looked good on her). But every one had made her smile huge and her eyes bright, and that was the thing that made her want to cry. Even in the messiest, wildest versions, she looked happy.

She flipped through them, savoring the differences. She loved how one of the children had drawn her as a superhero with a cape made of pink frosting. She loved how another one had drawn her as a sorceress, each arm wreathed in little yellow lightning bolts. She loved how yet another child had filled the whole page with her dress, then squeezed a tiny, blushing Emi into the bottom corner, as if shy to admit she belonged in the picture at all.

Emi wondered if, someday, there would be a child who drew her like that. She wondered if she’d ever feel so loved by someone small and chaotic and utterly honest.

She wiped her eyes on her shoulder, then flattened the pages side by side on the towel, letting the breeze riffle the edges. She decided, on the spot, that she would write Skye back. She would draw something in return, maybe for all the kids. Maybe she’d try to make them laugh, or maybe she’d just say thank you a hundred times. For once, the world felt soft and silly and safe. For once, she was just a girl, sun-warmed and loved, sitting on the sand with a pile of pictures to prove it.

Emi took a slow breath, savoring the salt in the air. She tucked the drawings into her bag, folded the letter carefully, and promised herself she would send a reply before the sun went down. She would tell Skye how perfect the drawings were, and how, in this moment, she felt like the luckiest girl on the whole island.

She leaned back and closed her eyes. For a minute, Emi let herself imagine the dance Skye wished for her. She saw it clearly: the music, the swirl of a dress, the blur of six happy hands. She didn’t know all the steps yet. But she was getting to learn.

Marissa claimed her seat on the driftwood like a queen on a makeshift throne: feet planted, knees apart, the hem of her wrap dress just barely skimming her thighs. She’d chosen this log deliberately—a little apart from the others, close enough to hear the roll of the tide, but distant enough that the conversation at the beach cabana was just noise. The breeze was cold; she liked the way it made her skin tingle, the way her hair stuck to her neck and cheeks in damp black ribbons.

She watched Emi, a few hundred feet downshore, fussing over a sheaf of papers and lining up the pages as if assembling a legal brief. Marissa wondered if she’d ever seen anyone so genuinely delighted by a letter. She envied it, a little. Letters, for Marissa, had always been vectors for worry—hospital bills, legal filings, awkward reminders from her sister’s various schools.

She eyed her own letters. One was cream-colored, the other a very businesslike blue. She could smell perfume and something faintly mineral even before she unsealed them. The first, when she opened it, spat out a small, amber glass bottle that rolled twice and stopped against her bare ankle. Marissa snatched it up, uncorked it, and gave it a sniff.

Massage oil. Scented with sage, vanilla, and just enough musk to make her think of bedsheets in the dark.

She smiled. It was the sort of gift she would never buy herself, but she immediately understood the message: take care of your body, not just your brain.

She shook the envelope. A glossy, die-cut coupon slid out after: Valid for One Free Spa Day at The Glittering Moonfire Spa, with Matron Scarlet signed in an elaborate flourish beneath. She liked that. No fuss, just straight to the point.

The letter itself was, predictably, from Scarlet:

Marissa,

First, I would like to extend our thanks for being invited to the celebration. I enjoyed meeting you and the others. Harper and I kind of had a fight when we got back. I really should have figured out why she planned for three new wings to the castle “for symmetry” when we only needed a wing for the harem and a wing for the harem nursery. She at least came clean to all of us when I called her out for all of those little “Host in training” whispers we heard. Now that it’s out (and we had to sign some NDAs), I get why she kept things quiet. I am still a little bit annoyed that she was bearing that burden on her own. And even more annoyed at Ms. E for putting her in that position without letting us all talk about it first. Most of us would have agreed, if the situation was explained. If Andy is foolish enough to agree to something like that, don’t let him keep it secret.

By the way, mermaid childbirth is horrific to watch. Not for the faint of heart. Daphne and the kids are okay, at least (though Daphne is disappointed at how much her “egg sacs” deflated after the kids were extracted). They look so much like her, except absolutely covered in kraken gore all the time (seriously, all they do right now is eat and sleep in there). Harper doesn’t want the kids on the Hotel’s film until they can consent as adults, so I can’t share any baby pictures.

Between Sam’s transformation and Dawn’s, I don’t exactly know what to send as a little token of appreciation. Attached is something to tide you over until your inevitable visit.

Wishing you well from afar,
Scarlet
Matron of the Order of the Silvery Moth
Proprietor of The Glittering Moonfire Spa
Third Wife of Tyalangan, 48th Queen of the Copse-Wood Throne

Marissa re-read it, lips twitching at the bluntness. She didn’t know why, but she found it comforting—the way Scarlet just put it out there, no filter, no therapy-speak. The business with the Host-in-training was news, but not entirely surprising. Marissa had sensed, from the moment she’d met Harper, that the woman was more than just a pretty face with a tactical mind. She wondered, briefly, if Andy would one day want to take on that kind of burden. He had a knack for leadership, even if he hated it.

She pressed the coupon between her palms, imagining what it would be like to actually relax, to let someone else take care of the knots for once. She knew she wouldn’t use it, not now, not with everything hanging in the balance, but it was good to know the option existed.

She capped the oil, set it in the sand, and turned to the second letter. This one was thicker. When she tore it open, a fan of pages spilled out, each one a spreadsheet of sexual acts and corresponding point values. Marissa’s eyebrows shot up. She scanned the first page: First-time oral, partner initiates—2 to 5 VP, Group scene, all parties climax—3 VP per participant, BDSM scene, aftercare provided—2 VP bonus. Some of the rows were highlighted, some crossed out with heavy, frustrated pen.

She smiled. She could imagine the person who compiled this, hunched over a desk, hair pulled back, making careful, angry notes.

She found the letter proper, written in heavy blue ballpoint:

Greetings Dr. Holt,

My name’s Hilde. Sorry, but I want to complain for a second, it is utter bullshit that Cassandra has me writing you because I’m the oldest one in my harem, and you have that MILF energy. Multiple people in my harem are older than you, and I’m physically younger than them, even if I’m older than both harems put together. Sorry, rant over. I want to give you some advice and ask for your professional opinion about an issue I’m facing.

First, the advice. I’m a former contestant, turned staff member, turned contestant. I’ve seen a LOT of seasons. Rule one: don’t get eliminated. Seriously. It seems simple, but no matter what you have to do to avoid it, do it. My sister was eliminated. I’ve been told you might have even seen one of her bodies at Andy’s party. I was told you have one more **** elimination coming up, but there is a way to veto it with three achievements. Figure out how to get someone to three and have them take a dive. Have everyone donate VP to them if you have to. Because that is Rule two: don’t let anyone else get eliminated. Apologize later if you have to, but get everyone over the threshold. I’m sure Claire can make a checklist of things to get VP when you get close to the final round. Actually, I’ll send you a list of things that I’ve seen grant VP, with this letter. Now, luckily for you, Andy is a stand-up guy, if a bit stuck in his head, timid, and unable to commit to action at times. But seriously, I can’t stress this enough, especially with your extended lifespans, avoid elimination for everyone, you don’t want to live with centuries of regret, take it from experience.

Now I’d like advice. Recently, something happened to me, and it wasn’t really anyone’s fault. One of the other contestants made me fall in love with her. It’s one of her boons; it can’t be undone. The thing is, she wasn’t in her right mind when she did it, and she already has a girlfriend besides, our Mistress. My initial instinct is to try and forget about it, but it hurts. I want her now. I think it will fade with time, but it isn’t simply a crush. Her girlfriend is **** about me and her doing anything together. Suggestions on how to proceed?

Thanks,
Hilde Lundevall
Mistress’s Prized Mare

Marissa skimmed the list. The acts were exhaustive, some explicit, some surprisingly mundane: “make coffee for partner in bed—0.1 VP,” “spontaneous public makeout—1 VP,” “resolve emotional argument constructively—up to 2 VP.” She found herself grinning. There was a logic to it, a kind of behavioral reinforcement she could appreciate.

But then her eyes returned to the request. Hilde had been made to fall in love, not by choice, but by some magical compulsion. The girl she loved was already taken, and the bond was both unbreakable and, apparently, not reciprocated in the way Hilde wanted.

Marissa felt her professional brain engage. She’d counseled clients through obsessive fixations, attachment disorders, the aftermath of trauma and abandonment. But this—this was something else. Magic, after all, didn’t care about therapeutic models or best practices. It just was.

She thought for a long moment, weighing her response.

She wanted to say: give it time. Most compulsions fade. The feelings might never go away, but they’ll stop burning so hot, so sharp. She wanted to say: find a way to talk about it, not with the object of affection, but with someone safe, someone who could help unpack the pain without re-traumatizing. She wanted to say: sometimes love isn’t about possession, or even reciprocation. Sometimes it’s just an ache you learn to live with, a scar that proves you survived.

She wanted to say: I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to want something you can never have.

But the more she thought about it, the more she realized that none of that was enough. Not for someone with centuries ahead, not for someone who’d already watched a sister disappear, not for someone who’d been **** to feel against her will.

Marissa pulled out her notepad, so she could write down her answer before copying it on paper and sending it. She started writing a reply in her head, even before her pen touched the page:

Hilde,

I believe you when you say it hurts. The fact that you are reaching out means you want to do right by everyone involved. That’s more than most people in your situation could say.

My suggestion is two-fold. First, don’t try to erase the feeling; that rarely works, and often makes it worse. Let it exist, but set boundaries. Find ways to honor the love without trespassing on the other relationship. Maybe that means being friends, maybe it means distance. But don’t let the pain trick you into thinking you’re broken or unworthy.

Second, talk to your Mistress’s girlfriend. She may be afraid that your feelings will create competition, or destabilize what they have. If you can communicate that you don’t want to hurt anyone, and that you respect their relationship, it might take the pressure off all three of you. Maybe, in time, you’ll find a place in their lives that doesn’t require you to erase your own heart.

And if none of this works? Give yourself permission to grieve. Not every story has a happy ending, but every story deserves an honest one.

—M

Marissa looked at the bottle of massage oil, the coupon, the thick sheaf of papers. She felt the weight of them: the pressure to perform, to keep the harem safe, to outsmart the system and avoid the pain that Hilde warned about. She wondered if Andy would have the courage to do what was necessary, or if he’d hesitate until it was too late.

She resolved, then and there, to do whatever she had to. No more soft-pedaling. No more pretending that someone else would step in to save them. She would bring the lists to Andy, and to Claire, and to anyone who needed to see them. She would keep the massage oil, but only as a reminder that sometimes, you have to let yourself be cared for, too.

She capped the pen, tucked the reply into her notebook, and stared out at the sea, letting the noise of the surf fill her head.

Norah was never much for sappy self-reflection, but the chair she’d claimed at the edge of the beach was doing its damnedest to **** the issue. It was one of those folding, sling-back numbers that cut circulation to the calves and encouraged you to contemplate the horizon with the kind of existential dread best left to philosophers and the dead. The sand was cold. Her feet were bare, the polish on her nails chipped from this morning's “aquatic wrestling” event, which she had not lost, thank you very much.

She’d posted up here to be alone. The other girls had scattered after the mail drop—Marissa with her spa kit, Chloe and Riley already arguing over which floaties to drag to the lagoon, even Andy had ducked out, probably off to save the world, or at least to have a panic attack somewhere private.

Norah stared at the two envelopes in her lap. One was normal-sized, the other bulged at the seams, so comically overstuffed it looked like it was about to detonate. She decided to start with the thick one, because she believed in doing hard things first. Also, because curiosity was one vice she’d never managed to kill.

She slit the envelope. Something inside gave, then fought back, then, with the sullen inevitability of a car airbag, exploded. There was a whoosh, a sand-scattering thunk, and Norah found herself staring up into the beatific eyes of herself—or, rather, a version of herself, rendered in archival pigment print at four feet by ten.

The fuck?

She leaned back, which was a tactical error—the chair almost dumped her, the print flopping forward to half-bury her. She fought it off, scraping sand from her hair, then took a proper look. The image was… she squinted. She, Norah Rahman, was in a cowprint bikini, with not two but six ridiculous, gravity-defying breasts. Each breast was at least a liter larger than her own, which was already, as Chloe would say, “an architectural challenge.” A pair of cartoonishly plush cow ears peeked from her curls, and a tail, complete with ribbon, curled behind her left thigh. There were boots. There was a cowbell. There was a lasso, coiled and dangling in a way that was almost obscene.

For a long second, she just stared. The wind rippled the paper, making the cleavage shiver in a way that was deeply disconcerting.

A sheet of paper had fallen to the sand in the chaos. Norah snatched it up, scanning the lines with mounting disbelief.

Norah,

Hi, your friendly neighborhood dungeon mermaid Daphne, at your service. I saw your “doodle” of me from my now wife Scarlet, so I thought I should say something.

Norah stopped and scanned the horizon, as if expecting to see a deranged mermaid paddling toward her in the surf. No such luck.

I am not a trout. I am a mermaid. I have way sexier teeth than trout have. Trout teeth are so tiny! And no self respecting mermaid would cover up their egg sacs like that.

Norah’s face went hot. She’d been drunk when she drew that “doodle,” a quick marker sketch, meant as a joke. She’d never expected anyone to see it, let alone a real, live mermaid with opinions about dental aesthetics.

Speaking of egg sacs, mine are so swollen and huge right now! Only a few more weeks of gestation before I can extract my kiddos from them and inject them in a kraken carcass my Beloved got for them to munch on. 4 years is a long time to hold your kiddos in your egg sacs. My Beloved comes and rubs some shea butter all over them regularly. It feels nice.

Norah sat back, nonplussed. She didn’t know if this was a flex, a humblebrag, or just advanced trolling.

While both of my wives may disagree with me, I think your giant egg sacs are so cool! I especially liked when you grew giant multiple sets of egg sacs! You looked so sexy like that. Like if someone filled up Nyadia like a pufferfish! Who cares if your weird human legs changed shape and size? All human legs are weird to me.

Norah tried to recall if she’d ever mentioned Nyadia in her letters. She had no idea who Daphne was referring to.

Since you made a doodle of me, I figured my gift to you should be in the same vein. I am not much for drawing, but I did commission the royal portraitist to make a piece of you cosplaying my favorite contestant of all time that I didn’t marry. The original is hanging in the Royal Art Gallery, but I did commission an appropriate frame for the art print I am sending.

Keep having big egg sacs (I love big egg sacs),
Daphne
Court Wizard (currently on maternity leave)
Queendom of Nimlith Grove
Fourth wife of Queen Tyalangan, 48th Queen of the Copse-Wood Throne

Norah looked at the print, hands shaking a little. If the original was in a museum somewhere, did that mean she was now immortalized as an erotic farm animal on some alternate dimension’s culture tour? The thought was so wild she wanted to laugh, or cry, or both. She put the letter in her lap and stared at the print. She should be mortified, and a part of her was, but there was something—she didn’t know, defiant? triumphant?—about it. If you were going to get clowned by a mermaid, at least you got a sick wall-hanger out of it.

She hoisted the print up, propped it against the chair, and sat beside it, arms folded, chin high. She let the wind flatten the paper, and dared anyone to comment. No one did, and that was better than applause.

She’d expected to feel shame, but instead it felt like armor. Like someone had seen her at her most ridiculous and said, “Good. More of that, please.”

She almost missed the second envelope, which had gotten tangled up in the folds of the her chair. She fished it out. It was an unassuming cream, sealed with a pale lavender sticker. She broke the seal, and a length of silk—real, impossible silk—slithered into her lap. It was a scarf, maybe five feet long, the color and gloss of starling feathers, shifting blue to purple in the changing light.

It felt almost wet, the way good silk does. Norah rubbed it between her fingers, then, on a hunch, imagined it in another color—hot pink, like Emi’s hair, or the green of Erin’s new skin. The scarf responded instantly, pulsing through the spectrum, then returning to the original color as if nothing had happened.

She felt her mouth twist into a smile, despite herself. She wrapped it once around her neck, letting the tails hang long. The chill of the air vanished, replaced by a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun.

The letter inside was written in tight, looping script, the handwriting of someone who had spent more time with a pen than with people.

Salutations Norah,

My name is Dr. Talia Winchester, high priestess of the Goddess Laura. First, I have to say, Goddess, you are smoking hot. I especially love your Eye of the Beholder TF. I’ll have to see if I can get myself something similar.

(A large line streaked across the paper, as if the pen had been yanked sideways in a fit of distraction.)

Sorry, got distracted by thinking about that TF, it’s just so hot.

Second, I invite you to join the Sexitarian Christian Church. Let Jesus and Laura into your heart and loins and be saved. Okay, now that my obligatory evangelizing is over, I want to say good job. You have handled this show far better than I did. I was such a wreck that I took a deal to protect my family that gave Mark the ability to rewrite ten things about me. I heard Andy has a similar power, but he can use it every round.
(Another line, longer this time, as if the writer had spilled something on the page.)

I don’t regret it exactly, but in hindsight I feel like I might have been too hasty. In any case, I got you a gift from our catalogue. It is a luxurious silk scarf. You can alter it with a thought, so that it matches any outfit. It does have another magical effect, but I’ll let you figure that out on your own, or maybe Arabella will tell you.

May the Grace of Laura be with you always,
Talia Winchester, PhD, PhD, PhD, PhD, DMA
High Priestess of the Resplendent Laura

Norah read the signature, then read it again. Four PhDs and a DMA? She wanted to roll her eyes, but the sheer audacity of it was… comforting, in a way. It was nice to know there were other freaks out there who’d doubled down on being extra.

She played with the scarf, imagining it as a sash, then a belt, then a headwrap. Each time, the color and feel shifted to suit her whim. She could see how this might get addictive.

Norah looked out at the ocean. The world felt bigger now, and not in the intimidating way. For the first time since arriving on this insane island, she had a sense of perspective. There were other universes, other harems, other women with weird transformations and weirder fates, and they’d survived, even thrived. She wasn’t special, or cursed, or uniquely doomed. She was just another player in a game that was older and more complicated than anything she’d ever imagined.

She ran a hand through her hair, then wound the scarf tight around her neck, just to feel the pressure. It felt good. It felt like armor, too.

Norah rolled up the ridiculous print, tucking it under her arm. She kept the scarf on. She didn’t care if anyone stared.

She looked back at the hotel, where Marissa was still reading on the log, and Emi was showing off her pictures to Claire. She thought about going back, joining the others, but the edge of the beach was nice. The wind was cold, but she was warm, and the letters in her lap felt less like a verdict and more like an invitation.

Dawn stood at the border of the beach and the hotel gardens, arms folded and ears flattened against the morning wind. She was facing the existential dilemma of the vacationer: sit and risk becoming one with the damp towel, or remain upright and let the breeze threaten every ounce of body heat she’d managed to accumulate since breakfast.

The truth was, she couldn’t sit. Not comfortably, not on her own. There was something about the transformation—a deep, cellular itch in her thighs and tailbone—that made any surface but a lap feel instantly, comically wrong. Every time she tried to park it on a towel, even if she fluffed it and patted the sand to her exacting specs, Dawn would last about three seconds before her body screamed get up get up get up, like her bones had been reengineered by IKEA for maximum dissatisfaction.

She’d been standing like this for five minutes, watching the others in their mail-opening fugues: Marissa in the distance, parsing her letters with the solemnity of a war tribunal; Emi, half-sunk in sand, clutching a thick sheaf of art and occasionally smiling at it while clutching it with all six hands; even Erin, naked and totally unbothered, sprawled on the nearest deck chair with her mail balanced on her knees.

Dawn glanced down at her own stack: two envelopes, one normal, the other so thick and lumpy it looked like someone had FedExed her a dead squirrel. She went for the normal one first, out of pure animal caution. She tore it open carefully.

Inside was a folded note, no return address. She braced for glitter, having witnessed Andy’s mishap, but instead something white fell out, landing on her foot. She picked it up: it was a sheet of thick paper, but the image was moving—a literal video on paper, right there in her hand, because apparently the mail here was one step away from being a Black Mirror episode.

As if sensing her hands on it, the paper flickered, then resolved into the grainy intimacy of a luxurious bedroom. Three animal-girls lounged on an enormous, rumpled bed. The camera angle was pure disaster: slightly too low, giving everything an accidental upskirt, but also somehow managing to make the girls’ faces look even more exposed.

Dawn recognized the bunny-girl first. Tina, from that video Sam had showed her. She looked utterly, existentially exhausted, the way Dawn sometimes felt after three double-shifts in a row at the Harrington. Next to her, a blue-haired tiger-woman sprawled, more animal than girl—furry forearms and shins, tail flopping lazily, fangs visible even when she wasn’t smiling. Dawn clocked the six visible breasts and did a double take, then had to look away before she could process the physics of the situation. On the far end, a muscled wolf-girl reclined with practiced nonchalance, abs tight, the lines of her body so sharp they looked carved.

“Hey, Tina, you wanted to record this,” the wolf-girl drawled, poking the bunny-girl’s tit with a blunt, affectionate finger. “Don’t pass out on us.”

The bunny-girl—Tina, apparently—moaned, but **** herself upright with a monumental effort. “Okay, my sexy predators, let’s do this. Hi, Dawn! Tina, Titan of Trickery, here, and I am soooo beat. Probably only going to need, like, a dozen orgasms before I can fall asleep tonight.” She laughed, then leaned into the camera, eyes half-lidded. “Oh, this is my wolf-girlfriend Josie and my cat-girlfriend Nyadia. Say hi, girls.”

“Yo,” Josie said, grinning. Nyadia only purred, then lashed her tail so hard the headboard rattled.

Dawn stared at the screen, totally unable to look away. There was a script here, somewhere, but the actors had all gone rogue. Tina launched into the message with no preamble: “Soooo, I was writing to Chloe to get some free parenting advice, you know, like you do with these fan-mail letters, and the thought occurred to me that you may end up in a similar situation as me. I don’t know about your bunny-girlness, but mine makes parenting kind of a challenge. Like, my preggers time is about 4 months and I give birth to 4 or 5 kids every time. And, since we use Honey’s egg transformation thing to have kids, my body doesn’t have to recover. Soooo, I miss my babies when they are super cute and I go fertilize a new egg and now I have 38 kids in less than 5 years. It’s crazy! Harper is a trooper about all of it and I get plenty of help but, when things like this party she’s going to with Skye and Scarlet pop up, I just get wiped out from all of the responsibility and stuff, even with castle nursery staff help. So beat!”

On cue, Tina collapsed back into the bed. Josie and Nyadia hauled her upright again. This time, the tiger-girl addressed the camera. “Apparently, as a former human, you may assume that your reproductive system works exactly the same as it did before. You may want to get examined by a physician that specializes in treating those with species-changing transformations, especially since there is a possibility that you may already be pregnant, given the show removing your contraceptions. I would also recommend that for your neko friend Claire, your kitsune friend Myra, and your alraune friend Erin. I know that if my pregnancy was shortened from the 6 months or so that my species undergo, I would like to know sooner rather than later.”

Tina moaned again, “So tired.”

Nyadia rumbled, “I was helping you take care of your kids, too. Mewlan was very annoyed at Delilah, if I recall.”

Tina sighed. “Sorry, cutie.” Nyadia leaned in and kissed Tina on the cheek. Tina responded by licking Nyadia back, who giggled in a surprisingly high, girly voice.

Josie, who had been quiet up until now, added, “If you go bug Dinah downstairs, maybe find someone else for Myra? Last kitsune doc interacted with (as far as we can tell) hurt her badly. At least tread carefully.”

Tina mustered up some energy from somewhere and turned back to the camera. “Okay, enough down beats! Dawn, love the cute new ears! They suit you so well! I still haven’t figured out if Arabella has you watch us react to those reply letters, but, if you haven’t, eargasms are where you climax from having your ears played with! They feel so good! Has your Andy guy given you one yet? How comfy is Emi’s lap? Ooh, are you going to start a horny bakery when you get back home? Give that Sally host girl a run for her money? I’m totally available for Insta-Thot sponsorships if you do!”

“Now that is an idea for Dawn’s present,” Nyadia purred. “You two get started getting Tina ready for bed. I am going to hit the larder.”

Josie yawned. “Might as well. See you in the morning, sweethearts.” She winked at the camera and slid off the bed, every motion calculated to flex as many muscle groups as possible.

Tina and Nyadia started making out with the kind of enthusiasm that felt as much like a demonstration as an expression of affection. Dawn, blushing furiously, moved her thumb toward the pause button, then realized there was nothing left—Nyadia had already snatched the phone and stopped the recording.

For a second, all Dawn could do was stare at the paper. She thought she heard the last faint giggle echo through it, but that was probably just her own pulse pounding.

Then, from the base of the towel, two one-gallon bottles materialized with a pop and a whiff of cold dairy. The labels read “Fresh Squeeze!” and the cartoon logo was a winking, cow-print woman pouring milk over her own cleavage. Each bottle was cold to the touch and nearly bursting at the seams with pressure. A smaller envelope accompanied them, bearing a photograph: a beaming, busty girl with long strawberry-blonde hair, a pair of tiny horns, and the most impressive breasts Dawn had ever seen, outside or inside the harem.

On the back of the photo was a note, in curly marker:

Much sweeter than normal cow milk. Less protein as well. Taste first, then adjust recipes accordingly.

Dawn gagged. Not at the milk, exactly—it was probably safe, given the HH’s record with consumables—but at the mental image of an actual woman, somewhere out there in the multiverse, being “milked” for export to other harems. There was a line, and this was so far past it she couldn’t even see the line anymore.

She stared at the video sticker for a few seconds more, then peeled it off the phone, rolled it into a tight curl, and buried it in the sand. If anyone asked, she’d just say she lost it. She’d also delete the video, eventually, when she wasn’t so fascinated by the way Tina’s ears twitched, or the little microexpressions of love that flared up between all the teasing and exhaustion.

Dawn moved on to the second envelope. This one was even thicker. She ripped it open, and a cardboard box tumbled out, nearly taking her toes with it. She braced for more milk, but instead it was—costumes. Multiple costumes.

She fished out the top layer: a classic “Playboy Bunny” getup, complete with ears, puffy tail, and a black leotard that promised to compress her ass to a density previously unknown to science. Beneath that: a “Sexy French Maid” kit, all ruffles and lace and a feather duster, which even came with thigh-high fishnets. A “Sexy Nurse” outfit, complete with a little heart-shaped stethoscope. Then a “Sexy Librarian” (what, just glasses and a pencil skirt?), and last but not least, “Sexy Secretary,” which was basically a blouse that didn’t quite button and a skirt that didn’t quite cover.

Dawn snorted. “Do they even make a ‘Sexy Concierge?’” she muttered, flipping through the box with a kind of resigned horror. Every outfit was tailored for someone about her size, and she could tell from the lining and the softness of the fabric that, unlike the “slutty Halloween” rack at Party City, these would actually fit and not chafe.

She nearly missed the letter at the bottom of the box. It was written on thick, embossed stationery, with a little bunny sticker on the corner.

Hello Dawn,

I’m a fellow bunny like yourself. The name’s Chloe, I hop you’re doing well. From the info I was given, you are a talented concierge at a rather large and busy hotel in Chicago. Impressive. I know a lot of people might not give you the respect that your profession deserves, but I know all too well that a good concierge is worth her weight in carrots. Andy is lucky to have you as part of his harem. I hop you won’t let others box you out of being with Andy as a real partner. You two seem good together. Also, this might be my host messing with me, but you and Emi seem to have quite the thing going on. Maybe ask her out. I believe in you.

Dawn sat back on her heels, already blushing. It was hard enough navigating the emotional minefield of the harem without strangers from other universes psychoanalyzing her. But the next lines caught her off guard:

Also, seriously consider helping Andi explore herself; not only is it an untapped gold mine of VP, but it might be a way to earn a unique position in her heart. Again, my host might be messing with me, but I’m getting some vibes that say you might not play in just one warren, at least as far as certain specific people are concerned. Even if I’m wrong, that might be something to consider spending BP to change, not for Emi, but for Andi. I know that if Mary, my sometimes Mistress, didn’t have a TF making all women attracted to her, I would probably get something to change my sexuality myself. Yes, I have a girlfriend already, but I can count on both hands the number of women I’ve ever considered physically attractive. Then again, if I’m with a person, I want to be with them completely, so with Mark being able to be Mary, I would do that. Regardless of what you choose on that front, I sent over a few outfits that you could use to WOW Andy. Cassandra promises that they will also always fit perfectly for anyone, even if you get a future TF that changes your proportions.

Keep on Hoppin’
Chloe Stapleton,
Master’s Bouncing Fuckbunny.

Dawn read the letter twice. She didn’t know what to make of it, not really. The first half felt like an HR email from someone who’d spent two years stalking her LinkedIn. The second half—the part about Andi—felt like an accusation, or maybe a dare.

Dawn had never really thought about her sexuality in those terms. She liked men, liked the simplicity of their bodies, the directness of their needs. But then, there was Emi. There was something about Emi that made her want to laugh and cry and hug all at once. The way Emi used all six arms to do everything, like one or two would never be enough. The way Emi sometimes brushed a strand of hair from Dawn’s face, then pretended it was an accident. And Andi—the softness, the quiet, the way she smelled different but still familiar, had left Dawn’s brain spinning for hours.

Maybe the letter was right. Maybe she did have a thing for more than just men. Or maybe she just liked the idea of liking people, whoever they were. She’d spent so much of her life working—so much of herself making things right for everyone else—that she’d never really considered what she wanted. Or, at least, she’d never said it out loud.

Dawn flipped the letter over, half-expecting a coupon for “one free trip to lesbian town,” but there was nothing else, except for Chloe’s bouncy, loopy signature.

She looked at the box of costumes. On a whim, she pulled out the bunny leotard and held it up to the light. It sparkled, just a little, and the fur on the tail was so soft she couldn’t resist stroking it with her thumb. She pictured Andy’s face if he saw her in this—he’d probably laugh, then go red, then try to act all cool while sneaking looks when he thought she wasn’t paying attention.

She pictured Emi in the French Maid costume, and her own face went red. That would be something.

She shook her head, a little dizzy from the sudden flood of images. She’d never thought of herself as a “harem girl,” not really. She was just Dawn, a girl from Berwyn who wanted her brothers to be okay and maybe, just maybe, to have a chance at something bigger than herself. But now, with these letters and these gifts, she felt more seen than she’d ever been, even by the people who loved her most. It was scary. It was nice. It was a lot.

Dawn folded the letter, careful not to crease the bunny sticker. She stashed the costumes in her beach bag, then gathered the milk and the paper video. She paused. She looked down at the towel, then at her legs, then at the horizon. Maybe she'd give sitting another try. She lowered herself onto the towel, and immediately the sensation crawled up her spine—that familiar electric itch that always drove her back to her feet. She dug her fingers into the sand beside her, grounding herself. Just a feeling, she reminded herself. Not pain. Not danger. Her right leg bounced involuntarily, a pressure valve releasing. She wouldn't last an hour like this—maybe not even ten minutes—but she could endure it for now, this small victory against her own wiring.

She smiled, ears unfurling in the breeze. She thought about Andy, about Emi, about all the weirdness and wonder that the future might hold.