Note: This story was written with assistance by an AI. I provided prompts and edited the results to make sense, creating something resembling a full story.
The air crackled with an energy that wasn’t quite electricity—something closer to the hum of a trillion television sets all tuned to static. One moment, they were going about their ordinary lives. The next, a shimmering tear in reality yawned wide, and they were unceremoniously deposited onto a vast, circular platform of polished chrome.
Garnet landed first, adjusting her visor with a practiced calm. Velma stumbled through next, hands flying to her glasses which had fogged instantly. Helen materialized gracefully, though her hair crackled with contained frustration. The Butt Witch appeared with a theatrical “Ta-da!” that no one had asked for, while Spencer simply blinked, hand still reaching for a dish towel that wasn’t there. Maddie materialized with a shriek, clutching a ecto-blaster that wasn’t there either, and Sandy—well, Sandy tumbled in upside down, helmet clunking against the chrome.
“Wha—where in the name of Neptune—” Sandy scrambled upright, patting her suit. “This better not be one of Plankton’s schemes!”
“I don’t think Plankton has interdimensional tech this advanced,” Velma said, already examining the seamless metal floor. “Though honestly, at this point, who can say?”
Garnet crossed her arms, gaze sweeping the empty space. “We’re not in any jail I’m aware of. And I’m aware of several.”
“Ladies! Welcome, welcome!”
The voice echoed from everywhere at once, rich and amplified. A circular platform of light descended from nowhere and at its center stood a woman in a canary-yellow jumpsuit, white boots, and a microphone that gleamed like a promise. She had a poise that said I’ve seen some things and a smile that said and I’m about to commentate on all of it.
“April O’Neil, Channel 6 News,” she said into the mic, and the words rippled through the void like they were being broadcast on every frequency ever conceived. “And welcome to the most exclusive, most posterior-focused competition the multiverse has ever seen!”
Silence.
Then the Butt Witch made her signature noise: a low, wheezing “Ooo-OOOoo.” “Finally!” She thrust a leg toward the group, then the other, seemingly dancing. “A stage worthy of my… assets!”
“Your what now?” Maddie said.
“She means her butt,” Velma said flatly.
“I MEAN MY BUTT!” the Butt Witch confirmed. “The greatest butt in the Endless!”
Sandy tapped her helmet. “Uh, did y’all fall out of a fever dream? Because I’m hearin’ words but they ain’t makin’ a lick of sense.”
April laughed, the same polished laugh she used when live-feeding a car chase at 11. “I know, wild, right? But here’s the sitch.” She spun, gesturing with the mic like a wand. “A benefactor—identity classified for now, but cherchez la femme, you know?—has scoured the multiverse for what she believes to be the finest rear ends in all existence. And, well…” She swept an arm at them. “Voila! The contestants!”
More silence.
“You’re joking,” Helen said.
“I never joke about broadcast journalism,” April said. “Or butts, apparently. It’s a weird career day.”
Garnet adjusted her stance. “So we’ve been abducted… for our butts.”
“Not just your butts!” April said, then paused. “No, yes. It’s specifically your butts. The whole competition is ass-based. Every challenge. Every round. Every dramatic commercial break close-up.” She tapped the mic against her palm. “It’s going to be huge. We’re talking intergalactic pay-per-view. Multiversal simulcast. And—” she leaned in conspiratorially, “—there might be guest judgment from some pretty significant cosmic figures. Just sayin’.”
Velma adjusted her glasses. “Alright. For the sake of argument. If this isn’t some Scooby-Doo level scam—”
“It’s way beyond that, hon.”
“—then where exactly are we? Who is this benefactor? And what happens if we decline?”
April winced. “Ooo. Great questions. So: location—classified. Benefactor—shadowy, female, very specific taste. Declining—” She made a camera cut motion with her fingers. “Not on the menu. You’re all under contract from the moment you, uh…” She squinted. “What’s the classy way to say got yoinked?”
“Kidnapped,” Garnet provided.
“Requisitioned!” the Butt Witch added. “Acquired! Booty-called by fate!”
“Gross,” Spencer finally said. It was the first word she’d contributed. Her expression was one of profound, maternal disappointment. “I was in the middle of calibrating that new vacuum. Dee Dee’s science project needs—” She stopped, frowned. “Wait. Did that voice say ‘ass’?”
“It did,” April confirmed. “We get a lot of milage out of these hover-cues.”
A glowing card appeared in front of each contestant, shimmering with their names and a pixelated silhouette—each one highlighting, in flattering detail, the rear view.
Maddie grabbed hers. “CONTESTANT 5: MADDIE FENTON. Multiverse Ranking: 87th,” she read. “I don’t know what’s worse. That I was ranked for my butt or that I’m not even top 50.”
“‘Sandy Cheeks. Multiverse Ranking: 3,'” Sandy read. “Whoo-ee! Top three, baby!” She paused. “Wait. They seen me without the suit?”
“No comment,” April beamed.
Velma’s card had appeared. She read: “‘Velma Dinkley. Multiverse Ranking: 4th.'” Her grip on her glasses tightened. “Alright, now it’s personal. Fourth? Who’s ranked above me?”
“Ooo, can’t say—future contestants,” April said with a wink. “But let’s just say the competition is… stacked.”
“I regret this already,” Helen said under her breath.
Garnet materialized her card between two fingers. “What happens if we win?”
April’s eyes lit up. “Oh, the winner’s prize is…” She consulted one of her hovering screens. “‘A customized universe-reshaping artifact of the winner’s choice’? That can’t be right.” She tapped the screen. “That’s just asking for trouble.”
“A universe-reshaping artifact?” Garnet’s voice didn’t waver, but her posture shifted ever so slightly. “I’m listening.”
“A multi-verse?” Velma’s eyebrows rose. “Infinite universe? I’m listening.”
“I don’t even know what you’d do with that,” Sandy said, rubbing her chin. “But I bet I could make a pretty darn good impression on Sherm and Pearl…”
“The Prize Buttlactica is miiiine!” the Butt Witch screeched. “I shall sit upon the Throne of Cheeks and all will bounce before me!”
Spencer looked skyward. “I have a son in grade school who could debrief me better than this.”
Maddie’s jaw tightened. “My husband is expecting dinner. My daughter’s got a science fair.” Her hands balled into fists. “But… if some shadowy chick thinks she can turn my butt into a spectator sport and not get a run for her money, she’s got another thing coming.”
“That’s the spirit!” April cried. “And now, the part I’m contractually obligated to read.” A massive holographic scroll unfurled. “By participating, all contestants agree to a minimum of three elimination rounds, one swimsuit interlude, a slow-motion ‘strikes-and-spares’ segment, and at least one… emotional backstory confessional. Contestants may not use superpowers unless pre-approved by the Ass Commish, and any attempt to communicate with the outside multiverse will result in immediate… moist towelette.”
“What does that mean?” Helen asked.
“I’ll be honest, I didn’t ask,” April said. “But they were holding the script the whole time, so I just kept reading.”
The scroll vanished. The floor beneath them began to hum, then shift, forming lanes and platforms—an impossibly large game board, with stations like “Glute Gauntlet,” “Bubble Bass,” “The Arena of Cheek,” and “Lube Loungue.”
“Welcome, ladies, to… THE ULTIMATE ASS-ATHALON!” April’s voice boomed. “The first event starts in twenty. Use that time to—you know—stretch? Psych up? Learn each other’s names beyond ‘the goth one.'”
“Oh, I’m not goth,” Velma said. “I’m investigation-core.”
“Cute,” April said, then sighed. “Yo, between you and me?” She dropped the announcer voice. “My ass is fantastic. I’ve done a hundred kicks in this jumpsuit, been drawn in profile, the whole nine. But does the shadowy figure pick me for the ass-off of the millennium? Noooo.” She shook her head. “I’m the host. It’s an honor, but c’mon.”
“You could always compete anyway,” Garnet offered. “Say one of us drops out.”
April’s eyes flicked to the side, as if checking for the shadowy figure. “Tempting, but the contract says ‘hosts may not compete.'” She licked her finger and tested the wind. “That hasn’t stopped me from training in secret, though. Just in case.”
The Butt Witch leaned toward Velma. “She should have been a competitor. Have you seen her glute definition? Exquisite.”
“I’ve seen it,” Helen muttered. “Hard to miss.”
“Not gonna lie, girlfriend,” Maddie added, “you fill out that yellow suit.”
April placed a hand on her hip, basking. “See? This is why we need more women in sports journalism.”
A gong rang overhead, the echo stretching infinitely.
“Alright, competitors! Twenty minutes! Then the first event: The Bounce of Ages!” April’s voice had returned to full emcee power. “An endurance challenge where contestants must maintain a rhythmic oscillation on their designated Butte-Pads while an increasingly powerful speaker system blasts bass frequencies tuned specifically to each of your… hmm, I’m reading the notes… ‘jigglology’?” She frowned. “Wow. Okay.”
Sandy punched one fist into her palm. “I’ve surfed through a tidal wave with a cheese grater on my head. Let’s see these speakers bring it.”
“You’ve what?” Velma said.
Garnet shook out her arms, then cracked her knuckles. “We’ll need to assess the arena.”
“We’re not going to fight each other,” Helen said. “This is absurd.”
“When the prize is on the line,” Garnet said, “people can surprise you.”
“No, she’s got a point,” Spencer said. “This is just a game. There’s no reason to—” She blinked as a fresh card materialized before her. “Wait. Why is my ranking flashing?”
April’s face tightened. It was the expression she made when a live shot went way more south than planned. “Okay, small update from the benefactor! The contestants have been… ‘re-seeded’ based on a new metric of ‘That-Which-Could-Be-Percieved-But-Not-Observed,’ which is… math? Or maybe… metaphysics? I’m just a reporter.”
The card in front of Spencer snapped to a new number: RANK 1.
“What.” It wasn’t a question. It left her mouth as a small disturbance in the air.
“Holy macaroni,” Sandy whispered.
The Butt Witch made a sound like a deflating accordion. “The butt-mother rises…”
Dexter’s Mom flung the card away. It vanished. “I don’t want to be Rank 1!” she said. “I’m a mother! I bake!”
“That’s… probably why,” April said carefully. “Listen, the benefactor has a very nuanced appreciation for…” She made air quotes. “‘Suburban untapped potential.'”
“Gross,” Spencer repeated.
“Get used to it, babe.” Maddie clapped her on the shoulder. “We’re all in this thing now. Might as well show that shadowy weirdo that the best butts in the multiverse belong to women with priorities.”
Velma opened her mouth, then closed it. Finally she said, “I’ve solved mysteries involving giant talking dogs, a wax phantom, and a sentient pile of cheese. If I can’t figure out a butt tournament, I deserve to be fourth.”
“That’s the spirit!” April clapped her hands, then turned to address all of them with renewed verve. “Contestants, the arena is ready when you are! Our first event begins shortly! In the meantime, remember: good sportsmanship is mandatory, but so are ratings!”
The hovering boards flickered, revealing an enormous leaderboard. But the seventh slot was highlighted with an empty silhouette and a question mark. Beneath it, words in glowing letters: MYSTERY CONTESTANT—TO BE REVEALED MID-SEASON.
“Wait,” Velma said. “There’s one more?”
“You betcha!” April beamed. “And from what I hear, she’s legendary. But I’ve said too much.” She mimed zipping her lips, then unzipping them. “Oh, also? No bathroom breaks.”
A pause.
“That was another joke, but the producer’s in my earpiece telling me it’s canon now.” April shrugged. “Sorry!”
The women stood in an uneasy cluster as the first challenge platform rose from the floor, humming with low, expectant energy. The Butt Witch was already stretching. Sandy was doing lunges. Velma adjusted her glasses and began muttering calculations. Spencer just rubbed her temples.
Garnet stared at the rank-board, unreadable.
And somewhere, in a place between worlds, a shadow watched.
The Bounce of Ages platform rose from the chrome floor with a hydraulic hiss, revealing seven circular pads arranged in a semicircle. Each pad was upholstered in what appeared to be deep purple velvet, with a subtle shimmer that suggested it was anything but ordinary material. Above each pad, a floating holographic display flickered to life, showing the contestant’s name and a series of metrics: oscillation frequency, amplitude, jiggle consistency, and something ominously labeled “ass acoustics.”
April strode to the center of the arena, her yellow jumpsuit practically glowing under the multiverse’s ambient light. “Ladies, welcome to the first event! The Bounce of Ages!” She paused, consulting a floating screen that materialized beside her. “The rules are simple: each contestant will perform a sustained rhythmic oscillation—that’s fancy talk for twerking, people—on their Butte-Pad. The pads are calibrated to measure not just the physical performance, but the… hmm…” She squinted. “The ‘sonic clap resonance’? Okay, that’s a new one. Basically, we’re rating how good your ass claps.”
Velma’s hand shot up. “Question. What exactly are we being judged on? Is there a rubric? Standards and practices? A code of ethics?”
April’s smile didn’t waver. “The judges are hidden behind those panels over there.” She pointed to a row of opaque booths that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “I’m told they’re ‘multiversal connoisseurs of the posterior arts.'”
“Could you be less specific?” Maddie deadpanned.
“Each round lasts ninety seconds,” April continued. “You may use whatever techniques you’ve got, but powers are restricted to… let’s see… ‘no flight, no phasing, no elasticity beyond natural recoil.'” She shot Helen a meaningful look. “That means you, Mrs. Incredible. No stretching that thang into next week.”
Helen crossed her arms. “I wasn’t planning to.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” April winked.
The Butt Witch was already on her pad, testing the springiness with both hands. “Ooo-OOOoo! It’s like sitting on a cloud made of ambition!”
Sandy climbed onto hers with the cautious energy of someone approaching a new piece of gym equipment. “So, what, I just… bounce?”
“That’s the ticket!” April said. “When the music starts, you twerk. Let the beat guide you. The pad does the rest.”
“And where exactly is this being broadcast?” Garnet asked, her voice even.
April’s expression flickered—just for a moment—before the polished host mask returned. “Oh, you know. Everywhere. All the worlds. Every reality with a screen, a scrying pool, a crystal ball, a psychic link. The works.”
Spencer’s face went pale. “Everywhere? As in… my neighborhood? My son’s school?”
“Yup! In fact, we’re already getting live viewer reactions.” April gestured to a massive holographic display that shimmered into existence above the arena. It showed a grid of feeds: a living room in Beach City, a laboratory in Dexter’s house, an underwater dome in Bikini Bottom, a newsroom in Amity Park, a living room in a suburban cookie-cutter house, a van covered in flowers, and a modest home in Endsville.
“Oh no,” Maddie breathed. “Oh no, no, no, no.”
The feed from the Fenton household showed Jack Fenton, his jaw hanging open, a half-eaten fudge stick frozen halfway to his mouth. Jazz was beside him, her face a perfect mask of horror. Danny was off to the side, slowly backing out of the room.
“That’s my family,” Maddie hissed. “They can see me right now?”
“Darn tootin’,” April said. “Multiversal simulcast. No pressure.”
Garnet’s visor reflected the screen, unreadable as ever. But her shoulders had tensed. “The Gems will see this.”
Velma adjusted her glasses with shaky hands. “The gang solves mysteries. This isn’t—this doesn’t—” She stopped. Squinted. “Is that Shaggy eating a sandwich in the front row of a live audience?!”
The feed showed the back of the Mystery Machine with the doors open, a TV set up, and indeed, Shaggy was mid-bite of an enormous sandwich, Scooby beside him with his own sandwich. Daphne was covering her mouth. Fred was holding a notepad, looking deeply confused.
“Yup! We’ve got select viewing parties,” April said. “Your loved ones are getting the full, uncensored experience.”
The Butt Witch cackled. “Let them watch! Let them worship!”
“You’re not helping,” Velma snapped.
“I’m not trying to help,” the Butt Witch shot back. “I’m trying to win.”
Sandy had gone very still. “The folks in Bikini Bottom are watching? The Krusty Krab? Everyone?”
The feed showed the interior of the Krusty Krab, where the TV had been rolled in. Mr. Krabs was counting something. SpongeBob was cheering, waving at the screen. Patrick was attempting to touch the screen, his hand leaving a greasy smear.
“Oh, Neptune,” Sandy whispered.
“Alright, enough chit-chat!” April’s voice boomed. “Let’s meet our first performers! We’re going in rank order, starting from seventh and working our way up the leaderboard for the first solo runs. Then, we’ll do a synchronized group number. Because nothing says ‘sportsmanship’ like synchronized ass-clapping!”
“This is a nightmare,” Spencer said.
“This is ratings,” April corrected.
—
The first beat dropped—a low, thrumming bass line that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, vibrating through the pads and up through the women’s bodies. It was primal, irresistible, the kind of beat that demanded movement.
“Starting us off, coming in at rank number seven… Hailing from the Endless, it’s the one, the only, the insatiable… BUTT WITCH!”
The Butt Witch struck a pose, her massive hindquarters already jiggling with anticipation. She was a creature of pure id, all obsessive desire and theatrical flair. Her thong—a wisp of material that somehow constituted her entire lower garment—struggled to contain the sheer magnitude of her assets. Her cheeks were twin planets of green, wobbly flesh, each one easily the size of a beach ball, dimpled at the sides and impossibly soft-looking. The thong strap vanished into the valley between them, a tributary of string lost in an ocean of jiggle.
She turned to face the crowd—or rather, the invisible cameras—and began.
The first clap was a thunderclap, a sonic boom of cheeks meeting cheeks that reverberated through the arena. She bent at the waist, grabbed her ankles, and went to town. Her ass rose and fell like a piston of pure, jiggly destruction. Each drop sent ripples through her flesh that traveled in waves, the impact so forceful that her cheeks clapped together with a sound like wet thunder. The pad beneath her groaned—actually, audibly groaned—as she punished it with her oscillations.
“Unh! Unh! Yes! Witness the majesty!” she howled, her voice cracking with ecstatic effort. “The Butt Witch performs the sacred Dance of a Thousand Cheeks!”
Her technique was unorthodox—less rhythm, more violence—but the sheer enthusiasm was undeniable. She threw her whole body into it, her ass jiggling with such abandon that it threatened to achieve its own independent existence. The metric above her head flickered: JIGGLE CONSISTENCY: 94%. SONIC CLAP RESONANCE: MEGACLAP ACHIEVED. ASS ACOUSTICS: SYMPHONIC.
April watched with professional interest, one eyebrow raised. “Looks like she’s setting the bar high, folks! Or should I say, the cheeks are setting the bar? No? Nothing? Tough room.”
—
“Next up, ranking sixth… from Coolsville, Ohio, the brainy, the brash, the… wait, is that a real name? Velma Dinkley!”
Velma stomped to her pad, her signature orange turtleneck sweater and red skirt practically vibrating with her indignation. “I want it on record that I am doing this under duress.”
“Duly noted,” April said. “Now show us what that nerd ass can do.”
Velma’s face flushed a deep crimson. “It’s not a ‘nerd ass.’ It’s a perfectly proportioned—” She stopped, realizing she was arguing with a reporter from another dimension. “Fine. Fine. But I’m keeping my sweater on.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Velma turned around, and for the first time, the group got a real look at what had earned her the rank of fourth—soon to be re-evaluated in this very competition. Beneath her modest skirt, she possessed an ass that defied the stereotype of the career sleuth: full, round, and surprisingly plush, the kind of ass that looked like it had been sculpted by an artist with a particular appreciation for softness and bounce. The skirt hugged her hips, outlining the generous curve of her rear, and when she bent forward, the fabric pulled taut across her cheeks.
She began tentatively, her movements jerky and uncertain. But the beat was insistent, and soon her hips found the rhythm. Her ass bounced with each drop, a pair of firm, well-shaped cheeks that clapped with a surprisingly crisp sound—not the thunderous detonation of the Butt Witch, but a sharp, rhythmic snapping that spoke of underlying muscle and youthful vitality.
“Jinkies,” she muttered, her glasses fogging.
The feed from the Mystery Machine showed Fred trying to triangulate the signal. Daphne had her hands over her mouth. Shaggy and Scooby had stopped eating, their sandwiches forgotten.
“Is… is Velma twerking?” Shaggy’s voice crackled through the arena’s speakers.
“Reah, rwerking!” Scooby confirmed.
Velma’s face went redder. “I can hear them! Why can I hear them?!”
“Part of the experience!” April said. “Your fans can interact through the audio feed!”
“These are my friends!”
The metric above Velma read: JIGGLE CONSISTENCY: 89%. SONIC CLAP RESONANCE: CRISP SNAP ACHIEVED. ASS ACOUSTICS: PERCUSSIVE.
—
“Coming in at rank five… from Amity Park, ghost-hunter, mother, and apparently, a hidden asset—Maddie Fenton!”
Maddie approached her pad with the air of someone who had faced down ghosts, ghouls, and the PTA, and was not about to be intimidated by a velvet circle. But the humiliation was there, simmering behind her eyes. “Jack, if you’re watching—”
“I’M WATCHING, MADDIE! GO GET ‘EM, BABY!” Jack’s voice boomed through the feed, his face filling the screen, hands cupped around his mouth.
“—I want a divorce,” she finished weakly.
Maddie’s ass was the product of a lifetime of athletic ghost-hunting and the kind of lower-body genetics that made jumpsuits a liability. She wore a teal catsuit that clung to every curve, and from the back, the view was spectacular. Her cheeks were compact but powerful, the kind of tight, muscular butt that looked like it could crack a walnut. There was a subtle roundness there, a softness over the muscle, and when she bent forward and began to bounce, the material of her catsuit clung to every movement.
Her twerk was efficient—practical, even. She dropped it like she was doing squats, her ass rising and falling with mechanical precision. Each clap was a solid, meaty thup, the sound of power being exerted. The catsuit went taut, then shifted, the fabric gliding over her cheeks and back again as she worked.
“The ghost-hunter becomes the ghost-dumper,” April narrated. “I’m so sorry. I have a writer.”
“Where? Where is this writer?” Maddie demanded, not stopping. She’d found a rhythm now, and she was committed. Her ass clapped with increasing intensity, and she let out a grunt of effort that was startlingly erotic.
The feed from the Fenton house showed Jack now holding a homemade sign that read “MY WIFE’S BUTT IS #1!” Jazz had her face in her hands. Danny had fully phased through the floor.
“JACK! SIT DOWN!” Maddie shouted, not breaking her rhythm.
JIGGLE CONSISTENCY: 93%. SONIC CLAP RESONANCE: MEATY THUMP ACHIEVED. ASS ACOUSTICS: RHYTHMIC.
—
“Again, in rank order—this is all for show, folks, the real rankings happen after the group number—let’s bring out contestant number four… from beneath the sea, the surf-slinging squirrel with the suit—Sandy Cheeks!”
Sandy stepped onto her pad, her air suit hissing slightly as she adjusted her stance. She was all Texas bravado on the outside, but there was a flicker inside her helmet—something like genuine nerves. “Now, I don’t do this on the first date, y’all.”
“Relax, Sandy,” April said. “It’s just a twerk-off broadcast across every dimension. No pressure.”
Sandy’s ass was a thing of scientific curiosity. Beneath the thick material of her suit, it had the appearance of something powerful and efficient, like the rear end of a creature built for swimming and kicking. There was a surprising fullness to it, a plump roundness that the suit’s material emphasized rather than concealed. When she bent forward, the curve of her butt pressed against the fabric in a way that was unmistakably, undeniably good.
She started slow, her movements a little awkward at first—squirrels weren’t natural twerkers, after all. But Sandy was a creature of discipline. She found the beat, then attacked it. Her ass bounced with increasing enthusiasm, and the suit’s material rippled with each impact. The claps were muted by the suit, a soft thwump-thwump-thwump, but the visual was there: the rounded cheeks pressing together, then releasing, a hypnotic oscillation.
“Yee-haw!” she shouted, getting into it. “That’s how we do it in the Gulf!”
The Krusty Krab feed showed SpongeBob literally vibrating with excitement. “YOU’RE DOING GREAT, SANDY!”
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU, SPONGEBOB! BUT I ASSUME YOU’RE BEING SUPPORTIVE!”
JIGGLE CONSISTENCY: 81%. SONIC CLAP RESONANCE: SUPPRESSED BY SUIT. ASS ACOUSTICS: MUFFLED BUT MIGHTY.
—
“Number three… from Beach City, the stoic, the sturdy, the stable—Garnet!”
Garnet stepped onto her pad without a word. She didn’t adjust her visor, didn’t crack her knuckles, didn’t acknowledge the cameras. She simply stood, a statue of cool composure in a black and magenta leotard that left very little to the imagination.
And what an imagination it inspired.
Garnet’s ass was monumental. That was the only word for it. It was the kind of rear end that artists spent whole careers trying to capture, the kind that made normally articulate people forget how to speak. The leotard hugged every inch of it, highlighting the perfect peach shape, the fullness of each cheek, the way they pressed together with just enough tension to create a shadow in the valley between. When Garnet shifted her weight, the light played across the surface, revealing the subtle contours of muscle beneath.
She bent forward slowly, deliberately, and began to twerk.
There was nothing tentative about her movement. Garnet’s ass dropped with the certainty of a falling star, each impact a precise, devastating CLAP that echoed through the arena. Her cheeks rippled with each bounce, the flesh moving in waves that started at her lower back and traveled down to the tops of her thighs. It was hypnotic, almost meditative, the work of a woman who had perfect control over every inch of her body.
“Holy smokes,” someone whispered—it was Maddie.
The feed from Beach City showed Amethyst two inches from the screen, her mouth open. Pearl had turned away but was peeking between her fingers. Steven was giving a thumbs-up.
“She’s not even breaking a sweat,” Velma observed, her voice tinged with professional respect.
Garnet didn’t respond. She just kept clapping.
JIGGLE CONSISTENCY: 98%. SONIC CLAP RESONANCE: THUNDEROUS PRECISION. ASS ACOUSTICS: EARTHSHAKING.
—
“At number two… Mrs. Incredible herself, the elastic and fantastic—Helen Parr!”
Helen took her place with the air of a woman who had saved the world multiple times and was now being asked to shake her ass for interdimensional television. Her red superhero suit was iconic, stretched taut over a body that was literally legendary. Her ass was… well, it was Mrs. Incredible’s ass. There weren’t words. There were only sounds, and those sounds were usually made by people who had stopped being able to form coherent thoughts.
It was large, yes, but it was also perfect. The proportions were superhuman—because they were. Each cheek was a smooth, aerodynamic curve of flesh that seemed designed by a committee of artists, engineers, and perverts. The suit hugged her like it loved her, outlining every dimple and curve, and when she bent forward, the view was nothing short of religious.
“You can do this,” she told herself. “You’ve done worse.”
“Have you, though?” April asked, genuinely curious.
“I fought a giant robot. Once I—you know what, no. I’m not having this conversation.”
She twerked.
The impact was seismic. Helen’s ass had mass—not the overwhelming jiggle of the Butt Witch, but a controlled, powerful bounce that suggested tremendous weight and even more tremendous control. Each clap was a deep, resonant BOOM, like a bass drum in the center of a football stadium. Her cheeks pressed together with each drop, then came apart just enough to catch the light before clapping together again. The suit’s material shimmered with the movement, a sea of red fabric rippling across an ocean of magnificent flesh.
“I can’t believe this is my life,” she said, her voice strained but her rhythm unrelenting.
The feed from the Parr household showed Dash recording on his phone. Violet was watching from behind a book. Bob—Mr. Incredible—was seated on the couch, staring at the screen with an expression of profound, religious awe.
“THAT’S MY WIFE!” Bob shouted. “THAT’S MY WIFE, EVERYONE! I MARRIED THAT!”
Helen’s cheeks—and she had no idea which cheeks—flushed. “BOB! Stop broadcasting!”
JIGGLE CONSISTENCY: 96%. SONIC CLAP RESONANCE: MULTIMEGACLAP. ASS ACOUSTICS: STADIUM-GRADE.
—
“And finally, at our current rank number one… the quiet storm, the suburban enigma, the mother of all—literally, if I’m reading these notes right—SPENCER!”
Dexter’s mom walked to her pad like she was heading to a parent-teacher conference: stiff, determined, and radiating an aura of get this over with. She wore a simple lavender blouse tucked into a white skirt, with sensible yellow gloves and a white apron. From the front, she looked like the most normal woman in existence.
From the back, she looked like a problem.
Spencer’s ass was the stuff of middle-aged male fantasy and teenage boy mythology. It was enormous—not fat, not soft, but dense, a pair of massive, well-shaped cheeks that strained against her white skirt with every step. The fabric was stretched to its limit, the outline of her panties visible through the thin material. Each cheek was a perfect orb, round and full, with just enough jiggle to suggest softness and just enough firmness to suggest good god.
The arena went quiet as she stepped up. Even the Butt Witch stopped her preening to stare.
“I want it on record that I find this entire situation disgraceful,” Spencer said, her voice calm and clear.
“Noted,” April said. “Now please, please bounce that thing.”
Spencer bent forward—and the skirt rode up. Not much, just enough. Enough to reveal the lower curves of her cheeks, the soft transition from thigh to buttock, the shadow of her cleavage.
Then she twerked.
The sound was wet. That was the only way to describe it. A thick, meaty impact that somehow managed to be both soft and heavy, like a perfect ass clap should sound. Her cheeks dropped and rose with a lazy, almost disrespectful rhythm, each bounce sending ripples through the flesh that moved in slow, hypnotic waves. The skirt bunched at her hips, and she reached back with one gloved hand to hold it in place, her fingers pressing into the soft swell of her own backside.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she said, her voice tight. “I have a pie in the oven.”
“Really?” Maddie asked, still recovering from her own performance.
“No, but it feels like something I’d say.”
The feed from the Dexter household was chaotic. Dexter was strapped into a massive scanning apparatus, his face a mask of horror and outrage. “MOTHER! MY CALCULATIONS INDICATE THAT AT LEAST 40% OF YOUR ASS IS UNACCOUNTED FOR BY MY PREVIOUS MEASUREMENTS! YOU’VE BEEN HOLDING OUT! I MUST RECALIBRATE EVERYTHING!”
Spencer didn’t flinch. “Dee Dee, cover your brother’s eyes!”
“I’M NOT A BABY!” Dexter screamed from somewhere off-screen.
JIGGLE CONSISTENCY: 100%. SONIC CLAP RESONANCE: CAVERNOUS SQUISH. ASS ACOUSTICS: SPONGE CAKE.
—
The metrics were tallied, the displays updated, and April’s voice filled the arena with renewed energy. “Now, for the group number! All seven contestants—take your pads and prepare for synchronized bouncing!”
The women exchanged glances—some resigned, some determined, one actively cackling with glee. But they all took their places.
The music dropped—a heavy hip-hop beat with a bass line that seemed designed to make asses clap in perfect time. And without being told twice, the women began to move.
It was chaos at first—seven different rhythms, seven different styles, seven distinct sounds of flesh-on-flesh impact. But the beat was insistent, and slowly, inevitably, they found sync. Seven women, bending forward, their hips working the pads with increasing precision. Seven asses, rising and falling, clapping together in a thunderous fugue of cheeks and sweat and humiliation.
The Butt Witch was howling with delight. Sandy was yee-hawing. Velma was muttering scientific observations between jinkies. Maddie was grunting like a tennis player. Garnet moved with stoic perfection. Helen was making sounds that were somewhere between effort and despair.
And Spencer—Dexter’s Mom, rank number one, the reluctant champion—was twerking with the kind of skilled, almost contemptuous rhythm that made the other women stare. Her massive cheeks clapped with bass-note precision, each impact sending shockwaves through her entire body. Her glove squeaked against the pad as she adjusted her grip, and she let out a soft, huffing breath with each drop.
“When this is over,” she said between claps, “I am having a very stiff drink.”
The leaderboard flickered. The words “LIVE RANKINGS UPDATING” appeared.
And somewhere in the void, the shadowy watcher smiled.
The leaderboard flickered once, twice, then blazed to life with a triumphant chime that echoed through the arena like a cosmic slot machine hitting jackpot. Confetti—actual confetti, or some multiversal equivalent of glittering light particles—rained down from nowhere, and April’s voice reached a fever pitch.
“WE HAVE A WINNER! The Bounce of Ages has concluded! Let’s see those final standings!”
The display materialized in crisp, glowing lettering:
BOUNCE OF AGES — FINAL STANDINGS
1. SPENCER — 98.7
2. HELEN PARR — 97.2
3. GARNET — 96.8
4. BUTT WITCH — 96.1
5. VELMA DINKLEY — 94.3
6. MADDIE FENTON — 93.8
7. SANDY CHEEKS — 92.4
Spencer blinked at the board, her chest still heaving from exertion. “I won? I don’t want to win. Winning implies I participated voluntarily.”
“You did, though,” April said cheerfully. “And gloriously. You dominated, Mrs. Genius-Mom.”
“That’s not my name.”
“Anyway!”
The hover-pads sank back into the floor, and a single spotlight ignited in the center of the arena. April stepped into it, her smile uncannily bright. “Now, as with all great competitions, the prize must reflect the glory of the achievement. And oh boy, does it ever.”
Maddie’s eyes narrowed. “Why do I feel like I’m not going to like this?”
“Because you’re perceptive!” April snapped her fingers, and a holographic envelope appeared, spinning slowly in the air. She caught it, dramatically tore it open, and read: “The winner of the Bounce of Ages will receive… the honor of an encore performance! A nude encore!”
Silence, thick and rubbery, stretched across the arena.
“I’m sorry,” Velma said slowly. “Could you repeat that? I think the multiversal broadcast cut out.”
“The winner gets to twerk again,” April said, enunciating each word, “but this time… completely, one hundred percent, birthday-suit style naked.”
Spencer’s face went through a remarkable journey: shock, disbelief, outrage, and finally a bone-deep resignation that was almost majestic. “No.”
“It’s part of the rules, hon.”
“I don’t recall signing anything.”
“You got yoinked, babe. The yoink is the signature.”
The Butt Witch was practically vibrating with jealous rage. “UNFAIR! I should have won! My cheeks clapped loudest! My acoustics were symphonic!”
“Your jiggle consistency was 96,” Garnet said flatly. “Hers was 98.”
“Screw jiggle consistency! What does that even mean?!”
Sandy scratched her helmet. “Wait, so she’s gotta… dance… with her bare butt?”
“That’s the gist,” April confirmed. “And it’s live. Across every dimension. Forever. Or at least until the reruns stop.”
The feed from the Dexter household flickered back to life. Dexter was now wearing a second pair of glasses on top of his regular glasses, which somehow made him look more panicked. “MOTHER! I HAVE CALCULATED THE TRAJECTORY OF YOUR ASS! IF YOU PERFORM THIS NUDE ENCORE, THE RESULTING SONIC CLAPS COULD DESTABILIZE MY ENTIRE UNDERSTANDING OF POSTERIOR PHYSICS!”
“Dee Dee, get your brother away from the screen!”
“I’M AN ADULT NOW! I CAN MAKE MY OWN CHOICES ABOUT WATCHING MY MOTHER TWERK!”
“HOW DID YOU BECOME AN ADULT?!”
“TIME MOVES DIFFERENTLY IN THE LAB!”
April waved a hand, and a new pad rose from the floor—larger than the others, upholstered in what looked like black silk. “Spencer, if you’d be so kind as to take your place for the nude encore…”
Spencer’s hands clenched at her sides. For a long moment, she stood there, caught between refusing and the unspoken understanding that refusal wasn’t an option. Then, with the air of a woman going to the guillotine, she walked to the pad.
“I want it on record,” she said, her voice carrying across the arena, “that I am a mother. I bake casseroles. I attend science fairs. I clean up the house in a neat, reasonable outfit. And now—” She reached for the hem of her lavender blouse. “—I am about to be remembered by every dimension in existence as the naked twerking mom.”
“The record notes that,” April said. “And thanks you for your service.”
The blouse came off.
Spencer’s tits were magnificent. That was the first thing the other contestants noticed, in that way you can’t help but notice something that’s right in front of you. They were heavy and full, barely contained by a plain white bra that looked like it had been purchased at a reasonable department store. Her stomach was soft, the body of a woman who’d given birth, with gentle curves and a faint cesarean scar low on her abdomen. She was beautiful in a way that was desperately, achingly real.
Then the skirt came off.
And the arena gasped.
There weren’t words for Spencer’s ass in the nude. The skirt had hidden so much—the full, overwhelming scale of it, the way each cheek was vast and round and impossibly soft-looking, the way they pressed together to create a long, deep valley, the way the skin dimpled at the sides. Her panties were plain white cotton, stretched to their absolute limit, riding up slightly to reveal even more of that magnificent flesh.
Sandy made a sound like a deflating tire. “Good gravy.”
Helen’s eyebrows rose. “I… okay. I see why she’s ranked first.”
“I want to study it,” Velma said, then immediately looked horrified. “For science. For science. Not like—jinkies, I’m not making this better.”
The Butt Witch was uncharacteristically silent, her eyes wide, her mouth hanging open. “It’s… it’s beautiful,” she whispered. “A rival… a worthy rival…”
Garnet’s visor gleamed. “Impressive.”
Spencer reached back, her gloved fingers fumbling with the clasp of her bra. It came away, and her breasts dropped free, heavy and full, her nipples dark and already stiff from the cool air of the arena. She folded the bra neatly—of course she folded it neatly—and set it aside.
Then her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties.
“NO!” Dexter’s voice shrieked from the feed. “MOTHER, THINK OF MY FUTURE THERAPY BILLS!”
Spencer paused. A flicker of something—annoyance, affection, both—crossed her face.
“My son is a genius,” she said to no one in particular. “He’ll find a way to monetize the trauma.”
And she pushed the panties down.
The arena fell into a hush so complete that the soft rustle of cotton sliding over skin could be heard across dimensions.
Spencer’s bare ass was a revelation.
Freed from the confines of fabric, her cheeks seemed to expand, settling into their full, natural glory. They were enormous—not in a grotesque way, but in a way that defied ordinary proportion, like a fertility idol carved from living flesh. Each cheek was a smooth, pale globe, dimpled just slightly at the sides, with a perfect, creaseless valley between them. The skin was unblemished, luminous, and as she shifted her weight, the soft flesh jiggled gently, a preview of what was to come.
“Alright,” she said, her voice remarkably steady. “Let’s get this over with.”
She bent forward.
The full, raw power of Spencer’s naked ass in motion was something that would be studied by scholars, debated by theologians, and immortalized in the fever dreams of every sentient being with access to the broadcast. She grabbed her ankles, her massive cheeks suspended in the air like twin moons, and she began to twerk.
CLAP.
The first impact was a sonic boom, a flesh-on-flesh collision that sent ripples through her entire body. Her cheeks came together with a wet, thunderous sound—no longer muted by fabric or inhibited by modesty—and her whole ass seemed to erupt in jiggle waves.
CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.
She found her rhythm immediately, that same contemptuous, skilled bounce from before, but amplified by the sheer nakedness of it all. Her ass rose and fell with hypnotic precision, each drop a full-bodied commitment. Her cheeks clapped and separated, clapped and separated, the pink of her most intimate places flashing into view with each bounce—a glimpse of the dark rosebud between her cheeks, the glistening folds of her pussy, both exposed by the sheer force of her twerking.
Spencer’s tits swung beneath her, heavy and full, slapping against her stomach with each impact. Her thighs trembled with effort. Sweat began to sheen on her lower back, making her skin gleam under the spotlight. And through it all, she kept her head up, her eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance, as if she had transcended her own humiliation and achieved a state of pure, relentless performance.
“Watch closely, folks,” April said, her voice hushed with genuine admiration. “This is a clinic. This is a masterclass. This is a woman who has spent the last ten years of her life bending over a kitchen counter and is now using that muscle memory to destroy the competition.”
CLAP. CLAP. CLAP-CLAP-CLAP.
The leaderboard flickered, struggling to keep up. The other contestants watched, caught between horror and fascination.
“I can’t stop watching,” Maddie whispered. “That’s not even what I thought it would look like.”
“It’s like a thunderstorm and a bakery had a baby,” Sandy said reverently.
The Butt Witch fell to her knees. “I… I have seen the face of the Butt Gods… and it is her…”
Even Garnet had to adjust her visor, as if the sheer power of Spencer’s naked twerking was too much for her.
The finale arrived with a series of rapid-fire claps—CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP—a barrage of ass-on-ass impacts that built to a crescendo before Spencer straightened up, her chest heaving, her entire body glistening with sweat. Her ass continued to jiggle from the residual momentum, each cheek quivering independently for a long, delicious moment.
The arena was silent.
Then the leaderboard blazed:
SPENCER — NUDE ENCORE SCORE: 100.0
NEW TITLE UNLOCKED: THE UNDISPUTED ASS MENTOR
Spencer looked at the board, then down at her own naked body, then slowly, deliberately, began gathering her clothes.
“I trust that’s sufficient,” she said, her voice as composed as if she’d just finished a particularly rigorous aerobics class.
The other contestants exploded.
“WHAT IN THE ACTUAL—” Maddie started.
“DID YOU PRACTICE THAT?!” Velma demanded.
“YOU’VE JUST REDEFINED THE ART FORM!” the Butt Witch wailed, still on her knees.
“I need to reevaluate everything,” Helen muttered.
Spencer pulled on her panties, then her bra, then her blouse, then her skirt, becoming once again the unassuming suburban mother. “I’m going to find the bunking area now,” she said calmly. “Goodnight.”
And with that, she walked off the arena floor, her ass still visibly jiggling with each step, leaving six stunned women and one speechless host in her wake.
—
The bunking area was a disappointment—a long, narrow room with seven cots arranged in two rows, lit by the soft glow of some ambient multiversal light. There were no windows, no privacy screens, and a single, suspiciously clean bathroom at the far end.
Spencer had already claimed a cot, lying on her back with her eyes closed.
The others filed in slowly, still processing.
“I can’t believe she just… walked away like that,” Maddie said, sitting heavily on her cot.
“That’s power,” Garnet said. “She understands the game.”
“What game?” Sandy asked. “There’s a game? I thought it was just… twerking and being yelled at.”
April appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Rest up, ladies. Tomorrow’s event is…” She consulted a floating prompt. “The Rear-Mount Relay? Huh. Sounds intense. Get your beauty sleep.”
She gave a wave and disappeared, leaving the women alone with each other and the weight of what they’d just done.
“It airs everywhere, doesn’t it?” Velma said quietly. “Everyone we know just watched that.”
“Yup.”
“I’m gonna have to investigate myself,” she sighed.
Sandy placed a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. There’s worse things than being known for havin’ a great butt.”
“Really? Name one.”
“Now’s not the time,” Garnet interjected. “We should sleep. We’re going to need our strength.”
The Butt Witch curled onto her cot, still murmuring. “Spencer… teach me… the ways of the clap…”
Spencer’s eyes remained closed, but the tiniest smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
The bunking area settled into a restless quiet, the kind that follows an event so surreal that sleep feels like an admission of defeat. The ambient glow from the walls cast soft shadows across the cots, and for a while, the only sounds were the occasional creak of shifting bodies and the distant hum of whatever machinery kept this place running.
Sandy sat on the edge of her cot, staring at her gloved hands. The suit hissed softly with each breath she took, a constant reminder of the environment she’d been ripped from. She’d worn it for hours now—through the abduction, the introductions, the entire humiliating spectacle of the Bounce of Ages—and it was starting to feel less like protection and more like a cage.
“Somethin’ on your mind, Sandy?” Maddie asked from across the room. She’d stripped down to a tank top and shorts, her teal catsuit folded with military precision at the foot of her cot.
Sandy tapped her helmet. “Just thinkin’. This whole place… it ain’t underwater. Ain’t no ocean pressure, no brine, no nothin’. I been wearin’ this suit since I got here like a fool.”
Velma sat up, adjusting her glasses—she wore a pink nightshirt that fell to her knees, modest and practical. “The atmosphere is nitrogen-oxygen, standard Earth-normal. You’ve been breathing processed air for no reason.”
“That’s what I’m sayin’!” Sandy stood, her boots clomping against the floor. “Y’all got to see what I’m workin’ with, but I was stuck in this thing, mufflin’ my acoustics. No wonder I ranked last.”
The Butt Witch, who had been sulking in a corner while muttering about “jiggle consistency,” perked up. “Ooo-OOOoo! Is the squirrel about to reveal her hidden assets?”
“Can you not phrase it like that?” Helen said from her cot. She’d kept her suit on, presumably out of some combination of pride and practicality.
“What? It’s a compliment! Hidden assets are the best kind of assets!” The Butt Witch wiggled her fingers. “Reveal! Reveal!”
Sandy rolled her eyes but reached for the seals on her suit. “Alright, but nobody make a big deal outta this. I just need to be at full capability for tomorrow’s event. And I can’t do that if I’m all bottled up.”
The hiss of decompression filled the room as Sandy worked the fasteners on her suit. The helmet came off first, revealing her face—the same face they’d seen, but somehow different without the glass between her and everyone else. A tuft of fur stuck up between her ears, and she smoothed it down absently.
“Awww, you’re cute under there,” Maddie said.
“I’m a trained karate master,” Sandy replied flatly. “But sure, call me cute.”
The suit peeled away in sections, revealing more and more of her body. Her fur was brown and sleek, except for the distinctive lighter patch over her torso. Her legs were powerful, built for swimming and fighting, with thick thighs that tapered to surprisingly dainty feet. Her tail unfurled from the suit with a satisfied flick.
And then the suit came off entirely.
And there it was.
Sandy’s ass.
The other women stared. Not out of shock—they were past that now—but out of genuine, competitive appreciation. Because she’d been ranked last, they’d assumed she wasn’t much of a threat. But now, seeing her out of the suit, with nothing but a purple bikini bottom strained across her hips, that assumption evaporated like morning dew.
The bikini was small—very small—a triangle of purple fabric that disappeared between two absolutely enormous, plush-looking cheeks. Her ass was round and full, with the soft, squeezable quality of something that would jiggle for days. Each cheek was dusted with the same brown fur as the rest of her, but the fur was short and fine, giving the skin beneath a warm, velvety appearance. When she shifted her weight, her cheeks bounced against each other with a soft smack that seemed to announce: I am here. I am powerful. I am not to be ignored.
“Well, damn,” Maddie breathed. “No wonder they recruited you.”
Sandy turned, her naked back and the top of her bikini visible—the purple top barely containing a respectable bust. “What? This? This ain’t nothin’. Wait’ll I get warmed up.”
“You were muffled,” Garnet said simply. “Your true potential couldn’t be measured.”
“Exactly!” Sandy said, pointing at Garnet. “See? She gets it. The suit was dampenin’ my natural resonance. Without it…” She gave an experimental bounce, and her ass cheeks clapped together with a crisp, surprisingly loud CLAP. “…we’re in business.”
Spencer, still lying on her cot with her eyes closed, spoke without opening them. “You’ve got good bounce. But you’re too eager. You’ll gas out.”
Sandy whirled. “I’m from Texas! We don’t gas out!”
“You will,” Spencer said calmly. “That first round wasn’t just about rhythm. It was about endurance. You were fighting the suit the whole time. Tomorrow, if you go too hard too early, you’ll crash.”
The room fell quiet. Spencer’s words carried weight—the weight of a woman who had achieved a perfect 100.0 and had walked off like it was nothing.
The Butt Witch crept closer to Sandy, her pink eyes fixed on the squirrel’s bouncing cheeks. “I must say… the fur adds a certain texture. Very avant-garde. Very natural. It’s giving… woodland sensuality.”
“Please stop analyzing my butt.”
“I can’t! It’s a compulsion!” The Butt Witch clutched her head. “I see asses and I must assess! It’s my curse!”
Velma sighed. “Okay, I think we all get it. Sandy has a great butt. We’ve all seen each other’s butts now. Can we please move on to something resembling normal conversation?”
“Wait,” Helen said, sitting up on her cot. “You’re not getting off that easy, Miss Mystery Sleuth. We saw you up there. You went from ‘I’m doing this under duress’ to ‘Jinkies, I’m actually crushing this.’ What was that about?”
Velma’s face reddened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“She’s right,” Maddie agreed, leaning forward. “You found your rhythm pretty fast. Like you’d thought about it before.”
“I have never once thought about twerking!” Velma insisted. “I’m a detective! My body is a temple of deduction!”
Garnet tilted her head. “Your temple has excellent glutes.”
Velma made a sound like a deflating balloon.
Spencer, finally, sat up on her cot, swinging her legs over the side. She’d changed into a modest white nightgown that nevertheless couldn’t hide the impressive curves beneath. She looked at Velma with an expression that was almost… maternal. “It’s okay to be good at something you didn’t expect. There’s no shame in having a body that performs well.”
“Easy for you to say,” Velma grumbled. “You got a perfect score. Your butt’s the talk of the multiverse.”
Spencer considered this. “I suppose it is. But that doesn’t mean the rest of you don’t have… merit.” Her gaze swept the room, and for the first time, she seemed to truly look at the other women. “The superhero has power. The Amazon has control. The green one has enthusiasm. The ghost hunter has intensity. The squirrel has potential. And you…” She fixed Velma with a piercing stare. “You have precision.”
Velma blinked. “That’s… that’s actually a really nice breakdown.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to win,” Spencer added. “But you’re all worth respecting.”
For a moment, the room held a surprising warmth—a sense that, despite the absurdity of their situation, these women were beginning to see each other not just as competitors, but as something approaching allies.
Then the Butt Witch raised her hand. “Excuse me. Question. If we’re all respecting each other’s butts now, does that mean I can touch one? Just one! Just a little squeeze? For… research?”
“No,” said every other woman in the room, in perfect unison.
“FINE!” the Butt Witch huffed, crossing her arms. “I’ll just lie here and visualize.”
She flopped onto her cot, turning her back to the group, and the conversation dissolved into scattered laughter and the sounds of women settling in for the night.
Sandy, now free of her suit, stretched luxuriously on her cot, her purple bikini barely containing her as she shifted. Her tail curled around her side, and she let her bare feet dangle off the edge.
“Whew,” she sighed. “That’s better. I can breathe now. Tomorrow, I’m comin’ for that number one spot, Spencer.”
Spencer, already lying back down, allowed herself a small smile.
“You can try, darling.”
The lights dimmed, and the bunking area was quiet except for the soft, rhythmic breathing of seven women with seven magnificent asses—sleeping, dreaming, and preparing for whatever fresh humiliation the morning would bring.