Notes Between Waves

VP and BP Standings
Marissa - 46 VP - 2300 BP - 1 Achiev
Emi - 36 VP - 4750 BP - 1 Achiev
Erin - 33 VP - 3300 BP - 1 Achiev
Claire - 32 VP - 6200 BP - 1 Achiev
Sam - 18 VP - 3050 BP - 1 Achiev
Norah - 17 VP - 2500 BP - 1 Achiev
Dawn - 11 VP - 4000 BP
Liesa - 10 VP - 3500 BP
Chloe - 4 VP - 3475 BP

Andy lingered in the silence of the Master’s Suite after Marissa left, letting the residue of her presence—her perfume, the gentle warmth left in the cushions—dissolve into the golden hush of morning. The sunlight had climbed high enough to paint broad rectangles across the floor, and every polished surface, from the kitchen counter to the breakfast table, shimmered with the hint of something sacred. He poured himself a second cup of coffee, savoring it, postponing the return to reality for another minute.

A movement out of the corner of his eye punctured his reverie.

He turned. Katherine stood in her frame above the cold fireplace as usual, hair draped down her back, but her face was set in a look of concentration. Her palms silently drummed the inside edge of her painted glass like a Morse code operator.

He approached, mug in hand, and watched. She pointed, hard, toward the big windows, then drew her fist across her own painted eyes as if shielding them from light. She repeated this, then, with both hands, mimed the shape of something small and round. With a glance over her shoulder, she pointed to the mantel below her—specifically, the glass vase with a single, impossible red rose: the rose Shar had gifted Katherine in her mail, last week.

Katherine’s gestures grew more lively. She pressed both hands flat against the glass, drawing invisible lines between herself, the rose, and the windows, then back again. She studied his face, but his confusion must have been obvious because after a moment she gave up, slumped against the inside of her painted world, and let her face slip into the shadow cast by her own hair.

He set the mug aside and stepped closer. “I’m trying,” he said, quietly. “You want to go outside? You want the rose outside?”

She shook her head, no, then pointed up, toward the ceiling—toward the sky, maybe? Then, after a brief pause, she posed herself: arms at her sides, spine perfectly straight, chin lifted, her expression gone neutral and distant. It was the posture Arabella adopted whenever she made an announcement to the contestants. Katherine held it, then, after a moment, let it melt away and shuddered, her whole frame trembling.

“You’re talking about Arabella,” he guessed. “The rose—does it have something to do with her?”

Katherine nodded, relief and exasperation flashing in her emerald eyes. She repeated the sequence: windows, shielding eyes, rose, then she pointed to his jeans, then she played the Host pose.

Andy frowned. “Arabella… can’t see the rose? Or she doesn’t want you to see her?”

Katherine closed her eyes, exhaled, shaking her head in frustration. Then, with all the **** she could muster, she drove her fist into the side of the frame. When she looked at him again, her eyes were wet with tears, and she pressed her hands together, pleading.

“I’m sorry,” Andy said, voice breaking. “I wish I was better at this.”

He leaned in, so close the oil and canvas texture was visible beneath the varnish. He pressed his hand to the glass, a finger stroking the part of the painting that contained her cheek, and held it there until the coolness seeped into his skin.

Katherine lifted her hand, aligning her palm with his. Their hands met at the barrier—her painted, his real—and the illusion was perfect for half a second, like a trick of perspective, as if she might step out and stand beside him in the sunlight.

She smiled wanly, watery and radiant, and blew him a kiss through the unyielding barrier.

He left his hand there a moment longer, absorbing the silence, then stepped back. “I’ll figure out a way to communicate better,” he said, “I’ll find a way.”

She gave a tiny nod and retreated into her painted world, leaning against the frame, arms wrapped around her lower torso, Her hair spread around her like spilled ink. She looked out at him, sadness and hope mingled in the set of her mouth.

Andy stood in front of her for a long time, sipping cold coffee, listening to the ancient ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. He wondered how many years Katherine had spent trying to communicate with a world that could never touch her back.

The library was dead silent except for the pulse of the blue screen reflected in Claire's glasses.

She'd claimed the deepest reading nook hours ago, wedged between a wall of erotica anthologies and a shelf labeled “SCIENCE OF THE SOUL: Speculative and Nonfiction.” Now, slouched into a battered leather chair, she hunched over a tablet, her knees drawn up, the glow outlining her profile in lunar white.

Shar's Haunted Castle season, episode 163, stuttered across the tablet. Claire had the volume turned low; she relied on the subtitles, eyes tracking each caption with dogged precision. Shar’s season was an all-female season, and same-sex seasons were a minority in the universe that the Harem Hotel franchise seemed to be. It was easy to forget there was a world outside the screen. Even easier to forget, if you were Claire, that you’d meant to stop watching at two in the morning.

She was still at it at 10 a.m., her eyes rimmed red and grainy. The screen flickered with images that, even after the desensitizing effect of binge-watching, still managed to alarm her: the Mistress of that cycle had sprouted scaled dragon wings; her voice could command her harem to do what she wanted, although some could resist; she could even inseminate the other contestants and sire children. A former daddy’s girl and heiress to a business empire had been transformed into a literal cowgirl—ears, tail, and lactating breasts that looked more like a cry for help than a perk. Two contestants were shackled together by wedding rings, never allowed more than 10 feet apart. Another was becoming a cyborg, and yet another was a sprinkling of pixie dust away from flying to Neverland.

It was obscene. It was brilliant. It was terrifyingly watchable.

And, weirdly, everyone seemed happy.

She wrote, in a tight, looping script: "**** transformations ≠ misery. Host (Shar) maintains high mood, even for contestants w/ severe constraints. Why do they always forgive? Are Hosts allowed to adjust emotion?" She underlined the last phrase three times. The rest of the page was a patchwork of time codes and shorthand for notes.

The next page was diagrams—arrows, lines, stacked boxes labeled with acronyms, sketches of the various rooms and what access each character had at any given time. Below that, a list of possible systemic interventions: "1) pharmacological? 2) direct brain mod? 3) environment as mood reg? 4) social pressure."

Claire was nothing if not thorough.

She paused the episode, closed her eyes, and pressed two fingers to her temples. There was a low, steady throb above her right eye, the afterburn of too many screens and too little sleep. She could feel the weight of the notebook in her lap, the ballpoint imprinting itself into her thigh through the soft cotton of her pants. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it might be like to simply let go—to stop investigating, stop cataloguing, stop trying to out-think the system.

But that wasn’t her.

Still, and she needed some rest. She could help no one if she got herself eliminated because she was too tired. She shut the notebook with a snap, gathered her things, and drifted to the door.

Outside the reading nook, the world was blindingly bright. Light lanced through the window wells and spattered across the ancient stone floor. The air was cool, but dust motes danced like atoms in a sunbeam. Claire blinked, refocusing, and then started up the corridor toward the main building, her notebook hugged to her chest like a secret.

She nearly collided with Sam outside the hotel’s Banquet Hall.

Sam wore gym shorts and a Blue Bean Coffee t-shirt, and looked for all the world like she’d spent the morning deadlifting the kitchen island. She was eating an apple and scrolling through her phone with the other hand, but when she saw Claire, she immediately dropped both into her pockets and grinned.

“Hey, kitten,” Sam said, voice bright. “You look like hell. How long have you been awake?”

Claire stopped, hesitated, then flashed a peace sign—two fingers, palm in—and tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Don’t tell me,” Sam said. “You’ve been re-reading the Rulebook, haven’t you.”

Claire hesitated, then remembered Arabella’s admonishment, and nodded. Then she wrote, on the first clean page of her notebook, I think I found a loophole.

Sam took the notebook, scanned it, and then—slow on the uptake—looked back up. “Are you in trouble?” she asked, voice lowering. “Or is this one of your secret-cat things?”

Claire shook her head, then pointed at Sam, then at herself, and then at the main lobby. Curious, Sam followed her to the glowing panel of the Commissary. Claire mimed typing on the touch screen, then made a looping “come here” motion with her whole hand.

Sam approached the Commissary. The touch terminal was idle, waiting for input. Claire motioned for Sam to access her account.

Sam snorted. “I don’t know that there’s anything I want to buy, but… Knock yourself out.” She jabbed the screen, her name popping up. The menu unfurled, offering the usual lineup

CONTESTANT: SAM COLLINS / 3050 Bonus Points
OPTIONS:

1. Main Commissary Menu
2. Transformation Upgrades

Claire shook her head, then reached over Sam’s arm and, with two fingers, pointed to the top-right corner of the screen. “I’ve already updated the settings,” Sam protested, but Claire pointed again decisively. Shrugging, Sam opened the hidden Settings menu. “There, see? All nice and toggled on.”

Claire smirked, then pointed to the word ‘SETTINGS’ and mimed long-pressing it. Sam frowned and followed her suggestion, holding the touch for five seconds, until the screen flickered and all of a sudden, two more setting toggles appeared underneath the setting to display all purchasable items. Claire pointed to the first one, which said only “Interpersonal Vector Adjustment - Disabled.” The other one, Sam noted in passing, was even less illuminating: “Wildcard - Disabled.”

Sam blinked. “What is that?”

Claire wrote: It’s a special setting. IVA doesn’t work for most of us. Only you. She pointed at the toggle, then at Sam.

“Wait, you want me to turn this on? On myself?”

Claire nodded, eyes wide. She mimed crossing her heart, then wrote, I promise, no risk to you.

Sam looked unconvinced. She stared at the toggle, then at Claire, then at the toggle again. “You’re sure this won’t make me, I dunno, fall in love with Norah, or start a girl group with Chloe and Dawn?”

Claire scribbled, Only as much as you want to.

Sam took a deep breath, rolled her eyes, and toggled the option. The switch flicked to “Enabled,” and for a split second the screen shimmered, like a heat mirage over blacktop. Then, nothing.

Sam looked at her own hands, then at Claire. “Did it do anything? I don’t feel any different.”

Claire shrugged, then handed her the notebook: It doesn’t change you. But it changes how your Victory Points are scored.

Sam mouthed the words silently. “Wait, what does that mean? Does it mean now it wants me to do kinkier things?”

Claire shook her head and scribbled furiously. It’s a special mode. It’s designed for Contestants who are sexually incompatible with the Master. Removes their disadvantage.

Sam blinked, then let out a slow whistle. “So it’s the secret lesbian mode? That’s… actually badass.”

Claire made a face—half smile, half grimace—then grabbed the notebook and wrote, We’ll find out if it works when you interact with Andy again. If it doesn’t, we can always switch it off again. Don’t tell the others. This won’t work on them.

Sam grinned. “Your secret’s safe.”

Claire blinked, then patted Sam’s arm and turned to leave. But Sam reached out, grabbing her wrist gently.

“You okay?” Sam asked, voice lower now, more serious. “Really?”

Claire paused, then nodded. She wrote, I don’t know why this was hidden. Or the settings. But I also don’t know why Arabella allowed me to find them. And share them.

Sam considered this, then let her go. “Be careful,” she said. “Arabella doesn’t like it when people change the rules.”

Claire nodded again, and then, notebook under her arm, she vanished into the corridor, feet making no sound at all.

Sam stood in the Commissary for a while after, watching the blank terminal screen and wondering what kind of game they were all really playing.

Somewhere, buried deep in the software, the new setting pulsed: “Interpersonal Vector Adjustment – Enabled.”

Sam shivered, then grinned.

She really hoped this would make for a better story.

Sam wandered the inner gardens with her hands jammed in her shorts pockets and her mind replaying the moment with Claire. There’d been nothing, not even a buzz, after she’d flipped the hidden toggle—no sudden emotional superpowers, no harem-wide explosion of trust falls or late-night confessionals. Sam was half hoping for some kind of sign, a shimmer or a whistle or at least a weird tingling behind her ears, but as she drifted through the hibiscus archway and into the resort’s green heart, she mostly just felt the usual humid press of morning and the beginnings of a caffeine withdrawal headache.

She found Dawn and Chloe on a bench shaded by a crown of pink dogwood blossoms. Dawn had a knee pulled to her chest, chin resting on the top, her hair escaping its ponytail in a way that made her look fifteen and ancient at the same time. Chloe sat next to her, hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had gone bloodless. The two of them weren’t talking, just watching the wind tease the petals down in lazy drifts.

Sam almost kept walking, but then Chloe looked up, caught her with a quick, startled glance, and Sam saw the quiver in her bottom lip, the way her shoulders were drawn up as if waiting for a blow.

She rerouted, flopped onto the other end of the bench, and grinned.

“Hey. If this is a secret huddle, I want in,” Sam said.

Dawn snorted, but Chloe just managed a brittle smile.

Sam waited, giving the moment space, the way she’d learned to do at her coffee shop when regulars sometimes needed five minutes of company before they could speak at all.

Dawn reached out, placing her hand on Chloe’s arm. “Chloe’s just… having a tough day.”

Chloe’s voice was thin as a reed. “Sorry. I don’t want to ruin the nice morning.”

Sam shrugged. “I’d say the garden can handle it. I mean, look at these flowers. Drama queens, the lot of them.”

Dawn laughed, and even Chloe’s mouth twitched a bit. Sam felt the tension bleed out of the air, just a hair.

Chloe said, “It’s stupid. I just… sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t even be here.” She pressed her lips together, eyes fixed on the path. “I keep thinking Andy must hate me. Or at least not want to talk to me.”

Dawn squeezed her arm. “He doesn’t hate you.”

Sam leaned forward, elbows on knees, and spoke gently. “Andy’s not built that way. If he doesn’t talk, it’s because he’s afraid he’ll say something dumb, not because he’s mad.”

Chloe shook her head. “But what if I make it worse?”

Sam said, “Then you make it worse. Sometimes it’s okay to just mess up and try again.”

Dawn said, “I was scared, too, you know. He’s… I don’t know. He’s good.”

Sam nodded. “He always made me feel like I belonged. Even when it would have been easier not to. There were people in our dorm who made it clear a girl like me was just… a tourist. But Andy? He’d always sit with me. Made me feel like I was part of the world.”

Chloe’s voice was very small. “I don’t know if I ever made anyone feel that way.”

Sam smiled, warm. “You can, though. You already do, just by being here. We’re all in this together. Plus, you have the best taste in shoes. That’s gotta count for something.”

That, at last, drew a real laugh from Chloe—a bright, surprised sound that made Dawn’s eyes shine.

“I guess I could… try to talk to him?” Chloe said, the words slow, careful.

Sam leaned back, hands behind her head. “That’s the spirit. If you need backup, I’ll arm wrestle him into submission.”

Chloe laughed again, and Dawn smiled, tension finally gone from her frame.

Sam sat with them, letting the silence regroup, the three of them forming an accidental circle of safety beneath the flowers.

Not far away, under the boughs of an ancient magnolia, Norah and Liesa sprawled on the grass with a tangle of character sheets between them. Norah had her legs crossed, sharp and elegant even in denim shorts; Liesa sat with knees splayed, posture open, hair a wild cloud in the morning air.

“Barbarian is just a hammer,” Norah was saying. “Every problem is a nail, and you’re not allowed to use more than three-syllable words in dialogue.”

Liesa considered, then pointed at her sheet. “But you said bard is for the people who want to seduce the whole town?”

Norah nodded, smirking. “You’d be good at it.”

Liesa wrinkled her nose, then grinned. “Maybe in another life. I never played before.”

Norah looked up, surprised. “Not even once?”

Liesa shook her head. “In Belgium, we did board games with my friends. But never this. I watched people play, but I was always too shy to ask.” She smiled. “Or too busy. Life was… busy.”

Norah shrugged. “It’s easy. Pick a role. Make trouble. Just don’t get attached to your character—they die a lot.”

Liesa’s eyes sparkled. “I will protect mine with all my life.”

Norah said, “That’s how you get your heart broken.” She said it with a wry smile, but the words landed, and for a second her face went distant.

Liesa nudged her, gentle. “You must have played a lot?”

Norah said hesitantly, “It was cheap. All you needed was paper, pencil, and someone to run the game.” She smiled, a little sad. “I was always the only girl in the group, so I learned to talk fast and take up as little space as possible.”

Liesa said, “You take up plenty of space now.”

Norah smirked. “Thanks to the giant boobs and the arched back, right?”

Liesa laughed, then looked Norah in the eye. “No, I mean it. You walk into a room, everyone notices. I bet even Arabella is afraid of you.”

Norah was quiet, then said, “My mother always said if you’re going to be noticed, you might as well be impossible to forget.”

Liesa teased, “I’m shocked you weren’t born in a boardroom, wearing a power suit.”

Norah burst out laughing, the sound high and genuine. A sound Sam, sitting a few yards away, had never heard from her before.

They started to discuss characters, but Liesa kept making jokes, refusing to let Norah slip back into her default scowl. For every ruthless min-maxing suggestion, Liesa had a counter-argument, or a joke, or a wild idea for a backstory. By the third stat roll, Norah had stopped hiding her smile altogether.

Sam watched the two of them, a slow grin spreading across her face.

She looked at the girls on the bench, the sun painting light and shadow in their hair, and felt that they might actually win something here.

Maybe her crazy scheme was working already.

The bell for lunch sounded, a sweet chime echoing across the gardens. Chloe stood first, her movements uncertain but more upright than before.

“Let’s go,” she said, and when Dawn took her hand, she didn’t flinch.

Norah and Liesa were up next, Norah mock-bowing to Liesa before letting her lead the way. Sam caught up with them, falling in step with the group, the mood lighter, more electric.

Andy almost turned around when he saw the two of them—Marissa and Erin—walking the lower garden path straight toward him. Their heads were close, voices low, but as soon as Erin caught sight of him, her face cracked into a wolfish grin and she called out, “Hey there, handsome! Lost, or just hoping for a spa groupie?”

Marissa offered a wave, understated but genuine. She wore soft linen pants and a black tank, no makeup, her ponytail from last night unraveled so that loose hair framed her face. Erin, by contrast, had gone full yoga-goddess: stretchy slate-blue leggings, shoulders bare, every muscle in her arms defined and humming with restless energy, newly enhanced breasts bulging out of a racerback top that fought for its life with each breath she took.

Andy tried to play it cool, but his voice wobbled when he said, “You two headed to the baths?”

Marissa nodded. “I thought you’d be in the library with Claire,” she said, not accusing, just curious.

Erin cut in. “Don’t let her guilt you. She’s trying to recruit you to the mineral pool. Keeps saying ‘it’s good for circulation’ but what she means is ‘I dare you to stare at my chest without blushing.’”

“Erin!” Marissa gasped, but Andy could see she was fighting a smile.

“What? It’s true.” Erin squared her shoulders, which now, thanks to her transformation, looked like the prow of a very expensive yacht. “Besides, you two have already seen everything, so what’s left to be embarrassed about?”

Andy’s mouth opened, closed. He shot a sidelong look at Marissa, who, to his surprise, was smiling too—awkward, almost abashed.

“I suppose,” Marissa said, tone dry but voice shaky, “you could say Andy is uniquely lucky. Two women who are not only… amply endowed, but also…” She seemed to lose her nerve, glancing away.

“Happy to sleep with you any time?” Erin finished, gleeful.

Marissa’s blush started at her cheeks, but quickly climbed her neck and ears. Andy had never seen her flustered before. He had a sudden, powerful urge to hug her.

“I’m working on being more direct,” Marissa muttered, almost to herself. “It’s a work in progress.”

Andy stepped closer, and Erin, with a sudden softness, said, “I like it. It’s a lot more fun than the therapist voice.”

Marissa’s eyes flicked from Andy to Erin and back again. “I’m not sure if I can do it right,” she admitted.

Andy said, “You’re doing great,” and the way her blush deepened told him he’d said the right thing.

Erin looped her arm through Marissa’s, then reached for Andy’s hand with her free one. “Let’s go,” she said. “You two can practice being awkward together. I want to see if I float with these.”

She jutted her chest out and waggled her eyebrows. Andy snorted, and Marissa laughed—really laughed, her body shaking, face creasing into something younger and freer than he’d seen before.

The walk to the spa was short, but Erin kept the momentum, talking the whole way about all the things the mineral pools were supposed to cure (“headaches, athlete’s foot, existential ennui”), and about how she planned to prove, once and for all, that her new “bazongas” were superior to Norah’s (“if you can balance a beach ball on top, you win, right?”).

Andy mostly listened, but every so often caught Marissa glancing at him, her smile uncertain but real. He looked at Erin admiringly, too. She had transformed completely since their breakthrough, the night of the party.

At the spa entrance, Erin led the charge toward the communal lockers, dragging Marissa with her. “Don’t go anywhere,” she called back to Andy. “We’ll be right out. And don’t peek.”

Andy was still laughing when the door closed behind them.

He changed quickly in the men’s area, stripping down to the required spa trunks, which were indecently snug, and then padded barefoot to the mineral pool. The place was done up like a Roman bath: white marble, little mosaic details, steamy air thick with eucalyptus and salt. The pool itself was a wide oval, surrounded by pale stone and ringed with flowering plants. There was a small bar off to the side, empty but with a carafe of water and cut fruit set out.

He sat at the edge, dangling his feet in the warm water, and tried not to overthink what was coming next.

A minute later, the door to the women’s side slid open.

Erin walked out first, proud and unselfconscious, wearing only a tiny spa towel slung loosely around her waist and nothing at all up top. Her breasts were huge, and she made a point of bouncing them with every step as she crossed the marble. She caught Andy’s stare, grinned, and gave him a double thumbs up.

Behind her, Marissa was much more hesitant. She wore the same towel, but clutched it in both hands, awkwardly covering her chest as she shuffled forward.

“Don’t you dare chicken out,” Erin called over her shoulder. “It was your idea to do it this way.”

Marissa stopped, rolled her eyes, then let the towel drop. She stepped forward, straight-backed and jaw set, like someone braving the firing squad.

Andy could not look away.

Marissa’s body was spectacular. The curves he remembered from their date night were even more dramatic in the stark light of the spa; her breasts, large and firm, hung in perfect symmetry, pale and tipped with dark permanently erect nipples that looked almost painted on. She caught him staring and smiled, then squared her shoulders and approached the pool.

Erin jumped in first, splashing water everywhere. “Come on!” she called. “It’s not going to bite you.”

Marissa slid in next to her, a little more cautiously, and then Andy. The water was hot, but not scalding—just enough to make his skin prickle.

They settled at one end of the pool, Marissa and Erin on either side of Andy. For a while, they just floated, the silence broken only by the sound of water lapping against the tile.

Erin closed her eyes and tipped her head back. “God, this is nice. I’m never going home.”

Marissa gave a skeptical snort, but didn’t disagree.

They drifted in silence a little longer.

Then, under the water, Andy felt a warm, insistent pressure on his thigh. He glanced down; Erin’s hand, moving slow and deliberate, fingers spread. She let her foot brush his shin, then slid closer, all pretense of “just friends” gone.

Andy looked at Marissa, expecting her to intervene. Instead, she watched with a half-smile, then turned away, as if giving them privacy.

Erin’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Is it true what they say about warm water?”

Andy smiled, nerves dissolving. “Only one way to find out.”

She grinned, slid her hand higher, and in a few seconds her palm was curled around his cock. She worked him under the surface, slow and easy, never breaking eye contact. Marissa watched, her lips parted, breath shallow.

Andy tried to keep cool, but when Erin’s fingers squeezed, he had to bite down on a moan. Erin laughed, delighted. “That’s more like it.”

He reached for her, pulling her in for a kiss, and she met him eagerly, breasts mashing against his chest as she straddled his lap.

Marissa watched, expression unreadable. Andy felt a flicker of guilt, but then she leaned forward, her own hand drifting toward Andy’s knee. She hesitated, then rested her palm on his leg. Her fingers grazed his skin—uncertain, almost tremulous.

He turned to her, uncertain what to say. She solved the problem by kissing him, lips soft, body pressed close. Her breasts floated in the water, pressing against his arm.

Erin pulled away, watched them, then grinned. “I’m not jealous,” she said. “But if you ignore me for more than thirty seconds, I reserve the right to dunk you both.”

Marissa laughed, for real this time. “I promise not to ignore you.”

They shifted, forming a triangle in the pool, everyone touching, no boundaries. Andy’s arms wrapped around Erin’s waist, his other hand finding Marissa’s thigh. Erin nuzzled his neck, teeth scraping gently, while Marissa kissed his cheek, his jaw, the sensitive spot below his ear.

He had never felt so completely surrounded, so completely wanted.

Erin’s hand hadn’t let go of his cock since the moment they’d drifted into the deep end; she toyed with him beneath the surface, using the heat to her advantage, the slippery silk of her skin heightening every sensation. Marissa alternated between resting against his chest and tracing inquisitive lines down his stomach, her fingers eventually discovering Erin’s and entwining around Andy’s shaft, the two of them working together in a rhythm equal parts competitive and conspiratorial.

It was a new kind of intimacy, one that short-circuited Andy’s ability to process, so all he could do was ride the current and let them do what they wanted, which, apparently, was to see if they could break him before he broke them. Erin was first to up the ante: she pressed herself flush against Andy, breasts pillowed against his chest, and used her grip on his cock to angle it precisely. Then, with a confidence that bordered on reckless, she floated her hips forward and guided him inside her.

She moaned. He moaned. Even Marissa, caught off guard, moaned, the three of them forming a wordless chord that vibrated through the echoing spa.

The sensation was unreal—not just the wet heat of Erin’s body, or the hypnotic flex of her thighs as she rocked herself on him in slow, rolling waves, but the fact that Marissa was right there, watching, breathing it in, her own body trembling where it pressed against Andy’s side. It was too much, and not enough, and yet Andy wanted time to freeze so he could feel it forever.

He reached for Marissa, and she met him halfway, mouth hungry, tongue insistent, her lips tasting of salt and eucalyptus. She kissed him with a desperation that left him lightheaded, arms winding around his neck and shoulders, fingers digging into his skin. Through the haze, Andy felt Erin’s pace quicken, the friction sending jolts of pleasure up his spine, until he was clinging to both of them like a drowning man to driftwood.

The world contracted to the three of them. Andy lost track of who was touching whom, or whose hand was guiding his so that Marissa’s breast was in his palm, or whose breath was in his ear, or whose teeth scraped his jaw. It became a blur of sensation—water, muscle, the solid warmth of bodies entwined. Marissa pressed her hips flush to his thigh, her arousal obvious even through the swirl of bubbles, and when Erin leaned in to bite his shoulder, Marissa grinned and murmured, “Is this everything you imagined?” Her voice shook, but her eyes were clear, bright with mischief and hunger.

“I’m not sure I ever imagined this,” Andy gasped, and both of them laughed, and then Marissa kissed Erin, catching her off guard but not enough to stop her from grinding down and moaning into Marissa’s mouth.

It was all happening too fast. He didn’t want it to end. He wanted to savor the feeling of being wanted, more than that, being cherished—like he was the axis holding the moment together, impossible to replace even if you tried. Erin’s movements became frantic, her breathing shallow; she reached up and grabbed Andy’s face, pulled him in for a kiss, then whispered, “I’m so close, fuck, don’t stop,” just as Marissa’s hand slipped between Andy and Erin, fingers finding the place where their bodies joined. It pushed Erin over the edge. She spasmed around Andy’s cock, head thrown back, voice echoing off the high marble ceiling.

Andy held on, barely, until Marissa’s hand on his chest and Erin’s teeth on his neck and the heat and pressure and the sheer need of it all **** his own climax, pulsing into Erin as she continued to shudder in aftershock.

They clung together in the hot water, panting. For a long time, there were no words. Erin’s head lolled against Andy’s shoulder, eyes closed, spent. Marissa, face still pressed into Andy’s neck, exhaled a shaky laugh.

It took a few minutes before Andy could even speak. When he did, his voice was hoarse. “Did we…did anyone see…?”

Marissa shook her head, grinning. “Does it matter?”

Erin’s eyes opened, dreamy and half-lidded. “If they did, they should be taking notes.”

Andy laughed, and the sound surprised him—real, unforced, almost young.

They untangled gradually, drifting apart but not far. Erin floated on her back, arms spread, hair streaming behind her like an otter basking in the sun. Marissa perched at the edge beside Andy, legs dangling in the water, her hand still holding his under the surface.

It wasn’t awkward. That was what shocked Andy most. He’d expected a collision, maybe jealousy, but instead there was only warmth, and the steadiness of Marissa’s hand in his, and the way Erin kept glancing over her shoulder to make sure Marissa was included, always.

After a few minutes, Marissa stood—her body a study in wet marble, droplets tracing the curve of her breasts, her stomach, her thighs—and padded over to the bar, where she poured three glasses of water from the sweating carafe. She returned, handed one to Andy, then clinked hers against his.

“To the Master,” she teased. “May he always be this well attended.”

Andy blushed, but Erin, still floating, called out, “Hear, hear!”

They drank, and Marissa settled back into the water, this time tucking herself under Andy’s arm and letting her head rest against his shoulder.

For long minutes, nobody spoke. The mineral pool was quiet, steam rising in soft clouds, the only sound the gentle lapping of water and the occasional drip from the bamboo ceiling. It felt safe, suspended from the rest of the world.

They floated in the afterglow, Andy and Erin tangled together, Marissa holding them both, her face pressed into Andy’s neck.

Marissa kissed Andy’s lips, then Erin’s cheek. She looked more relaxed than he’d ever seen her—softer, all the old armor gone.

After a while, Erin slid off Andy’s lap and perched on the pool ledge, letting her legs dangle in the water. Marissa shifted, straddling Andy’s lap, her eyes searching his.

He smiled, hands settling on her hips. “Are you sure?” he asked.

She answered by kissing him, slow and deep. Then she sank down, taking him inside her in one smooth, practiced motion. She gasped, eyes fluttering, then started to move.

This was different from Erin—less wild, more controlled, every motion precise and deliberate. Marissa’s hands braced on Andy’s shoulders, her body moving in slow, sensual circles. She kept her eyes locked on his, a tiny, almost mischievous smile playing at her lips.

Erin watched from the ledge, arms folded under her breasts, a look of open adoration on her face. “God, you two are hot together,” she said, voice dreamy.

Marissa’s lips peeled into a grin so self-assured that it almost scared Andy. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she said, without looking away from Andy, but her hand flicked from Andy’s shoulder to beckon Erin closer. Erin’s grin widened, but she didn’t intrude, just let her eyes go heavy-lidded and dreamy, as if she could taste it all from across the pool.

Andy had a flash of panic—was this too much? Was he about to break Marissa or himself or even Erin? But as Marissa rode him in those slow, practiced circles, he realized she was in absolute control. Every movement was calculated for pleasure, not just her own but his, and even Erin’s as she watched.

Then Marissa leaned in, her voice a tremulous current in his ear: “I’ve wanted this for a long time.” Her lips brushed his earlobe as she finished, “I just never knew how to say it.”

That did something to him, not just physically but deeper than that. He kissed her, holding her face in both hands, and she melted into it, a sudden urgency rising in her body. Their mouths met with a tenderness that was somehow more obscene than the sex itself: needy, open, grateful. She let him kiss her as if she hadn’t been kissed for a decade, as if his mouth was the only safe place she’d ever known.

Under the water, Erin’s foot found Andy’s calf, a gentle, anchoring pressure. She was rooting for them, he realized; rooting for Marissa to break, to allow herself the thing she so clearly wanted but always deferred in favor of taking care of everyone else. It made Andy want to do right by her, by both of them, even as his own need threatened to spill over.

Marissa’s breathing turned ragged. She started clenching around him, and Andy could feel how close she was. Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging crescents into his skin. For a second, her face twisted—pain, release, relief—and she shuddered in his lap, her orgasm so silent and complete that it seemed like the entire spa paused to bear witness.

It undid Andy. He tried to hold out, to make this last forever, but the sight of Marissa undone, the sound of Erin moaning softly on the edge of the pool, the feel of Marissa’s walls gripping him—it was all too much. He came with a **** that made his vision strobe white, made his hands and feet go numb, made him groan aloud and cling to Marissa as if she might float away if he let go.

They collapsed together, inertia and gravity pulling them into a tangle of arms and legs, slick with sweat and mineral water. Marissa’s head dropped to his shoulder. Andy could feel her heartbeat in her throat, fast and erratic. He buried his face in her hair, damp and fragrant, and remembered how she’d looked when she first joined him in the library, how she’d seemed so invulnerable. Now she was all softness, all need.

Erin laughed, a hoarse, delighted sound, and slid into the water to join them. She circled behind Marissa, wrapping her arms around both Andy and Marissa from behind, resting her chin on Marissa’s shoulder.

“Best fucking spa day ever,” Erin said, and the words had zero pretense: she was proud of them, of herself, of all three together.

Marissa made a noise halfway between a sob and a giggle. She opened her eyes—still glassy, but bright—and twisted around to kiss Erin, first on the lips, then on the cheek. Then she pulled Andy into the huddle, so all three of them were pressed together, floating on the surface like a single three-headed animal.

They stayed like that for a long, silent minute, until the heat of the pool and the novelty of the moment wore off. Andy was the first to move, shifting his weight just enough to break the seal of Marissa’s body around him. She flinched a little at the sensation, then sighed and let herself drift off his lap and into the warm water, her body buoyed by the gentle current.

Erin splashed water at them both, then ducked under and emerged between Andy’s legs, her hair slicked back, her smile wolfish.

The three of them sat like that, wrapped in each other, the world beyond the spa utterly irrelevant.

After a while, Andy said, “You okay?”

Marissa smiled, peaceful. “More than okay. I think I could get used to this.”

Erin grinned, squeezing Andy’s waist. “Me too.”

Threesome (Instigator) (Erin)! +5 VP
First! x2

Threesome (Participant) (Marissa)! +3 VP
First! x2

They lay in the water, arms and legs tangled, until the heat, or the beating of their hearts, made them dizzy.