Fan Mail, Part 2

The Banquet Hall was empty, for once. Sam had expected a little more fanfare, maybe a balloon drop, but after Arabella’s morning address the other girls had scattered. The only witness left to Sam’s existence was a fruit fly, doing tight laps around the rim of her coffee mug.

She picked up the first letter, thick and sealed with a weird kind of wax that looked suspiciously like dried blood, flipped it. The envelope was hand-addressed in bold, spiky script: Sam Collins. She rolled her eyes, but a smile tried to sneak up her cheek.

Inside, something metallic clinked. Sam tore the envelope open, expecting a pamphlet, maybe a gift card. Instead, two things impossibly tumbled onto her lap: a full-size tiara, real gold with emeralds, and a battleaxe pendant, pure 90s fantasy, stamped in silver.

Sam stared at the tiara. “No way,” she whispered, glancing around in case this was a prank. She turned it over in her palm, then, after a second’s hesitation, popped it onto her head. She felt instantly ridiculous—her curls barely kept it upright—but in a dumb way, it fit. The battleaxe pendant she set next to her plate, just in case.

The letter inside was long and folded twice. She unfolded it, careful not to smudge the handwriting.

Sam,

It is a delight to see you on this season, though it does sadden me to see a lesbian in a man's harem. Still others have been in the same place and forged their own spot in the harem without being **** upon the master's dick. I hope you can as well. Your love and suport for your best friend does you great credit, I would not worry so about elimination because Andy's need for you is quite evident.

You truly are the best girl of the season, no matter what the vote says. I also believe changing your path was the right choice, you can always upgrade your TFs later (and should, so you can hug Liesa) and this way you don't have to worry about the upcoming transformation vote doing unfortunate things to your sexuality. Speaking of Liesa I hope the two of you enjoy your time together. You would not be the first to find love among the harem. Be strong, support Andy, and you have my wish to see you crowned Harem Queen.

- Shar

Sam grinned, rereading the paragraph about “not being **** upon the master’s dick.” She looked up at the air around her, raised her coffee mug, and said, “Hear that, Mom? I’m doing just fine.”

She set down the mug, then toyed with the tiny battleaxe. It was heavier than it looked. Sam slipped the pendant over her head, tucked it under her shirt, and felt a prickle of pride she hadn’t expected. She wasn’t the kind of person who wore jewelry, but this was different. It was… armor.

She folded the letter, then opened the other envelope. This one was sealed with a sticker shaped like a clam shell. The return address read: “Dungeon Mermaid Daphne.”

Sam bit her lip, resisting the urge to laugh. She opened the envelope. A tiny glass bottle rolled onto the table, stoppered with a bead of blue wax. The note was written in a breathless, looping hand, as if the author was afraid the pen might give up halfway through.

Sam,

Hi. Your friendly neighborhood Dungeon Mermaid Daphne here. Our season’s producer asked us to write some letters to your season based on a couple of factoids and your situation spoke to me.

Ok. Funny bit first. Can you explain the whole not-salty-enough-black-water thing to me? I get that, as a mermaid, humans (current and former) do things that I never saw growing up, but that ritual still eludes me. My Beloved and most of my harem-sisters drink it every morning and I just don’t get it. What’s the point when squid ink is there? I sent you a small vial of it to try. Tell me it’s not better than the not salty enough black water stuff!

More serious bit. Don’t give up hope. Don’t resign yourself to elimination. Even if most of the audience may tune in to watch a good dicking, there are those that root for the fun best friend. And you are such a fun best friend. In fact, my favorite season of Harem Hotel growing up had the lesbian friend win the whole darn thing, with minimal sexual interaction. She even found love with another lovely lady in the harem. Liesa could use someone to pursue her; maybe that someone could be you?

Attached is a present. An emergency source of VP, should you wish to partake. Not sure how much it’ll be worth (different seasons have different scoring criteria and some seasons don’t look kindly to compelled sexual actions), but it might save you long enough for the denser parts of the audience to see how great you are. Some of my harem-sisters (and my Mistress) had to deal with this and they are fine, so it doesn’t cause permanent damage. READ THE DIRECTIONS CAREFULLY BEFORE YOU CONSUME IT!!!!!!!!!!!!

Keep on getting those hugs (I love hugs!),

Daphne

Sam set the letter down. She picked up the bottle, held it to the light. The liquid inside was bright pink, with shimmery flecks that moved when she shook it. There was a sticker on the side:

Essence of Lovely Lady Lollies: Upon consumption (dissolve underneath the tongue), an adult female will become mindlessly obsessed with providing blow jobs, seeking out the nearest man and do anything, no matter how degrading, to blow him. Effect lasts 1 hour or upon swallowing a cum load, whichever happens first. Warning: long term use may induce cum addiction, internalized misogyny, and/or oral fixations. Do not take with ****, barbiturates, Pixie Sticks, or soy milk. Not a suppository.

Her face went through a full cycle of emotions—first confusion, then horror, then a slow, creeping amusement. She pictured herself, mid-challenge, suddenly compelled to French-kiss Andy’s dick. She nearly spit her coffee just imagining it.

But a gift was a gift. Sam unscrewed the cap, sniffed it—sweet, with a whiff of strawberry. She considered just dumping it down the sink, but something in the back of her mind whispered: Someone else might need it. She replaced the cap, then wrapped the bottle in a napkin and stashed it in the pocket of her jeans.

She glanced up at the camera again. “For the record, this is not how I imagined my Best Friend arc,” she said.

The thought of being watched wasn’t as creepy as it had been at first. In a way, it made her feel less alone. Someone out there was rooting for her.

She reread Shar’s letter, lingering on the lines about Liesa. Daphne had also mentioned Liesa. She liked Liesa, honestly. The accent, the soft hands, the way she tilted her head when she was thinking hard. She liked their hikes together. Sam wondered if it was weird to have a crush on someone you barely knew, and moreover someone who was clearly smitten with Andy, but then again, wasn’t that the whole premise of this show?

A little warmth crept up her neck, and she felt the tiara shift. She straightened it, decided she’d keep it on for a while. Why not? Maybe it would give her luck. Or at the very least, make someone out there laugh.

She gathered the letters, the tiara, and the pendant, stacking them in a neat pile. She’d clean up the mess before anyone else came in, but for now she just wanted to sit with the feeling of being chosen, even if it was only for a joke.

Sam looked at the empty chair across from her, raised her mug to an invisible friend, and said, “To surviving the challenge.”

Liesa always liked mornings best, before the air got thick with heat and possibility. She sat on the cold curve of a stone bench, deep in the hotel’s Inner Gardens, her feet tucked beneath her skirt and her fingers working nervously at the edge of an envelope. The bench was under a canopy of bougainvillea, pink and white blossoms frothed overhead, and the only sounds were birds and the distant hum of a fountain.

She had watched the others rush off after breakfast. Liesa had waited, wanting a few moments alone. She’d always needed time to gather herself before opening things. Letters, news, even gifts. The act felt like a small kind of surgery, never fully safe.

She ran her thumb over the envelope’s flap, feeling the subtle ridges in the gold wax. This one was addressed to her in a looping, careful hand. She peeled it open with the tip of a hairpin.

Something slid out and landed in her palm: a seashell, long and spiraled, chased in gold. A Murex, if she remembered right. The kind you found in museums, not at the waterline. She traced the shell’s whorls, marveling at how the gold only filled the valleys, the actual shell still pale and sharp in her grip.

She turned to the letter, hoping for some context.

Liesa,

You are very quiet, but also I feel strong and determined. I suggest you be open with Andy, he may surprise you with his understanding and secrets will not serve you. I also suggest you be open with Sam. You can no longer make the first move, but you can let her know you would be receptive to hers. Either way I am rooting for you.

-Shar

Liesa read the letter twice. The first time, she absorbed only the warning, the heaviness of it. On the second pass, she lingered on the words about Sam, about Andy. She turned the shell in her palm, feeling the point bite softly into her skin.

I suggest you be open with Andy, he may surprise you with his understanding and secrets will not serve you.

She wanted to laugh. She considered her secrets, the ones the letter told her not to run from. There were so many—her time in Antwerp, the lies she’d spun about her job, the real reason she’d left the University, the letters she’d written to Andy and never sent. The weight of them was a familiar ache. But the idea of telling him—of unburdening herself, of risking what little they had—was enough to make her fingers tremble.

She set the shell beside her on the bench. She looked up, half-expecting to see Sam peeking around a hedge, but the garden was empty. Still, her cheeks went warm at the thought. She’d always admired Sam’s energy, her directness, her refusal to hide from anything, even if it meant making herself a target. Liesa wondered what it would feel like to live that way, to just say what you wanted, and then go for it.

The idea was terrifying. But maybe, also, it was time.

A butterfly landed on the shell, its wings a blur of yellow and black. Liesa smiled, careful not to move. She wanted to freeze the moment, to keep it safe for later. There was so much here that felt fragile—herself included.

She tucked the shell into her pocket, then folded the letter and pressed it close against her chest, just for a second. “Thank you,” she whispered to whoever was watching, then closed her eyes and let herself breathe.

When she opened them, the garden was unchanged. The sun was higher now, the light catching on the gold in her pocket and making it pulse with every heartbeat.

She would tell Andy. She would try to be honest, even if it cost her. And maybe, if she was lucky, she’d find a way to speak to Sam, too. But she had to get through the challenge, first.

For now, she stayed on the bench, watching the butterflies, letting the morning drift a little longer. There was no rush. Not yet.

Emi sat cross-legged in the center of her bed, each of her six arms folded with careful deliberation. She’d arranged her limbs so the upper two hands supported her chin, the middle pair rested lightly in her lap, and the bottom two hovered over the blue-and-white duvet like a pair of nervous hummingbirds. It was her favorite position for reading or drawing, though lately the drawing had slowed and the reading had outpaced her ability to keep up. She always had to focus a bit of her attention on keeping her lower arms still, or they’d go back to groping her. It could be exhausting.

The envelopes she’d been given by Arabella were thick and soft, like the kind used for invitations or sympathy cards. Emi’s middle right hand slit the red-sealed one open with a nail, and the other five tensed, as if bracing for a jump scare. She peeled the flap back. A stained-glass butterfly fluttered out and landed, wings-first, on the bedspread, throwing fractured rainbows across the sheets. A second later, a web of thread dropped out—cat’s cradle, like she’d played with as a child.

She smiled at the butterfly, then handed the cat’s cradle to her bottom four hands, who instantly set to untangling the string. It was almost automatic, the way the lower pair found work to do while the rest of her tried to focus.

She turned to the letter. It was handwritten, in small, neat lines, and began with her name.

Emi-

Your transformation seems meant to tear you from your dreams and **** you to forsake the beauty of your imagination. This is a cruelty we do not believe you deserve. Perhaps if you can find anchors to latch on to, like Andy or Sam, then Arabella will no longer think you need to be tortured this way and you may keep dreaming while also having a firm foot in reality. Seek a moongem, it can free you from your burden. Perhaps Claire can help your search.

-Shar

Emi read it through once, then again, eyes stinging. She tried to imagine herself with only two arms, and was surprised to find the thought… not unpleasant, but sad in a way. Like saying goodbye to a room you’d finally grown used to. If she could just control them, really control them, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Her lower hands had already woven the string into a perfect Jacob’s Ladder. She held it up to the light, letting the rainbow from the butterfly stripe the neon pink and orange thread. Then she set both on the nightstand, next to the battered sketchbook she never let out of sight.

She took a breath, then found a smaller envelope inside the first. It was lavender, sealed with a shimmery sticker that looked like a prism. She slit it open with her top left hand, curious.

A medallion fell into her lap—heavy, pewter, stamped with a spiral—and a coil of silvery rope, soft as angora, about a foot long. There was also a tiny, slim book with a cover so shiny she had to squint to read it:

Shibari Roleplay for Beginner Lovers.

Emi felt her face go hot, color climbing from her collarbone to her ears. She fumbled for the letter tucked in with the gifts.

Emi,

Hello. Nice to meet you, even if through a letter. The Lady of the Dance wishes me to help you on your journey and I am her servant. Though I’m not sure how much help I can be, with such a planar distance between us.

Your transformation feels like an ill omen to me. Eight limbs invokes images of The Spider, which is neither a nice nor safe image to call forth. Hopefully, this holy symbol of The Lady of the Dance will protect you.

In addition, I included 50 foot of (perfectly normal) silk rope and a book on how best to use it. While I would have no interest in seducing a male, you do not seem to have a choice in the matter. Tie him up, tie yourself up, whichever you would find more interesting.

May The Lady of the Dance watch over and bless you,

Skye O’Connor

All six of Emi’s hands froze, then reached for different things. The top right hand went to the medallion, tracing the cool symbol of the dancing maiden. The middle left picked up the book, flipping to a random page and immediately closing it again, mortified by the diagram of two cartoon girls tangled in rainbow ropes. Her lower right fingered the silvery rope, stroking its length in slow, curious passes.

She had never thought about her arms like that. The idea was both embarrassing and fascinating. What would it feel like, to touch Andy with all of them, or to be held still, unable to squirm away from a kiss? Her cheeks flared crimson. She stuffed the rope and the book under her pillow, vowing not to look again until she was sure the cameras were off.

She reached for the butterfly and set it on the nightstand, watching the sun throw stained light across the wall. For a moment, she let herself imagine being with Andy and not having to hide a single part of herself. Not the arms, not the fears, not even the weird shame about her own desires.

Maybe it was possible. Maybe she could find a way to belong, even as she was.

She stretched, cat-like, every limb unfurling, and flopped back on the bed. She hugged her knees, looked at the butterfly, and smiled.

There was a challenge coming. She didn’t know what would happen. But for now, her hands—every one of them—were content just to hold on.

Norah tore the envelope open with a single, savage rip. The paper shredded in her fist, scattering across the tiny desk Arabella had furnished for her and the other “guests” in this wing. She scanned the inside for a gift—nothing. No charm, no trinket, not even a damn sticker. Just a piece of paper, creased and barely scented.

She snatched it out, fingers clenching so hard the page almost tore before she even started reading.

Norah-

There is no easy way to say this, only that I am sorry for your loss to come. I hope that you can embrace your changes, find a place with your new master, but I fear you have already given in to anger and despair. Do not believe that elimination will be an easy way out. It may very well be your damnation instead.

-Shar

The words were a punch to the throat. Norah read it again, slower, eyes crawling over the lines as if she could find a loophole. But the letter said what it meant, and it meant what it said: loss, choice, no second chances.

Her jaw set so hard her molars ached. She balled the letter and hurled it at the wall. It landed behind the desk, a soft sound, nothing like the explosion she wanted.

She paced the room. Once, twice, then five times, burning a rut in the carpet. She muttered every curse she knew, first in English, then in Arabic, spitting each one at the blank walls, the empty chair, the memory of Andy’s voice in the other room. The curse words calmed her, a little. Enough to think.

She went to the wall, picked up the crumpled letter, and smoothed it against her thigh. She looked for secret writing, lemon-juice invisibility, a message between the lines. There was nothing. Only Shar’s relentless warning.

Norah’s hands shook. Not with fear. Not at first. She told herself it was just anger, raw and uncut, but when she looked at her reflection in the window, the anger wasn’t enough to hide what came next.

She pressed the letter to the glass, watched her face behind the words. The new body—the one Andy’s fantasy had saddled her with—looked too small for this kind of defeat. Her eyes stung, but she blinked it away.

She paced again. Sat on the edge of the bed, bounced her heel against the floor until it went numb. Picked up the letter. Reread. Searched for a flaw in the logic, a loophole, a way to be more than just another dead end in a story that never gave a shit about girls like her.

When she found nothing, Norah shredded the letter into a hundred tiny pieces, each one a sliver of her own stubbornness. She scattered them on the carpet, grinding the scraps under her bare heel.

She sat, finally, her hands twisting in her lap. The room was too small. The air too thin. The walls closed in, pressing her into a shape she didn’t recognize.

Norah glanced at the door. She almost hoped Arabella would come in, just so she could have something to fight. But there was only the sound of her own heart, thumping wild, a little faster than she wanted to admit.

She hugged herself, rocking just a little, the way she used to when her mother yelled at her as a child and there was no one else to do it. The world outside was silent, the game waiting, the challenge was coming, but Norah stayed where she was, alone in the shrinking dark, swallowing back her tears, and braced herself for the loss to come.