12 - Variations on a Theme

Mr. Riggs continued to cook Elizabeth's breasts every day she was with him the entire next week. It seemed that he had decided that, rather than building his ovens for him, she was now much better employed as a test subject for the ovens themselves. With each new session, he would also produce some new idea that he would then subject Elizabeth's trapped, vulnerable flesh too.

Monday's new innovation had seemed, at the time, to be particularly shocking. Mr. Riggs had waited until Elizabeth and her still very sensitive, scarcely recovered breasts were strapped into and trapped within his oven before revealing several large syringes, each full of an ominous dark fluid and tipped with a thin, wickedly sharp needle. He had waited until her panic subsided to explain to her his intentions.

"I've been wanting to test my nipple injector out on you, but the device simply isn't ready, and I'm not sure when it will be." Mr. Riggs had explained. "Meanwhile, there are several marinades that I've been dying to try out with the darn thing. Since it isn't working though, I thought that I'd just cut out the middle machine and inject the marinades by hand."

Mr. Riggs' calm, reasonable explanation hadn't produced a calm, reasonable reaction in Elizabeth. It was several more minutes before she stopped trying to escape the binds securing her to the oven, or begging him to not inject her with his syringes, to release her, or to just cook her breasts like he normally did. She didn't seem too particular on which of her demands he accede to, merely that he do so for at least one of them.

Mr. Riggs had waited out her struggles and vocal protests patiently, then placed both syringes on the oven in front of her, allowing her to see them clearly. He then placed both hands around her cheeks, tilted her teary face up toward his, and talked to her quietly, calmly, and earnestly.

"Elizabeth, you've been a great help to me so far. You've greatly exceeded what I ever really expected you to accomplish. You've been an able assistant in the construction of, and an excellent test subject for, my ovens. You have endured superbly over the past few sessions, and I am frankly amazed at how well you bounce back after each one. I've never given you more that I though you could overcome before, and I'm not asking what I don't believe is more you can withstand now."

"Although, perhaps asking is the wrong word. Prepare yourself, Elizabeth." Mr. Riggs finished, removing his right hand from around her face and picking up one of the syringes with it.

"P-Puh-Please, M-Mr. Riggs, p-please." Elizabeth continued to beg, beseeching him with tears still streaming from the corners of her eyes and shaking her head gently from side to side.

Mr. Riggs just smiled at her warmly, patted her damp cheek with his left hand, then withdrew it. He leaned down towards the opening of the oven, moving both hands in towards Elizabeth's left breast.

If Elizabeth hadn't been able to watch it happening, perhaps she wouldn't have found the experience so frightening the first time. As it was, her eyes were locked on the instrument of her fear as it slowly approached her flesh. She couldn't, or wouldn't, look away. She inhaled sharply when Mr. Riggs grasped her breast firmly with his left hand, steadying it. Mr. Riggs actually paused for a moment, right before the moment of truth, the very tip of the syringe's needle gently pressing into the center of her nipple, slightly pricking her, to glance back up Elizabeth. The girl's head was still rocking slightly from side to side, in silent negation, her features frozen in dreadful anticipation.

Mr. Riggs then pressed the slim steel needle deep into her nipple, ignoring the girl's squeak of pain and panicked gasps. Once the needle reached as deeply as it could into the meat of Elizabeth's breast, Mr. Riggs began exerting gentle pressure on the thumb injector, while also slowly withdrawing the needle from Elizabeth. The end result of this was that approximately a third of the marinade within the syringe was deposited evenly along the path the needle had made through Elizabeth's flesh. A tiny drop of fluid, which looked to be a mixture of the liquid in the syringe and Elizabeth's blood, hung from the tip of her nipple, shining like a dark ruby, after Mr. Riggs finished.

Mr. Riggs wasn't completely finished, though, because he proceeded to repeat his movements, at six equidistant spots, within Elizabeth's areola and around her nipple. Each injection was less deep than the first, by a significant margin, and each received a roughly equal portion of the marinade remaining in the syringe. Once the syringe was empty, he replaced it by its mate on top of the oven, allowing Elizabeth to view it directly.

"There, that wasn't so terrible, was it?" Mr. Riggs asked.

Elizabeth slowed her panicked breathing, then swallowed several times and looked back up at her teacher.

"I.. I've been afraid of n-needles ever since I was l-little." she managed to gasp, and shuddered.

"It hurt, Mr. Riggs.. b-but not as much as I thought it would, I guess." Elizabeth continued. "It still kind of b-burns a little."

"Yes, that will be the marinade, I expect. Don't worry, it isn't permanent. I imagine that much of the marinade I just injected will be gone from your flesh, one way or another, by the end of this session. Anything that remains will be metabolized by your body fairly rapidly. There's no permanent damage done." Mr. Riggs replied, kindly.

"Are you ready for the next one?" he asked.

Elizabeth glanced down at the remaining full syringe, then closed her eyes and shuddered again.

"I.. I guess you're going to do it anyway, so.." she said, gulping. "We may as well g-get it out of the way."

"I knew you'd come around." said Mr. Riggs, patting her on the cheek again. "Here we go."

Elizabeth didn't squeak this time, but she did let out a little pained sounding exhalation, that fell just short of being a grunt, when Mr. Riggs buried the second syringe into her right breast through her nipple. She did bite her lip and squirm a little as he pumped the fluid contained within the syringe into her flesh, though. Each secondary injection around her nipple received much the same reaction, and when Mr. Riggs finally finished filling her flesh with flavoring, she heaved a great relieved sigh, closed her eyes, and lowered her flushed, tear streaked face, resting her forehead on the top of the oven before her.

She raised her head again a few minutes later, after Mr. Riggs had coated her breasts with their first layer of sauces and turned the heat of the oven up, and asked him a question.

"Will injecting my nipples with marinade really make me taste better, Mr. Riggs?" Elizabeth mused thoughtfully, seemingly almost to herself.

"That's the idea." Mr. Riggs agreed. "I'm not sure how well it will work, but I am quite interested to find out. I filled each of your nipples and surrounding flesh with marinades that should complement the sauces I've applied to the rest of your breasts."

"Granted, the marinade injections are mostly designed to flavor the insides of your breasts, which I would have access to only if I fully cooked them. That's why I used only the small amount that I did, and merely injected it near the surface of your nipples. Since we're not cooking you fully, that is probably the only area to put the marinade where I might be able to actually taste it. There wasn't any point in providing you with the full treatment."

"H-how much marinade would you have injected into me if you were, um, going to give me the full treatment and really cook my breasts?" Elizabeth asked, her tone conveying equal parts curiousness and nervousness, as if her curiosity had just barely overcome her reluctance to actually have Mr. Riggs speculate about cooking her breasts completely.

"Probably somewhere between a cup and a pint or so, in each breast, in various points. It depends a lot of the size of the breast that is going to be cooked. Yours might actually take more than a pint, but I'm not completely sure." said Mr. Riggs, thoughtfully. "A lot of this is theoretical, Elizabeth. We're blazing new trails in the culinary world, and having to make up most of it as we go along."

Elizabeth gulped again, suddenly imagining the size of the syringe Mr. Riggs might use if he was injecting a whole pint of marinade into her flesh. She was very glad, at that moment, that Mr. Riggs wasn't cooking her completely, for multiple reasons.

The rest of the afternoon, compared to the dramatic beginning, seemed almost normal to Elizabeth. She once again endured the blazing heat of the oven, and the even more intense heat of the sauce being regularly basted and re-basted on to her breasts. Perhaps Mr. Riggs hadn't turned the oven up quite as hot today, although it certainly felt like he had, or perhaps the multiple beakers of water he had brought her were responsible, or perhaps she was simply beginning to grow accustomed to having her boobs be half baked every few days, but whatever the reason, she wasn't nearly as out of it at the end of her time in the oven as she had been both times the previous week.

Elizabeth wasn't sure that was a good thing though, after Mr. Riggs started devouring the sauce from her skin. He seemed determined that every drop of marinade that he had injected into her flesh be sucked or licked or even chewed back out of her nipples, no matter how long it took. Being more alert as he repeatedly ground her sensitive, heat seared nubs between his strong teeth, stopping only just short of causing actual damage to her flesh as he did so, didn't seem to be much of a boon. She would have been bucking and thrashing her body against the abuse he was dealing to her poor breasts and nipples, had she the leverage to have done so and had he not been gripping her so tightly.

After she had recovered from his oral assault on her flesh, he had happily informed her, while unbinding her arms, that he thought that he had detected at least a small improvement in the amount of flavor in her nipples, and that they were definitely going to have to do additional tests to try to confirm and possibly even improve upon the process. Elizabeth whimpered quietly to herself on her way home, partly at the idea of being subjected to more flavor enhancing injections and partly because of the stinging of the flesh of her breasts, darkly contemplating the syringes that might be part of her new normal in the future.

The next session had seen the introduction of a much heavier stand, which the oven was now securely attached to. These improvements heralded the return of the turkey baster, which Elizabeth quickly came to dread far more than she had ever feared any silly needle. The heavier stand also featured additional restraints for her ankles and lower thighs, which proved their worth every time Mr. Riggs sucked up a baster full of overly hot sauce and sprayed it all over one of her poor, suffering breasts. Each time he did so, the extra straps and reinforced stand managed to prevent her from yanking herself and the oven over backwards in agonized, automatic physical reaction.

Indeed, the heat her poor breasts endured that Wednesday had her more than half convinced that Mr. Riggs had decided to cook her completely, despite his repeated reassurances to the contrary. Every time Mr. Riggs opened the oven to re-coat her breasts in their steaming sauces, she would beg and plead him to just use his brushes, like he normally would. When he ignored her entreaties, as he always did, and sprayed his turkey baster full of hot fluid all over her sensitive skin, her cries would be so loud that she thought, and even hoped, that someone outside the classroom would hear her and, perhaps, come rescue her from her torment. No one did, of course.

Perhaps the worst part of it all was, since Mr. Riggs would always spray more liquid than was actually needed to coat her flesh, how the extra sauce would drip and slide down the sides of each breast, to gather at her nipples before dripping off, bathing them in extra heat while doing so. The situation grew increasingly dire as her ordeal wore on, because whatever sauces he had chosen for that day grew only thicker and more viscous as more and more water evaporated from them. Mr. Riggs also didn't seem inclined to replenish the stocks of thickening sauce with more fresh sauce like he usually did, for whatever reasons of his own.

Towards the end of her time in her teacher's oven, the sauces had thickened up to be nearly the consistency of honey or molasses, and would pool at the ends of her breasts for long moments, burning her all the while, before finally oozing slowly off her nipples. Compounding matters even further was the fact that Mr. Riggs had indeed injected Elizabeth with more special marinade before beginning to cook her that day. He had concentrated his efforts solely on the little buds of flesh that were her nipples, ignoring every other part of her breasts, pumping them more full of stinging marinade than she would have thought possible.

By the close of her usual hour in the oven, Elizabeth's breathing had been reduced to short, sharp pants, with each exhale being a little unbelieving cry at the amount of pain her breasts and especially nipples were enduring. She longed to slip off into the oblivion of unconsciousness, but Mr. Riggs took great care to keep her awake and aware, providing constant drafts of cool water between bastings, even going so far as to slip her a little pep in one of them. When he finally removed her from the oven, she was barely breathing, shivering and trembling, and sure that Mr. Riggs had cooked her nipples completely.

Mr. Riggs proved her wrong a few minutes later, when he started eating the sauce from her thickly coated breasts. If her nipples had truly been burnt to a crisp, then they certainly wouldn't have screamed such bloody agony at her as her teacher nibbled thoughtfully on them. By the time he finished crushing the marinade he had injected into her earlier back out again with his molars, Elizabeth's voice had completely deserted her, and the only thing she seemed capable of doing was to stare dully down at Mr. Riggs as he mauled her tortured breasts. Elizabeth reflected, after Mr. Riggs had given each of her nipples a final, excruciating chew and laid her down on the workbench to rest, that it might have actually been better if he had cooked them completely and then ate them off, because at least then they wouldn't be hurting her so damned much.

The most incongruous thing about the day, though, was how Mr. Riggs talked to Elizabeth afterwards, as she recovered, about his efforts to rename his turkey baster to something more appropriate.

"It isn't really a turkey baster anymore, because I'm not currently basting any turkeys with it, nor have I ever." he said, musing to himself. "And just calling it a baster is functional, certainly, but a little bland, I think. There should be room for fun or interesting names in the kitchen."

"Breast baster is certainly appropriate, since that is what we've been doing with it this whole time. Girl baster might be better though, because I'm sure that I'll need to baste parts of girls that aren't breasts with it at some point." he continued.

"Perhaps I should name it after the first girl I used it on, sort of in her, er, your, honor, Elizabeth." Mr. Riggs said. "Hmm.. the Elizabeth baster. A bit long, I think.. The Elizabaster? That's kind of catchy. What do you think, Elizabeth? Want to have a kitchen implement renamed after you? Elizabaster, eh?"

Elizabeth, who was still shivering and speechless in reaction to the prior and ongoing pain in her breasts, merely looked up at him. If she'd had any energy or willpower to spare, which she most emphatically did not, she might have rolled her eyes at him. As it was, however, she simply let her gaze slide from her teacher and back down to the ruins of her chest. Mr. Riggs seemed to understand how she was feeling though, because he dropped the issue.

"Ah well, think about it, Elizabeth." was all he said.

Elizabeth's chest didn't actually look ruined. At least, it looked no more ruined that it ever did after one of her sessions with Mr. Riggs, but it sure felt ruined to her. Elizabeth thought that perhaps some kind of tipping point within her flesh had been reached. So much abuse had been heaped upon her breasts, in such a short amount of time over the past few weeks, that the sensations coming from her nerves there seemed to be becoming weirdly warped. Perhaps, Elizabeth feared, even permanently.

The next few days only served to confirm Elizabeth's fears about her poor breasts. The trials her chest had endured at her Wednesday extra credit session had felt the worst so far, by a fair margin, and she had feared that her breasts might not recover from them. Recover they appeared to do, though. By Friday morning, her skin looked as healthy and normal on the outside as ever, despite the sauce stains that by now seemed like they might never fade. On the inside, however, Elizabeth's breasts felt as far from healthy and normal as she thought it might be possible for them to be.

Immediately after her sessions with Mr. Riggs and his breast cooking oven (before Wednesday's session with the Elizabaster, that is) Elizabeth's chest would be hyper sensitive to pain stimuli, and even something as light as a breath of wind would pain her greatly. This hyper sensitivity would fade overnight as she slept, and when she awoke the next morning the flesh of her breasts would feel merely extremely sensitive. Over the course of the next several days, her breasts would usually return to feeling nearly normal, and be only moderately tender by the time Mr. Riggs wanted to cook them again.

After Wednesday's session, however, the hypersensitivity she felt immediately afterwards had faded very little by the next morning. She had been scarcely able to take a lukewarm shower before school. The rubbing on her skin by the fabric of her lightest top had seemed an agony, and she had held herself as still and stiff as she could the entire day, hardly daring to breath. The worst affected parts of her breasts were, naturally, her nipples. Not only had her tender nubs endured the most abuse the afternoon before, they were also the part of her chest that rubbed against her shirt the most often and most vigorously.

Elizabeth had hoped that another night's rest might finally restore some measure of normalcy to her chest, but she was to be disappointed. Her skin felt scarcely improved, and she dreaded the upcoming extra credit session with Mr. Riggs, sure that she wouldn't be able to withstand whatever devious surprise he was sure to have in store for her that afternoon.

Mr. Riggs had asked Elizabeth to come to his class as early as she possibly could that day, and she managed to arrive before all the students of his previous class had even been able to leave. Once the last one left, and before any other students of Elizabeth's class could arrive, Mr. Riggs quickly led Elizabeth into the back room, closed the door behind them, and then instructed her to remove her shirt. Elizabeth was confused, since she thought that she still had to attend her normal chemistry class with Mr. Riggs before their afternoon extra credit session would start. Mr. Riggs informed her that she would be beginning their session a bit early that day, however. While he taught class with the rest of her peers, she would be in the back room soaking in marinade.

Mr. Riggs then revealed a large tub full of a dark, reddish liquid, which itself was within a wide, shallow pan.

"Just let me scrub down your breasts real quick, so you can start marinading with clean skin." Mr. Riggs said.

Despite her protests that her chest couldn't possibly withstand one of Mr. Riggs intense scrubbings, she quickly found herself shirtless, with her hands once again bound behind her back, and with her breasts thrust out over the sink. After cautioning her to remain as quiet as possible, so as not to alert her soon to be arriving classmates of her presence in the back room, Mr. Riggs began scrubbing her breasts, as vigorously and remorselessly as he usually did.

Elizabeth found out something new about her breasts in those few, long minutes as Mr. Riggs worked her skin over with the rough pad. While the flesh of her chest was still quite hyper-sensitive to pain, it also appeared that her breasts were now hyper-sensitive to pretty much every other sensation as well. The pain of the pad scouring across her skin was very great indeed, but nearly equally shocking was the rush of another feeling the scrubbing provoked: pleasure. Granted, the amount of pleasure she was deriving from the rough cleansing was much smaller than the amount of pain that it caused. The conflicting mix of stimuli was very confusing to Elizabeth, however, but before she could think much about it, Mr. Riggs had finished with her.

"Okay. Now, just bend over the tub of marinade there and lay your chest down into it. Don't mind if it overflows, that's what the catch pan is for. Keep your breasts in there until I come back, alright?" said Mr. Riggs.

Her teacher gave her an approving smile, then left to teach his class. Elizabeth sighed, shakily, as her chest was still burning and pulsing with both the expected pain and unexpected pleasure that Mr. Riggs' scrubbing had imparted. After eyeing the marinade for a moment, Elizabeth decided that she might as well get started on soaking herself and bent carefully down to it. The marinade was at room temperature, and stung a little as she sank her breasts into it. Elizabeth could faintly smell alcohol in the dark fluid, and wondered if the marinade was based on some sort of wine or cooking sherry. She didn't know much about alcohol, but her mother did sometimes cook with it, when she had enough time.

The tub did overflow a bit, and while most of it spilled into the catch pan, Elizabeth felt some of it run down the skin of her stomach and soak into her jeans, joining the slight dampness that had come from splashes of water during her scrubbing. The position was a little uncomfortable, and Elizabeth wished that Mr. Riggs hadn't bound her arms behind her just yet, so she could have steadied herself a bit better. Mr. Riggs seemed to prefer her with her arms bound, though, even if they didn't necessarily need to be. Most of her time with him the past few weeks had been spent in that condition, and if the way he had completely immobilized her during Wednesday's session was any indication, she could only look forward to more of the same, and probably worse, in the future.

Being marinaded, Elizabeth decided, several hours later, was pretty boring. She hadn't had anything to do, besides staring at the wall and listening to the low, nearly inaudible sounds of class being taught in the next room, other than to contemplate the oven she knew was behind her and that she would soon be within. She couldn't see the clock from her position over the tub, and didn't want to lift herself out of the marinade, since Mr. Riggs had explicitly asked her not to, to check it. She was pretty sure that school had to be out by now, though, and wondered where Mr. Riggs was. She had to wait another half an hour, at least, before her teacher returned.

"Well, Elizabeth, it looks like you stayed in there the whole time, like I asked. Thank you." said Mr. Riggs, as he closed the door behind him.

"It's later than I planned, but I was talking to Miss Evans about some things after classes ended, and the time just got away from me." he said. "Still, it's probably for the best. More time for the meat to absorb the flavor of the marinade."

"Uh, I guess so, Mr. Riggs." Elizabeth replied. "Can I stand up now?"

"Yes, go ahead. I'd like to get you into the oven right away." said Mr. Riggs.

Soon enough, Elizabeth was strapped into the now very familiar oven. Mr. Riggs had bound her legs to the stand the device was secured to as well, which worried Elizabeth. She didn't think she could handle another session with the Elizabaster, and thought that the extra restraints might mean he intended to use it. Mr. Riggs kept talking as he got Elizabeth ready to cook.

"I was showing Miss Evans the photos I've taken of this oven in use and the results afterward. She was very impressed, to say the least." Mr. Riggs said, chatting to Elizabeth happily. "I've been giving her a lot to think about these past few week, because I've been sharing with her every detail of how you tasted with each different sauce. She has had several excellent suggestions on how best to complement your natural flavors, Elizabeth."

"You.. You've been showing her pictures of me, like this?" Elizabeth asked, a bit shocked.

"Of course. Miss Evans trained and worked as a chef for several years before becoming a teacher, and I'm very lucky to have had her to help me, I think." replied Mr. Riggs, who either hadn't noticed or was ignoring his student's alarmed reaction at having pictures of herself wearing only sauce bandied about.

"Come to think of it, I haven't shown you the photos yet, have I? You look quite good in them, let me tell you. Very appetizing." said Mr. Riggs, as he finished giving Elizabeth's breasts their first coating of sauce and turned up the heat of the oven.

Mr. Riggs turned away from Elizabeth for a moment, leaving his student to contemplate the horror of images of herself having her breasts cooked turning up on the internet. He picked up a computer tablet, fiddled with it for a moment, then brought it over to the oven and held it up for Elizabeth to view.

Elizabeth's mouth dropped open as Mr. Riggs flipped from one picture to the next. There were a surprising amount of photos. It seemed that the few times Elizabeth had noticed Mr. Riggs photographing her had been but a tithe of the actual number of images he had captured. Almost every picture showed a bound, topless girl, who looked to Elizabeth like a much thinner version of herself, either leaning against the oven she was currently starting to bake in, or else sitting on the surface of a large table, the workbench, with her obviously well baked breasts thrust out in front of her, as if offering them up to the world.

"Tha.. That's me?" said Elizabeth, disbelief clearly coloring her voice. "I look so skinny."

"Well, skinny might be a bit much, my dear, but you do certainly look far more appealing than you used to. You have lost quite a bit of weight, after all. Have you been doing those exercises I suggested?" said Mr. Riggs, not unkindly.

"Uh, yeah. I usually have to do a dozen or so reps every night before I can get to sleep." Elizabeth replied, absently.

"Well, that isn't as much as each exercise called for, but that's still someth.." Mr. Riggs started to say, but Elizabeth interrupted him.

"No, I mean I do what each exercise in the folder says to do, as many times as it says to do it, a dozen or so times rather than the two or three times that's suggested, Mr. Riggs." she clarified.

Mr. Riggs blinked in surprise.

"Er, wow, Elizabeth. That means that you're probably doing four times the amount of repetitions the exercises actually recommend, at the very least. I'm.. very impressed." said Mr. Riggs, clearly wondering how much pep the girl had to be imbibing to need to burn off that much excess energy every night.

"Well, I don't do it every day." said Elizabeth. "Just the days we don't do, uh, this. I'm usually tired enough after you cook me that I just fall right asleep afterwards."

Mr. Riggs just nodded to that, and kept flipping through the images on the tablet for Elizabeth. The wide shot images of Elizabeth's whole form had given way to close ups of her breasts, either as they baked within the oven, or as they appeared, quite well done, after coming out of the oven. Elizabeth seemed to be particularly amazed at these images.

"I can't believe how.. how good they look." said Elizabeth, staring at a photo that had been taken of her chest after it had been taken out of the oven just the previous session, on Wednesday.

"I mean, they really look like they're completely cooked and.. and ready to eat." she finished, voice full of dawning realization and looking as if she had just had an epiphany of some sort.

"Yes, indeed. You can see why I get so enthusiastic about all this, and why I'm sometimes a bit, ah, overeager with you at the end of our little sessions. You always look so decadently delicious, that I can hardly restrain myself." agreed Mr. Riggs.

Mr. Riggs had started flipping back through the images, in the opposite direction. As he passed through the close-ups, and then back in to the wide shots, Elizabeth stopped him and asked look at one particular image again.

The image was also from her last session with Mr. Riggs. It looked like he had taken it just after he had re-basted her breasts with the Elizabaster, Elizabeth thought. While she remembered, very clearly, her agonized reactions that had accompanied each basting, the photo seemed to show something much different. The girl on the oven looked almost like she was enjoying her time on the device. Her head was thrown back, her eyes were closed, and her expression seemed to be one of nearly sensual pleasure.

At her nod, Mr. Riggs flipped back through the rest of the wide shots. In each photo, Elizabeth noticed something similar. The girl having her breasts cooked was clearly enjoying the process, to some degree, in practically every instance.

Once he returned to the first image, Mr. Riggs set the tablet back on his desk, and got on with the task of cooking a very perplexed and introspective Elizabeth. Thankfully, he had apparently decided against using the Elizabaster, or even his marinade syringes, today, and was content to simply use his brush every time Elizabeth needed more sauce.

The conversation with Mr. Riggs, as well as the photos on the tablet, had distracted Elizabeth from the over sensitivity of her breasts for a few minutes. But, as soon as Mr. Riggs started working his brush against her flesh, however, their condition quickly returned to the forefront of her mind. The confused mix of signals her over stressed nerves were sending to her was nearly overwhelming, and Elizabeth quickly began to loose the ability to discern the difference between them. Was it pain that the heat of the oven was causing her? Was it pleasure she was feeling as Mr. Riggs ran his brush full of hot sauce across her nipple? Both sensations seemed to be occupying the same space within her, and a pulse of one would result in a counter pulse of the other.

When Mr. Riggs finally unstrapped her and pulled her off the oven, Elizabeth's chest was buzzing with sensations that were neither pleasure, nor pain. It wasn't, however, merely a mix of both, either. Whatever alchemy had happened within the nerves of her breasts, it had caused the sum of the sensations she was feeling to be greater than its parts. Perhaps due to this, or perhaps to the abundant water she had been supplied by Mr. Riggs during her time cooking, she was the most alert and coherent she had ever been coming off the oven.

Mr. Riggs seemed to notice this, because instead of sitting her down and allowing her to rest for a few moments before he began consuming her, he apparently decided to do a little impromptu photo shoot first. He took up his little camera and had her pose in several different positions, then had her thrust her chest out as far as she could, which wasn't much father than it already was, for a series of close up shots of her sauce and marinade imbued breasts.

He even unbound her arms, which he had never done during the middle of one of their sessions before, and had her hold up a tray beneath her breasts. Her baked globes rested lightly on the cool metal as Elizabeth held it before her, and Mr. Riggs had her walk back and forth several times along the small room with it as he took photos. He then had her kneel down in front of the workbench and place the tray on it, still resting her breasts upon the tray, then hold her arms behind her back, grasping her elbows with each opposite hand, thrusting her chest out, as if offering herself up.

Setting his camera aside, apparently finished with his photography, Mr. Riggs took the opportunity to rebind her arms, somewhat more loosely than usual, and then stood Elizabeth back up. He put away the tray, after rinsing it off, then set Elizabeth up on to the workbench. Rather than taking his usual place in front of her, however, he returned to his camera.

Mr. Riggs pulled a card out of the camera, then loaded it into the tablet he had been using earlier. He brought up the photos he had just taken, flicking through them swiftly, then glanced up at Elizabeth.

"Want to see?" he asked.

Elizabeth nodded, and Mr. Riggs brought the device over and held it up for her, so they could both see it. Out of the whole set, the images of her holding the tray beneath her breasts struck Elizabeth the most. When she saw the final image, the one of herself kneeling before the workbench with her breasts and the tray resting on it, a little fantasy, one like she had never experienced before, unfolded itself within her mind, practically fully formed.

Elizabeth saw herself in a large, industrial kitchen, cordoned off in a side area with a group of other girls, all of them nude. Their arms were, of course, bound behind them, just as Elizabeth's often were now. A voice rang through the kitchen, making all the girls jump.

"Breasts, table six!" it called.

The chef appeared then, who was, of course, Mr. Riggs. He prowled though the little group of girls, eyeing them critically, as if evaluating and appraising each one. Suddenly making his selection, he wrapped his large hand and long, thin fingers around the back of Elizabeth's neck, pulling her out from the rest of the girls and deeper into the depths of the kitchen.

He brought her to his oven, then strapped her into the machine and prepared her chest, just as he always did, to bake. Before he cooked her, however, he filled her breasts full to bursting with marinade, using a syringe the size of a soda bottle. He then slathered her with sauce, closed the oven, and cranked the heat higher than he ever had.

Once Elizabeth was finished cooking, her chef pulled her off the oven, unbound her arms, and gave her an ornate silver serving tray, which he had Elizabeth hold to her chest and rest her breasts on. He arranged two sets of shining silver cutlery, one alongside each breast, on the tray, then handed her off to a pretty, smiling waitress. The waitress led Elizabeth out of the kitchen and into a rich, tastefully appointed dining room, filled with finely dressed people eating and chatting congenially with each other, none of whom paid her the slightest mind.

Her waitress took Elizabeth to a small table, for two, at which a beautiful young couple sat. The waitress presented Elizabeth to them, then had her kneel before their table and place her serving tray, with breasts, upon it, to murmurs of approval and appreciation. The waitress then pulled Elizabeth's arms behind her back and looped them loosely together with a slim ribbon of silk, to better present Elizabeth's baked flesh to the couple that had ordered it. She then topped off the young couple's wine glasses, bid them bon appetite, and left them to their meal.

Unlike Mr. Riggs, who only ate the sauce from her breasts, Elizabeth's diners quickly proved to want far more from her. Cutlery clinked and flashed, and Elizabeth felt the wickedly sharp tines of first one meat fork, then the other, slide into her offered flesh, to hold it still for the cruel knives which came next. Slivers of meat were sliced from her, over and over, and each morsel was quickly speared by elegant dining forks and moved to hungry mouths. Each tender slice of her flesh was met with delighted smiles and moans of enjoyment, and her couple often took turns feeding each other pieces of Elizabeth's breasts, sensuously chewing her succulent meat after it passed into their waiting, eager mouths.

They finished with Elizabeth while she still had plenty of meat to offer, and the couple debated the merits of asking for a doggy bag. Finally, they decided that, rather than settle for left overs, if they wanted breast again the next day, they would simply return to the restaurant and order more, fresh, from another girl.

They abandoned her then, kneeling, half eaten, at their table, her role in their evening's entertainment fulfilled. They had no further use for her, and the only sign of their appreciation for her existence or sacrifice was a large tip on top of their bill, which the waitress was delighted to claim when she came to buss up the table.

"Elizabeth?" Mr. Riggs asked, breaking the spell that had taken hold of her.

"Huh?" Elizabeth replied, as the fantasy fell away from her mind.

"You drifted there for a moment." said Mr. Riggs, a little amused.

"Uh.. Well, I just.. I just look so.. good." said Elizabeth, nodding to the image still on the tablet, a little embarrassed. "It, uh, kinda distracted me."

"You're right, you do look good, delicious even, and there have been enough distractions, I think, this afternoon." said Mr. Riggs, as he set the tablet aside and slid into the chair in front of her. "I believe that it is time we got down to business."

Mr. Riggs may have gone a little easy on her during her time cooking that day, at least compared to the treatment she had received earlier that week, but he didn't spare her then. He dove in on her breasts with his mouth eagerly, and once again proved to have little restraint.

At one point during the meal, Elizabeth realized that the cord binding her arms had come loose. Rather than use her newfound freedom to try and extract herself from between her teacher's gnashing teeth, she found herself wrapping her arms around Mr. Riggs' head, gently resting her hands on his warm, slightly stubbled scalp, almost cradling him to her heaving, trembling breasts. The sensations coming from her abused nipples as Mr. Riggs assaulted them was extreme, but it was not mere pain that caused her to cry out. The sensations emanating out of her breasts was the new, strange mix of pain and pleasure, and the intensity of it made her heart feel like it would burst.

After he ate his fill, and as Elizabeth rested from her ordeal, Mr. Riggs talked to her about his plans for the next week. He was able to do this because Elizabeth was still far more coherent and self aware than she usually was, post consumption.

"I think we've done just about all we can with your breasts, Elizabeth. If you don't mind, I'd like to move on to a new little project next week." Mr. Riggs said.

Elizabeth, whose breasts had endured more heat and far more mastication over the past few weeks than she would have believed possible, was surprisingly ambivalent about the news. If Mr. Riggs had told her he wanted to give her breasts a break before this latest session within his oven, she would have been very happy indeed. After this afternoon, however, she almost felt regret upon hearing his pronouncement. The new sensations that she had felt within her abused breasts that day, as well as the strange mix of emotions that had flowered upon seeing herself being prepared and presented in the photos Mr. Riggs had shown her, had engendered a curious, but genuine, acceptance of her current station as her teacher's test subject and occasional snack. She no longer felt like she was merely tolerating Mr. Riggs' eccentric hobby so he would pass her in his class, but like she was now an active, willing participant in his personal quest to find better ways of preparing girl flesh, and indeed, of preparing her own flesh.

"Testing the breast cooker so thoroughly was certainly an instructive and stimulating exercise, but there are other designs of ovens that I would like to also expose to the rigors of actual, real world use." Mr. Riggs continued.

"What.. What other designs did you want to test, Mr. Riggs?" asked Elizabeth, after reflecting on his statement for a moment.

"Well, we've done limbs and breasts, and with great success, I might add, but I think it is time to attempt something grander still." Mr. Riggs replied.

"What do you mean?" asked Elizabeth.

"Whole roasting, my dear." said Mr. Riggs simply. "I'd like to see how one of my larger ovens performs, as well as try out several new recipe ideas that Miss Evans and myself have been, ah, cooking up in preparation."

Elizabeth's heart skipped a beat, and her mind flashed back to the very first oven she had constructed for her teacher. She imagined herself encased entirely within the device, laying fully prone and stretched out, covered in sauce, watching as Mr. Riggs closed the oven door upon her, sealing her in with the rising heat, to begin baking. A shivery thrill of mixed apprehension and nervous excitement ran up her body at the thought.

"O-Okay, Mr. Riggs." Elizabeth replied, quietly, after her emotions had calmed some.

"Splendid! I knew I could count on you, Elizabeth." Mr. Riggs said, beaming at her.

A few minutes later, Elizabeth surprised Mr. Riggs by accepting his offer to allow him to clean the residue of sauce and his own saliva from her roasted flesh before she went home. Mr. Riggs, in turn, surprised Elizabeth when he very carefully and very gently washed her hyper-sensitive breasts, using only mild liquid soap, warm water, and his own large, smooth, and dexterous hands.

The feeling of Mr. Riggs patiently cleaning her skin, by the simple expedient of running his fingertips lightly back and forth across her soapy, lathered chest, was unfamiliar, but pleasant and very welcome. After loosening the sticky fluids from her flesh with one hand, he would cup water into the other, then slowly sprinkle it across the newly cleaned skin. He would then gently stroke the mix of water, soap, and sauce from her with both hands.

The contrast of his careful treatment of her breasts with his usual, far more direct and uncompromising manipulations of her flesh was a little startling to Elizabeth. Normally, when Mr. Riggs was touching her breasts, he was doing so indirectly, through a rough scrubbing pad, a basting brush, or by sliding slivers of steel into her flesh to fill her with flavoring marinades. The only times her skin was usually in direct contact with that of her teacher's was when he was feasting on her after she had cooked for him.

In all cases, it was abundantly clear by Mr. Riggs treatment of her that he regarded her breasts as mere ingredients. Elizabeth's breasts were simply objects to be prepared and consumed, with little regard for what sensations they might have to endure from the casual torments he inflicted on them during the process.

The way he was currently treating them, however, as he washed the residue of his earlier abuses away, made it apparent that he was, for the moment, thinking of her breasts as if they were a part of a person: Elizabeth, his student, rather than simply meat for his oven. Mr. Riggs' ministrations brought to Elizabeth's mind the one other occasion when she had received similar treatment from him, which was when he had inspected her breasts for damage after her first experience within his oven. She remembered the surge of emotions that his patting her breast fondly had conjured, and experienced more of the same as her laundering session continued.

By the time Mr. Riggs had finished cleaning and gently patting her skin dry with a soft towel, Elizabeth's jeans were again dampened, but from more than just the errant splashes of water that had dripped and flowed down her trembling tummy. As she walked home afterwards, her legs wobbled a bit weakly, which was also due to more than just the usual heat or other associated trials she had experienced that afternoon.

Mr. Riggs closed the door to his classroom thoughtfully, after watching his student depart, and returned to his office desk. Sitting down at it, he picked up his tablet and reviewed the images of Elizabeth cooking in his oven, that were stored within it, once more. The album he opened, however, was not the same one he had shown first Miss Evans, then Elizabeth herself, earlier that day.

The album Mr. Riggs opened and perused through contained all the other images of Elizabeth that he had taken, the vast majority of which showed her as she truly had been: protesting and in discomfort, pain, and even, occasionally, agony. It had taken him several hours the previous night to separate the relatively few images he had shown to Miss Evans and Elizabeth from the bulk of the photos. It had been, he now felt, time well spent though. He smiled to himself, then turned the device off and went home.

That night, in bed, after she had crawled completely under her covers, actually enjoying the wash of strong sensations her sheets caused within her bare, hyper sensitive breasts every time the fabric moved across them, Elizabeth's mind returned to the little fantasy that had popped into it earlier that day. She replayed it to herself several times. Each time she was again selected and prepared by chef Mr. Riggs, again presented on a platter to those who had ordered her, and again writhing helplessly as her breasts were consumed, slice by slice and bite by bite, from off her quivering chest.

Elizabeth shivered as the scene replayed itself over within her. Her fingertips found her sensitized nipples, and only the briefest of caresses was necessary to cause the surge of pleasure/pain she desired as she imagined them being pinned down and sliced off, repeatedly, to be received within eager mouths that would chew and suck and savor before swallowing her flesh down.

As one of Elizabeth's hands slipped down between her legs, she imagined the fantasy continuing from where it had been interrupted, with her left at the dining table by the restaurant patrons who had finished with her. She imagined having to carry her tray, upon which still rested the unwanted remains of her half eaten breasts, back into the kitchen, so the platter could be washed like all the rest of the dirtied dishes. She imagined being returned to her chef, who would simply slice what was left of her breasts off roughly, before discarding them into a can with the rest of that night's kitchen waste. She imagined hearing the cry of a new order ringing through the kitchen, "Whole roast, table twelve!", and being lead, re-bound and shaking, to a long, large oven that would bake her entire body completely, so those who had desired it could enjoy the flavors and delights her flesh would provide them.

After her climax, Elizabeth drowsed happily, her mind slowly turning over and examining the new fantasies that had helped her achieve such a satisfying conclusion to the day's events. She didn't understand them, nor understand why they made her feel so deliciously aroused and desired, but reveled in the unexpected, sensual pleasure that they engendered within her. Her sleep that night, breasts still tingling and entire body still gently thrumming with afterglow, was the best she'd ever had.