A Host, A Producer

Indigo

Where Francis’ dream is (so far) full of annoyance, Indigo’s is full of wonder. She finds herself in a beautiful meadow full of brightly colored flowers, fully foxed out. As in, she is an actual fox vixen. She wiggles her little toe beans in the soft dirt. She prances through the field, snapping at floating butterflies and doing more physical activity in this one dream than she had the entire time at the hotel. She doesn’t even notice bumping into something much larger than herself. And that something picks her up by the scruff of her neck. He’s like a smexy cross of an anthropomorphic fox and a hentai stud, if one is into dudes, which Indigo is not. His orange fox fur doesn’t quite cover his chiseled muscles. It certainly doesn’t hide his dick which, even completely soft, reaches all the way down to his ankles. He smiles, baring sharp fangs.

He speaks, a smooth baritone straight out of a late night jazz radio station, “Konnichi-rawr, imouto-chan. Welcome to the family. Let’s get you to where you can speak.”

He boops her nose, and Indigo finds herself in her normal body, completely naked (not even Anilla is here), still held by the scruff of the neck. He sets her down on her knees. “Stay like that. I like it.”

Indigo starts to stand, speaking, “Who are you?”, only for the man to step down, hard, on her shoulder. She’s **** back down on her knees. The beautiful meadow flashes to a bloodsoaked battleground for just a moment, then returns just as quickly. Indigo is freaking out.

“I do not mind rudeness, imouto-chan, provided you can live with the consequences. The strong determine what is acceptable. The weak just comply. Do you understand me?” His smile widens, showing off more sharp teeth.

“Si. Lo siento.”

“I prefer your español mas caliente, but sniveling will get you far as well, imouto-chan. You wish to know who I am? I am happy to comply, in a way. When I made you say that thing this evening, did you only do it to save your pelt? Or, perhaps, did you mean it?”

“Nine?”

“Foot Fox Cock, yes. You can say the whole name. Surely you can see that I was not exaggerating my majesty? At least add a ‘sama’ to the end. I have a real name, of course. But, names have power and all that. Onomancy is quite potent magic. If my gamer handle is too much for you, call me Nogi-sama. Most people do.”

“And what family have I joined, Nogi?

The bloodsoaked battlefield returns, parts erupting into flame and the skies raining blood. The smile leaves Nogi’s eyes.

“Sorry, Nogi-sama. Please don’t eat me.”

The field returns to normal again.

“And why would I eat you, imouto-chan? Though, vore is one of your many, many, maaaany fetishes and you are snack sized. Maybe if you anger me again I should reconsider not eating you. To answer your question, the family of the nogitsune. The foxes that fled from the stifling rules of the cosmic order to seek the freedom of the fields. I am the first, the greatest of our kind. I presume you are one of us, not a lame nerd that just does what she is told, right?”

Am I?

Taking her silence as assent, Nogi-sama continues, “As a member of our family, I’d like to offer you a way out of your current predicaments.”

“Predicaments?”

“Yes. Predicaments. Being enslaved to that, how do you say, veijito? Being trapped under that fool Beckie’s thumb? The rope? Virginity? Don’t all of those qualify as predicaments?”

“Please don’t sex me up, Nogi-sama!” Not something I ever thought I would say.

“Please, you are not worthy of carrying my spawn. Perhaps when you have 5 or 6 more tails, we can talk about putting some kits in your fox-hole, as it were. For now, are you interested in a way out?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s make this a game, imouto-chan. Start stroking.”

Huh?

Taking her silence as confusion, he slaps his cock on top of her head. “I explain the plan while you use those virgin fingers to give me an awkward first-time handjob. I complete the explanation before you get me off, you lose. I put you back in your body and have a different sort of fun, at your expense. You aim my mighty fox cock at your face and cover yourself in my cum before I get done, you can take part in the plan. You in? I’ll give to eπ seconds to prepare.”

Huh?

“So, I have an amazing plan to get Beckie killed, or at least thrown into the infinite pit of venomous fire snakes for all time, but I need assistance from a local saboteur. Are you just going to give up or do you want to begin?”

Indigo starts to stroke the massive fox cock. So. Gross. It twitches slightly in her hands.

“Good to see you join the game. Anyways, a local saboteur. That would be you. I help you tap into your nogitsune heritage with both guidance and an initial power-up. You sneakily siphon power from Beckie and whoever you can in the staff. Mermaids don’t exactly produce sexual fluids that you would want to consume, but, if you can make it work, great. Then, right before your date this week, you cash in that leeched power. You trick your current Master here. You kill him. Beckie is kicked off the show for getting her first season’s Master killed off-screen. Man, you are so fucking bad at handies, you know that?”

“Is this game even fair?”

“I haven’t finished explaining things. You can try to slow me down with questions. Or by describing how terrible you are at pleasing me. I have a thing for women self-negging.”

“Why do you want Beckie out of the picture? I mean, she smells of mothballs and seems generally evil, but you don’t strike me as doing this out of the goodness of your own heart.”

“Oh. Simple. Ratings. The network likes to pit seasons against each other. My current season is having to compete against yours. And, as Mama Fox likes to say, the best defense is a good offense. And the best offense is to kill the competition. Given that you can’t watch my work, would you like me to spoil the surprise?”

“I guess. Can your dick get any harder?”

“Yes. Several feet harder. Focus. Silly me. Telling you to focus while being so distracted. By stray thoughts, not by your stroking. Anyways, both of our seasons were launched as an Interdimensional Jester’s Day promotion. I believe in your dimension it’s called April Fool’s Day?” Nogi gives a very wicked grin. He’s smiling with his eyes again.

My life is being ruined for a fucking April Fool’s Day joke! Mierda!

“One of the differences, of course, is that I am aware that my season is supposed to be kind of a joke. Harem Hotel: Multitude of Matt-ness. A season where the same individual, one Matt McMatterson, from a baker’s dozen different dimensions compete for the Master slot in the harem. It’s a hoot and a half. Your season’s joke is Beckie herself. She’s sooooo unqualified for the Hosting slot, yet she wasted producers time presenting a dozen different half-baked pitches every year. For centuries. They finally gave her a show because they thought the audience would like to watch her fail spectacularly. And we’re going to make that happen before your current Master can.”

“So, if the veijito is dead and Beckie gone, what happens to us?”

“Simple. You’ll be put on suspended animation for a bit, I pick up the rest of your show once my season is complete, and my first action is to make you the Master. Imagine all those hotties having to seduce you after being so dismissive. Begging to be the one to stick their tongue in your fox-hole first. And I could sweeten the deal, bring in some more women for you to enslave. Minsty? Gwen? Ana de Armas? A world of pussy could be your oyster. You probably got one more question before I feel like I’ve explained everything. Sure you don’t want to tell me how awful you are at pleasing cock?”

“What the hell are spell points?” Surely, he doesn’t know about ‘em. That’ll give me more time. I want this. I want this future more than anything.

“Oh, sweet, sweet imouto-chan. You think I didn’t read up on what’s going on at your Hotel before pulling you here. Spell points are the equivalent of mana points (or whatever you call MP in your video games) in the magic system Tina and Daphne use. Spend spell points, cast spell. Simple, really. Assuming you can get me to cum, my mighty seed will empower you in a manner similar to how a Producer empowers a magically weak Host. While it’s a lesser version, it will still be plenty of juice to kill your Master. You’ll have magic. You’ll need spell points to cast them. Drink the sexual fluid of someone else? Get a spell point. You can’t hold an extra spell point for very long if you are at your current max, but it can help top you off. The first time you do so with a female spell caster that has a higher level than you? You gain XP equal to half of the level difference, drain them of a level, and get a permanent boost to your maximum SP. I’ve explained just about everything. Maybe if you beg?”

“Please, Nogi-sama, cum on this dumb slut’s virgin lesbo face. She is so pathetic compared to you. She can’t even touch your dick right. Cover her with your spunk and mark her as yours. Please.”

Then Indigo’s world went white (and sticky).

Francis

The film noir theme continues, as Francis, back in his usual (the other identity notes and disgusting) body, finds himself in a stereotypical PI office scene. The room is only lit by moonlight shining through the slats of the blinds. The moonlight illuminates a single office desk with a typewriter, a lone chair, a set of filing cabinets, and a small wet-bar. On the other side of the desk, lurking in the dark, is some sort of... entity. Francis cannot make anything out about it other than it’s eyes: shining blueish silver. And the way they are shaped in the dark hints at the entity’s amusement.

“Of all the offices in all the worlds in all the multiverse, she walks into mine,” The entity almost sings, an operatic soprano.

“Did you do all of this just for a Casablanca parody reference?”

“Not just for the quote, human. To get a measure of you. Have a seat. Remember to be lady-like.”

Francis crosses his ankles and holds his knees together as he takes the empty seat, still more than a little annoyed.

“You are certainly an interesting one, human. Quite clever, when you don’t get in your own way. I think I like you.”

“I have a name, you know.”

“I’m sure you do. May I have it?”

Not falling for that trick. “You may not have it but...”

“Too clever. I would have returned it before you awake. Your future wives had to call you ‘Master’ too much already. Though Francis isn’t that much better.” Francis feels like the entity sticks out it’s tongue at him with that one.

“You obviously have me at a disadvantage. May I know your name?”

“Names have power, Mr. O’Connor.”

“Well then, what should I call you?”

“Call me Ms. E.”

Now it’s Francis’ turn to tease, “Missy?”

“Dangerously clever, in a self-destructive way.” The entity feels... less amused.

“Apologies, Ms. E. May you at least tell me how I can save them?”

“That is a more useful question, Mr. O’Connor. Unfortunately, the only way out is through. The game must be completed. Even if you could become strong enough to cast Planeshift and even if you could get an appropriate tuning fork for it, the same **** that brought you there can merely pull you back. You and your future wives are tied to that hotel dimension until the game is complete. If you wish to save them, Francis, get out of your own way and figure out how to love them. And how to be loved by them.”

She already knew my escape plan? Not great. Different train of thought, perhaps? Need a beat to think. “Future wives?”

“I prefer that term than to the one... traditionally used by the game. And I expect you to live up to it, assuming they agree.”

“Fair enough. So, it’s beyond my power to short-circuit the game and set them free, but what about divine intervention? Surely Eilistraee...” Francis stops himself short. The way those eyes shift. This is a dangerous thought. Oh, shit; she actually IS...

The entity confirms, “Catastrophically clever, Mr. O’Connor. And frying your brain into goop, as the rules typically dictate for being so disastrously clever, would result in a dead Master and several humans, current and former, trapped in perpetual extra limbo. Good thing I’m such a rebel with a heart of gold, huh? A regular James Dean of divinity. I am also meeting you in an... unofficial capacity. My first official act as your season’s new producer will happen, by your perspective, in the morning. I cannot save you. All the power at my fingertips, and I barely qualify to be a producer. My mother, may she repent of the darkness in her heart, is an executive producer. To free you, I would have to take on powers like my mother several times over. I may be a reckless, rule-breaking goddess, but I’m not an idiot. My divine intervention is currently limited to giving Beckie... proper supervision. The old producer gave me the show because he was tired of her being so unimaginably boring. Again, the only way out is through. Again, get out of your own way and open your heart.”

“May I...”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Francis feels the entity waggle her finger as she tuts, “This is our little secret. Rules are meant to be broken, but rules need to be broken carefully. Letting you see me right now is a step too far. You will have your confirmation soon enough. For now, I really should put your soul back in your body.”

What? “One last question. About the hallway...”

“Transformations are shortcuts, Mr. O’Connor. Cheats. I just wanted you to earn at least a bit of the womanhood you are slowly blossoming into. 10,000 continuous hours of learning to walk in heels? You certainly earned that skill.”

And, with a snap of hidden fingers, the film noir world turns silver.