Challenge 1, Part 4: Scenes from an Event Judging I

Francis

Francis watches the bustling of the crowd below through the hovering display screens, brooding at the whole scene. He dejectedly watches the judges critique, mock, berate the women thrust into his life. I feel so powerless. How can I save them when I can’t even stop this travesty?

The ballot box for judges to submit their votes is placed beside Francis’ throne, so the judges get to pass him by in the course of the event. This early into judging, he expects to sit alone. He doesn’t consider that a judge would give the submissions the barest of glances as he makes a bee-line to the throne.

There the judge stands, so alike to him, yet so different. A full head of hair, yes, but styled and cut for the suave sophisticated man. A full beard, perfectly groomed (unlike the rat’s nest he had before waking up in the Master’s Suite). A tuxedo perfectly tailored for a tall, svelte man. He’s got on cowboy boots, but the kind one would buy in a haute boutique in Milan, not the local cheap-o western outlet mall. His companion is a gorgeous blonde in a silvery, clingy dress that sparkles in the light.

The man speaks, a deep, bellowing bass with a gregarious tone, “Well, howdy Francis. No need to look so intimidating with me. I’m sure I need no introduction, but this is one of my wives, Pamela.”

“It is a pleasure, Master Francis,” the woman, so quiet and serene, offers.

The enthroned Francis nods, then returns his gaze to the crowd. “Sorry if I’m not in the mood to be chatty, self from an alternate world. This whole thing has been rough. I’m sure you have better things to do than...”

The standing Francis interrupts, “Now, Francis, if there is one thing I know (and you can attest that we know many things), it’s myself. And what I see before me is myself failing to fight against despair. And despair will result in all of those women down there suffering a terrible fate. So, look at me, Francis. You are doing quite admirably. You can still win this game. You just need to believe.”

The enthroned Francis turns his gaze to the standing one. Sitting back in his chair, he rests his chin on his left hand and contemplates for a moment. Finally, he responds, “And how would you know that?”

“Why, old chap, because I did it myself. I have been watching your season with some interest. We have a forum on HHH, wait, do you have your phone on you? Let me send you an invite. Anyways, we have a forum of Master Francises that won their season, plus some Francises that successfully navigated being a contestant. None of the psychos, none of the unfortunate eliminated. Some of us found happiness through this show, Francis. You have had terrible luck picking seasons to watch, let me tell you.”

“How...”

“When seasons are live, there are subscriber options to watch livestreams of rooms in addition to the cut and edited episodes. I’ve been watching the livestream to the Master Suite pretty much exclusively. You’ve watched some very, very rough seasons there, champ.”

The enthroned Francis just stares at his standing doppelganger, stunned.

“I enjoyed the little shout-out to the perverts last night, by the way. That’ll make it to the edited episode. My main purpose here is to just encourage you a little. Let you know that there are people rooting for you. Let you know that you can thrive in this game, if you just give yourself the chance. Invite should have sent by now. Come chat if you want some advice. I’ll even give you a taste for free. If you are wanting to watch a season that doesn’t make you want to die, you should check out the season with ol’ Frankie Hornblower. I think I saw her around, so you will probably meet her today.”

The enthroned Francis raises an eyebrow at that.

“Well, you only discovered one season where you met that one’s version of one of your contestants. So you know, there is a season like that for every one of your girls, save Josie. Again, terrible luck picking seasons. The Frankie Hornblower one is by far the happiest. I wouldn’t recommend seeking out the others.”

Pamela gets up on her toes to whisper something in the standing Francis’ ear. That causes the standing Francis to pull out a pencil and his ballot.

“My wife reminds me that she is nearly due her daily, for lack of a more sophisticated word, ass-fucking. So, quickly, how should I vote? I doubt many of the other judges are going to be interested in your opinion. Thought I would give you a chance to take over mine.”

The enthroned Francis offers his opinions, though stressing he finds the event distasteful and blatantly unfair. The standing Francis copies down the vote and walks, wife beside him, to submit the ballot. The enthroned Francis pulls out his phone and notices that he now has a Harem Hotel Hereafter app on it, with a notification. He accepts the forum invite and searches for this Frankie Hornblower season (Harem Hotel: Paging Dr. Dinah), putting it on his watch list. He returns to watching the event judging, feeling a bit better about everything.

Hopefully, the others will have as good an experience with this as I just had.

Dinah

Dinah feels exposed by this whole thing. She always hated giving presentations and a fashion presentation for a sea of freaks is so much worse than the usual case study poster presentation at a conference of equals. Especially in this embarrassment of a costume.

So, she finds it extremely odd to see a very, very pregnant version of herself waddle towards her booth. She wears a very elegant maternity gown and sensible shoes.

Pregnant Dinah greets herself, “Hello, Dr. Hornblower. How are we doing today?”

“Um... hi? What is going on?”

“Oh, I was a Mistress for my own season of Harem Hotel. Frankie and I have been binge watching your season since it started. And, let me tell you, it is a nice distraction. I’m due in a couple of days. Frankie begged me to let us come on for this event before we head to the maternity ward.”

“Frankie?”

The pregnant Dinah shouts, loud enough to shake the rafters, “FRANKIE!”

A few minutes later, a lanky tomboy meekly walks up. “Sorry, Mistress. Got distracted by the naked old me. Oh, you found his Dinah. Well, hellooooooo, nurse. Frankie Hornblower.” The tomboy holds out a hand. The tomboy has her red hair in a pixie cut, with a smattering of glitter in the gel to keep everything just so. A tight corseted hunter green dress that flairs out past the waist shows off her rather meager cleavage. The dress ends a couple of inches above the knees, highlighting some dancer’s legs clad in thin black stockings and some 6” tall heels. Contestant Dinah tentatively takes the hand and shakes it.

“Nice to meet you? Sorry, this is super weird.”

“You’ve only been on the show a week. You get used to weird,” Frankie shrugs as she responds.

“Frankie, don’t you have judging to do? Let me catch up with myself.”

“You know I’m utterly clueless in the whole fashion department. I mean, I just wear whatever clothes my wife tells me to when she wants me to look nice. We both know I’m just going to vote the way you want.”

Thus begins a 5 minute argument between Frankie and her very pregnant wife, filled with the playful banter of two people in love. Soon enough, Frankie relents and starts examining contestant Dinah’s work. Pregnant Dinah turns to her doppelganger.

“So, back to my original question, Dr. Hornblower. How are you?”

Dinah holds back tears as she describes her date and subsequent day. She gets a side hug for her trouble.

“As my Frankie said, it’s only been a week. The beginning of the show is always the worst bit. It certainly doesn’t help that this is a gimmick season. I’m sure your Francis will pull through.”

“May I ask a personal question? How many?”

It takes a minute for pregnant Dinah to parse the meaning, “Sorry. Pregnancy brain. This one will be number 21.”

Twenty kids?!?!?! My other self has 20 kids?!?!?!? With another on the way?!?!?!?

Pregnant Dinah gives a smirk, “Hey, all of us are happy. I have a very successful practice helping other women with **** pregnancy conditions safely give birth to their many, many children. Some of my wives help bring in more income. Others help with the child-rearing. We have a very large, very happy home. Like the one you described last night. Like the one you will have with your wife, once you finish making her. Just don’t let your Francis name the kids. My Frankie keeps suggesting really stupid baby names.”

“Just for that, I’m totally voting naked me for first place. Imagine how much cooler Clare would be if we named her Cobra like I suggested.”

Thus begins another playful argument. As Dinah watches her other self walk away with Frankie, she shakes her head and smiles. Maybe there’s a chance that impossible dream can come true.

Josie

Josie has been stretching for most of the presentation time so far. She hopes that her body will draw in a more favorable vote. She has not particularly enjoyed the attention (especially given the still visible damp spot on her crotch), but the judge before her now is extra creepy.

The woman is a solid 7 foot tall and built to match. A shock of red hair tumbles down to her waist. She has a large burn scar that covers a significant portion of her face; she makes no effort to hide it or the ruin of her left eye. She is built as if she ate several body builders and just absorbed their musculature into her own. And she doesn’t stop smiling; her teeth, razor sharp, are always on display.

“Hello, girlie.”

This is the first time one of these freaks actually talked to me. Josie stops her stretching to face this hulking brute of a woman.

“Hello. Be sure to vote for Josie in the contest.”

The monster gives a hearty laugh, some weird amalgamation of a hyena and a T Rex. “Oh, girlie, you don’t really care about this stupid fashion contest, do you?”

Freak’s got a point. Josie, having at least enough sense to not antagonize the freak with too much honesty, concurs with, “You got a point there.”

“You look so familiar. I just can’t seem to place you. Where would I know you from?”

“I don’t believe we have met,” Josie verbally tip-toes, “Perhaps if you introduced yourself.”

“Sorry. How rude of me. I so rarely have conversations in polite company after all. Frances O’Connor. My season went so perfectly that they gave me a spin-off show of my own. If you’re interested, perhaps I could arrange a show transfer.”

This freak is Francis from another dimension? The fuck happened to him?

“Are you that stunned by my beauty? Rather flattering.”

“Let’s go with that. I made friends with my Francis at our local kickboxing gym a couple of years ago in the Valley. Did you join our gym in your world?”

“No. Never made it back home. Got swept away to my season just as I was expelled from grad school.”

Expelled? The fuck?

The beast snaps her fingers, “Bubble-Butt! That’s who you remind me of. My Bubble-Butt! What was its old name? Hmmm...” She taps her foot, thinking. Still smiling, still baring pointed teeth.

Josie’s patience is thinning, “Excuse me, Bubble-Butt? What kind of name is Bubble-Butt?”

“Oh, I rename all my trophies once they become mine. Their old, worthless lives should not be considered a moment longer than necessary. Let me pull my little black book out. Perhaps a picture will jog your memory.”

The bestial woman pulls out a little black notebook and flips to a page entitled “Bubble-Butt”. Below the title is a photo of some horrible caricature of Josie’s oldest sister Mary Elizabeth, warped almost beyond recognition. The Mary Elizabeth back home does tease Josie from time to time for making friends with her old asshole of a lab instructor back from college.

With that, the last of Josie’s politeness is spent, “That’s my sister, you bitch!”

“Oooh, feisty. I love breaking the feisty ones. Perhaps this will interest you in my show? If you win, you get one million dollars and one of my trophies. Let your host know when you want to take a crack at me. I look forward to it.”

With that monstrous cackle, the monster walks away.

Josie shivers. Well, things could be way worse than being stuck here, I suppose.

Skye

Skye is, of course, hiding behind her naked Fashion Francis. This whole challenge was too much for her; she simply could not even get a single thing done to her doll. Now, there are waaay too many people here and all of them are wearing waaay too many clothes. Sobbing quietly, Skye is just praying for this day to end.

An oddly familiar voice, filled with venom, shouts, “Whoa, Buttercup. I want to get a closer look at the contestant for this one. Such incompetence requires... correction.” Heavy boots land with a thud. Heavy boots stomp straight towards her. With no where better to hide, Skye just curls up into a tighter ball and hopes the boots will walk away.

They do not.

“Pathetic,” the familiar voice states, deadpan, “A **** should at least grovel to their betters. Perhaps your Mistress needs a lesson in how to discipline you once she has emerged from it’s current disgusting shell? Speak, ****.”

“Go away,” Skye asks with a hair’s breath of a whisper. She feels some kind of metal handle press up, hard, from underneath her chin. Her head is **** to look up into the eyes of her tormentor. Of herself?

The Skye is clad in what some would call bikini armor, black metal and deep purple cloth, festooned with spider web decorations. She wields a whip, the handle of which is still under the naked Skye’s chin. Most disturbing of all, the armored Skye has the lilac skin, white hair, and angry red eyes of a Drow. A Drow in that kind of armor could only mean one thing.

Drow Skye smiles; an evil grin. “So this **** is a still pathetic version of myself. Interesting.”

“Leave me alone.” Good Skye tries to demand. Her terror and the disgust she feels from her transformation rob her of any real chance to get that out with ****.

“I think not, ****. You still think yourself worthy to address me as an equal. That cannot stand.”

“Of course you are not my equal,” good Skye responds, her disgust at the fallen creature before her finally beginning to outpace the other feelings twisting up her guts, “My equals would never fall into the seductive doom of the Spider. Despite what you think, you are less than me.”

“How did we track age back at the farm again? It’s been so long. Oh, that’s right. How many full moons have you seen, ****? Can’t be many more than 235.”

“243.”

“Ah, 243. So close to our ascendancy. Would you like to know how your run would have went, ****?”

“Your words are, at best, nothing but honeyed lies.”

The Drow Skye giggles. “Tell me if my words sound true, ****. Our pathetic mothers finally approve our run just after the fall harvest. We head South and East, as we planned, spreading the word of that silver-haired bimbo you probably still think will save you. We meet so many potential mates, but couldn’t bring ourselves to pursue any of them. The bimbo makes us weak. Cowardly. Pathetic. Worthless. By Midwinter, we find ourselves on a bridge overseeing the Rio Grande no closer to happiness than when we stepped away from home. We see, how would we have phrased it, oh yes, an unsupervised male about to jump to its ****. We talk it off the ledge, as if it continuing to live would mean anything. Then, as one of my concubines would say, Truck-kun came and took the both of us out. I became a Mistress on Harem Hotel and that male became my last contestant: the wild card. The contestant that represents my final good deed. How true do my words so far sound, ****?”

“I have no way of knowing. I can’t see the future.”

“Your Mistress has ways to let you see my past. That should be enough. In my first week, I was as pathetic and weak as you are now. Then, my Host gave me the blessings of Lolth. I became strong. My contestants became my concubines and slaves. And that unsupervised male? It became my faithful steed. Come here, Buttercup. Perhaps this **** will deign to feed you a treat.”

The Drow Skye giggles as a looming shadow envelops good Skye. Good Skye looks up to see sad blue eyes, barely cognizant of anything, set into the skull of a twisted body. Large mandibles with little chelicerae erupt where a human jaw would be, a bit and bridle being held in place. The ash gray torso is bare, with wiry musculature, erupting from a cephalothorax with 8 hairy legs the color of flame. A saddle with saddlebags is placed on the creature’s abdomen. Drow Skye pulls out a large vial of thick, red liquid. The sad creature’s eyes almost light up at the sight. Continuing to giggle, Drow Skye offers her doppelganger the vial.

“I bestow on you a great honor, ****. If my words are true, you may feed my steed. If you think I tell lies, shatter the vial in front of it and it will not eat until I get home. The choice is yours.”

Good Skye doesn’t shatter the vial on the ground; she flings it instead at the Drow. The vial smashes against the Drow’s armor, causing the sad creature to move against it’s master, hungry to lap up the liquid oozing down her metal plates. The subsequent fight is broken up by a good dozen mermaids. As they escort the Drow out, she exclaims, “I’ll get you for this indignity, ****. You will rue the day you mocked the one true Skye Kimura!”