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The establishment offers a lot of services, and the lottery—and the resultant show—is only one of many.
The rules are simple. Pay the fee, and be allowed to take your chance in inseminating one of the incubators. The poor things are placed in boxes, all in neat rows, with only their holes on display.
Those who have more than one hole available for breeding also have a clear indication of which hole is—well—not available.
A plug is inserted in, or the lips are pushed close with metal bars threaded through.
The lottery is quite popular. After all, anyone is allowed to enter.
Anyone is allowed to participate.
Most of the incubators are—or once have been—human. Usually, it would mean that certain species would be advised against impregnating them. Some places even make it a rule, or a law, and enforce it very strictly, even on those who are more than willing.
In the establishment, however, such rules do not exist.
A dragon, a centaur, a stone troll—it doesn’t matter who you are.
As long as you can afford a fee, of course.
You only get one try. You do not get to know whenever your seed takes. You get to fuck a tight, inviting hole, and watch others do it, but the novelty wears off rather quickly. It is, after all, not that much different from a brothel.
But it is not the main appeal of the lottery.
Twelve months after it, everyone who had participated receives an invitation. Everyone else who wants to witness the spectacle have to pay, and not a small sum. Still, there is never a shortage of people willing to.
They are given time to gather and get comfortable—rest after a long (for some) road, eat, have a drink, chat. Those who are willing to pay even more are brought to the backrooms, to be present at the preparations of the main stage.
Finally, the signal is given, and people are gathering in the main room, taking their seats. Incubators are already there, laying on benches, sitting in chairs and—even—hanging from the ceiling.
Some are long overdue at this point, but it's hard to tell them apart from those who would be ready naturally.
It is one of the main attractions of the show, with bets placed and fortunes lost and gained in span of one day.
Ten minutes after the signal, the real show begins.
It's always ten minutes for the first one—no one in the audience knows how it is timed just so, and the hosts are reluctant to share their secrets.
This time the first incubator to start having contractions is one of the least lucky ones.
Not only it has two wombs—indicated by the fact that it has a bottom hole that isn’t locked up—but it also chained to the ceiling by its limbs, bent near in two. Its stomach, almost as big as the incubator itself, hangs beneath, supported by belts that wrap around the incubator.
It is a system created to provide the best entertainment—not the one that cares for its equipment.
The incubator’s tits are barely-there things, and clearly aren’t producing milk. A thick metal bar goes through them, with a weight hanging from it, styled into an oval piece with the show’s logo.
As the contractions come, the incubator starts making noise—nonsensical, as it’s unable to speak clearly due to a gag in its mouth. Still, it’s able to moan, and whimper, and scream—all to the audience’s delight. And scream it does, when the first offspring starts pushing out of one of its wombs.
Which means—for safety reasons only—that its second cervix is now closed up, whether it wants it or not.
The birth itself is a fairly quick thing, in comparison to a natural one.
Much more painful, though, judging by the incubator’s reactions.
It thrashes—however much it can—and screams, all while one of its holes (the bottom one, made small and pink and only slightly puffy by special creams and injections) strains, trying to open up wide enough to let the offspring out. The bets have been placed, and looks like someone is going to make a fortune on that one: there is a low murmur of disappointment rolling through the audience, nearly drowning out a single self-satisfied sigh. The offspring that the unlucky incubator is now straining to push out is huge, but it’s not a centaur, as there are no front legs in sight.
A stone troll, then—the only other species that is advised to not mate with humans due to the complications that may arise at birth.
But whoever is organizing the show clearly know what they’re doing, as in the decades of its existence there were no incubator deaths reported.
The incubator is screaming now—the head of the offspring seems to be stuck, lodged in its bottom hole and making it strain and bulge out. A moment of respite, and it has to push again—and then again and again, until the head slides out with a loud pop, making the incubator whine loudly. It is not the end, though, as the hardest challenge is still ahead—the incubator has to push out the offspring’s shoulders as well, and those are, as it’s common for stone trolls, wide.
The audience cheers when, after the long laborious minutes, the offspring is finally out, taken by the servant before it can fall down. It is cleaned up and weighted, right there on the stage, and it is evident that more money will change hands by the end of the show.
Despite the monstrous size of a baby the incubator just gave birth to, its belly hasn’t changed size by any meaningful margin.
It has a long, painful way to go still.
Other incubators are starting to join in, and soon enough the room is filled with all kinds of sounds: pained moans and loud screams; short, low unnnngh s that are the most popular amongst the certain crowds; squelches of dragon eggs sliding in and out of the holes that are unable to fully push them out; rattle of chains; and, occasionally, screams of new-borns, unhappy to be brought into this world—those are quickly brought away, to be taken care of and, in the end, send to those who are willing to adopt. For a certain price, of course.
It’s all business, and it makes money.
Enough money, in fact, that even the authorities don’t dare to question the owner.
They don’t ask questions.
The audience knows it.
It is, in fact, one of the thrills of being there.
Still, there is, sometimes, someone who still believes in justice. Or maybe someone who notices the familiar face among the incubators—and demands answers.
Usually, it means that there will be a new addition to the equipment by the time the next lottery takes place. It is, after all, wasteful to get rid of resources.