The Museum of Pleasures Past

Arabella waited at the edge of the gazebo, her gown slicing the air like a blade, posture impeccable against the luminous blue-white of the ocean. The lanterns had been doubled, their light amplified by mirrors, so the gazebo glowed as if floating in its own small pocket of day. The Throne had been cleaned, the sand swept. And for the first time, a long whitewood table stretched between the semicircle of Contestant stools and the Master’s seat, perfectly laid for a war council or a last supper.

The harem filed in, bodies still humming with the aftershock of their morning reconciliation. Dawn’s eyes were bright and unafraid; Emi’s fingers fluttered with nervous anticipation; Norah rolled her neck as if prepping for a sparring match. Marissa was composed, almost regal, the gold of her hair catching every angle of the lantern light. Even Riley walked in step with the others, her hands in the pockets of her black jeans, jaw set with the resigned focus of someone who’d accepted her fate.

Andy took his place at the Throne, scanning the women one by one. He could read them as easily as pages now: the way Chloe’s cardigan was missing and she wore only the dress, how Liesa’s posture hunched a fraction lower than the rest, the nervous energy in Sam’s bounce as she circled the perimeter. Emily was last; she hovered at the entrance, hair obscuring her body, eyes wide but—he thought—brighter than before.

“Welcome,” Arabella said, and the world fell silent. Her voice was velvet, designed to be both invitation and dare. “Tonight, we host the third Challenge. The stakes are, as always, absolute.” Her eyes met Andy’s and lingered, just long enough for him to feel the full weight of what she was about to say.

“Before we start,” Arabella continued, “I’d like to inform you of the results of the Best Girl poll for this round.”

Riley frowned. “Is that something sexist?”

Sam snorted. “Is there anything in this show that isn’t?”

Dawn giggled, ears drooping. “It’s a poll where the audience tells you how much they like you. You get Bonus Points depending on how well you do.” She turned to look at Claire, whose tail was swishing wildly. “Claire’s been the winner in all polls so far.” The catgirl blinked, tilting her head as if she couldn’t understand why. Riley grunted, crossing her arms.

Arabella smiled. “Last week’s poll was… unusual, in Harem Hotel history. But this one wasn’t much better. I’m happy to announce that Claire’s streak continues, as she once again clinched first place with 11.42% of the vote.” The catgirl’s ears perked up in surprise, and the other harem members clapped in congratulations. “But,” Arabella said, raising a hand, “she does not stand alone at the top. Erin tied for first place with 11.42% of the vote as well. Congratulations.”

Erin blinked, frowning at Arabella as if she had made a mistake, but Andy smiled at her. She glanced at him and tried to glare, but ended up blushing instead. “Who knew all I had to do to be popular was to become a compulsory nudist with big boobs?” She muttered.

Arabella laughed and continued. “Next up, Norah and Dawn, tied for second place with 9.96% of the votes. I may add that Norah has made quite the comeback.” Arabella looked at her fondly. “Congratulations.”

Norah looked stunned, as if she couldn’t understand why people liked her. Andy smiled at her encouragingly, and she sat up straighter, still blinking in confusion.

“Third place is also a tie: Emi and Emily, with 9.13% of the votes.” The harem looked at each other, and Dawn piped up, “How many ties are there?”

Arabella grinned. “All of them, except for one. Riley! you qualified for fourth place, with 8.44% of the votes. Untied, I may add.”

Riley grunted. Arabella waited, as if expecting more of a reaction, then shrugged and continued. “In fifth place, with 8.05% of the votes, Marissa and Sam. And finally, in sixth place, with 7.22% of the votes, Chloe and Liesa.” She looked at Liesa. “Whatever happened this week may have brought you down in the estimates of the Audience, but it appears it also helped your budding relationship with our dear Sam, indirectly.” She placed a hand gently on Liesa’s shoulder. “You will do better next time, I am sure.” She looked at Chloe. “And I expect great things from you, too.”

Chloe swallowed and nodded.

“Bonus Points have been distributed accordingly. And now, it’s time to discuss the Third Challenge.”

Suddenly, the harem fell silent.

“This event,” she continued, “will test your unity, your cunning, and your capacity for pleasure in equal measure.” She gestured, and from somewhere in the shadows, a Mildred glided forward with a smile all sugar and the entropic **** of the universe, carrying a lacquered box the size and shape of a violin case. She set it in the exact center of the table, stepped back, and vanished.

Arabella moved behind the table, letting her fingertips skate along the surface. "Tonight, you will undertake a mission to the Museum of Pleasures Past. For those unfamiliar, it houses artifacts from past and present seasons of Harem Hotel—and not just mine." She paused, watching the faces of the women as they processed the idea.

Arabella waited until even the sound of the ocean had quieted, the wind dropping away as if in anticipation. “You will be working as a single team,” she announced, “and tonight you will break into the Museum after hours, retrieve a clay disc—a drawing of it is in the box—and bring it safely through one of the museum exits. Only then is your job complete.”

She stepped back, gaze sweeping over the women. “The museum is, regrettably, not unguarded. Tonight, an entire platoon of Mildred has been assigned to patrol every corridor and every exhibit hall. These are not your average hospitality Mildred instances; they are security, and guardians of pleasure.”

A nervous ripple swept the stools. Chloe fidgeted, her massive breasts shifting as she hugged herself; Sam’s jaw flexed as if prepping a quip, then held it, eyes fixed on the lacquered box in the center of the table.

“The Mildred platoon,” Arabella continued, “is equipped with aphrodisiac delivery systems—paint pellet rifles.” She let this sink in, a cat’s smile curling the corners of her mouth. “Each direct hit will increase your arousal significantly. Each splash hit will increase it. Any of you who is rendered **** by orgasm, you will be extracted from the museum and your challenge will end there. If you are the first to succumb, you will be eliminated from this season.”

She let the statement hang, sharp as a blade, then added, “The one who carries the disc across the threshold will be declared the Challenge winner. If the disc is lost or left behind, or if you all succumb to orgasm, there will be no winner, and one more person will be randomly picked to be eliminated, in addition to the first one to drop out of the challenge.”

Andy felt the air tighten around him, the mix of adrenaline, anxiety, and—he recognized with a jolt—excitement. The women leaned forward, instincts shifting from social to strategic in a heartbeat. Even Riley, who until now had looked like she’d rather be anywhere else, straightened in her seat, her eyes alive with the first hint of competitive fire.

Arabella motioned to the Mildred at her side. “Your uniforms for the evening.” The box snapped open, and inside lay a dozen black latex catsuits, each folded with obsessive precision. The effect was both intimidating and, Andy had to admit, kind of hot.

“Standard-issue fetishwear,” Arabella said, “with minor modifications for your individual… assets. Liesa, you may wish to double-layer, as per your transformation. Chloe, Norah, Riley, yours are significantly more forgiving around the chest. And for Erin and Emily—” She paused, savoring the moment. “You will go as you are. Nothing is required.”

Erin rolled her eyes, muttered, “Figures.” Beside her, Emily’s cheeks pinked; she tucked her hair even tighter around her bare body.

Arabella nodded to Mildred, who began distributing the suits. “You may take a moment to change behind the screens.” She gestured to three elegant folding partitions, set up just outside the circle of light. “Or you may simply don your uniform here, should modesty not trouble you.”

Norah snorted, already halfway to her feet, one hand snagging the nearest catsuit. “If you’re worried about modesty,” she said, “you probably shouldn’t be here at this point.”

Sam cracked a grin. “Not the weirdest thing I’ve worn for a heist,” she stage-whispered to Andy, who smiled despite himself.

Within minutes, most of the women had slipped into the catsuits. Marissa wore hers with the resigned grace of a woman who’d been to too many academic conferences and was now expected to perform in a very different kind of panel: hers refused to close all the way, showing her generous cleavage, her permanently erect nipples tenting the latex. Dawn’s suit hugged her tightly, but a hole in the back allowed her bunny tail to sit outside; she seemed oddly pleased by the effect, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Liesa actually did layer hers—over a t-shirt, bra, socks, and panties—then zipped hers up with a visible sigh of relief.

Chloe struggled to get the zipper past her midriff; Sam helped, the two of them doubled over in laughter until the fabric finally gave way, her breasts compressed like a set of cream balloons. Emi needed help with the extra armholes, but Marissa sorted her out, and together they cinched all six sleeves in place. Claire’s hugged her body, but her tail swished freely behind her, nervous.

Riley was last. She stood at the edge of the group, arms folded, but when she finally donned her suit, she looked transformed—her grief still present, but now armoring her, channeling it into something like resolve.

Erin and Emily, true to form, stayed as they were. Andy watched as Erin refused even to cross her arms, standing there with the athletic indifference of a woman who’d spent her entire life in locker rooms. Emily, for her part, looked oddly regal—her hair a gold-and-pink tide that nearly reached her knees, her face now more composed than he’d ever seen it.

Arabella surveyed the group, then clapped once, sharp as a shot. “Weapons and tools,” she said. “Tonight you will be issued three arousal pellet launchers, to start with. You can, of course, retrieve more from the Mildreds you defeat.” The guns appeared on the table as if conjured: matte black, compact, with a row of glittering pink pellets at the ready.

Emi picked one up, cradling it with the reverence of a churchgoer receiving a relic. Norah grabbed one quickly, checked the action, smirked, then shouldered the gun as if she’d been born with it. Sam looked at Andy, winked, then aimed at the ceiling with a “Pew! Pew!” under her breath.

“Additionally,” Arabella continued, “two of you will be assigned patch satchels—kits containing anti-arousal dermal patches. Use them wisely, as there are only five per satchel. They will only work as long as the Contestant hasn’t started orgasming yet.”

She let that last line marinate. Andy looked around: the implication was obvious. The women would have to trust each other, literally body-to-body, if they wanted to win.

Arabella moved closer, voice low and intimate. “I remind you that I have no elimination veto left. I have exhausted my supply.” Her eyes flicked to Andy, a hint of mischief. “Should you wish to intervene, Andy, you alone may exercise the power. But remember: if you use it today, you won’t have any left for the last elimination challenge, at the end of the next round.”

He nodded, feeling the responsibility of it settle on his shoulders.

One last reveal. Arabella’s smile lost all its playfulness. “As a final twist: in the interest of fairness, Erin, your immunity to arousal will be suspended for the duration of this Challenge. You will be as **** as the rest.”

The room went very quiet. Andy felt every muscle in his body tense, waiting to see how Erin would take the news.

For a long second, she said nothing. Then she squared her shoulders, turned to Andy, and said, “That’s fair.” There was a tremor in her voice, but her eyes were steel. “If I have to go down, I’d rather it be real.”

Chloe reached out, took Erin’s hand, squeezed. Erin didn’t let go. For the first time, a part of her wished for the transformation that had made her life a living hell the first week of the show.

Arabella watched the exchange with a soft, almost maternal pride. Then, she drew a roll of creamy vellum from the lacquered box and spread it open. The map unfurled with a sound like a snapped bedsheet, all sharp edges and intention.

The Museum of Pleasures Past, rendered in immaculate ink, was a gothic fantasy of domes, sky-bridges, and labyrinthine display halls. The rooms were labeled in English and Latin: Hall of Fetishes, Sanctum of Self-Discovery, Corridor of Sapphic Glory, Hall of Fertility (starred in gold). There were spindly staff corridors, and a rectangular room incongrously labeled ‘The Rotunda’.

Arabella touched a slender finger to the target room. “The artifact is a disc—clay, inscribed, sealed in a glass case. It has a… sentimental significance to me, but nothing that should distract you from your goal.” She looked at Andy, as if daring him to ask for more, then returned to her audience. “You may enter through the Main Entrance, or through any room with unlocked windows for exterior access. These are marked in green on the map.”

The women descended on the map, shoulder to shoulder, tails and limbs and hair and latex pressed together in an accidental exhibition of unity. Claire pushed her glasses up and immediately took charge, hands tracing the possible vectors and mutely asking for everyone’s focus. She pointed to the map, to the domed side entrance, then to the Hall of Fertility, gesturing for thoughts.

The map was a world unto itself. Even before the parchment hit the table, the harem leaned forward like plants to a sunbeam, all arms and elbows and urgent fingers, each wanting to touch, to see, to own a piece of the plan. Claire took the map with the reverence of a priest receiving relics—unrolling it so perfectly flat that even Arabella looked briefly, weirdly, proud.

The Museum of Pleasures Past spread before them in a grid of domes, glassed-in corridors, and looping staircases—one part palace, two parts labyrinth. Every major hall was marked with a florid title in both English and Latin, the style so ornate that Andy suspected the map itself might be a reproduction from the museum’s own collection. The object of their heist—a thumbprint-sized dot in the gold-starred Hall of Fertility—was boxed in by display rooms, a central rotunda, and multiple chokepoints no matter where you entered from.

Claire studied the paper, glasses slipping down her nose. She tapped the nearest staff corridor, then the Hall of Fetishes, then ran a fingertip in a long, silent arc around the rotunda. Her cat tail flicked behind her, telegraphing anxiety and also (Andy was certain) excitement.

The air around the table was thick with the scent of latex, nervous sweat, and the warm undercurrent of possibility. Even before Claire started gesturing, Andy could see the lines of a plan forming across her face, her pale blue eyes flicking from detail to detail and then up to Arabella as if awaiting the other woman's approval.

Arabella, for her part, seemed almost removed from the scene—her fingers steepled, her gaze heavy-lidded with the elegance of a librarian after hours. She nodded once at Claire, as if to say: It's your war, now.

Claire tapped the Hall of Fetishes deliberately, then traced a line through the exhibit galleries, pausing at each fork in the route to consider. The movement drew everyone's attention, the hush around the table deepening as even the bunny tail on Dawn's suit stilled.

Norah broke the silence, her own finger stabbing at the grand staircase inside the main entry. "We go in the front," she said. "If they expect a sneak, we hit hard and fast. Guns out, no time for them to coordinate. Three of us have launchers, and the rest of us can handle a Mildred bare-handed if we have to. Right?"

Erin shrugged, indifferently. "I've taken down worse. Not my first time squaring off against a hostile HR department."

Marissa shook her head. "That assumes the Mildreds are as soft as the resort ones. I doubt Arabella would staff her own museum with rookies." She angled a look at Arabella, who smiled enigmatically and said nothing. “Are we allowed to tackle Mildred physically?”

Arabella nodded. “Grappling and physical attacks will be permitted. The field around the Museum will convert hits into arousal, and no physical damage will be caused.” She paused. “I warn you, Mildred’s reaction to the aphrodisiac pellets, or to arousal caused by ****, will be… unusual. Do not be alarmed.”

Chloe, her arms wrapped tight around her new, impossibly full bust, piped up: "A frontal **** would put us on every camera, and they'd sound every alarm at once. Maybe we could split the team—send a few through a side window, the others through the roof?"

Emi grinned, her six hands hovering in the air, then one at a time pointed at the museum's exterior pipework and the open cupolas above the domes. "There's at least three ways up to the roof," she said, a little breathless with excitement. "Sparkles used to do stuff like this all the time—sneak in through the skylight, drop down right onto the artifact."

She paused, cheeks flushing. "But, uh, in real life, I like to climb trees. Or pipes. Or, um, whatever. So—sorry, never mind."

Dawn cleared her throat. "If we do it that way, maybe we assign roles? Some of us are better at fighting, some at sneaking, some at... fixing? If anyone gets hit, the patches go to them first, right?"

"Absolutely," Chloe said, eyes wide. "Otherwise we're going to get picked off one by one. Like, um, every scary movie ever."

Arabella's voice cut through the excited chatter. "Ladies." Her tone was silk over steel. "I neglected to mention one crucial detail. You must remain together at all times. Any contestant who separates from the group will be immediately disqualified."

A collective groan rippled through the harem. Arabella smiled. “Besides,” she added with a hint of mischief, “everyone knows that splitting the party never ends well.” The women looked at each other, blinking in surprise.

Norah crossed her arms. "Fine. Then we all go through the front. Guns blazing."

"And get caught on every camera?" Marissa countered, tapping the map where security symbols clustered densely around the main entrance. "That's suicide. They'd have us surrounded before we made it past the lobby."

Emi's six hands fidgeted nervously. "So... no roof plan?"

No splitting up, Claire scribbled, pushing her glasses up. One entry point that gives us the best chance of reaching the Hall of Fertility undetected.

Claire shot Marissa a grateful look, then wrote down the assignments, her handwriting tiny and precise.

Andy watched the women, feeling the strategy come together—not with the cold logic of a chessboard, but the messy, affectionate brawl of a family trying to win Pictionary. Liesa, who had been quiet until now, leaned in and pointed at the map's northeastern edge. "This room? Hall of Fetishes? Nobody will expect it."

Sam lit up. "Perfect. We go in through there, single file."

Chloe, who'd been shuffling her feet, piped up: "Do we have code names? I feel like we need code names."

Norah groaned, but Andy caught the edge of a smile. "If you're going to assign code names, do it before we go in. I'm not dying for the cause and getting called Fluffy Tail in the obituary."

Chloe's smile was shy but genuine. "You can pick your own. I'll be Velvet."

"Of course you will," said Erin, dryly. "I'm not picking one. I'll be… Erin."

Emi, quietly: "I'll be Sparkles. If that's okay."

Dawn considered, then said, "Sunbeam?"

Norah gagged. “God, too much joy. Call me Chief.”

Marissa: "Professor."

Liesa, blushing: "Waffle."

Sam, without hesitation: "Blue Steel." She glanced at Riley. “What about you, Red?”

Riley grunted. Sam grinned in response. “Your pick: Red or Chuckles?”

“… Red.”

Claire scribbled down all the names and held it up, blushing fiercely but proud. Her own was simply "Catgirl."

Emily giggled. "OG."

Arabella watched the exchange, the soft lines of her face deepening into something almost wistful. "I am delighted to see so much camaraderie," she said. "But please remember, there is real risk. Do not underestimate the Mildreds, nor the possibility of failure."

Andy met her gaze. "You never said what the disc does," he said. "Why is it so important?"

Arabella hesitated, then traced a careful circle around the Hall of Fertility. "The disc is a relic related to my first season," she said, voice thin with memory. "It has to do with fertility, as the name of the Hall suggests. But do not trouble yourselves with its purpose—just retrieve it, and return to the threshold intact."

Marissa, ever the analyst, fixed her with a steady look. "Is there a trap?"

"Always," said Arabella, and her smile returned, sharp and luminous. "But the biggest trap is believing you cannot escape it."

She clapped her hands once, signaling an end to the planning. "Study the map, assign roles, practice with the equipment. The heist will begin at ten sharp. I suggest you use the time well."

The harem exploded into motion. Norah and Erin arm-wrestled over who would lead the frontline team, while Marissa timed them and provided color commentary ("I hope you know that statistically, the one who pushes hardest first always tires out—see, told you, Norah").

Andy leaned back, feeling the energy in the air, and realized—surprisingly—that the challenge had already begun. The lines between rivals and friends were blurred, if not erased; everyone was part of the team, every hand offered was accepted, if only for a moment.

Across the table, Arabella watched with the patience of a gardener tending her favorite, impossible flowers. When she caught Andy’s eye, she smiled, not as Host but as someone who knew exactly how hard it was to build something that could survive the night.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

Andy considered. "I think they are," he said. "And I think that’s enough."

She nodded, her expression unreadable.

He watched as Emi climbed onto a chair to demonstrate the “Sparkles” maneuver, her six arms windmilling as she mimed scaling a wall, then caught herself at the apex and pulled a perfect superhero landing. The harem cheered, and even Norah clapped for her.

Next to the map, Chloe practiced her “decoy” voice, making everyone in earshot double over in laughter; Marissa coached Dawn on how to best apply the patches, while Erin claimed she didn’t need them, but then secretly asked for a tutorial. Sam studied the aphrodisiac gun as if it contained the secrets of the universe, Liesa watching quietly to the side.

And in the center, Claire catalogued every possible failure point, every alternate route, every permutation of success and loss. She did it not as a commander, but as the careful, unblinking archivist she’d always been—her job was not to lead but to remember, and in that moment Andy realized he would trust her with anything.

Erin lingered at the edge of the deck, arms crossed and face set in hard lines. She watched the others, but her eyes tracked only the perimeter, as if waiting for an enemy to show before she let herself relax.

Andy found her there, resting one hand on the smooth, hot wood beside her hip. "You okay?"

She shrugged, looking out at the ocean. "I'm fine. You?"

He grinned. "I always get nervous before the big one."

She snorted. "This isn't the big one. That's still coming, right?"

He let the question hang. After a beat, he said, "I want you to know—I'm proud of you. No matter how it goes."

Erin's jaw flexed. She looked at him, eyes bright but unsentimental. "You know my transformation's off for the challenge."

"I do," he said. "But I trust you to keep your head. And the others."

She leaned into him, letting her body rest against his. Her skin was hot, the muscles under it taut as bowstrings. She breathed out, slow. "I'll bring them back."

He cupped her face. "I know you will."

They stayed there, touching foreheads, letting the hush grow between them. Erin broke away first, her lips brushing his ear. "Don't get soft on me," she muttered, but the smile in her voice was real.

Dawn and Chloe were in the shade near the bench, unpacking their patch satchels and running through first-aid protocol. Chloe's hands shook as she checked the seals on the packets, but her voice was calm and strong.

"Just like at school," she said to Dawn. "Band-Aids, then cuddles, then cookies."

Dawn laughed. "I brought fruit snacks. Not cookies. You want some for after?"

Chloe's whole body relaxed. "I'd love that."

Andy came over, placing a hand on each woman's shoulder. "You're the med team," he said. "No one can do this without you."

Dawn looked up, eyes wide. "We'll do our best, Andy."

Chloe smiled, a little uncertain. "I hope it's enough."

He squeezed their hands. "It will be. I know it."

Norah loaded and reloaded her gun with brisk, efficient motions, the latex stretched tight over her chest. She eyed the others, lips compressed into a thin line. When Andy approached, she snapped the chamber shut and met his gaze.

"Don't say it," she said.

He grinned. "Say what?"

She glared, but the edge was gone. "That you believe in me. That I'm more than just a hammer. Or whatever speech you rehearsed in the shower."

He shrugged. "Wouldn't dream of it. Just don't do anything reckless, okay?"

She rolled her eyes. "No promises." But the way she smiled at him—crooked, small—made the warning ring hollow.

"You're going to do great, Chief."

"Yeah. Well. We'll see."

She spun the launcher, caught it with one hand, and stalked off, the motion pure confidence and nothing else.

Marissa was running through a checklist with Claire, her voice low and measured. She touched Andy's arm as he approached, drawing him aside.

"We have our shorthand," Marissa said, not unkindly, "but I'll help her with the communication."

Andy nodded, then looked past her to Claire, who was studying the map with unwavering focus. "Claire," he called softly. She looked up, eyes finding his instantly. "If I see danger you can't see, I'll send pulses through our bond—two quick ones for immediate threat, one for caution. Will you feel that?"

Claire nodded once, certain. Her fingers tapped against her thigh: two quick taps, then a single one. She quickly dashed to his side, blinked owlishly at him, and pulled him down with both hands for a kiss. She tapped his nose with a finger, and then ran back to the map. Andy smiled.

"Are you ready?" he asked Marissa.

Marissa smiled, the corners of her eyes creasing. "It's an exam like any other. Only this time, the subject is 'Survive.'"

He hugged her, arms wrapping around the impossible width of her breasts. She hugged back, holding tight.

"Bring her home," he whispered in mock drama.

Marissa's breath hitched. "Dramatic."

He found Emi next, perched on a low railing, her six arms wrapped around her knees, head resting atop the little nest of limbs.

"You okay?" Andy said, sliding onto the railing beside her.

Emi peeked at him through the curtain of her hair. "Nervous," she said. "But excited too."

He grinned. "You're the best climber they've got. I bet you could do the whole museum from the ceiling."

Her cheeks flushed. "Maybe." She laughed, a sound like windchimes. "I hope so."

He opened his arms. "Can I have one of your patented six-armed hugs?"

She giggled, then wrapped all six arms around him, squeezing until his ribs creaked. "Thank you," she whispered into his shoulder.

He held her, then kissed her forehead. "You're going to do amazing. Just trust yourself."

She nodded, and when he left, she stood a little taller.

Sam and Liesa huddled in the shade, Liesa's hand trembling in Sam's. Sam looked at Andy and raised an eyebrow.

"You here to wish us luck?"

"Actually, yes," Andy said. "But more than that—if it gets hairy, trust each other."

Sam grinned. "We know. But thanks for the pep talk."

Liesa's eyes were wet, but determined. Andy bent, touched her cheek. "You can do this, Waffle."

She snorted, then smiled, real and full. "Thank you. For believing."

He bent, so only she could hear. "I love you, Liesa. That never changed."

She gasped, then nodded, her whole body going loose with relief. "I love you too."

Sam shook her head, mock-disgusted. "Get a room," she said, but her voice was tender.

Andy winked at her. "Do what you do best, Sam. Make me proud."

She flexed her biceps. "Done."

He left them holding hands, sharing a soft, private joke.

Emily was last. She stood near the edge of the rose arch, her hair a river of pink and gold down her back, her body otherwise bare and luminous in the lantern light.

Andy slipped up behind her, wrapping her in his arms. She leaned into him, letting the weight of her body rest fully against his.

"Thank you," she said, voice so low he barely caught it.

"For what?"

"For last night," she said, "and for this morning. And for not treating me like I'm broken."

He kissed her ear. "You're not broken. You're perfect."

She shivered, then turned, her eyes wet but happy. "Come back for me?"

He kissed her, slow. "Always."

She nodded, then let him go, standing a little straighter as she watched the rest of the group prepare.

Riley lingered at the very edge of the group, her hands in her jacket pockets, body wound tight as piano wire.

Andy didn't know what to say. He stopped beside her, waiting.

"You going to give me the speech, too?" Riley said, not quite sarcastic.

He thought about it, then shook his head. "No. I just wanted to say—you don't have to do this alone."

She smirked. "Yeah, well. If I mess up, don't hold it against me, okay?"

He looked at her. "I won't. But you won't."

Riley drew a long, shuddering breath. "Tell you what, Andy. If I make it out, you owe me a drink."

He smiled. "Deal."

They stood in silence for a beat, then Riley punched his shoulder—hard, but not unkind.

The final minutes passed in a flurry of checks and rechecks, of hugs and whispered encouragement and jokes half-finished before nerves swallowed the punchlines. The catsuits, now properly zipped and stretched, gleamed in the artificial day of the gazebo, each woman transformed into her own comic book hero. Even Emily and Erin, naked as the hour they were born, looked more comfortable than out of place.

They lined up before the arch, the roses overhead awash in silvery moonlight. Arabella moved down the line, pausing at each woman, murmuring something private to each: a word, a nod, the brush of a hand on shoulder or cheek. When she reached the end, she turned to Andy.

"Ready?" she asked.

He wasn't. But he nodded.

The women gathered in a tight knot, their bodies angled toward the portal. At the last second, Claire turned and flashed Andy a tiny, private smile. He felt it all the way to his chest.

Arabella gestured, and the arch shimmered, filling with a pulse of impossible color.

"Go," she said, and the harem went.

They passed through together, one after the next: Norah and Erin in the vanguard, Marissa and Claire close behind, Dawn and Emi, Chloe, Sam and Liesa, then Riley, and Emily at the rear.

Andy watched them vanish, heart in his mouth.

Arabella took her place at his side under the gazebo. She wore her mask of composure, but he saw the tension in her jaw.

The portal snapped shut, and for a moment, everything was silent.

"They'll be fine," Arabella said, but it was as much to herself as to Andy.

He hoped she was right.

He sat back in the Throne, eyes never leaving the place where the harem had disappeared. He tried to hold all of them in his mind at once: the hope, the fear, the way they'd looked at him as they left.

He'd given them everything he could—a plan, a bond, a promise.

The rest was up to them.

Note: The chapters covering the Third Challenge will include a Spoilers version and a Spoiler-Free version. Because of the nature of the Museum and the artifacts inside, there will be minor spoilers for several branches whose authors were so kind as to provide objects for the Museum's collections. These include the following branches:

• Nick Reynolds
• Caleb Ward
• Mark Garret
• Levi
• Jake Cooper
• Francis O'Connor
• Laura Black
• Congressman Richard Turner
• A Case of Mistaken Identity
• Harem Hotel: Bed and Breakfast Edition
• They Asked for It
• Dungeon Crawl

Most spoilers are minor at best, but the text includes at least one significant spoiler for the Nick Reynolds branch. A spoiler-free branch (same text, but without the references) is available if you don't want to get spoiled.