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 morning arrived not with sunlight, but with a soft chime that resonated through the bunking area like a polite alarm clock from hell. The ambient glow brightened gradually, mimicking a sunrise, and one by one, the contestants stirred.

Sandy was first up, already doing stretches in her purple bikini. Her bare feet slapped against the floor as she lunged, her tail swishing with each movement. “Rise and shine, y’all! Big day ahead!”

Maddie groaned, rolling over. “What time is it even? Does time exist here?”

“Time exists,” Garnet said, already sitting upright on her cot, fully alert. “And it’s moving toward our next event.”

Velma fumbled for her glasses on the floor beside her cot. She’d kicked them off at some point during the night. “I had the strangest dream. We were all… no, wait. That actually happened.”

Helen sat up, her red suit still on, her hair somehow perfect despite everything. “What’s on the agenda today? More twerking? Obstacle course? Pie-eating contest?”

The Butt Witch was already on her feet, doing aggressive squats in the corner. “Whatever it is, I will dominate! My glutes have recovered! My acoustics are primed! I am a weapon of ass destruction!”

Spencer, as composed as ever, was folding her nightgown into a neat square. “We should eat something first. Assuming they feed us here.”

As if on cue, a panel in the wall slid open, revealing a spread of breakfast foods: fruits, pastries, oatmeal, and an assortment of juices. The women descended on it with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

“This is weirdly good,” Maddie said, biting into a croissant. “Like, too good. Suspiciously good.”

“Maybe the shadowy figure wants us well-fed,” Velma suggested. “For the… for whatever comes next.”

Butt Witch stuffed an entire danish into her mouth. “If they want us fed, it’s because they want us jiggly! And I, for one, am HAPPY to oblige!”

As they finished their breakfast, April’s voice echoed through the room, coming from no visible source. “Good morning, contestants! Please report to the main arena in fifteen minutes for today’s first event. And let me tell you, it’s a doozy.”

The women exchanged glances.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Helen said.

“None of us like the sound of that,” Velma replied.

—

The main arena had shifted overnight. The twerking pads were gone, replaced by a circular platform in the center, surrounded by an array of cameras and floating screens. The lights were dimmer than before, giving everything a more intimate, almost voyeuristic quality.

April stood at the center of the platform, her yellow jumpsuit as bright as ever. She held a small, wrapped object in her hands—something long and cylindrical, hidden beneath a velvet cloth.

“Welcome back, ladies!” April beamed. “I hope you slept well, because today’s event requires stamina, flexibility, and a deep appreciation for teamwork.”

“Teamwork?” Garnet repeated. “We’re competing as teams?”

“In a manner of speaking!” April said. “You see, the shadowy figure—our mysterious benefactor—wants to test not just your individual assets, but how you work together. Or rather, how you work against each other.”

She pulled away the velvet cloth with a dramatic flourish.

Every woman in the arena went very, very quiet.

It was a double-sided dildo. A very large, very detailed, very pink double-sided dildo, with flared heads on both ends and a slight curve to its shaft. It gleamed under the lights, already slick with what appeared to be lubricant.

Sandy’s jaw dropped. “That’s… that ain’t a sports implement.”

“It’s a sport to some people,” the Butt Witch said, her eyes wide with manic glee. “What are we doing with it? Whatever it is, I volunteer as tribute.”

“Of course you do,” Maddie muttered.

April held the dildo aloft like a game-show model displaying a prize. “Today’s event is called The Rear-Mount Relay! But before we get to the full competition, we’re starting with an exhibition match between our top two contenders from yesterday!”

The leaderboard flickered to life, showing the current standings:

1. SPENCER — 98.7
2. BUTT WITCH — 96.1

Velma adjusted her glasses. “If we’re doing a relay, shouldn’t we all be participating?”

“Patience, Detective!” April said. “The exhibition match is first. Then, depending on how it goes, you’ll all get your chance in the group relay. But for now…” She pointed dramatically at the two women. “Butt Witch! Spencer! Take your positions!”

Spencer’s eye twitched—the only outward sign of her internal horror. “I’m sorry, but what exactly are we supposed to do with that… object?”

April’s smile widened. “I’m so glad you asked!”

She produced a remote control and clicked it. Immediately, two raised blocks emerged from the platform—one on each side of the circle, angled slightly upward. They were covered in what looked like soft, leather-like padding, and they were positioned at just the right height for a woman to bend over and rest her stomach against.

“The rules are simple,” April announced. “Each contestant will position themselves at one end of the Double-Ended Deleware. You will insert your respective ends into…” She paused, her professional smile faltering just slightly. “Full disclosure, I’m reading this off a script and I want you to know that even I think this is a lot.”

“What does the winner get?” the Butt Witch demanded eagerly.

“The winner,” April read, “receives a one-on-one training session with a ‘mystery instructor’ and automatic advancement to the next round.”

Spencer’s expression hadn’t changed. “And the loser?”

“Nothing. They just have to live with the knowledge that they were out-performed in ass-to-ass combat.”

The Butt Witch cackled, already marching toward one of the blocks. “OH, this is perfect! Finally, a challenge worthy of my talents! Prepare yourself, Spencer! The Butt Witch has been training her whole life for this!”

Spencer, moving with the slow, deliberate energy of a woman who had accepted her fate but was not happy about it, walked to the opposite block. “I assume there’s no way to decline.”

“There is!” April said cheerfully. “You can forfeit, and the Butt Witch gets an automatic win and you’re eliminated from the competition entirely.”

The words hung in the air. Eliminated entirely. The prize—the universe-reshaping artifact—would be lost.

Spencer’s jaw tightened. “For a universe-reshaping artifact. That’s what I keep telling myself.”

“That’s the spirit!” April said. “Now, both of you, assume the position! And remember—use your assets, not just your attitude!”

The Butt Witch was already bent over her block, presenting her massive green cheeks to the arena. Her thong had vanished—she must have removed it while no one was looking, or maybe it had disintegrated from sheer enthusiasm. Her backside was spectacular in the dim light: twin globes of green flesh, dimpled and soft, with the thong-strap line still imprinted in the skin. Between her cheeks, her pussy was already glistening, her dark, raised folds peeking out like a secret.

Spencer took a breath and bent over her own block. She was still fully dressed—white skirt, lavender blouse—but she reached back and pushed the skirt up over her hips, revealing her plain white panties. The other women watched as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband and pulled them down, just far enough to expose her own entrance.

Her cheeks were pale and enormous, pressed together demurely. Between them, her pussy was pink and compact, the outer lips shy against the inner ones, with a small, neat thatch of red hair above it that she’d kept trimmed. Her rosebud was tight and pale, winking against the cool air.

April approached with the double-sided dildo, holding it with both hands like a ceremonial scepter. “Alright, ladies. I’m going to place this between you. When the buzzer sounds, you’ll both push backward onto your respective ends. The goal is to force the other contestant forward—to claim territory, so to speak. First one to cross the center line or dislodge the other wins.”

“Wait,” Velma called out. “This is just ass-to-ass tug-of-war with a sex toy.”

“That’s exactly what it is!” April confirmed. “I believe the technical term is ‘ass-butting,’ but our writers went with ‘Rear-Mount Relay’ for the censors.”

Garnet crossed her arms. “There are censors?”

“In some dimensions, yes. We’re not being broadcast in the family-friendly ones yet.” April winked. “Not until sweeps week.”

She positioned the dildo between the two women, but the gap was too large—they’d have to press together, cheek to cheek, to even connect. April stepped back and looked at them critically.

“You’ll need to back up a bit. Both of you, shuffle toward the center. Don’t be shy!”

The Butt Witch waddled backward with frightening eagerness. Spencer moved with more hesitation, but she moved. The distance closed, and their bare cheeks made contact.

The room went silent.

Spencer’s pale, massive buttocks pressed against the Butt Witch’s green, jiggling flesh. The contrast was stark and almost artistic—the sensibly-pale housewife and the perverse, insane witch, their bodies touching in a way that felt deeply obscene.

“Ooo,” the Butt Witch cooed over her shoulder. “You’re soft. Like a muffin.”

“Please don’t talk,” Spencer said through gritted teeth.

April approached from the side, and with careful hands, she guided the double-ended dildo between their bodies. There was a moment of fumbling—wet noises, a surprised gasp from Spencer, an eager moan from the Butt Witch—and then the toy was seated, swallowed at both ends by two of the most formidable asses in the multiverse.

“Competitors ready?” April called out, stepping back.

A soft drone began to rise from the floor—the hum of the arena’s hidden speakers. The lights dimmed until the only illumination came from the glowing platforms beneath the two women.

“BEGIN!”

The Butt Witch moved first, throwing herself backward with a force that sent shockwaves through both bodies. Spencer grunted, her hips bucking forward, but she caught herself, pressing back with equal determination. The dildo—what little of it was visible—shafted deeper into both of them, vanishing between their cheeks.

For a long moment, they were locked in a stalemate, two hellaciously built women with their asses welded together by a shared piece of silicone, neither giving an inch.

Spencer’s face was flushed, her brow furrowed. Sweat already beaded at her temples. Her massive cheeks flexed and clenched around the toy, and the other contestants could see the subtle movements beneath her skin—the way she was working it, using her pelvic muscles to pull the toy deeper, to secure her grip.

The Butt Witch was making sounds that were hard to categorize—her deep baritone took on a breathy quality that frankly sounded unacceptable for network television. “Oh! Oh! This is… this is wonderful! The pressure! The friction!”

“Shut up and push!” Spencer snapped.

“I’m pushing! I’m pushing!”

The Butt Witch redoubled her efforts, and Spencer’s feet slid a few inches across the platform. The contestants held their breath. Sandy was leaning forward, hands on her knees. “C’mon, Spencer! Dig in, girl!”

But Spencer was digging. Her legs were braced, her thighs trembling with effort. But the Butt Witch was relentless, her green cheeks clenching with maniacal fervor, each contraction massaging the toy in a way that Spencer had to actively resist.

“You can’t beat me!” the Butt Witch shrieked. “I was born for this! I’ve trained for centuries! I’ve—” She punctuated each word with another shove of her ass. “—SEEN—” thrust “—THINGS—” thrust “—YOU WOULDN’T—” thrust “—BELIEVE!”

Spencer grunted, and with a sudden, explosive thrust of her own, she drove the Butt Witch forward by a full six inches. “And I,” she panted, “have done… the Manhattan… PTA… Christmas pageant.” Another shove. “I know pressure.”

The spectators erupted—or as close to erupted as seven women who’d just woken up could manage.

“GET HER, SPENCER!” Sandy howled, pumping her fist.

“Use those hips!” Maddie shouted. “It’s all in the pelvis!”

“The biomechanics are fascinating,” Velma observed, her glasses flashing. “The way the pelvic floor muscles contract to create suction, the—”

“You’re analyzing this?!” Helen interrupted.

“It’s how I process trauma, Elastigirl!”

The Butt Witch, now on the defensive, dug her heels into the platform and let out a low, guttural growl. Her ass erupted into motion, bouncing and shaking and bucking wildly, each movement driving the toy into Spencer with renewed vigor. “You want pressure?! I’LL SHOW YOU PRESSURE!”

Spencer gasped—an actual, unguarded gasp—as the Butt Witch’s counterattack pushed her back. The dildo shifted inside her, and her knees nearly buckled. Her face contorted with a mix of discomfort and something else—something pink and warm and entirely unexpected.

“She’s losing ground,” Garnet observed. “The Butt Witch’s bounce is unpredictable.”

But Spencer wasn’t finished. Her eyes snapped open, and she planted her feet wide. Her massive ass, which had seemed so soft and plush, suddenly became a wall of pure muscle. She clenched with everything she had, and the Butt Witch’s next thrust was absorbed, repelled, and reversed.

“NO!” the Butt Witch cried. “NO, THAT’S MY MOVE!”

“It’s everyone’s move,” Spencer shot back, her voice strained but determined. “You just do it louder.”

And with a final, magnificent surge—hips driving backward, cheeks clenching, thighs quaking—Spencer drove the Butt Witch forward across the center line.

The buzzer sounded.

“WINNER: SPENCER!” April’s voice boomed.

The Butt Witch collapsed onto her block, her ass still twitching, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The dildo slipped free of her with a wet shlorp and clattered to the platform, landing with a sad, shiny thud.

Spencer, ever composed, pushed herself upright with deliberate care. Sweat plastered the curls to her forehead. Her blouse was rumpled. Her skirt was still hiked up over her hips, and her bare ass glistened with the sheen of exertion. She took one deep breath, then reached back and pulled her panties up with a crisp snap of elastic.

“Well done,” April said, sounding genuinely impressed. “Though between us, I think the Butt Witch deserves points for enthusiasm.”

The Butt Witch, still draped over her block, lifted one weak hand. “I… I can still… fight…”

“No, you can’t,” Maddie said, not unkindly. “You just got your ass handed to you.”

“Literally,” Velma added.

Sandy trotted over, offering Spencer a small towel from a dispenser on the wall. “That was incredible. Like watching two asteroids collide, but with better posture.”

Spencer took the towel, dabbing at her face. “Thank you.” A pause. “I think.”

The leaderboard updated with a cheerful chime, flashing Spencer’s name at the top once more. Below it, a new message appeared: MYSTERY INSTRUCTOR WILL MEET WITH SPENCER AFTER THE GROUP RELAY.

The women exchanged glances.

“Group relay?” Helen repeated. “You mean we all have to…”

“Yup!” April confirmed. “But first, a brief intermission! Hydrate, stretch, and reflect on what you’ve witnessed. Because in thirty minutes, we’re doing it all over again—but with teams!”

The Butt Witch let out a long, low moan that might have been pain, or pleasure, or perhaps the sound of a woman who had finally found her true calling.

Spencer sat down heavily on the edge of her block, the towel draped over her lap, her newly-pulled-up panties barely visible beneath the hem of her hiked skirt.

“I’m going to need a very, very long shower,” she said quietly.

“You and me both,” the Butt Witch mumbled from the floor. “You and me both.”

The intermission was a blur of activity as the contestants were herded toward a wide, tiled chamber at the far end of the bunking area. It was a communal shower—open, with no dividers, just a dozen showerheads arranged in a circle around a central drain. The floor was warm underfoot, and steam already began to rise as the water kicked on automatically, responding to their presence.

“Of course it’s communal,” Velma sighed, already pulling her nightshirt over her head. “Why would we get privacy? That would be too normal.”

“Privacy’s overrated,” Sandy said, unfastening her bikini top with the ease of someone who’d spent years changing in locker rooms. “Besides, ain’t nothin’ y’all haven’t seen already.”

Maddie peeled off her tank top and shorts, stepping out of them with a shiver. “Speak for yourself. I’ve never been naked in front of this many people outside of a ghost-hunter decontamination shower.”

“That sounds like a story,” Helen said, unzipping her suit with a sigh of relief. The red material slid down her shoulders, revealing the full, breathtaking scope of her body—the generous tits, the narrow waist, and that legendary ass, now bare and magnificent without its superhero casing.

“It’s really not,” Maddie replied, but she was already moving toward the water, letting it cascade over her auburn hair and down her back.

The Butt Witch was the last to undress, mostly because she kept pausing to admire herself in the fog-free mirrors that lined one wall. “Look at these glutes. These are champion glutes. Even in defeat, they’re magnificent.”

“You lost, remember?” Garnet said, already standing under a showerhead, her visor set aside on a small shelf. Without it, her face was softer, her three eyes scanning the room with calm curiosity.

“Defeat is temporary. Magnificence is FOREVER!” The Butt Witch finally shimmied out of her thong—or rather, the thong seemed to dissolve off her body, revealing the full, unbridled glory of her green posterior. She strutted into the shower area like a queen entering her court.

Spencer was already under the water, let it run over her face and shoulders. She’d stripped efficiently—nightgown folded and set aside, nothing on beneath it. Her body was older than the others, softer around the middle, marked by the passage of time and motherhood. And yet, there was something about the way she stood there, naked and unashamed, that drew every eye. Her tits were heavy and full, resting against her ribcage. Her ass—that glorious, enormous ass—was pale and glistening under the spray.

“You okay?” Maddie asked, stepping close enough to be heard over the water. “You took a beating out there.”

Spencer opened her eyes, blinking water from her lashes. “I won.”

“Yeah, but like… emotionally. That whole thing was a lot.”

Spencer considered this. “It was… intense. But I’ve done worse.” She paused. “At the PTA.”

Maddie laughed, the sound echoing off the tiles. “You’re a trip, you know that?”

“Told you she was somethin’ else,” Sandy called from across the room, where she was thoroughly washing her tail with both hands, her purple bikini discarded on a bench. Her bare body was strong and sleek, her fur dark with water, and her ass—now completely unobstructed—was even more impressive than it had been in the bikini. It was round and plush, with a natural jiggle that made the water dance off it in fascinating ways.

Velma, who had been trying very hard not to look at anyone, finally gave up and just accepted her fate. Her body was compact and curvy, with the kind of ass that looked like it belonged on a statue of a Roman goddess—not enormous, but perfectly shaped, with a deep crease between her cheeks and a softness that invited the eye. Her bare shoulders and ass sported a light dusting of freckles that only added to her allure. She lathered soap over her arms and stomach, trying to ignore the fact that she was naked in a room with six other women.

The Butt Witch, meanwhile, had abandoned all pretense of washing. She was openly staring at everyone, her pink eyes darting from body to body with undisguised hunger. “The multiverse has been holding out on me,” she murmured. “All these years, I thought I was the only one with a truly impressive posterior. But this…” She made a gesture that encompassed the entire room. “This is a banquet.”

“Please don’t describe us as food,” Helen said, working shampoo into her reddish-brown hair.

“Why not? You’re a snack, Elastigirl.”

“I’m a mother of three.”

“Even better. MILFs are chef’s kiss.”

Spencer shot the Butt Witch a look. “You’re not going to be weird about this, are you?”

“I’m always weird about this,” the Butt Witch admitted. “It’s my whole deal.”

The shower settled into a rhythm after that—the comfortable, easy intimacy of women sharing a locker room. They passed soap and loofahs, commented on water pressure, helped each other reach the hard-to-get spots. For a while, it almost felt normal.

Then Sandy turned around to rinse her back and accidentally bumped into Velma, and their wet bodies pressed together for a brief, electric moment.

“Sorry!” Sandy said, stepping back quickly.

“No, it’s—it’s fine,” Velma stammered. Her face was flushed, and not just from the heat. “Your fur is… soft.”

“Oh! Uh, thanks. Your… everything is nice too.”

They both stood there, awkward and dripping, while the other women pretended not to notice.

“Is this the part where we all start making out?” the Butt Witch asked hopefully.

“NO!” came the chorus.

“Just checking! The sexual tension in here is palpable!”

Maddie snorted. “Says the woman who was literally moaning during the ass-to-ass thing this morning?”

“That was competition!” the Butt Witch protested. “It’s different! It’s… it’s athletic moaning!”

“Sure it was,” Helen said, smirking.

But despite the teasing, there was a charge in the air—something that had been simmering since the Bounce of Ages and had only intensified during the Rear-Mount Relay. These were women who had seen each other at their most vulnerable, their most absurd, their most naked. That kind of exposure broke down walls, whether they wanted it to or not.

Garnet, who had been quiet, turned off her showerhead and picked up a towel. “We should focus on the next event,” she said, her voice calm but carrying. “The group relay will require coordination. We need to know each other’s strengths.”

“Strengths, riiiiight,” the Butt Witch drawled, waggling her eyebrows.

“I’m serious,” Garnet said. “We’ve been competing as individuals, but this next challenge requires teamwork. We should strategize.”

“She’s right,” Spencer agreed, wrapping a towel around her body—though it barely covered the top half of her ass, which was impossible to fully conceal. “If we’re going to survive this competition, we need to understand each other. Physically and… otherwise.”

Velma adjusted her glasses, which had fogged up completely. “You mean we should… talk about our butts? Like, clinically?”

“I mean we should stop pretending we’re strangers,” Spencer said. “Show me what you’re working with. All of you.”

A long, loaded pause.

Then Sandy, ever the sportswoman, stepped forward, turned around, and gave her naked, soaking-wet ass a sharp little shake. The cheeks clapped together with a wet smack, droplets flying. “Well, this is what I got. Now quit starin’ and show me yours.”

The ice, as they say, was broken.

Helen went next, bending at the waist and letting the water sluice down the magnificent curve of her bare buttocks. Her cheeks were still beaded with moisture, and when she flexed, the muscle definition was visible even through the softness. “Elasticity aside, this is mostly genetics,” she admitted. “But I do a lot of leg days.”

Maddie followed, turning and giving her own tight, powerful ass a few deliberate bounces. The compact muscles in her glutes fired rhythmically, her cheeks clapping with a series of sharp, staccato impacts. “Ghost-hunting is basically sprint training with extra terror,” she said. “It does things to your lower body.”

Velma, red-faced but resigned, presented her own backside—a perfect, medium-sized peach that jiggled enticingly when she shifted her weight. “I’ve spent most of my life fleeing from people in costumes,” she said. “Apparently, fleeing builds glutes.”

The Butt Witch needed no invitation. She launched into a full-on, sopping-wet twerk that sent water flying in every direction, her green cheeks clapping like thunder. “AND I AM A GIFT TO THE COSMOS!”

Spencer watched all of this with an appraising eye, her towel slipping dangerously low on her hips. Then, without a word, she dropped the towel and turned around, presenting her bare, enormous ass to the group. She gave it one single, controlled bounce—just one—and the resulting jiggle went on for a full five seconds.

“Any questions?” she asked.

Silence.

“Good. Now finish showering. We have a competition to win.”

The women stood there for a long moment, and then, as if some invisible signal had passed between them, they all burst not into chaos, but into motion—helping each other rinse off, passing soap back and forth, and as they did, the formality dissolved entirely. Hands lingered on wet skin a moment longer than necessary. Eyes met and then skittered away. The air was thick with a dozen unspoken things.

The Butt Witch, unable to contain herself, finally sidled up to Spencer and laid a hand on her hip. “I just want you to know,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically soft, “that losing to you was… an honor.”

Spencer looked down at the hand, then up at the Butt Witch’s face. There was a flicker of something in her eyes—annoyance, amusement, maybe even affection.

“Don’t let it happen again,” she said.

And then she smiled—a tiny, almost imperceptible smile—and the Butt Witch made a sound like a tea kettle reaching its bitter, joyful end.

The shower had done its work—bodies clean, tensions softened, and a strange, unspoken sisterhood beginning to form among the seven women. They emerged from the communal washroom wrapped in fluffy white towels, steam trailing behind them like morning fog. The bunking area had been transformed while they were gone. Seven identical boxes sat on their cots, each one crisp and white with a small card attached.

“Ooo, presents!” the Butt Witch squealed, snatching up her box and tearing into it.

“Wait,” Velma said, holding up her hand. “We should be careful. This could be another—”

But the Butt Witch had already opened hers. She pulled out the contents: a slim bundle of fabric in a shimmering, metallic-red. Or, at least, what might generously be called clothing. There was a tiny top that looked more like a sports bra’s cleavage-obsessed cousin, a pair of high-cut bottoms that were mostly straps, and a matching set of wrist and ankle cuffs.

“The hell is this?” Maddie asked, opening her own box to find an identical outfit in a different color—electric teal to match her usual palette.

“Uniforms!” April’s voice chirped from behind a holo-panel that materialized in the center of the room. She was wearing the same yellow jumpsuit but seemed to have added a sparkly lapel pin. “The full Rear-Mount Relay is a team event, and every great team needs matching outfits. Go ahead, put ’em on! I’ll explain the rules while you get dressed.”

The women exchanged glances, then, with a collective sigh, began to strip off their towels. The new uniforms were as revealing as Sandy’s purple bikini had been, if not more: the bottoms were designed to leave the entire ass exposed, with just a thin strap running horizontally across the lower back and two more cupping the cheeks. The tops were small enough to be a suggestion, offering minimal support and maximum visibility.

Spencer pulled the top over her head, adjusting it with the same matter-of-fact efficiency she might use to hang laundry. Her tits spilled over the cups, soft and heavy, the metallic fabric straining to contain them. The bottoms, when she stepped into them, did little more than frame her enormous rear—the strap lifting her cheeks, leaving the full, pale moons bare and glowing under the artificial light.

“How does this even stay on?” Helen asked, tugging at the bottom of her own bright-red uniform, which had been sized perfectly for her.

“Micro-gravity stitching,” April explained. “It clings to your skin by static adhesive. Very high-tech. Very expensive. Very, very hard to get out of, which is probably intentional. Oh, and the full relay is going to be broadcast in 4D smell-o-vision for the premium subscribers, so… wow, okay, the things they can do with smell now.”

“Smell-o-vision?!” Sandy squeaked, nearly falling out of her orange-and-white uniform as she fumbled with the straps. “What in the—”

“Don’t worry about it, cowgirl. Focus on the competition. You’re all wearing the official Rear-Mount Relay uniforms in your signature colors, and if you’re curious, the stylist said something about ‘enhancing your natural assets.’ Which, before you ask, yes, means your butts and boobs. I have a script, I’m just reading it.”

The uniforms clung like a second skin, and once the women adjusted to the strangeness of being simultaneously covered and completely exposed, they fell into an uneasy truce with their new outfits. They took their places before the holo-panel, waiting for April’s explanation.

“Now,” April said, her hostess smile never faltering, “today’s event is the first team relay. Six of you will compete against six challengers—hopefuls who want your spots on the show and have agreed to take part in a little… butt-to-butt tryout.”

“Wait,” Velma interrupted. “You said six of us. There are seven.”

“Sharp as ever, Detective. Spencer here—” April gestured at the woman, who had crossed her arms and was looking at the screen with maternal disapproval. “—already won her exhibition match. She’s earned a pass for this round. Which means she gets to sit back, relax, and join me as a guest commentator.”

Spencer’s eyes narrowed. “Commentator? Me?”

“Who better?” April said smoothly. “You’re the reigning champion. The multiverse wants to hear your insights. And don’t worry—your uniform is designed to keep you camera-ready while you talk. We’ll get some nice shots of that perfect score butt on display.”

“I don’t want to be a commentator,” Spencer said.

“Too late! The contract says the exhibition winner must provide color commentary for the next event. It’s in the fine print.”

“Which fine print?”

“The fine print that was on the consent form you signed when you got yoinked. You know, the one that was invisible and also didn’t exist. But it’s binding now.”

Spencer let out a long, slow breath. “Of course it is.”

“So, if any of us loses to a challenger, we’re out of the competition?” Garnet asked, her voice low and steady.

“Just for the immediate ranking!” April said. “There will be chances to re-enter, but those involve the Uphill Climb, and trust me, you don’t want to know what that is. Let’s just say it involves a literal hill and a lot of… you know what, forget I said anything. The point is: don’t lose.”

Helen cracked her knuckles. “Understood.”

“The challengers are going to be introduced one at a time,” April continued. “Each of you will face a mystery opponent. You won’t know who you’re up against until the reveal. And I have to say, our shadowy benefactor has excellent taste in posterior-based talent.”

The Butt Witch was already doing squats in her metallic-red uniform, her bare green ass clapping with every movement. “LET THEM COME! I will crush them! I will—”

“Save your energy,” Spencer said dryly. “You’ll need it.”

“Actually, the Butt Witch is the first competitor up on the challenger block,” April revealed, consulting a floating screen. “So if you’d all proceed to the arena, we’ll get this show on the road!”

—

The arena had been reconfigured once again. The circular platform was gone, replaced by a massive, glowing dais with two long benches facing each other. Between them, a single raised pillory stood at the center, its smooth, padded surface inviting contestants to bend over and present themselves. Above the dais, a huge holographic screen displayed the words:

RELAY ROUND 1: MATCH 1
BUTT WITCH VS. ???

The other contestants were stationed in a comfortable-looking box to one side, each with a matching metallic folding chair. Spencer sat closest to the announcer’s booth, where April had set up a small desk with two microphones and a pitcher of water. The butt witch took her place on one of the benches, practically bouncing with manic energy.

“Welcome back, multiverse!” April’s voice boomed, the stadium lights swinging up to an almost blinding intensity. “We’ve got a showstopper for you today! The team relay begins now, and joining me in the booth is our very own champion, the woman with the perfect-score tush, the undisputed Glute Gauntlet—” she paused, frowning at her cards. “—wait, that’s next week. Sorry. Spencer!”

Spencer sat stiff-backed, her legs crossed, the metallic uniform doing everything it could to make her look naked while technically providing cover. “I’m not calling the play-by-play.”

“You don’t have to,” April said sweetly. “Just react naturally and say whatever pops into your head. The cameras love a good motherly take on ass-based combat.”

The other contestants exchanged glances. Velma leaned toward Maddie and whispered, “I think April is a little too into all this.”

“Y’think?” Maddie whispered back.

The lights began to pulse, and from somewhere high above, a deep, sensual voice purred through the arena speakers. “Well, well~. A party? And I wasn’t invited?”

A burst of violet smoke exploded at the far end of the dais, and when it cleared, a figure emerged, one hand on her hip, one foot arched seductively in the air. She was petite and curvy, her silver hair cascading over her shoulders. A pair of bat wings folded behind her back, and her costume—if it could be called that—was a sleek black catsuit with a plunging neckline, custom-designed to emphasize the truly spectacular swell of her chest and the equally spectacular curve of her ass.

“Rouge the Bat,” April announced with clearly unscripted excitement. “Professional treasure hunter, government agent, and certified hottie from the world of Sonic. She’s here to steal more than your heart, Butt Witch—she’s here to steal your spot on the roster!”

Rouge gave a slow, deliberate stretch, wings flaring, and then turned to give the cameras a full view of that magnificent rear. Her ass was tight and powerful, the catsuit gloving every inch, and she punctuated the introduction with a tiny, tantalizing wiggle. “I heard there was a vacancy~. And you know me—I can’t resist a challenge.”

The Butt Witch’s eyes went wide. She sniffed the air. “A fellow… appreciator…”

“Competitor, sweetheart.” Rouge winked.

Spencer, watching from the booth, said flatly, “She has a very aerodynamic figure.”

“That’s the spirit, champ,” April said. “Now, the rules for this relay match. Each contestant will take turns mounting the central post,” she gestured to the pillory, “while their opponent does the same on the other side. There will be a double-ended resistance device in play—”

“You mean a dildo,” Spencer interrupted.

“A resistance device,” April repeated, grinning at the camera, “which the two competitors will share. The goal: force the other off her side of the partition. No hands. No feet on the ground. Pure gluteal power and pelvic control. The winner advances to the next phase of the relay. The loser… well, she’s going to spend some time in the Pit of Regret.”

“That’s not a real place,” Velma said.

“It is here,” April replied, not missing a beat. “And the Uphill Climb is literally a hill. With no handrails.”

The dais transformed, the pillory lowering into place. Two handlers—or maybe they were drones—appeared from the floor, carrying an enormous double-ended phallus on a velvet cushion. It was larger than the one from the morning’s exhibition, with a bulbous head on each end and a series of ridges along the shaft.

“Oh my,” Rouge purred, eyeing the device. “Bigger than I expected~.”

“I’m going to destroy you,” the Butt Witch said, but her voice was almost reverent. There was no heat in it, just pure, competitive hunger.

Rouge laughed, a low, musical sound. “That’s the spirit, greenie. Now let’s see if that big mouth matches that big behind.”

The two women took their positions, each bending over their respective ends of the pillory. The device was hoisted between them, and as they pressed backward, their bare asses made contact with the cool, smooth surface at each end. Rouge’s catsuit shimmered, then seemed to dissolve around her lower half, leaving her smooth, tan ass utterly bare. The Butt Witch was already naked from the waist down, as usual.

April leaned into the mic. “Now, one more thing before we start—this is the part where we welcome our first sponsor!”

“Sponsor?” Spencer repeated.

“Yep! The Butt-chelor is brought to you by Cosmo-Cola Zero Gravity—tastes like a universe in a can! And Dura-Dong—official supplier of the Rear-Mount Relay resistance devices. We make ’em shiny, we make ’em strong, and we make ’em just right. Back to you, audience, and let’s get ready to… rrrrrrrelay!”

The screens flashed a countdown. The two women braced themselves, their bodies taut with anticipation. The arena lights dimmed to a single, hot spotlight on the dais.

“Three…”

Rouge’s wings spread slowly, mysteriously. The Butt Witch cracked her neck.

“Two…”

A bead of sweat rolled down the Butt Witch’s spine. Rouge’s heart-shaped face was the picture of serene confidence.

“ONE!”

The buzzer sounded, and both women surged backward, cheeks clapping against the double-duty dildo with a thunderous SQUELCH that echoed off the walls and into the multiverse beyond.

“AND THEY’RE OFF!” April shouted, her voice rising over the crowd-noise track. “The bat has the early advantage, using those wings for balance! But the Butt Witch is the self-proclaimed patron saint of posterior pressure—oh, and she’s pushing back! Look at that green gluteus max flex!”

Spencer, watching the screen, pressed her fingers to her temple. “I can’t believe this is my life now.”

And the match was only just beginning. The arena’s hidden speakers pumped a low, driving bass line that seemed to sync with the rhythm of their struggle, and the holographic scoreboard flickered to life, tracking their every movement in real time.

“AND THE BUTT WITCH STRIKES FIRST!” April’s voice boomed. “Look at that aggression! She’s not wasting ANY time!”

She wasn’t. The Butt Witch had learned from her loss to Spencer, and she’d come into this match with a new strategy: pure, overwhelming force. Her green cheeks clenched and drove backward, the dildo sinking deeper as she pushed, and the wet, meaty sound of her assault echoed off the arena walls.

Rouge gasped—a sharp, surprised intake of breath—and her feet slid an inch across the polished dais. Her wings flared for balance, the black leather of her costume creaking as she adjusted, but the Butt Witch gave her no quarter. Another thrust, another wet squelch, and Rouge’s perfectly-toned ass compressed against the resistance device, her smooth, tanned cheeks bulging slightly from the pressure.

“Ooo, the witch means business!” April crowed. “What do you think, Spencer? You’ve got the best seat in the house for this!”

Spencer sat in the commentator’s booth, her arms crossed beneath her generous chest, her metallic uniform glinting under the studio lights. She watched the screen with an expression caught between annoyance and reluctant interest. “She’s using her anger as fuel,” she said flatly. “It’s a valid strategy, but it burns hot and fast. If she doesn’t pace herself, she’ll tire out.”

“Coming from the woman who destroyed her this morning!” April said, grinning. “Any residual feelings about that match?”

Spencer’s eye twitched. “She’s… enthusiastic. I’ll give her that.”

“She’s insatiable, hon. And right now, she’s giving Rouge the business!”

On the dais, the Butt Witch let out a guttural roar—or as much of a roar as her strange, deep voice could manage—and redoubled her efforts. Her ass was a blur of green motion, each bounce a thunderclap of flesh against the dildo’s flared base. Her cheeks were enormous, pale green orbs spilling out of her metallic-red bottoms, and with every thrust, they rippled and jiggled in a display that was equal parts frightening and hypnotic.

“YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD JUST FLY IN HERE AND TAKE MY SPOT?!” she howled. “I’VE BEEN TRAINING MY WHOLE LIFE FOR THIS! I’VE BEEN DREAMING OF THIS! NO BAT-WOMAN IS GOING TO—”

Rouge interrupted with a move so smooth it looked almost lazy. She shifted her weight, dropped one shoulder, and suddenly her entire body rolled backward, her magnificent bare ass rising to meet the Butt Witch’s onslaught. Their cheeks smacked together with a sound like wet leather, and Rouge’s deeper, more controlled push drove the dildo back into the Butt Witch’s end.

The Butt Witch’s eyes bulged. “NYAAAH!”

“Too loud, sweetheart~,” Rouge purred over her shoulder, her voice honey-sweet and knife-sharp. “In my line of work, you learn that talking during the job is just wasted breath.” She punctuated the statement with another shove, her tanned ass cheeks flexing like a pair of polished melons. “Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

“I’M INTO WINNING!”

“Then stop yapping and start pushing~.”

The Butt Witch’s green face contorted with effort. She dug her bare feet into the dais, her long toes curling for purchase, and countered with a surge of her own. The dildo slid an inch, two inches back toward Rouge, and the bat let out a soft, musical little grunt that the arena’s sensitive microphones picked up with crystalline clarity.

“Oh, that was a good one!” April said. “The Bat is REALLY getting tested here! Spencer, your thoughts on the Butt Witch’s technique now?”

Spencer shifted in her seat. The camera cut to her for a reaction, and she forced herself to focus on the match rather than the absurdity of the situation. “Her power is undeniable,” she said slowly. “But she’s too emotional. She puts everything into each thrust. It’s like she’s trying to win a marathon with a series of sprints.” A pause. “I suppose there’s something almost… admirable about that. She doesn’t hold back. She doesn’t protect herself. She just… throws herself into it completely.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a soft spot for her!” April teased.

“I wouldn’t call it a ‘soft spot.’ I’d call it clinical observation. She’s a very naked, very loud woman who happens to be quite good at pushing a phallic object with her posterior. That’s not a soft spot. That’s just… basic awareness.”

But Spencer’s cheeks were faintly pink, and her crossed legs had tightened just a little. The cameras caught it. April caught it. The multiverse, no doubt, caught it.

On the dais, the struggle had reached a fever pitch. The two women were now locked in a grinding stalemate, their bare asses pressed together with the dildo buried to its midpoint between them. It was raw, physical competition at its most intimate—skin against skin, muscle against the unyielding resistance of the device, every tiny movement transmitted directly from one body to the other.

Rouge’s wings spread wide, the membranes catching the light. Her back arched, and her ass—God, that ass—clenched in a slow, undulating rhythm that seemed designed to milk the dildo deeper into both of them. It was a technique born of experience and confidence, each contraction sending a ripple through her tanned cheeks and directly into the exposed portion of the device.

The Butt Witch responded in kind, her green ass cheeks bouncing with a series of rapid-fire, piston-like thrusts. Her signature move—the Dance of a Thousand Cheeks, as she’d called it—was on full display, and the crowd could see every clap, every jiggle, every quiver of her monstrous rear. Her exposed pussy glistened, her juices slicking the toy and making each movement easier, wetter, louder.

“Listen to the acoustics on that,” April breathed into the mic. “That is the sound of two of the multiverse’s most competitive asses going at it. The Wet-Bounce Index is up 34%. The friction coefficient is… okay, I don’t actually know what that means, but it’s very high.”

Spencer said nothing for a long moment. Her eyes were on the Butt Witch—not on the mechanics of the match, but on the expression on the witch’s face. There was something there besides rage and hysteria: something raw and almost vulnerable. For all her bluster, the Butt Witch wanted this. Desperately. She wanted to prove she belonged in this absurd competition, that her body was more than just a punchline, that she could stand toe-to-toe—or ass-to-ass—with the best of them.

It was… unexpectedly human.

“She’s crying,” Spencer said quietly.

April did a double-take. “What?”

“Look.” Spencer pointed at the screen. The camera zoomed in on the Butt Witch’s face, and sure enough, there were tears streaming from her eyes, mingled with sweat and determination. “She’s crying. Not from pain. From effort. From wanting it that much.”

April, for once, was at a loss for words. She fumbled with her cue cards. “Well… I… that’s…”

“I think it’s beautiful,” Spencer continued. “In a completely ridiculous, deeply embarrassing way. She’s giving everything she has. Every ounce of strength, every drop of moisture in her body. And she’s doing it naked on interdimensional television.” A pause. “I can’t decide if I should be horrified or proud.”

The Butt Witch, as if hearing Spencer’s words through the black noise of her own effort, let out a shuddering, guttural sound that was half-scream, half-wail. Then she did something unexpected: she reached back with both hands, grabbed her own massive cheeks, and spread them wide.

The effect was immediate and devastating.

The dildo slid deeper into her, her exposed, glistening hole stretching around the shaft, and with her cheeks parted, she had a new kind of leverage. She could angle her hips, roll her pelvis, and—most importantly—she could slam backward with a totally different kind of force.

She did.

The Butt Witch’s next thrust was so powerful that Rouge’s eyes rolled back in her head. The bat let out a high-pitched, keening moan—a sound she’d probably never made in public before, and would definitely be hearing on the intergalactic highlight reel. Her feet scrabbled for purchase, and for the first time in the match, she began to slide.

“FEEL THE POWER!” the Butt Witch roared, tears streaming, cheeks bouncing, her spread fingers digging into the jiggling flesh of her own rear. “FEEL THE TRUE MIGHT OF THE BUTT WITCH!”

“OH MY GOSH!” April screamed. “She’s making a comeback! And she’s using a technique I’ve NEVER SEEN before! Spencer, talk to me! WHAT IS SHE DOING?!”

Spencer leaned forward, genuinely interested despite herself. “She’s reducing her own surface area while increasing her range of motion. By spreading her cheeks, she’s eliminating friction and creating a more direct line of force. It’s… actually quite clever.”

“You sound impressed!”

“I am impressed. And I hate that.”

Rouge, to her credit, was not done. Her eyes narrowed, her jaw set, and with a sudden surge of will, she counter-attacked. Her wings beat hard—not to fly, but to provide counter-thrust—and she drove her hips backward with such force that the dildo nearly popped free of the Butt Witch’s clutches.

The two women were now in a dead heat, their bodies straining, their asses slamming together in a sweaty, desperate rhythm. The sound of their flesh meeting was like a series of wet gunshots, and the audience—both in the arena and across the multiverse—was on their feet.

The meters on the scoreboard spiked: WET-BOUNCE INDEX: 97%. CLAP RESONANCE: CRITICAL. PELVIC PRESSURE: NEAR MAXIMUM.

“This is UNBELIEVABLE!” April shouted. “It’s like watching two freight trains collide in slow motion! It’s the greatest posterior pass in the history of broadcast television!”

Spencer, despite her earlier insistence that she wasn’t going to be a commentator, found herself leaning into the mic. “Rouge’s wings are an advantage,” she said, her voice low and intense, “but they’re also a target. The Butt Witch keeps hitting the same spot—just below the dip, right where the glute connects to the hamstring. She’s not just pushing; she’s probing.”

“Is that your maternal intuition, or your ass-fighting expertise?” April asked.

Spencer shot her a look. “Both. And call it what it is, April. We’re watching two women try to shove a sex toy deeper into each other with their butts. ‘Ass-fighting’ is the most polite description available.”

“Noted! And with that, let’s get a closer look at the—”

But April stopped talking because Rouge suddenly changed tactics. With a sinuous twist of her hips that felt almost prehensile, she rolled her body and twisted, angling her ass upward and to the side, and when she thrust back, she did so with a circular, corkscrewing motion that drove the dildo forward and around inside the Butt Witch’s body.

The sound that came out of the Butt Witch then was not a scream. Not a moan. It was a deep, resonant “BWAH-AAH!” that shook the foundations of the studio and made the water in April’s pitcher tremble.

Her legs buckled.

Her hands flew back, still gripping her own cheeks, but she could no longer control the spread. Her entire lower body quivered like a struck tuning fork, and for a single, heart-stopping moment, it looked as though she might go down.

But she didn’t.

She held.

She pushed back.

And with a scream that turned into a laugh, she drove all the way forward, slipping the last of her balance and turning the movement into an all-or-nothing full-body shove.

The buzzer sounded.

The dildo slipped free at last, landing on the dais with a sticky-sounding thwap.

The two women collapsed in opposite directions, both gasping, both drenched in sweat, both utterly spent.

The scoreboard flickered, then blazed:

RESULT: BUTT WITCH ADVANCES
WINNER BY A BUTT-HAIR (0.04 SPREAD DIFFERENTIAL)

The arena lost its mind.

“THE BUTT WITCH HAS DONE IT!” April was on her feet now, mic in both hands. “She survives the Relay Round! She takes down the Bat! And look at that—she’s crying, she’s laughing, she’s… oh, she’s on her knees… she’s… is she PRAYING?!”

She wasn’t praying. She was hunched over the dildo, holding it in both hands, pressing her forehead to it like it was the holiest of relics. Her massive green ass was still twitching with the aftershocks of the contest, her pussy still visibly clenching around nothing, her entire body a mess of sweat, tears, and triumph.

“Ding-dong dong, sweetheart,” Rouge said weakly from her side of the dais, one wing draped over her face. “You earned it.”

The Butt Witch did not respond. She simply hugged the dildo to her chest and began to cackle with the sort of unhinged joy that only comes from wanting something impossible and, against all odds, getting it.

Spencer watched from the booth. Her microphone was still live.

For a long moment, she said nothing.

Then, quietly, she spoke: “That’s my girl.”

The arena’s celebration was still in full swing when the lights shifted—bright, celebratory gold dimming to a low, ominous purple. The trap door opened beneath Rouge before she could even push herself upright.

“Wha—?!” The bat’s wings flared instinctively, but the floor beneath her was already gone. She dropped like a stone, her silver hair streaming above her, and the trap door sealed shut with a pneumatic hiss that echoed through the sudden silence.

“Ooo, and there it is, folks!” April said, her voice dropping to a hushed, theatrical register. “The loser’s penalty! The one, the only, the Pit of Regret!”

A massive holographic screen flickered to life above the dais, catching the attention of every contestant. Sandy leaned toward Velma. “The Pit of Regret? What in the hill country is that?”

The screen showed Rouge tumbling through a dark, vertical shaft, her wings flapping uselessly. She landed—not hard, but with a soft, squelching bounce—on what appeared to be a bed of thick, glistening tendrils. The pit itself was a circular chamber, its walls glistening with moisture, the air thick with a faint, sweet-smelling mist.

Velma adjusted her glasses. “It looks… organic.”

“It IS organic,” April confirmed, settling back into her seat with a look of grim satisfaction. “Completely alive. The Pit of Regret is a sentient, multiversal entity that sustains itself on exactly one thing: the sexual frustration of the losers.” She paused. “No, wait, I’m reading that wrong. The sexual exultation of the losers? Huh. That’s… surprisingly progressive for a punishment.”

On the screen, Rouge was already moving. She rolled onto her side, blinking up at the walls, and a slow smile spread across her heart-shaped face. “No guards? No chains? Honey, this isn’t a penalty~.”

And then the tentacles came.

They emerged from every direction—from the floor, the walls, the ceiling—slick and dark and moving with a terrible, patient intelligence. They curled around Rouge’s ankles first, then her wrists, lifting her into the air with an ease that bordered on gentleness. Her wings fluttered, but the tendrils simply parted and reformed around them, cradling her like a prize.

“WHOA!” Sandy yelped. “What’re they doin’ to her?!”

“Administering the penalty,” April said, her voice tinged with professional admiration. “She lost, and now the pit gets to have its fun.”

A thicker tentacle, its tip glistening with a pearlescent fluid, rose between Rouge’s spread thighs. The bat didn’t struggle. If anything, she arched her back, her lips parting on a soft, expectant sigh.

“Ooo, she’s a pro,” the Butt Witch said, still cradling her victory dildo like a holy relic. “I respect that. You don’t see that kind of commitment every day.”

The tentacle pressed against Rouge’s folds—already slick from the match—and slid inside with a wet, obscene ease. Her head tipped back, and a low, breathy moan escaped her throat. The cameras caught every detail: the way her legs spread wider, the way her inner muscles clenched around the invading shaft, the way her toes curled in the air.

“OH-KAY!” Maddie said loudly. “That’s… that’s going in!”

“And it’s not stopping,” Velma observed, her voice faintly strangled. “Look, there’s another one—”

A second tentacle, thinner and more tapered, had risen behind Rouge and was pressing insistently against her tight pink rosebud. The bat’s eyes widened for just a moment, then fluttered shut again as it worked its way inside. Her mouth fell open on a sound that was half-surprise, half-delight, and the tentacle in her pussy began to thrust in a slow, relentless rhythm.

Spencer watched the screen with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. “This is barbaric,” she said. “Completely barbaric.”

“And yet,” April said, “you can’t look away.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t looking. I said it was barbaric.”

The third tentacle rose to Rouge’s face—a smaller, more delicate appendage, tipped with a bead of the same glistening fluid. It traced the seam of her lips, and then, when she opened her mouth, it slipped inside with a soft, wet sound.

“Hmm, yeth,” Rouge said around it, her voice muffled but unmistakably pleased. “Yeth, that’th goo—”

The tentacles began to move in earnest.

The screen was too vivid, too present, to ignore. The other contestants sat in a row, their mouths hanging open in various degrees of shock. But what was truly startling wasn’t the sight of Rouge being penetrated by extraterrestrial sex organs—it was the look on her face. She wasn’t fighting. She wasn’t struggling. She was grinning.

“She’s enjoying it!” Sandy breathed. “That girl is flat-out enjoying it!”

“Of course she is,” Garnet said calmly. “She’s a Siren archetype. Sensuality is her weapon.”

The tentacles pumped and curled, filling every part of Rouge’s body with wet, rhythmic motion. Her tits—barely contained by her costume—jolted with each thrust, the material sliding down to reveal one dark nipple. Her wings quivered, the membranes catching drool and other fluids and scattering them in the dim light. And the sounds she made—high, keening moans, wet gasps, a giggle that turned into a shuddering cry—echoed through the arena like a siren’s call.

“This is going to be on reruns,” April muttered. “We’re going to get the highest ratings in ten dimensions.”

Spencer said nothing. She was still watching.

The tentacles changed rhythm, pumping in tandem, driving deeper. Rouge’s body arched like a bow, every muscle taut, her eyes squeezed shut, her teeth sinking into the tentacle in her mouth. The squelching sounds from the pit were wet and lewd, but the bat’s response was pure rapture.

“She’s going to—” Maddie began.

Rouge screamed.

Not in pain—in ecstasy. Her whole body convulsed, her wings snapping open, her back arching so hard it looked like she might snap. The tentacles pulsed once, twice, and then Rouge went limp, her chest heaving, her limbs trembling, a dazed, dreamy smile spreading across her lips.

The screen showed her, glistening and spent, suspended in the Pit’s embrace. Then, with the same silent efficiency with which it had appeared, the tentacles receded, lowering her gently to the floor. She curled onto her side, her wings folding over her body like a blanket, and closed her eyes.

The trap door opened again.

Rouge was lifted out, still damp and flushed, by two smooth mechanical arms. They laid her gently on a recovery couch that had materialized just outside the arena. A med-bot sprayed her with a fine, glittering mist, and Rouge sighed, stretching luxuriously.

“That,” she breathed, “was divine~.”

The contestants stared.

April cleared her throat. “Well, folks, it appears the Pit of Regret has processed its first contestant and will be more than ready for the next loser! And let me be the first to say—Rouge, you’ve handled that with the grace and flexibility we’ve come to expect. But will we see her again?”

Rouge opened one eye, her smile widening. “Count on it, honey~. I’ve still got a few secrets up my sleeve~.”

“Ooo, the Bat isn’t done yet!” April winked at the camera. “Multiverse, you’ll have to stay tuned! But for now, let’s clear the stage and prepare for Round 2 of the Rear-Mount Relay!”

The lights shifted again, the arena floor humming as the dais reconfigured itself. The Butt Witch, still holding her dildo, strutted back to the contestant’s box, her bare ass still jiggling with every step. She caught Spencer’s eye and winked.

“Told ya I’d win.”

Spencer’s expression didn’t change, but her lips twitched. “You got lucky.”

“Luck is for the weak, Spencer! I had grit!”

“Grit and a suspiciously well-lubricated anus.”

The Butt Witch only laughed, taking her seat with a flourish. “All in the game!”

April turned back to the camera, her hostess smile returning in full force. “Now, who’s ready for Match 2? Let’s meet our next competitors!” The arena lights blazed, and the stage was set for the next bout of butt-to-butt battle. The contestants all shifted in their seats, some with dread, some with grim determination, and one—the Butt Witch—with unholy glee.

Spencer, still in the announcer’s booth, picked up her mic and spoke calmly into it. “I just want it on record that I’m not doing the play-by-play for the next one.”

April chuckled, patting her arm. “That’s what you said last time. And look—you got emotionally invested.”

“I did not get emotionally invested.”

“Your exact words were ‘That’s my girl.'”

Spencer’s left eyelid twitched, and the Butt Witch beamed. “You love me.”

“Shut up.”