Matt Hawkins (30), kinky geek in a sexless marriage

The boardroom was big enough to seat at least thirty people, but held only two for this disciplinary meeting. Or perhaps no people whatsoever, depending on how you defined the entities that sat at opposite ends of the uncomfortably long table.

At one side of the room, a small woman fidgeted nervously with an anachronistic feather quill that was the same orange-red colour as the fiery hair hanging neatly to her shoulders. Her pale face was freckled across the tops of her sharp cheekbones and the bridge of her beaky nose, and her yellow eyes were wide and alert - like a bird of prey realising it had been confronted by a bigger, meaner bird of prey. She’d dressed up for the occasion in a red suit that did not, in fact, suit her even slightly.

“I hope you know that that season was one of the worst disasters I’ve ever had the displeasure of producing,” said the figure at the other end of the table.

The other figure was indescribable. Literally. While looking at it, there was a vague sense of a person occupying the space, but the eyes simply refused to tell the brain what exactly they were looking at. It had skin, hopefully, but the colour was indeterminate. It most likely had the normal number of arms and hands as it steepled its fingers and rested its elbows on the table. Its mouth, despite the harsh words, was probably split in a wide grin that showed a certain quantity of teeth.

“Yes sir, I’m sorry sir,” the woman mumbled, suppressing a shiver even though she had never once felt the effects of the cold in all her unnatural life. Dealing directly with a Producer was never pleasant, especially when they got all abstract like this one preferred to (it currently didn't even have a name), but if they wanted to see you face-to-probable-face then declining simply wasn’t an option.

“I don’t say that lightly, either,” the Producer continued, “I’ve seen seasons just fade out and had to put a dozen Contestants into permanent stasis. I’ve seen Hosts end up in the harem, or being hunted across dimensions. I’ve even heard about a time when the winner killed her Master, but I have never, ever heard of a season where the Master was so completely uninteresting. I mean, honestly Scarlet - what the hell were you thinking?”

“I know, sir,” Scarlet swallowed, rolling her quill between her fingers, “The story concept for the season was the downfall and corruption of an extremely vanilla Master, but-”

“I know what the story concept was,” the Producer interrupted, the grin vanishing, “But you failed to get him past the hurdle of even having a harem in the first place and then every transformation just made him less and less interested in the women. You were meant to be changing him from a reclusive shut-in into someone who indulged in the pleasures of the flesh, and by the time I pulled the plug he could barely look at any of them!”

“I know sir, it’s unacceptable sir,” she lowered her head in supplication, but continued fiddling with the quill until the end of it started to gently smoke.

“You know, this is the kind of offense that gets Hosts unmade.”

The quill burst into flame in Scarlet’s trembling hands. **** meant nothing to her, given what she was, but unmaking was a true oblivion that not even she could come back from. She didn’t argue or plead, though. There wouldn’t be any point. Her fate would have been decided before she stepped foot in the room, and she’d face her end with what little dignity she could manage.

“However...”

With that single word, the quill was extinguished, the feather completely unharmed. Scarlet’s trembling slowed, but she didn’t dare move a muscle and snuff out the faint spark of hope that hung in the air.

“...considering your nature, I believe a second chance may be ironically appropriate.”

“Fitting, not ironic,” Scarlet said, unable to stop herself until she finally glanced up, “Irony would be if... nevermind.”

The grin had returned to the Producer’s face, but it was only a small part of a distinctly unimpressed expression. “We’re giving you a fresh start, Scarlet. Your past has been erased and you have one season to prove you can handle the job, like any new Host. Tell a good story this time, see that you don’t waste this chance.”

“Yes sir. Of course, sir. When do I start?” she said, a little excitement breaking through the nerves. She should probably have cared more that her past had just been wiped away without warning, and it was a little troubling that she didn’t. What about all her friends that had... um. She had had friends before the wipe, hadn’t she? Surely? Her memories weren’t totally blank, she could remember a lot of names and faces, but suddenly she couldn’t remember having a single interaction with anyone other than this Producer. She couldn’t remember a single event at all before being summoned to this meeting; not even the season that had sent her here.

“I expect a full proposal on my desk in two seconds of non-dilated time, including your choice of Master, Contestants, overall theme, anticipated story arcs, and initial transformations,” the Producer declared with the finality of a judge laying down a sentence, “Start now. Go.”

“Of course sir. I will, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Scarlet rose to her feet and backed quickly out of the room with her head bowed, only slightly stumbling over one of the chair legs and needing a mere three attempts at finding the door handle behind her back. She shut the door with a hard click, then her submissive retreat turned into a quick scurry down the corridor. With a huff of annoyance and a flash of flame, the suit burned away and was replaced with a red leather jacket, black tank top and blue jeans. Her hair was ruffled up by the sudden surge of heat, settling into a messy bedhead at the same instant that her face settled into a scowl.

“Okay then. Maybe something about second chances and fresh starts,” she muttered to herself as she strode back into her office and locked herself in, both literally and metaphorically, “Not exactly a new theme for the show but best to stick with what I know this time, and there’s nothing I know better than second chances. Second chances... and stories.”

The office was more library than workspace, with rows upon rows of dark wooden bookshelves holding everything from clay tablets to leatherbound tomes to modern paperbacks, all organised in chaotic rows so that you could never see further than the next aisle until you turned the corner. Without climbing or flying to get a higher view, it was impossible to see just how far the library stretched on. Even Scarlet herself wasn’t fully sure of the room’s extent anymore, though she couldn’t be certain if that was the Producer’s fault or not.

The Host wound her way through the stacks to the centre of the room, following a route she thankfully did still remember. Pulling out a sheaf of yellowed parchment and sitting back into the shiny chrome and leather deskchair, Scarlet flourished her quill and began to write. Second chances was too vague of a theme to be the tagline for the season, so she’d have to lean into the story angle instead.

Harem Hotel: Storytelling Edition, she scrawled in a looping script with blood red ink that flowed without any apparent source.

The ink smoked faintly as it dried into the page, and Scarlet tapped the quill against the desk as she considered her plan. She’d just been threatened with unmaking for trying to corrupt someone who was too plain and boring, so the Master for this season would go the opposite way. Someone with an open mind, a high sex drive, and a long list of kinks. Someone who needed a second chance, someone with an interesting story, but not someone dealing with deep trauma from his past. Traumatised Masters were getting to be an oversaturated market, and she didn’t think she could compete with Arabella on that front anyway. She jotted down the criteria, but paused before moving on to the Contestants.

There would have to be at least some **** for the show to overcome, and going for the obvious solution and filling the harem with girls who weren’t interested could be just as risky as an overly vanilla Master, unless Scarlet wanted to go for a really dark season. She didn't think that was really her style. You couldn’t see the shades of grey if it got too dark.

Ah, of course. A wife or girlfriend could provide a reason for the Master to try and hold back at first, as long as she wouldn’t put a complete stop to things. A wife with some confidence issues, perhaps, and then some other Contestants to stir up her feelings of jealousy and inadequacy. Contestants that she was already suspicious of, that were younger, or hotter. Definitely an ex-girlfriend in the mix.

With that problem taken care of, they’d still have to hit all the popular archetypes: goth, tomboy, MILF, lesbian, bully, rich girl, popular girl, the shy one, the childhood friend. Scarlet pulled out a shiny black smartphone and rested it next to the yellow parchment as she looked up some data. Trans girls were polling quite well lately, across most sensible realities at least, so including one of them would be good. Of course, they’d also all have to be people who needed a second chance, to fit with that theme. They’d ideally all have something in common besides the Master as well, if that wasn’t too much to ask.

The quill tapped on the table again. The list was already quite long, and Scarlet suddenly scrambled to add an extra line as she realised she had almost forgotten the most important archetype. Even if it wouldn’t be officially decided until after the first transformation, every good season needed a catgirl.

Obviously some of the archetypes could be combined (lesbian childhood friend was a bit overplayed, but a trans catgirl was just common sense), but that might still be too many for an initial cast. Scarlet was hoping for a shorter season, to give some time pressure to the Contestants and allow herself to call it a success and move on with her new life without getting too bogged down, so she didn’t really want to trickle extras in over too many subsequent rounds. Oh well. She’d have to see who the research team managed to dig up and then solve that problem later.

The Host took a snapshot of the requirements on her phone and sent them off to her contacts with the research department, thankful that at least she still remembered their contact details even if she couldn’t remember how exactly she knew them. With the faster flowrate of their timestream, it hopefully shouldn’t be long before they found some suitable candidates.

Onto the transformations. Scarlet enjoyed this bit. She wouldn’t have been much of a Host if she didn’t, after all. The TFs couldn’t be specific without knowing the details of the Contestants, but she could start with broad stroke ideas. Something that worked with the theme of stories. She assembled another brief list of prompts for herself, then her phone buzzed with an incoming message. A list of biographies, a Master and Contestants checking all the boxes she had asked for. Slightly too many, but there was an easy way to deal with that.

“Okay, let’s do this,” the Host said to the empty room, a lopsided grin creeping onto her face as she jabbed the quill into the page to end the sentence.