Chapter 9: Judges Have Favorites.


The theme music slammed through the Henderson living room, horns and percussion rattling the picture frames.

The screen blazed from black to the studio's gleaming chrome and copper, and the audience roar swelled through the surround sound like a physical force.

"Welcome back, folks!" Dirk Bentley stretched his arms wide, his smile bright enough to power the city grid.

"This is it—the judging stage of Master Chef Challenge!"

The camera swept the studio. Audience members leaned forward in their seats, some literally on the edges, hands clasped, eyes hungry.

A woman in the third row fanned herself with her program. Two men in the back were already on their feet.

"Let me explain once more how the judging will be conducted!" Dirk turned to the camera.

"Four categories. Ten points each category. The chefs will be judged on—"

He ticked them off on his fingers.
"Cooking method.
Recipe.
Presentation.
And of course—"
A pause.
"Taste testing."

He let the words hang.
"Points will be awarded by the judges for each category. A maximum of thirty points can be earned per chef per category."

The audience stirred. A low murmur of anticipation rippled through the seats.

"Judges, if you please." Dirk gestured to the riser where three leather chairs held the panel.

Anon Gurrow adjusted his wrinkled blazer. Sir Weaselsnort straightened his tie. Jane Doe crossed her legs, the bruise-colored dress riding high.

Each judge held a stack of cards, faces down.

"First category," Dirk announced, stepping up to the dais.

"Cooking methods."
He turned to Anon Gurrow first, microphone extended.

"What did you think of Gourmet Guru's decision to turn Betty into a spit roast barbecue?"

Anon leaned into the mic, his practiced grin spreading. "I for one love a great barbecue. Make it a spit roast and I'm sold."

He pulled a card from the top of his stack.

"I would've given him a nine, but when he used that innovative spitting machine, I had to—"

He flipped the card.
A solid 10.

The audience erupted. Clapping, whistling, stomping feet.

Gourmet Guru acknowledged the praise with a small nod, tattooed arms folded across his chest. Beside him, Betty Bovine lifeless little body lay on her platter as studio staff chefs began the carver her up. Knives flashed throughout the carving process, plating portions on tray.

Dirk moved the mic to Sir Weaselsnort.

"And what do you make of Gourmet Guru’s cooking method?"

The portly man's mustache twitched.

"I find barbecues are best suited for outdoors. Frankly, I don't think it should be featured on an indoor cooking show."

Boos erupted. Loud, immediate, unapologetic.
Weaselsnort ignored them, flipping his card.

A modest 6.

Louder boos. Someone threw a program. Dirk rolled his eyes, and the camera caught it, broadcasting the expression to millions.

"How about you, miss you can find me in a shallow grave?" Dirk turned to Jane Doe. "Do you agree with Sir Weaselsnort, or—"

"Talk about shitting in someone's corn flakes." Jane flipped her card without ceremony.

A solid 9.

The crowd cheered. Dirk raised a hand for quiet.

"That gives Gourmet Guru 25 points!"
Applause thundered.

Betty showing more bone then flesh as her roasted meat is carved clean.

"Okay, my little cadaver, let's move on to Chef Savory."

Dirk pivoted, staying with Jane Doe.

"Rotisserie cooking. Your thoughts?"

Jane uncrossed her legs, leaning forward. "I love rotisserie cooking. Cooks evenly. Mesmerizing to watch."
Her voice dropped.

"Imagine being Pamela, turning inside that machine. So fucking hot."

She flipped her card.
10.

The audience clapped and cheered, the sound washing over the set.

Dirk turned to Sir Weaselsnort, not bothering to ask the question, just extending the mic.

"I agree with Miss Doe." Weaselsnort flipped his card. 8 for rotisserie cooking.

"It is most efficient."

Less boos this time. A few scattered claps. A smattering of approval.

Dirk moved to Anon.

"And you? Do you agree with your fellow judges?"

"Sure thing." Anon flipped his card. "It's like an indoor spit roaster."
Card read 9.

"That's 26 points for Chef Savory!"

Dirk announced.
The crowd cheered again.

Chef Savory stood by Pamela's platter, his expression unchanged, clinical and calm.

Pamela is on her elbows and knees, the apple still in her mouth, the staff chefs carving her sweet little body down as well, adding her portions to the plates containing Betty’s portion.


"Okay, Anon’ How about Flavor Wiz's decision to use the oven for Farrah's cooking method?"

Anon considered, tapping the card against his chin.

"Solid equipment. Every household has one. Maybe not as large as these on stage."

He flipped. Solid 9.

More cheers.

Dirk turned to Sir Weaselsnort.
"Of course it deserves a—"
Weaselsnort flipped his card. A solid 9.

"And you, my Queen of the Dead?" Dirk tilted the mic toward Jane.

"Home baking is always in an oven."
She flipped. A perfect 10.

"Wow folks!"
Dirk's voice rose.

"That gives Flavor Wiz a lead in the scoring, with a whopping 28 points!"

Flavor Wiz, gave a nod to the camera yet his hand were busy directing the staff chefs the best way to carve Farrah down.
Juicy portions of her meat is added to the plates of the other girls.

The host gestured to the wall screen, where a tally board appeared:

Gourmet Guru: 25
Chef Savory: 26
Flavor Wiz: 28

The audience buzzed with excitement.

“We’ll move on to the Recipe category after these messages”

—-

A commercial plays.
A clinical setting appeared. Pleasant, serene music played over images of clean white rooms and smiling medical professionals.

A distinguished doctor in a lab coat addressed the camera.
"Breakthroughs in regenerative medicine have made it possible to grow back limbs, enlarge breasts, add meatier thighs." Images flashed—before and after photos, satisfied patients.

"We are currently conducting trials and need volunteers to fully test these procedures for consumer approval."

A phone number scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

---

In the Henderson living room, the commercial played to a different kind of scene.

Denise stood in the center of the rug, transformed.

The silver-streaked hair still fell past her shoulders, but now she wore black leather from neck to ankle—a corset cinched tight, thigh-high boots, gloves that reached her elbows. In one hand, she held a whip.

Kevin, Marcus, and Jenna knelt before her in a row, naked, heads bowed.

"Family meeting," Denise said, her voice low and stern.

"You're not actually going to—" Marcus started.

The whip cracked. Not at him—beside him, against the rug—but the sound made all three flinch.

"I said," Denise repeated,

"Family Meeting."

Jenna bit her lip. Her thighs pressed together. Her father and brother watched their mother circle them, the whip trailing along the floor.

"You've all been very bad tonight." Denise's voice carried a theatrical sternness.

"Watching that show without me. Starting without me."

"Mistress," Kevin said, the word coming out with unexpected ease.

"We're sorry."
"Mistress." Marcus echoed, quieter.
Jenna's voice wavered. "Mistress."
Denise smiled. Then the whip came down.

The first crack landed across Kevin's back. He grunted, shoulders flexing. A red line bloomed across his skin.

The second crack found Marcus's buttocks. He hissed through his teeth, his cock twitching.

The third wrapped across Jenna's thighs—a sharp, stinging stripe that made her cry out.

"Count," Denise commanded.

"One," Kevin said.
"One," Marcus echoed.
"One," Jenna breathed.

The whip fell again. And again. Red marks accumulated, crossing and layering across their skin.

Kevin's back became a canvas of stripes. Marcus's ass reddened. Jenna's thighs glowed.
Marcus had gone fully erect. Kevin's cock stood at attention. Jenna was visibly dripping.

"Good pets." Denise's voice softened. She coiled the whip, stepping closer to run a gloved finger along Jenna's cheek.

"I think you're ready for your jacuzzi practice, you’d make a tasty little tidbit."
Jenna shivered. "Yes, Mistress."

The show's theme music blared from the television.
The whip stilled mid-air.

Four bodies turned toward the screen.

"Almost forgot about the judging," Kevin murmured, easing down from his kneeling position.

"Good thing." Denise's smile remained, but she set the whip aside.

"It'll be done soon enough."

Jenna's phone buzzed on the coffee table. She crawled over, wincing at the sting on her thighs, and picked it up.

A text reply from Amber her bff.
Hey girl! So cool your fam are doing a jacuzzi soup thing. Can I play too? I'll bring vegetables!!!

Jenna look to her parents after repeating Ambers reply. Denise and Kevin nod yes.

Ambers is a sweet little nine year old. Marcus knew her well she’d been prick teasing him since she was seven. Perhaps he can get her little ass in the jacuzzi.

Jenna typed back with shaking fingers: Yes please. I’ll let you know when. Jenna ended it with hearts, fork, dinner plate, and knife emojis.