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 arena reconfigured with a deep, mechanical groan, the dais rotating and into a fresh configuration. The central pillory rose from the floor, glistening under the lights, already polished to a mirror shine. The screens flickered, displaying the next matchup in bold, glowing letters:

RELAY ROUND 1: MATCH 2
VELMA DINKLEY VS. ???

Velma stood at the edge of the contestant’s box, her orange turtleneck traded for the skimpy metallic uniform in her signature burnt orange. The tiny top strained across her surprisingly full chest, and the bottoms—what little there was of them—framed her freckled, perky ass like a work of art. She kept tugging at the straps, as if she could somehow make the outfit cover more.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered.

“You said that last time,” Maddie pointed out.

“And the time before that,” Sandy added.

“And the time before that,” the Butt Witch chimed in, still cradling her dildo.

Velma shot them all a withering look. “Well, this time I mean it. I’m a detective, not a… a…”

“Gladiator of the glutes?” April offered helpfully from the booth.

“That’s not a real thing.”

“It is now, sweetie. Now get out there and show the multiverse what that famous investigating ass can do!”

Velma squared her shoulders, adjusted her glasses, and walked toward the dais. The other contestants watched her go with varying expressions of concern. She moved like a woman approaching a crime scene, which was appropriate, because something terrible was about to happen to her dignity.

At the center of the arena, she stopped beside the pillory and waited. The lights began to pulse, shifting to a serene, ethereal blue. A soft breeze—impossible in the enclosed space—swept through the arena, carrying the scent of wildflowers and ancient magic. Tiny motes of golden light coalesced at the far end of the dais, spinning and dancing until they formed the silhouette of a woman.

When the light faded, the crowd—both in the arena and across the multiverse—gasped.

She was elegant and shapely, with shoulder-length golden hair that seemed to glow with its own inner light. Her face was delicate, with soft cheeks and blue eyes that held the wisdom of ages. She wore a simple white dress that draped elegantly over her body, but even the loose fabric couldn’t hide the perfect curve of her hips or the subtle, devastating swell of her backside. There was a quiet power in her posture, a sense of ancient royalty tempered by a traveler’s practicality.

“Princess Zelda,” April announced, her voice rising with genuine excitement. “Ruler of Hyrule, bearer of the Triforce of Wisdom, and, as it turns out, the proud owner of a very celebrated rear end. She’s been training in the wilds with her knight, and it shows!”

Zelda inclined her head gracefully. “I was told there would be a contest of…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Endurance?”

“That’s one way to put it!” April said. “The Rear-Mount Relay is a test of gluteal power, pelvic control, and sheer ass-based willpower. You and Velma here will be sharing a little device—”

“April,” Spencer interrupted, her voice flat. “Just say dildo.”

“—a double-sided dildo,” April corrected, not missing a beat. “And the winner advances to the next phase of the relay. The loser gets a trip to the Pit of Regret.”

Zelda’s composure flickered—just for an instant—but she recovered quickly. “The Triforce of Wisdom has guided me through many trials. I will not falter now.”

Velma swallowed hard. “Right. Because fighting a centuries-old evil entity definitely compares to butt-jousting with a sex toy.”

“Everything is a battle,” Zelda said, and there was something almost kind in her voice. “It is simply a matter of finding the right strategy.”

The screens flickered, showing a close-up of both women. The side-by-side comparison was stark: Velma, compact and curvy, her freckled cheeks soft and inviting; Zelda, graceful and regal, the curve of her white-clad rear suggesting a hidden power that made the other contestants lean forward in their seats.

“Look at that,” Sandy whispered. “She’s got some serious back porch.”

“Don’t underestimate her,” Garnet said quietly. “She’s a strategist.”

Velma heard that and nodded grimly. “So am I.”

The handlers emerged with the double-ended device—slightly smaller than the one from the previous match, but still impressive. They placed it on the velvet cushion, and the two women took their positions. Velma’s uniform had her ass already out and ready, framed by the straps that passed for a bottom. The freckles that dusted her cheeks extended down over her buttocks, an enticing constellation across her pale skin.

Zelda reached down and, with the same calm dignity she might use to unclip a traveling cloak, removed her white dress. Beneath it, she wore nothing—no underwear, no undergarments, just the body of a woman who had spent years traversing the wilds. Her legs were lean and strong. Her stomach was flat. And her ass…

Her ass was magnificent.

It was pale as milk, with a perfect, heart-shaped curve that looked almost too perfect to be real. Each cheek was smooth and round, the kind of ass that would inspire sonnets and statues and entire philosophical movements. When she shifted her weight, the flesh moved with a controlled, elegant bounce that spoke of underlying strength.

“Jinkies,” Velma whispered, and for once, she didn’t mean it as an expression of surprise. It was a prayer.

“Competitors ready!” April called. “Assume the position!”

The two women bent over the pillory, their bare asses facing each other across the small gap. The handlers lifted the dildo and guided it between them, and the contest began with a single, resonant thump.

“AND THEY’RE OFF!” April shouted. “Velma with the early advantage—she’s leaning in, using that low center of gravity! But look at Zelda—she’s responding!”

Zelda had closed her eyes, her expression serene. Her hips rolled backward in a slow, deliberate rhythm, and the dildo pressed into Velma’s body with an unexpected force. But Velma was ready. She braced herself, her freckled cheeks clenching around the shaft, and pushed back.

It was a clash of styles—the raw, determined scrappiness of a lifelong investigator against the graceful, controlled power of a princess. Velma’s ass was softer, fuller, with a natural jiggle that seemed to absorb and redirect the force of Zelda’s thrusts. Zelda’s ass was firmer, more compact, and when she pushed, it felt like being struck by a battering ram.

“She’s trying to overpower her,” Spencer observed. “But Velma’s too low to the ground. She can’t get leverage.”

“Can’t she?” April leaned forward, suddenly engaged. “Look at that weight shift—”

Velma, still bent over the pillory, took a single step back. Then another. She was creating space, widening her stance, and when she pushed back, she did so with her entire body—not just her hips, but her shoulders, her arms, her feet. It was a full-body shove, and it sent Zelda stumbling forward.

“I’VE SOLVED EVERY SINGLE MYSTERY IN COOLSVILLE!” Velma grunted. “YOU THINK A LITTLE ROYAL BUTT IS GOING TO STOP ME?!”

“Ooo, she’s got that sleuthing energy!” April said. “Spencer, thoughts?”

Spencer tilted her head, watching the screen with clinical interest. “She’s turned her disadvantage into an advantage. Being small lets her get under Zelda’s center of gravity—literally. She’s using her compactness as a wedge.”

“Is that… a compliment?”

“It’s an observation. Though I will say… she’s got more fight in her than I expected.”

Zelda recovered quickly, her training in the wilds serving her well. She planted her feet wide, let out a slow breath, and then surged backward with a move so smooth it looked almost choreographed. Her ass cheeks clapped against Velma’s with a wet, echoing smack, and the dildo drove deeper into both of them.

Velma’s eyes flew open. “Jinkies!”

“Oh, NOW she says it!” the Butt Witch cackled.

The two women were locked now, their bodies straining, the device sliding back and forth between them in a slick, rhythmic contest of strength and endurance. Sweat began to glisten on their skin. Zelda’s perfect ass flexed with each thrust, the muscles visible beneath her pale flesh. Velma’s freckled cheeks bounced and clapped, the impact sending shivers through her frame.

“They’re both reading the other,” Spencer noted. “Adjusting. It’s not just about power—it’s about timing.”

“The Princess is doing something with her hips!” April pointed out.”Look at that rotation—is that a trifecta thrust?”

The camera zoomed in on Zelda’s lower body. She was indeed rotating her hips in a subtle, figure-eight motion, each cycle driving the dildo forward at a slightly different angle. It was a masterful display of control—the kind of technique that could only come from years of physical training and an intimate understanding of one’s own body.

But Velma was adapting. Her brow furrowed in concentration, and her own thrusts began to match Zelda’s rhythm, countering the rotation with a steady, piston-like drive. The squelching sounds from the device filled the arena, wet and obscene, a counterpoint to the grunts and gasps of the two women.

“The Bounce Index is off the charts!” April said. “The friction coefficient is—holy moley, Velma just—”

Velma had changed tactics. With a sudden, desperate twist, she threw her weight to one side, and the dildo slipped—not out, but to the side, grinding against the sensitive inner walls of both women. Zelda let out a sharp, unguarded cry, her composure cracking for the briefest of moments.

“Gotcha,” Velma panted.

“Impressive,” Zelda admitted, her voice strained but steady. “But ‘m not beaten yet.”

And she proved it. The princess dug her bare feet into the dais, her toes curling for purchase, and launched a sustained assault that drove Velma backward inch by agonizing inch. It was like being caught in a landslide—irresistible, methodical, inexorable.

At the announcer’s booth, Spencer leaned forward, her expression unreadable. She saw what was coming before anyone else did. Velma’s legs were shaking. Her shoulders were hunched. And her usually sharp eyes were beginning to cloud over, not with defeat, but with something else—something warmer.

“She’s losing control,” Spencer said quietly. “The physical strain is… getting to her.”

“Getting to her how?” April asked.

Spencer hesitated. “Look at her face. She’s not just exhausted. She’s… stimulated.”

It was true. The repeated thrusts of the dildo, the relentless pressure, the intimate, grinding contact with another woman’s bare ass—it was having an effect on Velma that she couldn’t hide. Her cheeks were flushed. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. And when the next thrust sank deep, a soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips.

“I’M A DETECTIVE!” she cried, as if trying to remind herself. “I SOLVE MYSTERIES! I—” Another moan, higher this time. “—I DON’T GET DEFEATED BY MY OWN NERVOUS SYSTEM!”

“Then don’t,” Zelda said, and her voice was surprisingly gentle. “Fight through it.”

The words seemed to ignite something in Velma. With a scream that was equal parts frustration and determination, she threw herself backward with everything she had left. The sudden force caught Zelda off-guard, and for a single, glorious moment, the princess was the one losing ground.

But it wasn’t enough. Not quite. The two women hung there, suspended in a trembling stalemate, their asses pressed together, their bodies glistening with sweat, the dildo buried to the hilt in both of them. The arena lights flashed. The buzzer sounded.

RESULT: ZELDA ADVANCES
WINNER BY ROYAL DECREE (2.7 SPREAD DIFFERENTIAL)

Velma collapsed against the pillory, her chest heaving. Her glasses had fogged completely. Her freckled ass was still twitching, the flesh gleaming under the lights, and between her spread cheeks, the dildo slipped free with a soft, wet sound, landing on the cushion beside Zelda’s discarded dress.

Zelda stood, steady and serene, not a hair out of place. She offered Velma a small, graceful bow. “You fought well, Detective. The Triforce of Wisdom respects your tenacity.”

Velma, still bent over, raised one trembling hand. “Just… just tell me one thing.”

“Yes?”

“Was there… was there really a secret technique, or did you just out-endurance me?”

Zelda smiled, and for a moment, it was like watching the sun break through clouds. “There is always a secret technique. But rarely is there a shortcut. You’ll know next time.”

“Next time?!” Velma croaked.

April’s voice broke in, bright and breathless. “A round of applause for both competitors! And Velma… the Pit of Regret awaits!”

The trap door opened beneath Velma with a sudden whoosh, and she vanished from sight with a startled “JINKIES!” that echoed through the arena. The holographic screen flickered to life, showing her tumbling into the same organic chamber that had welcomed Rouge. The tentacles were already rising, glistening and eager.

In the contestant’s box, the remaining women exchanged uneasy glances.

“She’s gonna be okay, right?” Sandy asked.

“Define ‘okay,'” Maddie replied.

Velma had landed on her back, glasses askew, her freckled chest heaving as she scrambled to her feet. The organic chamber pulsed around her, walls glistening with some unholy mixture of moisture and anticipation. A tentacle curled toward her, and she swatted at it. “No! Down! Stay!”

The tentacle paused, as if confused.

“Good,” Velma said, adjusting her glasses. “Now, if you’ll just direct me toward the exit—”

Three more tentacles rose from the walls, and Velma’s composure crumbled. “JINKIES! I SAID STAY!”

The screen’s audio picked up a wet, slithering sound, followed by Velma’s indignant shriek. April winced.

“Alright,” she said, her voice echoing through the arena’s speakers. “Let’s think about this logically. This is a living organism, which means it has a nervous system, which means it has a—”

A tentacle wrapped around her ankle.

“Aaaand there it is.”

The tentacle was smooth and slick, cool against her skin, and it moved with a slow, curious intelligence. It coiled around her calf, then her thigh, applying just enough pressure to keep her in place without hurting her. Velma tried to shake it off, but another appendage rose from the floor, snaking around her other ankle.

“Jinkies,” she breathed. “Okay. Stay calm. You’ve been tied up before. You’ve escaped from rope, chains, seaweed, those weird vines in the swamp—”

A third tentacle curled around her waist, lifting her off the ground with surprising gentleness. Her legs kicked uselessly as she was hoisted into the air, the tendrils arranging her body as if she were a doll being positioned for play. Her wrists were caught and pulled above her head, stretching her out in a spread-eagle that made her already-skimpy uniform ride up even further.

Her ass, that perky, freckled, magnificent ass, was now fully exposed to the multidimensional audience. The metallic straps of her bottoms had shifted, and her cheeks gleamed under the pit’s ambient light, the freckles standing out like a constellation of desire on her pale skin. Her pussy was visible too—a neat pink slit, already glistening with a moisture that might have been sweat, or something more damning.

“This is a mistake!” she shouted, twisting in the tentacles’ grip. “I’m a detective! I solve mysteries! I don’t—”

A thick, bulbous tentacle rose between her legs, and Velma’s protests died in her throat. Its tip was tapered, glistening with the same pearlescent lubricant that had coated the dildo in the arena. It touched her inner thigh, slow and deliberate, trailing a wet line toward her exposed sex.

“Oh, jinkies,” she whispered.

The tentacle pressed against her entrance, and she gasped—a sharp, startled sound that the arena’s amplifiers picked up with cruel clarity. It pushed inside, stretching her with an ease that was both alarming and, she would never admit, deeply satisfying. Her body had been primed by the relay, slick and sensitive, and the tentacle slid deep without resistance.

“O-okay,” she managed, her voice shaking. “That’s… that’s something. That’s definitely something.”

Above her, in the contestant’s box, the other women watched with a mixture of horror and fascination. Sandy had her hands over her mouth. Maddie looked like she wanted to look away but couldn’t. Garnet’s visor was unreadable. The Butt Witch, of course, was leaning forward with her fingers steepled, eyes wide with unholy glee.

“She’s taking it well,” the Butt Witch observed.

“Too well,” Spencer said from the announcer’s booth, her voice flat. “She’s still talking. That won’t last.”

April shot her a look. “Turn that mic down—the audience wants to hear her, not us.”

“Let the audience wait,” Spencer replied smoothly. “They’ll get what they want.”

The tentacle inside Velma began to move—slow, rhythmic thrusts that matched the pulse of the pit itself. It was gentle at first, almost considerate, like it was learning her body’s responses. A second, thinner tentacle curled around her thigh and pressed against her other entrance: the tight, untouched rosebud between her freckled cheeks.

“WAIT!” Velma yelped. “Not there! That’s—that’s an exit! You can’t just—”

It pushed inside anyway.

The sound Velma made was caught between a scream and a moan, a high, startled cry that dissolved into a shuddering exhale. Her body arched against the tentacles’ grip, her fingers curling uselessly above her head. Her glasses slipped down her nose, and she couldn’t even reach up to push them back.

“Two down,” the Butt Witch said approvingly. “Let’s see how she handles the third.”

“No,” Maddie whispered. “They’re not going to—”

The third tentacle was already rising—slimmer, more delicate, tipped with a bead of that same glistening fluid. It traced the seam of Velma’s lips, and she clamped her mouth shut, shaking her head frantically.

“Mmph!” she grunted. “Mm-mmph!”

“That’s good, actually,” Garnet observed. “She’s resisting. It’ll make the eventual—”

The tentacle applied pressure, just enough to part her lips, and Velma’s protests dissolved into a wet, muffled sound as it slid between them. Her eyes went wide behind her fogged glasses, then fluttered half-closed as the tentacle began to move, thrusting in time with the others.

For a long moment, the arena was silent, save for Velma’s choked sounds and the wet rhythm of the tentacles working her body. Her pale, freckled skin was flushed now, covered in a sheen of sweat and the pit’s glistening lubricant. Her tits had spilled from her uniform top, soft and full, their pink nipples hard and visible. Her back arched and flexed with each thrust, and her legs, still wrapped in tentacles, twitched and kicked with a useless, instinctive motion.

“She’s fighting it,” Spencer observed quietly. “But not very hard.”

April nodded, her voice hushed. “The Pit of Regret is designed to mine the… resources of its occupants. It’s only a matter of time before she—”

Velma’s body went rigid. Her muffled scream spiked the arena’s audio, sharp and high, and then she was convulsing, her muscles clamping down around the tentacles inside her with a force that made the organic walls pulse in response. Her eyes squeezed shut, tears of over-stimulation leaking from the corners, and her whole body shook with the force of a crashing orgasm.

It was only the first.

The tentacles didn’t stop. They didn’t slow. They simply adjusted their rhythm, finding new angles, new depths, and Velma’s body responded with a terrible, helpless eagerness. Her screams gave way to gasps, and her gasps gave way to moans—low, throaty, shameless sounds that reverberated through every speaker in the multiverse.

“I can’t—” she gasped around the tentacle in her mouth, “—I can’t believe—jinkies—this is—”

“Wait for it,” the Butt Witch purred. “Wait for the moment she stops pretending.”

It came sooner than anyone expected. Velma’s body went limp in the tentacles’ embrace, and when the next wave hit her, she didn’t fight it. She rode it, her hips rolling forward, her inner muscles milking the tentacle buried inside her pussy with an expertise that would have been impressive if it weren’t so damning.

“Is she…?” April trailed off.

“She’s getting into it,” Garnet confirmed. “That’s the point of breaking resistance. Eventually, the body accepts what it can’t escape.”

Sandy looked stricken. “That’s so sad! And also… a little hot?”

“Don’t make it weird,” Maddie said, but her eyes were glued to the screen.

Velma’s muffled voice rose again, but this time the words weren’t protests. They were pleas—broken, desperate, filthy pleas that no one in Coolsville would ever believe came from the mouth of the smartest girl in school. She begged for more, harder, deeper, and the tentacles obliged, filling her further, stretching her wider, until she was nothing but pleasure and surrender in a cocoon of animated muscle.

The screen flickered for a moment, showing a close-up of her face: her glasses fogged to opacity, her lips stretched around the tentacle, her expression one of pure, mindless ecstasy. Then the feed zoomed out, and the vision of Velma—suspended, impaled, utterly conquered—went intergalactic.

In the contestant’s box, Princess Zelda had changed into one of the metallic uniforms, this one in a soft, luminous white that made her look more regal than ever. She stood off to one side, watching the screen with a calm, appraising interest.

“For a scholar,” she said at last, “she is rather… flexible.”

“Shut up,” Maddie snapped.

Zelda raised an eyebrow. “I mean that as a compliment.”

“She just got her ass eaten by a wall of tentacles, and you’re complimenting her?”

“It is a considerable adjustment,” Zelda said. “To face overwhelming physical sensation and still preserve enough cognitive function to be self-aware.” She paused. “Though I suspect that faculty will fade soon.”

On screen, Velma’s muffled screams reached a new pitch, and then she went limp again, her body spasming through what was clearly her third orgasm in as many minutes. The tentacles began to slow, their movements becoming gentle, almost soothing, as they eased her from the crest and back down.

“See?” Zelda said. “She’ll be fine.”

“Fine?!” Sandy repeated. “She’s a—a—”

“A very lucky individual,” the Butt Witch interrupted. “Do you know how many creatures in the multiverse would kill for an experience like that? She’s being pleasured in every possible way, and she gets to come back. It’s not a punishment. It’s a prize.”

“You would think that,” Garnet said.

“I know that,” the Butt Witch retorted. “I’ve spent my whole existence pursuing pleasure. This is the purest form of it.”

Spencer, still in the booth, didn’t comment. Her eyes were on the screen, and her expression was unreadable. She watched as the tentacles gently withdrew from Velma’s body, leaving her trembling and spent on the pit floor. The trap door opened, and the mechanical arms lifted her out, placing her on the recovery couch beside Rouge. The bat gave her a lazy, knowing look.

“Enjoy yourself?” Rouge asked.

Velma didn’t answer. She just stared at the ceiling, her chest heaving, her lips still parted, her eyes glassy behind her steamed glasses.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Rouge purred.

The arena lights shifted back to their normal brightness, and April cleared her throat. “Well! That was… honestly, I don’t have a word for that. Let’s just call it compelling television and move on. Princess Zelda, welcome to the competition. Velma, enjoy your recovery. Multiverse, stay tuned for Match 3 of the Rear-Mount Relay!”

The contestants all settled back into their seats, but the mood in the box had changed. They were seven now, but not the same seven. Zelda had taken her place beside them, serene and graceful, while Velma’s absence felt like an open wound. And from the recovery area, the faint sounds of Velma’s heavy breathing drifted through the arena like a ghost.

“This is only going to get harder,” Maddie said quietly.

“That’s what she said,” the Butt Witch cackled.

No one laughed.

The arena buzzed with residual energy from Velma’s penalty—multiversal chat feeds were apparently going insane, though the contestants couldn’t see them. They could feel it, though. The air was thick with the kind of charged anticipation that comes after a truly memorable broadcast moment.

Maddie Fenton rose from her seat in the contestant’s box, her teal metallic uniform catching the light. Her tight, athletic body was a study in controlled tension, and her ass—that compact, powerful weapon of ghost-hunting muscle—looked ready for war.

“Alright,” she said, rolling her shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

“That’s the spirit,” Garnet said. “Stay focused. Don’t let the moment overwhelm you.”

“It’s just butt-jousting with a sex toy,” Maddie replied. “I’ve faced down ectoplasmic horrors that could melt your face off. I can handle a princess.”

From the other side of the box, Princess Zelda’s serene expression flickered with something like recognition. “A princess, you say?”

April’s voice cut through the arena. “That’s right! Our next challenger is royalty of a different kind—a woman who needs no introduction in the multiverse, but I’ll give her one anyway! She’s the ruler of the Mushroom Kingdom, a veteran of countless adventures, and the owner of what can only be described as a legendary posterior!”

Maddie felt a shiver run through her and resented it immediately. “Let’s do this,” she repeated, louder this time, and strode toward the dais.

The reconfigured stage glowed golden, then shifted to a shimmering pink. Cherry blossom petals did not fall from the sky because the arena was too sophisticated for that, but the color palette changed so dramatically that it felt like it. The holo-projectors produced a cascade of sparkling diamonds and pink hearts that swirled across the dais’s surface.

The screen above flashed:

RELAY ROUND 1: MATCH 3
MADDIE FENTON VS. ???

A soft, musical voice spoke, rising from nowhere and everywhere at once. “Oh, my. What a peculiar venue!”

A figure emerged from a swirl of pastel light. She was tall and curvaceous, with golden hair that cascaded to her waist in soft waves. Her dress was pink, flowing, and modestly cut—that is, until it wasn’t. The fabric hugged her waist and flared over her hips, but the woman herself needed no introduction.

Princess Peach’s greatest claim to fame, as touted by the multiverse, was not her kingdom or her kidnappings or her surprisingly capable leadership. It was her body—and most specifically, her ass. It was round and full and absolutely massive, a cloud-like cushion of creamy flesh that seemed to float behind her—a force of nature wrapped in pink silk. The dress, for all its elegance, only seemed to amplify it. When she moved, that ass swayed with a hypnotic rhythm that made the audience lean forward in their seats.

Maddie’s jaw tightened. “Okay. That’s… That’s an ass.”

“What did you expect?” Sandy called from the box. “She’s royalty, girl! They grow ’em big!”

“Not helping, Sandy!”

Peach stepped onto the dais with a graceful curtsy. “I understand I’m meant to… compete for a spot? In what, exactly?” She looked around, taking in the bizarre arena and the floating screens. “This isn’t like any tournament I’ve participated in before.”

April’s eyes widened, and she shot a look at the contestant’s box. “Wait—wait a second. Princess Peach, do you recognize someone in the audience?”

Peach followed April’s gaze and her face lit up with genuine delight. “Zelda! Princess Zelda of Hyrule! Oh, it’s been ages!”

Zelda rose from her seat, her own face breaking into a rare, warm smile. “Peach! I didn’t expect to see you here. You look wonderful.”

“You as well! I had no idea you were part of this… er…” Peach looked at her own body, then at the pillory, then at the object the handlers were carrying in. “What exactly is this competition?”

“It’s a test of…” Zelda paused, choosing her words carefully. “Pelvic strength.”

Peach blinked. “Pelvic strength?”

“And endurance,” Zelda added. “With a particular emphasis on the rear.”

The handlers reached the dais and presented the double-ended dildo on its velvet cushion, and Peach’s expression shifted from confusion to dawning comprehension to something that was not entirely displeased.

“Oh, my,” she said again, but this time it was lower, throatier, and accompanied by a little smile.

“Peach, this is Maddie Fenton,” April continued, gesturing toward the ghost hunter. “She’s a mother and a scientist from another dimension, and she’s defending her spot on our roster. If you win, you take her place.”

Maddie already wore the same metallic uniform as the others—teal, tiny, and completely inadequate. It cupped her breasts like a pair of overly familiar hands and left her entire ass bare, framed by straps in a way that was almost architectural. Her cheeks were round and firm, each one a perfect globe of athletic muscle with just enough softness to bounce. A strip of darker teal fabric hugged her lower back, emphasizing the narrowness of her waist.

“Good luck,” Zelda called from the box. “She’s quite determined.”

Peach curtsied to Maddie, then to Zelda. “Thank you, my friend. I’ll do my best.”

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Maddie said, cracking her neck. “Let’s get this over with.”

The pillory rose from the dais, and both women took their positions. Peach’s dress slid from her shoulders and fell in a puddle of pink silk at her feet, revealing the body beneath. Her skin was pale and flawless, and she wore no undergarments at all. Her breasts were… they were enormous—round and soft and tipped with rose-pink nipples that stiffened in the cool air. She settled into position with an ease that suggested she had bent over a great many things in her life, and the full majesty of her ass came into view.

It was like looking at a perfect, pillowy throne carved from cream. Each cheek was huge and soft, jiggling with every small movement, the flesh pale and smooth with just the faintest hint of dimples on the sides. When she braced her feet, the cheeks spread slightly, revealing the pink cleft between them and the delicate rose of her entrance, already glistening with the same anticipatory wetness that all the contestants now recognized.

Maddie was impressive in her own right, but this was a different order of magnitude. She took a breath, steeling herself, and bent over the pillory.

The handlers inserted the dildo between them. There was a moment of adjustment—a sharp intake of breath from Peach, a low growl from Maddie—and then they were connected.

“Competitors ready?” April called. “Let’s see if this little scientist can shake off the royal treatment!”

“On your mark… get set… GO!”

Maddie went first. She drove backward with the explosive power of a woman who had spent her life launching herself at ghosts, and the dildo rammed deep into Peach’s body. The princess let out a startled “Oh!” and lurched forward, her pillowy cheeks compressing under the force.

“She’s fast!” April shouted. “Maddie’s not here to play games—she’s here to push!”

“I’ve been in firefights with ectoplasmic entities that could level a block!” Maddie grunted, already driving again. “You think a cushy castle lifestyle prepares you for this?!”

But Peach recovered with surprising grace. She planted her feet, spread them wide, and pushed back. And the push was not what any of them expected. Her ass, for all its softness, was deceptively strong—peach-shaped as it might be, it was a muscle of exceptional quality beneath all that heavenly padding. Her cheeks flexed and heaved as she shoved, and the dildo slid halfway back out before slamming home again.

Maddie’s eyes widened. “What the—”

“Years of tennis,” Peach said sweetly, though her voice was strained. “And kart racing. And Smash tournaments. You pick up a few things.”

In the booth, Spencer leaned forward. “She’s not just soft,” she observed. “She’s got power. Real power.”

“That’s Peach,” April agreed, nodding sagely. “Underestimate her at your peril. Her butt has sent people flying.”

Peach’s next thrust nearly lifted Maddie off her feet. The ghost hunter’s sneakers skidded on the smooth floor, and for a heartbeat, it looked like she would lose her balance entirely. But Maddie dug in with both feet, countered with a low, grinding push of her own, and the two women were suddenly locked, cheek to cheek, each straining against the other like two bulls locking horns.

The sound was incredible—wet, meaty, rhythmic, the dildo sliding through both of them with lewd, squelching insistence. Sweat popped on Maddie’s brow. Peach’s perfect hair began to plaster to her forehead. The scent of their shared exertion rolled through the arena like a wave.

“Push,” Maddie grated. “Push harder.”

“I am pushing, darling,” Peach purred, and there was a note of genuine competitive fire in her voice now. “I’m simply better at it.”

The declaration was followed by a devastating counter-thrust. Peach’s broad, pillowy ass drove back with such force that the impact made a sound like a thunderclap, and Maddie was physically moved, her feet leaving the ground for a split second before she came down with a grunt.

“She just pulled off a Peach Bomber!” April shrieked. “I don’t know if that’s legal, but it’s INCREDIBLE!”

The other contestants were on their feet now. Sandy was banging on the railing. Garnet was watching with intense focus. The Butt Witch had abandoned her dildo and was gripping the edge of the box with both hand, her pink eyes drinking in every moment.

“Come on, Maddie!” Sandy hollered. “Use them ghost-huntin’ hips!”

“Give her the ecto-blast!” the Butt Witch added, cackling.

Maddie, breathing hard, began to angle her body differently. She was a scientist, after all; she understood leverage. She shifted her weight onto one hip, then the other, turning her ass into a wedge, and started to work against the dildo with a series of short, fast thrusts that didn’t just push—they vibrated.

Peach let out a startled cry, and her knees buckled an inch. “Oh! Oh, that’s… that’s not fair…”

“Fair?” Maddie laughed, though it was a desperate, breathless laugh. “You just flew at me with a named move. Don’t talk to me about fair!”

She drove forward again, and this time Peach slid backward a full three inches. The sight of the princess being pushed across the dais, her enormous ass jiggling with every impact, was something the cameras captured from six different angles for the home audiences. Peach’s cheeks bounced and wobbled, each thrust sending ripples through the cloud-soft flesh, and the princess began to make sounds—soft, breathy, undeniable sounds—that cut through the arena like a knife.

Maddie’s mind briefly slipped. Her own pussy was slick and hot and clenching around the dildo far too eagerly. It would be so easy to let go, to let the feeling carry her away… but no. She had a family waiting at home. She had a husband, a daughter, a son, a research facility, and the proud, stubborn legacy of the Fenton name. She was not about to be undone by a pillow-assed princess.

But Peach was recovering again. She steadied herself, let out a long, shuddering breath, and then she did something unexpected: she relaxed. Her entire body went soft, all that tension draining out of her, and for a moment, Maddie thought she might have won—that the princess had finally yielded.

Then Peach flexed.

It wasn’t a push. It was a clamp. Her enormous cheeks came together around the dildo with a wet, sucking grip, and when she moved her hips, the toy didn’t just slide—it pulled. Maddie’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes flew wide. It felt like the dildo had grown roots inside her, and every one of those roots was suddenly sending a live wire straight up her spine.

“What are you—” she gasped.

“Just a little something I learned in Smash,” Peach said, and there was no sweet edge to her voice now—just a warm, knowing confidence. “You’d be surprised how much technique goes into a proper butt bump.”

Maddie’s legs began to shake. Her muscled, round ass shivered against the dildo’s base, and a sound she would deny to her dying day escaped her lips: a low, keening whine, raw and too loud in the hush of the arena.

April’s voice dropped to a near-whisper, though the mic still caught every nuance. “No way. Peach’s royal glutes are using suction! She’s not pushing—she’s milking!”

Spencer’s own voice was taut. “It’s a different kind of assault. Not force. Control.”

Maddie tried to rally. She gritted her teeth and drove forward again, but Peach was ready, moving with her, not against her, letting Maddie’s own momentum carry the dildo into that suffocating squeeze. The pressure built and built, until Maddie’s legs were trembling, until her toes curled, until she had to clench her jaw just to keep from crying out again.

“I won’t lose!” Maddie snarled, but her voice cracked on the last word.

“You don’t have to,” Peach said gently. “But I don’t plan to either.”

The struggle went on, longer than either of them expected. Maddie’s technical, athletic approach against Peach’s pillow-soft, iron-strong counter-offensive. The dildo squelched and slid, their bodies heaved, their skin grew slick with sweat, and the arena’s lights dimmed and flared with each shift in momentum.

But in the end, Maddie’s legs gave out first. A shudder went through her body—not from defeat, but from the sheer, unbearable stimulation that Peach’s technique had unleashed. She bit down on a scream, and when she pushed again, it was weaker, sloppier, more desperate. The buzzer sounded before she even realized she had crossed the threshold.

RESULT: PEACH ADVANCES
WINNER BY A PILLOW PUSH (3.2 SPREAD DIFFERENTIAL)

Maddie collapsed against the pillory, breath heaving, thighs quivering, her ass still twitching. She’d lost. Not just the match—something else. Something she couldn’t name.

Peach straightened with a quiet dignity, extending a hand to help her up. “You were magnificent, truly. The fighting spirit in you burns bright.”

Maddie swatted the hand away, then immediately regretted it. “Save it.” Her voice was rough, almost inaudible. “Just… save it.”

The trap door opened beneath her, and the last thing the arena saw before the screen flicked to the Pit of Regret was Maddie’s face—angry, humiliated, and terrifyingly close to breaking.

The tentacles rose to meet her.

In the contestant’s box, the women were silent. Zelda had already moved to stand beside Peach, the two princesses exchanging quiet words and a brief, dignified embrace.

The Butt Witch stared at the screen. “She’s going to destroy those tentacles out of spite.”

“Or enjoy them very much,” Sandy said. “Could go either way.”

Below, in the pit, Maddie Fenton was already grabbing at the first tentacle that came near her, teeth bared, muscles taut, clinging to rage like a lifeline. But the pit was patient. And the pit always won.

“Alright, you overgrown calamari,” Maddie snarled. “I’ve dissected things bigger than you. I’ve weaponized things smaller than you. You want a piece of me? Come and—”

A tentacle wrapped around her ankle.

“Let GO of my—”

Another around her wrist.

“Damn it, I said—”

A third, thicker appendage coiled around her waist and hoisted her into the air, and suddenly Maddie’s feet were dangling, her body suspended in the pit’s living grip. Her teal uniform bottoms, such as they were, had already ridden up, baring her ass completely. Her compact, muscular cheeks flexed as she kicked, her thighs straining, her whole body a taut wire of resistance.

“I am a GHOST HUNTER!” she bellowed. “I am a SCIENTIST! I am a MOTHER! I will not be—”

The first tentacle found her pussy.

Maddie’s voice cut off in a sharp, strangled gasp. Her eyes flew wide. The tentacle was slick and warm, narrower than the ones around her limbs, and it pressed against her entrance with a patience that felt almost clinical. Despite everything—the match, the adrenaline, the fury—her body had already responded to the night’s earlier stimulation. She was wet. Embarrassingly, devastatingly wet.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no, you don’t get to—”

It pushed inside.

The sound Maddie made was not a scream. It was a long, ragged exhale, pulled from somewhere deep in her chest, and it ended on a note that was far too close to a moan for her liking. Her impressive thighs tensed, her stomach muscles rippling, and her inner walls clenched around the invading shaft with a traitorous eagerness that made her want to scream.

“There we go,” the Butt Witch murmured from the contestant’s box, her voice low and hungry. “Fighting’s the best part. But it never lasts.”

Sandy elbowed her. “Hush! She might hear you!”

“She can’t hear anything but her own heartbeat right now,” Garnet observed calmly. “And the sound of what’s happening to her.”

The tentacle began to move. Slow, deep thrusts that filled Maddie to her core, each one hitting a spot that made her hips jerk and her head snap back. Her short auburn hair was already damp with sweat, strands sticking to her flushed face. Her breasts, still trapped in the metallic top, heaved with every breath.

A second tentacle rose behind her, thicker and tapered at the tip. It pressed against the tight pucker of her ass, and Maddie’s whole body went rigid.

“No,” she said again, but her voice was thinner now, less certain. “That’s—you can’t—”

The tentacle pushed inside.

Maddie’s back arched so hard it looked like she might snap in two. A raw, throaty cry tore from her lips, and the tentacle in her pussy responded by driving deeper, as if encouraged by her distress. The pressure was immense—not painful, exactly, but overwhelming, filling her in ways she’d never been filled before. Her strong legs kicked uselessly, her toes curling, and the metallic straps of her uniform strained against the sudden flex of her muscles.

“Two holes down,” April said quietly, almost reverently. “And the third is… yep, there it is.”

The third tentacle rose to meet Maddie’s face. It was slender and wet, its tip beaded with that same pearlescent fluid. Maddie clamped her mouth shut, turning her head away, but the tentacle followed her, patient and unyielding. It traced the seam of her lips, leaving a glistening trail, and then, with a single, gentle push, it slipped inside.

Maddie’s protests became a muffled, wordless garble.

The tentacles began to thrust in earnest. Not three separate rhythms, but one coordinated assault—in and out, in and out—filling her mouth, her pussy, her ass with a relentless, synchronized cadence. The wet sounds of her body accepting the invasion echoed through the arena, amplified by the pit’s living acoustics, and the cameras captured every detail: the way her lips stretched around the shaft, the way her cheeks hollowed with each withdrawal, the way her inner thighs glistened with her own arousal.

She was still fighting. Her fists clenched and unclenched. Her legs kicked weakly. But with each passing second, the fight bled out of her, leaving something else behind—something softer, needier, more exposed.

“She’s starting to feel it,” Princess Peach observed, and though her voice was calm, there was a note of sympathy in it. “The body has its own logic, and it cannot be argued with.”

“She’s a strong woman,” Zelda said. “But even the strongest must yield sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” the Butt Witch echoed. “She’s already gone. Look at her.”

They looked. And the Butt Witch was right.

Maddie’s shoulders had slumped. Her head had fallen back. The sounds she was making around the tentacle in her mouth were no longer angry protests—they were low, rhythmic hums, broken only by the occasional harsh breath. Her chest rose and fell in a rolling rhythm, and her hips, in clear defiance of her own will, had begun to rock.

“None of them come out the same,” Spencer said from the announcer’s booth. Her voice was tight, but her eyes were fixed on the screen. “That’s what this place is. Not just a punishment. A transformation.”

April glanced at her. “You sound like you speak from experience.”

“I don’t. But I’m a mother,” Spencer replied. “I recognize surrender when I see it. And that woman—the one who called herself a ghost hunter—she’s two minutes away from being something else entirely.”

The tentacle in Maddie’s pussy picked up its pace, curling inside her, changing the angle, and her muffled moan became a sharp, keening cry. The sound was so unexpected, so shameless, that the other contestants shifted uneasily in their seats. Sandy’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide.

“Holy gears,” she whispered. “She sounds like… like she’s—”

“Enjoying it,” the Butt Witch finished. “She’s enjoying it. They all enjoy it, eventually.”

Sandy shot her a look. “Is that supposed to be a comfort?”

“It’s supposed to be the truth,” the Butt Witch said, and for once, there was no screech in her voice, no mania. Just a strange, wistful honesty. “The Pit of Regret isn’t pain. It’s pleasure. It’s too much pleasure. The kind that breaks down all the walls you’ve built, all the stupid little barriers you put up to keep people out. That’s why it’s called regret. Because when you finally stop fighting, you realize how much time you wasted pretending you didn’t want it.”

The tentacles slowed, then stopped, and for a moment, Maddie hung there, gasping, trembling. Then, with a wet sound, they withdrew. Not all the way—just enough to let her breathe. She still clutched at the air, her fingers splayed, her body twitching with the aftershocks.

“Wha…” she panted. “Why did you…”

The pit answered by filling her again.

All at once. Every hole. Deeper and harder than before.

Maddie screamed. But it wasn’t a scream of outrage. It was the scream of a woman who had just been pushed past the last boundary of her own self-control, and the sound of it was raw and wet and shockingly, achingly grateful.

The tentacles fucked her with a new intensity, no longer testing but taking, driving into her with a relentless, pounding rhythm that shamelessly sought out every sensitive spot. Her tits bounced wildly in their metallic constraints, the top slipping down to reveal one dark nipple, then the other. Her legs spread as wide as the tentacles allowed, her toes pointing, her hips rolling to meet every thrust.

“Look at that,” April breathed. “She’s… she’s riding them.”

“She’s not riding,” Spencer corrected. “She’s being ridden. There’s a difference.”

“What difference?”

Spencer’s voice was very quiet. “Consent.”

The word hung in the air, heavier than it should have been, and then Maddie’s body convulsed with a force that shook the entire pit. Her first orgasm hit like a wave, crashing over her, and she screamed around the tentacle in her mouth—a high, broken wail that dissolved into a series of desperate, guttural sobs. Her inner walls clamped down on the shaft inside her, and the tentacle in her ass pulsed in response, driving her higher and higher even as she came.

The other contestants watched in awed, uncomfortable silence. This was different from Rouge’s easy, performative enjoyment, and different from Velma’s intellectual surrender. This was something rawer, more honest—the complete and total unmaking of a woman who had built her entire identity around strength and control. A doting mother, a brilliant scientist, a fearless ghost hunter—reduced to the simplest, most primal version of herself.

To a mewling, mindless whore.

The tentacles weren’t done with her. They waited until the last tremors of her orgasm faded, and then they started again, slower this time, drawing out the pleasure, keeping her on the edge without letting her fall. Maddie’s uniform—what was left of it—had been pushed aside entirely, leaving her naked except for the coils of slick tentacle wrapped around her limbs.

“Please,” she rasped, her voice cracked and desperate. “Please, no more… I can’t… I can’t take any more…”

The tentacles responded by pushing deeper.

Her back arched, and a fresh stream of tears rolled down her flushed cheeks. The tentacle in her mouth began to thrust in time with the one in her pussy, and the one in her ass matched the rhythm perfectly, until her entire body was a single, quivering instrument of pleasure, played by a conductor who knew exactly which notes would break her.

The second orgasm hit without warning. Maddie’s eyes rolled back, and her hips bucked so violently that the tentacles had to tighten their grip to keep her suspended. Her scream was muffled but unmistakable—a raw, animal sound of pure, mindless ecstasy. Her body tightened, then went limp, then tightened again, riding wave after wave, unable to stop, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but feel.

It went on for a long time.

The other contestants sat in silence, watching the screen, watching this proud, strong woman be unmade and remade into something soft and wanting. Finally, with a series of gentle, lapping motions, the tentacles began to slow. They withdrew carefully, lowering Maddie to the floor, where she collapsed in a heap, her chest heaving, her body still trembling with residual shocks.

The screen showed a close-up of her face. Her eyes were half-open, glassy and unfocused, her lips parted around nothing, her expression a mixture of exhaustion and something that looked terrifyingly like bliss. A thin line of drool ran from the corner of her mouth. The sweat on her skin gleamed in the dim light of the pit.

“Jinkies,” Velma whispered from the recovery area, her voice hoarse. “She’s… she’s gone.”

“Not gone,” Rouge corrected lazily, stretched out on her own couch. “Just… elsewhere. She’ll be back. They always come back.”

“Speak for yourself,” Maddie slurred from the screen, and despite everything, a small, shaky smile crossed her lips. “I’m… I’m right here…”

The trap door opened, and the mechanical arms lifted her out, cradling her like a child. They laid her gently on a third recovery couch, and the med-bots descended, spraying her with the same glittering mist that had revived Rouge and Velma.

Maddie closed her eyes.

“Well,” April said, “I think it’s safe to say that round goes to the Pit. But what a fight!”

The arena lights rose to their normal brightness, and the contestants blinked, momentarily disoriented after the sensory overload of the penalty. Peach and Zelda stood together at the edge of the box, speaking in low, regal tones. The Butt Witch had gone quiet, her normal manic energy replaced by something contemplative. Sandy was pacing, her purple uniform clinging to her fur.

Only Spencer seemed truly composed, her face a mask of calm, but even she couldn’t quite hide the tightness in her jaw.

“What happens to her now?” Sandy asked, breaking the silence. “Does she get another chance?”

“Everyone gets another chance,” April said. “But not everyone takes it.” She gave the camera a long, meaningful look. “Maddie may be down, but she’s definitely not out. And with a body like that? I’d say the multiverse hasn’t seen the last of her.”

The screen flickered, showing the updated roster: GARNET. HELEN PARR. SANDY CHEEKS. BUTT WITCH. PRINCESS ZELDA. PRINCESS PEACH.

Leaving out Spencer, six women had walked into the arena that morning.

Four were still standing, with three potentially on the chopping block.

The arena lights dimmed to a warm, ambient glow, and a soft chime echoed through the space. Panels in the walls slid open, revealing an array of refreshments—tall pitchers of ice water infused with cucumber and mint, platters of fresh fruit, tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and an assortment of pastries that would have made a French bakery weep with envy.

“Intermission, folks!” April announced, setting down her microphone and stretching her arms above her head. “Twenty minutes to hydrate, refuel, and reflect on the absolute carnage we’ve witnessed so far. When we come back, we’ll see who’s next on the chopping block—I mean, the challenger roster!”

The remaining contestants filed out of the spectator box, their metallic uniforms catching the light as they moved toward the refreshment tables. The screens above the arena continued to play, cycling through a highlight reel of the morning’s events: the Butt Witch’s tearful victory, Rouge’s blissful descent into the Pit, Velma’s transformation from protesting detective to mewling participant, and Maddie’s raw, visceral unmaking.

Spencer descended from the announcer’s booth, her bare feet silent on the chrome steps. The metallic lavender uniform clung to her like a second skin, and her enormous ass swayed with each step, drawing eyes from every corner of the arena. She looked tired—not physically, but emotionally, the kind of weariness that came from watching too much and being able to do too little about it.

“There she is,” the Butt Witch crowed, waving a danish in Spencer’s direction. “Our beloved commentator! Come, sit! Tell us what you really think about our performances!”

Spencer took a glass of cucumber water and drank half of it in one long swallow. “I think we’re all going to need therapy after this.”

“Speak for yourself,” the Butt Witch said. “I’m having the time of my life.”

Sandy was already piling a plate with finger sandwiches, her tail swishing behind her with nervous energy. “I don’t know how y’all are so calm about this. We just watched three women get—” She paused, searching for a word that wouldn’t make her blush. “—tentacled. Thoroughly tentacled.”

“They seemed to enjoy it,” Garnet observed, selecting a single grape from a fruit platter.

“That’s not the point!” Sandy protested.

“Isn’t it?” Garnet popped the grape into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “We’re all here because someone decided our asses were exceptional. We’ve been twerking, jousting with sex toys, and watching the losers get pleasured into unconsciousness by an interdimensional sex pit. At what point do we stop being horrified and start being… curious?”

The question hung in the air, unanswered.

Princess Peach and Princess Zelda approached the group together, their contrasting presences creating an almost regal aura. Peach had helped herself to a tiny cucumber sandwich, which she nibbled with delicate precision. Zelda held a glass of water, her expression serene but watchful.

“May we join you?” Peach asked, her voice warm and melodic.

“Of course,” Spencer said, gesturing to the empty seats. “You’re part of the team now. Such as it is.”

The two princesses settled onto a cushioned bench, their metallic uniforms—white and soft pink, respectively—creating a striking contrast with the other women’s more vibrant colors. Peach’s massive, pillowy ass squished against the cushion, and Zelda’s perfectly sculpted rear settled beside it, and for a moment, everyone just stared.

“Sorry,” Sandy said, shaking herself. “It’s just… y’all have really nice butts.”

Peach laughed, a sound like wind chimes. “Thank you! I do try to stay active. Tennis, mostly. And the occasional kart race.”

“And Smash tournaments,” Maddie’s voice drifted weakly from the recovery area. “Don’t forget the Smash tournaments…”

The group turned, seeing that the recovery area with its occupied couches was attached through a wide, open door. Rouge, Velma and Maddie all laid within earshot of the snack table.

“She’s awake!” Sandy called over. “How you feelin’, girl?”

“Like I got fucked by an octopus,” Maddie replied, her voice hoarse but steady. “And I’m not sure I hated it. Give me a minute to process that.”

The women shared a look—part sympathy, part amusement, part something deeper and more complicated.

Velma, still wrapped in a recovery blanket on her own couch, adjusted her glasses with a shaking hand. “I’ve been doing the math,” she said. “If the pattern holds, there are three more matches in this relay round. That means three more of us will face challengers, and three more challengers will either join the team or go to the Pit.”

“Assuming we win,” Garnet said calmly.

“Assuming some of us win,” Velma corrected. “Statistically, we’re due for another loss.”

The screens above them shifted, showing a slow-motion replay of Zelda’s match against Velma. The freckled detective winced at the sight of her own body bent over the pillory, her ass clapping against the princess’s with desperate determination.

“You fought well,” Zelda said quietly. “I meant that.”

“I know,” Velma replied. “I’m still processing. Give me another minute.”

Spencer set down her water glass and addressed the group with the same calm, maternal authority she’d displayed since the competition began. “We should talk about what comes next. Not just the relay—whatever comes after. This shadowy figure, our ‘benefactor,’ has gone to a lot of trouble to assemble us. There’s a purpose behind all of this. Something beyond ratings and humiliation.”

“You think so?” Sandy asked, leaning forward.

“I know so.” Spencer’s eyes swept the arena, taking in the floating screens, the pulsing lights, the invisible cameras that were surely still watching. “Think about it. The prize isn’t just money or fame. It’s a universe-reshaping artifact. That’s not a game show prize. That’s a weapon. Or a tool. Either way, someone wants to give it to the woman with the best ass in the multiverse. Why?”

The Butt Witch raised her hand. “Because ass is the purest expression of power?”

“That’s… not entirely wrong,” Spencer admitted. “But there’s more to it. The competition is designed to test us—not just our bodies, but our resilience, our adaptability, our willingness to keep fighting even when things get…” She glanced at the recovery area. “…intense.”

“You think we’re being evaluated,” Garnet said. It wasn’t a question.

“I think we’re being groomed,” Spencer replied. “Trained. Prepared for something bigger than a relay race with sex toys.”

The screens shifted again, showing a highlight reel of the first event: the Bounce of Ages. Spencer’s own naked form filled the display, her enormous ass clapping with that same controlled, devastating rhythm that had earned her a perfect score. The other women watched in silence, and Spencer didn’t flinch.

“So you’re the one to beat,” Peach said, her voice tinged with admiration. “Whatever comes next, I suspect you’ll be at the center of it.”

“Maybe,” Spencer said. “Or maybe I’m just the opening act. The warm-up before the real show begins.”

“Now there’s a creepy thought,” Sandy muttered.

Zelda, who had been silent for most of the conversation, finally spoke. “I’ve faced prophecies before. Destiny, ancient evils, the weight of an entire kingdom on my shoulders. This competition feels… different. Less about saving the world and more about understanding ourselves.”

“Understanding our butts, you mean,” the Butt Witch said.

“That, too,” Zelda agreed with a faint smile.

The highlights continued to play, showing the Rear-Mount Relay matches in rapid succession: the Butt Witch’s tearful victory, Zelda’s graceful triumph, Peach’s surprising power. Then the screen shifted to something new—a teaser for the upcoming matches, showing shadowy silhouettes of challengers yet to be revealed.

“Look,” Sandy said, pointing. “That’s… that’s a lot of silhouettes.”

The screen displayed six remaining shadows, each one gradually becoming more defined. One was short but muscular, with massive thighs that lead into a devastating-looking ass. Another was built similarly, but with two long ears reaching up from her head. A third was slimmer, curvier, with a tail that swished behind her.

“Mystery challengers,” Velma said, her investigator’s instincts kicking in despite her exhaustion. “They’re not revealing them all at once. They want us to wonder. To worry.”

“Who’s to say those are even our challengers?” Helen wondered. “There’s too many shadows. How many women do they have on standby? Are there going to be more rounds like this? It’s too much to think about.”

“Classic psychological manipulation,” Garnet observed. “Keep the contestants off-balance. Make them dread what’s coming.”

“Is it working?” April asked, suddenly appearing behind them with a plate of cookies. She’d shed her announcer’s jacket and was down to the yellow jumpsuit, her own impressive figure on full display. “Because from where I’m standing, you all look a little… tense.”

“We’re fine,” Spencer said. “Just discussing strategy.”

“Uh-huh.” April bit into a cookie and chewed thoughtfully. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’ve seen the roster for the next few matches. And let me tell you—” She paused, her eyes twinkling. “—you’re going to want to stretch first.”

“Who is it?” Sandy demanded. “Who’s next?”

April winked. “You’ll find out soon enough. But between us girls?” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “The next one’s from a universe where ass is practically a religion. So… good luck.”

She sauntered off, her own impressive rear swaying with each step, leaving the contestants in a state of heightened anxiety.

“The next one’s from a universe where ass is practically a religion?” the Butt Witch repeated, her eyes widening. “That’s… that’s MY kind of universe!”

“Calm down,” Spencer said. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together. Even if we’re competing against each other, we’re still a team. Don’t forget that.”

Peach smiled warmly. “Spoken like a true leader.”

“I’m not a leader,” Spencer said. “I’m just a mother who’s very good at twerking.”

“That’s basically the same thing,” Sandy said, and despite everything, the group dissolved into genuine laughter—the first they’d shared since arriving in this bizarre place.

The screens continued their loop, and the break ticked down toward its end. Somewhere in the arena, the shadowy figure watched. And somewhere in the multiverse, three more challengers waited for their moment to shine.