Still Waters

VP and BP Standings
Claire - 23 VP - 2000 BP
Emi - 4 VP - 2000 BP
Dawn - 3 VP - 2000 BP
Sam - 2 VP - 2500 BP
Erin - 0 VP - 1000 BP
Liesa - 0 VP - 2000 BP
Marissa - 0 VP - 1500 BP
Norah - 0 VP - 1000 BP

Chapter XII: Still Waters

The gardens always felt cooler than the rest of the hotel, even at midmorning. Emi and Dawn sat together on a narrow stone bench beneath a riot of flowering vines, their fragrance so heavy it pressed down on everything. The branches overhead twisted like a trellis designed to keep out the rest of the world, and Emi found herself grateful for the partial privacy it offered. She shifted, tried to cross her legs and then uncross them, but three of her arms wanted to fold across her lap, two wanted to grope her, and the lowest left hand kept fiddling with the stone at the bench’s edge, as if searching for a crack to disappear into.

Dawn watched the dance of limbs with open fascination, which, weirdly, made Emi more comfortable than when people pretended not to notice. After last night, and the yoga session this morning, she felt less embarrassed by the new arrangement—at least when she was with friends. But the fear was still there, humming beneath the surface, that the next challenge would ask more than she could give.

Dawn plucked at the hem of her T-shirt. “You’re getting so good at it, Emi” she said encouragingly. “Like, you make it look… elegant.”

Emi gave a helpless, fluttery laugh, all six hands splaying outward in a halfhearted jazz hands. “Elegant,” she echoed, and then: “I keep waiting for the punchline. Like, maybe tonight I’ll go to bed and wake up with two heads. Or four legs. Maybe a tail.”

Dawn smiled, then immediately tried to stifle it, as if too much encouragement would trigger a fresh transformation. “You make a very cute spider,” she said.

“I don’t want to be a spider,” Emi replied, and there was an edge in her voice she hadn’t intended. “I just want to stay me. Or at least… have some say in it.” She looked at her hands, then at the garden, then at Dawn. “Is that selfish?”

Dawn shook her head, earnest. “No, it’s not selfish. It’s fair. I would’ve locked myself in my room if this had happened to me.” She glanced down at her own hands, folded in her lap. “You’re the bravest person here, I think.”

Emi rolled her eyes, but two hands reached over and squeezed Dawn’s. “I’m not brave,” she said. “I’m just… really good at pretending. And it’s not like I have a choice.” She hesitated, then said, “Does it ever get easier? The feeling that you’re not the person you thought you were?”

Dawn hesitated, then shrugged, soft. “I don’t know. I mean, I’m still figuring it out. But I talked to Andy, and he said…” She paused, searching for the right phrasing. “He said he wants none of us to put up a show for him. He said we should just be ourselves. Even if ‘ourselves’ are different now.”

Emi smiled at that, but it was tinged with sadness. “Andy is good. Too good. I think maybe he’s the only person here who doesn’t belong.”

Dawn raised her eyebrows. “Oh, I think he belongs, Emi. Maybe more than anyone. But in a different way. And I know he cares about you.” She blushed, then: “I’m pretty sure he thinks you’re beautiful, Emi. I think so too.”

Emi looked down, flustered, and let her hands fall into a neat pattern across her knees. For a while, they sat in silence, the sunlight dappled and warm, the air thick with the scent of sweet pea and jasmine.

Not far off, at the little marble fountain, Claire and Erin were locked in a silent, stubborn standoff. Claire’s notebook flapped open, the page half-filled with blue-inked loops, as she tried to make a point by sheer **** of penmanship. Erin stood with her back to the fountain, arms crossed in a barricade, every muscle in her jaw tensed to the verge of cramp.

Claire scribbled furiously, then thrust the notebook at Erin with more **** than necessary.

I don’t get why you won’t talk to him! He cares. He wants to help!

Erin read it, exhaled, then shook her head, the gesture so small it was almost a tic. “He doesn’t get it,” she muttered, voice low. “None of you get it. I’m not supposed to need anyone. Not anymore.”

Claire jotted another line, then pressed the pen into Erin’s hand, urgent:

Is it so bad to need people sometimes?

Erin stared at the words for a long time, then dropped the leaf she was studying and let her eyes drift to the water, where the tiled bottom gleamed dully. “You don’t know what it’s like,” she said, and her voice had a rawness that wasn’t there before. “When I was with him before, it took me months after that to get used to—” She stopped, made a fist, released it. “—to the idea that I could trust someone. And now? Arabella just… takes it away. Like I’m a toy she can break and put back together.”

Claire, emboldened by the lack of outright anger, scribbled:

It’s OK to be scared. We all are.

This time, Erin didn’t fight it. She just let her arms drop, the guard slipping. Her breath came uneven, ragged. “It’s not fear,” she said, but even she didn’t believe it.

Claire watched her for a second, then stepped forward and wrapped both arms around Erin’s shoulders. The gesture was as much for Claire as it was for Erin, but Erin didn’t resist. For a second she stood stiff, then she shuddered, and then she started to cry, a harsh, **** sob that bent her in half and left both of them clutching at each other, **** for a surface to hold onto. Claire just held on, no words necessary.

Emi and Dawn watched from their bench, silent. Emi’s hands twined around each other, while Dawn dabbed at her cheek with the back of one hand, pretending she had something in her eye.

Across the courtyard, the mood was less tender. Liesa and Norah were squared off near the garden’s far wall, their voices low but sharp. Liesa gestured, emphatic, her bare feet pounding the stone with every point. Norah stood arms folded, but with the immense burden of her transformed chest she had to constantly shift, hoisting her breasts up with one arm while jabbing the other in Liesa’s direction.

Sam stood between them, not quite a referee, more a human buffer. “Can we please not do this?” she pleaded, voice just above a whisper. “It’s not helping.”

Norah ignored her, eyes locked on Liesa. “You don’t get to tell me what’s real,” she said. “You’re barely around.”

Liesa’s accent sharpened when she was upset. “Is that so bad? You think I wanted to come here?” She shook her head, hair flying. “I only try to make peace. Verdomme! You only try to start fight.”

Sam tried to intervene, “Look, we’re all stressed out, but—”

Norah talked over her. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of running away,” she said, and there was venom behind the words.

Liesa stared at her, hurt, then looked at Sam. “Is true? Do you think I am coward?”

Sam shook her head, ****. “No, I—just—can we stop talking like we’re enemies? Please?”

For a second, it seemed like the argument might erupt into something physical, but instead, Liesa backed away, face set. “You don’t know me,” she said to Norah, voice trembling.

Norah held her ground, but the set of her jaw loosened. “Then why do I feel like I know exactly what you’ll do next?” she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else.

Liesa spun on her heel, her steps leaving faint prints on the dew-slick stone. Sam watched her go, then turned to Norah. “You know you don’t have to be like this,” she said. “You don’t have to keep fighting everyone.”

Norah’s lips twisted, but she didn’t reply.

Sam sighed, running a hand through her blue-tinged hair. “I’m going to make coffee,” she announced, half to herself. “I’ll bring you one if you’re still here.”

Norah watched Sam go, then looked at the sky, as if waiting for a lightning strike that never came.

At the bench, Dawn exhaled, shaky. “That was… intense,” she said.

Emi nodded, but didn’t say anything right away. She was watching Erin and Claire, still locked together by the fountain, and she thought about how easy it was, sometimes, to break something that took years to build.

After a minute, she said, “Do you think we’ll ever go back to normal?”

Dawn smiled, sad. “I don’t even remember what normal was.”

Emi considered this, then, softly: “Maybe that’s for the best.”

The spa corridor was at least ten degrees warmer than any other part of the hotel. Andy walked slow, letting his bare feet sink into the soft matting that ran the length of the hallway. The place was overdesigned to the edge of parody: bamboo paneling, fake rocks studding the baseboards, little alcoves full of candles. The ceiling panels were slatted in pale blond wood, and the lights glowed a soft, indirect gold.

It would have been peaceful, if he hadn't felt like a trespasser.

He'd come here for a reason, or at least he told himself he had. Took him long enough to find the place, twisting corridors and all. Dawn had mentioned the mineral pool, and there was something about the idea of soaking in hot water that seemed almost primitive in its appeal. But now, as he rounded a bend and came within sight of the spa’s heart, Andy felt the creeping sense that he didn't belong. Not in the spa, not in the hotel, not in the fantasy being written for him by people he’d never meet.

The sound of running water echoed from the open doorway ahead. Steam billowed out from beneath the frosted glass like smoke from a dragon’s cave, and the scent (eucalyptus, maybe, or something even sharper) hit him as soon as he stepped close.

He reached for the door and opened it, then stopped, catching a glimpse of movement inside. The shape was familiar, even through the haze. Marissa Holt floated through the fog like an apparition. She wore a white spa robe, knotted tight, the hem hitting her shins. Her hair was down, dark gold wet and clinging in loose spirals to her cheeks. She wasn’t wearing her usual makeup, and her glasses were perched at the tip of her nose, lenses misted and useless.

She noticed him instantly, froze mid-step. Her hand flew to the collar of the robe, cinching it tighter, but the movement only emphasized the impossible geometry of her chest. Her breasts, heavy and perfectly round, pressed against the fabric with such tension that the belt's knot was slipping, baring a wide, vertical stripe of skin. The transformation was in full ****: her nipples, hard and perfectly erect, poked out under the robe like it was tissue paper.

Andy tried not to stare. It was the single most awkward moment of his adult life.

“Dr. Holt,” he said, defaulting to the title out of sheer desperation.

She blinked, then recovered, clearing her throat. “Marissa,” she corrected, voice softer than usual. “We’re not in session, are we?”

He shook his head, then realized how dumb that was. “No. I mean, I—sorry, I didn’t know anyone was—”

She waved it away, then gestured toward the refreshment station just inside the doorway. “Help yourself,” she said. “The lemon-mint is actually pretty good.”

Andy grabbed a cup and poured, mostly for something to do with his hands. He sipped, then nodded: “Nice.”

Marissa smiled, a real one, the first he’d ever seen that wasn’t premeditated. “It helps to hydrate,” she said. “I read somewhere that hot tubs are actually more dangerous than most people think.”

He nodded. “I think everything in this hotel is more dangerous than it looks.” He glanced at his cup. “I’m pretty sure the corridor through which I came here didn’t exist yesterday.”

She snorted, a little, then coughed to cover it. “Arabella showed us the spa four days ago. It didn’t look like this. This place changes, somehow.” The silence that followed wasn’t so much uncomfortable as it was simply… unpracticed. Andy realized, with a start, that he’d only ever spoken to Marissa in offices, or the one time at a book signing. Always public, always with roles defined.

Now, here they were, two barely-dressed people, nothing to hide behind except their shared history.

“I’m sorry about the other night,” Marissa said, the words rushing out. “I shouldn’t have said what I said, after the challenge. It wasn’t professional of me.”

Andy shook his head. “You’re not my therapist anymore. I mean, you can’t be, right? Not with…” He gestured vaguely at the robe, the steam, the entirety of their new reality.

Marissa actually laughed at that, the sound light and more youthful than he expected. “No, I suppose not,” she said. “Even if I wanted to, there are… boundaries.” She glanced down, realized her robe had shifted, and tugged at it again. It didn’t help.

Andy tried to look anywhere else. “So, uh, are you doing okay? With the changes, I mean?”

Marissa hesitated, then set her glass down. “It’s not as bad as I thought,” she said. “At first, I was mortified. The constant… visibility. The… sensitivity. But if I could survive high school locker rooms, I can survive this.”

Andy smiled, relieved to hear even a hint of bravado. “I think you wear it well,” he said, then immediately wanted to die.

Marissa’s eyes flicked up, sharp. But instead of scolding him, she just shrugged. “If nothing else, I’ll have a story to tell if I ever get home.” She drew a deep breath, then looked at him with something close to curiosity. “How are you, Andy? Really?”

He blinked. He hadn’t expected to be asked, especially not by her. “I’m… managing,” he said. “It feels like I’m in a dream. Or a VR simulation, and I can’t figure out the exit button.”

Marissa nodded, like that made perfect sense. “You always did have control issues.”

He grinned, caught. “Guilty as charged.”

They stood there for a long moment, neither sure how to end the conversation. Finally, Marissa gestured at the back wall. “If you’re here for the mineral pool, I was just heading there. Care to join?”

Andy hesitated. It sounded like a trap, but then again, nothing in his life was normal anymore. “Lead the way,” he said.

She smiled, more gently this time. “Okay.”

The mineral pool was tucked in a half-lit alcove, just off the main spa corridor. It was a thing of engineered tranquility: dark stone tiles, a shelf of white rolled towels, a round soaking tub sunken into the floor and ringed with polished river rocks. Steam hung in the air, thicker than the morning fog outside, and the water itself burbled gently as if it were living.

Marissa walked a pace ahead, her stride precise even in slippers. She hovered near the towel rack, then paused, glancing at Andy with a look that hovered somewhere between amusement and apology.

“Is it weird if I say I’ve never done this before?” she asked.

Andy shook his head. “Not even a little. I mean, it’s my first time too.”

She smiled, genuine this time, then turned her back and started to untie the robe. For a second, Andy was caught by a powerful sense memory: standing in the locker room after high school swim meets, the brief, nervous hush before everyone peeled off their suits. He was a grown man, thirty years old and a successful company founder, but he felt like a bashful kid again.

He shrugged off his own robe, aware of Marissa’s side glance, and tried to act like this was normal. Underneath, he wore swim trunks provided by the hotel. They fit perfectly, but they were cut to be a little snug at the thigh. At least they weren’t see-through.

Marissa’s robe slid off in a single movement, and she stepped out in a two-piece swimsuit. The bikini was a study in inadequate coverage: the top, clearly a size too small, struggled valiantly to contain her breasts, and the thin band at the bottom dug into the flesh just above her hips. Her skin was damp, flushed from the steam room, and Andy tried to focus on her face, her eyes, anywhere but the deep cleavage, the permanently erect nipples, and the tight, strained knots of the fabric.

He waited, polite, while she stepped to the edge of the pool. “After you,” he said in a strangled voice.

Marissa hesitated, then dipped a toe in, testing. She found a handhold on the stone rim, then slid herself in slowly, water climbing up her legs, then her hips, then her chest. Andy followed, and the heat wrapped around him like a weighted blanket.

They settled in, bodies half-submerged, shoulders just above the water line. Marissa’s hair was frizzing, the gold going wild. Her glasses fogged again instantly, so she took them off and set them on the rim of the pool.

For a long minute, neither spoke.

Andy looked around, letting the silence settle. “It’s nice here,” he offered.

Marissa nodded, then let out a slow, shaky breath. “It’s amazing how fast you can get used to being almost naked in public.”

He laughed. “Is it weird if I say I’m kind of relieved we’re not doing this in front of cameras?”

Her lips curled in a half-smirk. “Andy. You know there are cameras everywhere, right? Well, whatever passes for cameras, in this place. There always are.”

He shrugged. “It’s easier to pretend there aren't.”

Marissa leaned back against the pool’s edge. The movement **** her chest up, and for a moment, the top threatened to lose its battle. She caught Andy’s glance, and this time, didn’t look away.

“Do you want to ask?” she said, voice level.

Andy flushed. “Ask what?”

“About these.” She gestured, not at all delicately, to her breasts. “Everyone else is too polite.”

He hesitated, then: “That… is a compliment, I guess?” It sounded like she meant it as one, even if the words said otherwise. “I just… wondered if you’re okay with it. With the change, I mean.”

Marissa looked down at her chest, then up at him. “I used to like my body,” she said, quiet. “It was never a problem, outside of work. But in my professional life…” She trailed off, searching for words. “Let’s just say it was always easier to be taken seriously if I wore black and buttoned everything up to here.” She pointed at her throat, then let her hand drop. “Now, I can’t even hide it. It’s a performance, twenty-four seven.”

Andy nodded. “I get that. You always seemed… put-together. Like you’d figured out the formula.”

She smiled, rueful. “It was a costume, mostly. Sometimes I miss the armor.”

He wanted to say something comforting, but instead he said, “I always thought you were the most competent person I’d ever met. It didn’t matter what you looked like.”

She laughed, surprised. “Thank you. That means more than you think.”

He looked at her, saw the genuine pleasure in her expression, and felt the air between them shift a little. Less therapist, more… something else.

She reached for the pitcher of flavored water at the pool’s edge and poured two glasses, handing one to Andy. “Cheers,” she said, clinking the cups.

They drank. The water was cool, sharp on his tongue.

Marissa said, “Can I tell you something I never told you in session?”

He nodded, bracing himself.

“I always envied you. Your ability to be ****. To just… lay it out.” She smiled, a little sad. “My whole life, I’ve been the one people lean on. Never the other way around. Do you know what it’s like to feel like a function, not a person?” she asked.

Andy considered. “No,” he shook his head, “but it does not sound pleasant.”

She blinked, surprised. “Yes,” she said. “Exactly that.”

He let the silence go for a while, then said: “So who do you talk to? When you need to?”

She thought about it, then shrugged. “No one, really. That’s the problem, isn’t it?” She chuckled softly. “A therapist who is too private to talk with another therapist. Isn’t that funny?”

Andy didn’t know what to say. It was the most honest conversation they’d ever had, and he felt both honored and a little exposed by it.

They let the water do its work, melting away the tension. Marissa’s shoulders dropped, her posture relaxing. Andy saw how the edges of her self-discipline faded with every minute in the heat.

Then, without warning, there was a sharp snap. Marissa gasped as the clasp of her bikini top, overwhelmed by physics and fate, gave way completely. The fabric leapt apart, baring her breasts in one clean, unceremonious move. For a second, both of them froze.

Showed boobs to Master! +1 VP

Marissa’s face went beet red. She tried to cover herself, but with her arms underwater, it just squished her breasts together, making things worse.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

Andy reacted, grabbing the loose end of the top and handing it to her, averting his eyes. “Here. Uh, sorry.”

She laughed, half in horror and half in relief. “This is a nightmare,” she said. “No, actually—this is a classic anxiety dream. Wardrobe malfunction, audience of one, nowhere to hide.”

Andy risked a glance. Marissa had already re-tied the top, but her face was still flushed. He tried to make a joke, lighten the mood. “I guess I’m definitely not your patient anymore.”

She stared at him, then started to laugh, really laugh, the sound echoing off the tiles. “No,” she said, “I guess not.”

They both relaxed. The spell of old roles was broken, and for the first time Andy saw Marissa as simply herself—funny, smart, and a little bit wild when the armor was off.

They floated in silence, side by side, watching the swirl of steam on the surface.

After a while, Marissa said, “Do you want to try the sauna? It’s supposed to be good for circulation.”

Andy hesitated. “Never done that before, either.”

Marissa grinned, sly. “I lived in Germany for two years, Andy. Let’s do it their way.” She paused. “Naked. Trust me, after your first time, it’s just bodies. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

He raised an eyebrow, but couldn’t think of a comeback.

Marissa stood, water sluicing off her body, and peeled off the ruined bikini top without ceremony. “Come on,” she said. “It’s only weird if you make it weird.”

She grabbed two towels and headed for the sauna door, hips swaying. Andy followed, his own swim trunks suddenly a lot tighter than before.

At the threshold, Marissa turned, holding the door open. Her eyes were suddenly very ****. “You coming, or do I have to tell Sam you chickened out?”

He grinned, then shucked his trunks and followed her into the cedar-scented heat.

Showed naked body to Master! +2 VP

Inside, they sat on the bench, side by side, sweat trickling down their skin. For a while, they didn’t talk. They didn’t need to.

It was just two people, at ease in their own strangeness, letting the old roles dissolve in the steam.