CHAPTER ELEVEN

Riley follows her mother back toward the waiting area, the quiet hallway opening into the same reception space they passed through earlier. The clerk behind the desk notices them immediately and steps out from behind the counter with an easy, professional smile.

“You look great, ladies,” she says warmly. “How did it feel?”

The question makes Riley’s cheeks flush all over again. The memory hits her at once—too vivid, too recent—and she drops her gaze toward the floor, hoping the heat in her face isn’t as obvious as it feels.

Her mother answers before Riley can find a word.

“Riley had a great time, didn’t you, kiddo?” she says brightly, giving Riley’s bare arm a light punch. “We could hear you down the hall.”

“Mom, stop,” Riley mutters through clenched teeth, her voice tight with embarrassment.

The clerk doesn’t react to the tension at all. If anything, her smile becomes a little more reassuring, the practiced tone of someone who has had this exact exchange many times before.

“Nothing to be ashamed about,” she says calmly, her smile softening a little as her eyes linger on Riley. “Our Service Stock are trained to enhance the experience. Helping Meatgirls relax is part of the service.”

Her gaze flicks back to Riley, warm and lightly amused.

“First visits can be overwhelming… but you handled yours very nicely.”

Riley shifts her weight slightly, suddenly aware again of the open space around her and the way the reception area feels far too public for a conversation like this. The clerk, however, speaks with the same casual professionalism someone might use discussing a routine medical checkup.

To her, this is normal.

“See, Riley? Nothing to be ashamed about,” Kara says easily, turning toward her daughter with the satisfied tone of someone who believes the situation has already been settled. “You should have fucked that nice lad too. Kevin, was it?”

Riley’s head snaps toward her.

“Mom, he was way older than me,” she says, her voice tightening with disbelief. “And he has a husband.”

Kara shrugs as if the objection barely registers.

“Doesn’t matter to Animals,” the clerk says before Kara can reply, stepping in with the same calm, professional tone she’s been using the entire time. There’s no hint of discomfort in her expression, just the steady confidence of someone explaining an ordinary social rule.

She folds her hands lightly on the reception desk.

“Any good spouse understands that,” she continues. “Most people want their partner to enjoy their last week as much as possible.”

Her gaze settles briefly on Riley, measured and matter-of-fact rather than sympathetic.

“It’s considered supportive.”

Riley shifts her weight again, heat rising back into her face. The conversation is happening in the open reception area like it’s nothing unusual at all, like discussing weekend plans or dinner reservations.

To everyone else in the room, it probably is.

Riley can barely believe they’re talking about it this casually.

The words hang in the air between them like it’s nothing—like they’re discussing what restaurant to try for lunch instead of who she should be fucking during the last week of her life.

Her face burns hotter the longer the conversation continues.

She’s still a virgin, for crying out loud.

The thought lands hard enough that she almost blurts it out just to make them stop, just to force a moment of silence into the cheerful, matter-of-fact tone the adults seem perfectly comfortable using.

The last boy she kissed had been in tenth grade.

And even that had barely counted.

They’d been standing behind the bleachers after a football game, both of them nervous and awkward, their mouths bumping together for about three seconds before someone walked past and they jumped apart like they’d been caught committing a crime.

That was it.

Three seconds of clumsy teenage kissing.

Now they’re standing in a government facility talking about how she should be sleeping with strangers before she gets processed like it’s a perfectly normal life experience she’d somehow forgotten to schedule.

Riley shifts her weight again, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow her.

“The flavour baths are ready, Meatgirls,” another naked Service Stock woman calls from a doorway opposite the candlelit hall. She gestures politely into the room behind her. “If you’ll follow me?”

Riley and Kara stand and follow her through the doorway into a tiled bathing chamber. The smell hits them immediately.

Two large soaking tubs sit side by side in the center of the room, steam curling slowly into the air above them. One carries a sweet, smoky scent—honey, barbecue, and herbs blending together in a thick, mouth-watering aroma. The other smells deeper and heavier, something savory and rich.

The Service Stock woman steps between the baths and gestures toward the first one.

“Riley, this one’s yours,” she says, gesturing toward the honey barbecue bath. “Younger meat pairs beautifully with honey barbecue,” she says. “Nice and sweet.”

She glances at Riley with a small teasing smile.

“You’ll smell delicious.”

Her tone remains calm and professional, like a chef describing a marinade.

Then she motions to the second bath.

“And for the temporary Meatgirl, we have something suited to a more adult palate.”

Kara leans slightly forward, breathing in the scent hanging in the warm steam.

“It smells like a Sunday roast,” she says, clearly amused.

Riley stands there for a moment longer, the sweetness of the barbecue scent thick in her lungs, realizing with a strange twist in her stomach that the entire room smells exactly like dinner.

Riley steps closer to the tub and dips one finger into the thick marinade. The liquid clings to her skin when she lifts it back out, dark and glossy in the steam rising from the bath. She brings her finger to her mouth and tastes it.

“That tastes awesome,” she says, licking her lips as she considers it. “It’s kinda hot though. The liquid, I mean.”

“It’s supposed to be,” the Service Stock woman replies calmly. “It needs time to soak in properly,” she says, smiling slightly. “We want all that flavour to settle into you.”

Riley looks down into the steaming tub again, watching the surface ripple faintly.

“Will it hurt?”

“Not a bit,” the woman says. “You might even enjoy it,” she says with a small smile. “Most Meatgirls do once they relax.”

She reaches over to a small side tray and produces two wine glasses. With the same casual efficiency she fills one with the honey barbecue marinade and the other with the darker, savory mixture from the neighboring bath.

The glasses look strangely elegant in her hands.

“We must insist you don’t drink the marinade once you’re inside it,” she tells them, offering the glasses forward. “So please, enjoy the flavour your meat will take on as it soaks into you like this.”

The scent of barbecue and roasted herbs rises with the steam as she hands the glasses over.

“Oh, and one more thing,” the Service Stock woman adds, as if remembering a routine safety note.

Her tone remains perfectly polite.

“We must also ask that you don’t masturbate while you’re in the bath.”

Riley blinks at her, caught off guard by how casually the instruction is delivered.

The woman continues without the slightest hint of embarrassment.

“We don’t want the marinade getting inside anywhere sensitive,” she explains. “It’s designed to soak through the skin, not internal tissue.”

She gives them a small, professional smile, the same expression someone might use while explaining how long to leave conditioner in your hair.

“So please keep your hands above the surface while you’re soaking.”

The warm steam continues to curl upward from the tubs, carrying the thick smell of barbecue and roasted herbs through the room.

“I’ll stay here and keep an eye on you both,” the Service Stock woman says, gesturing casually around the warm tiled room. Steam continues to drift lazily upward from the two tubs while the thick smell of barbecue and roasted herbs hangs in the air.

“Feel free to sleep, talk, or enjoy your complimentary samples while you soak.”

She steps closer to Riley as she says it, her attention naturally settling on the only actual Meatgirl in the room. Without hesitation she reaches out and runs a slow hand down Riley’s smooth chest, the gesture casual and practiced, as if she were checking the firmness of fruit at a market.

“After the soak comes the basting.”
She smiles faintly.
“Most Meatgirls melt when I do it.”

Her hand lingers for a moment before she withdraws it again, already turning back toward the baths like she’s simply continuing the treatment process.

Riley sits carefully on the edge of the tub and lowers one leg into the marinade.

The liquid clings to her skin immediately. It’s thicker than water, warm and slightly sticky, the heat wrapping around her calf as she slides her foot deeper into it. The scent of honey and smoke rises with the steam, stronger now that she’s close enough to feel it coating the back of her throat.

It feels strange against her smooth skin.

Strange, but not unpleasant.

She lowers her other leg, then grips the edge of the tub and eases herself down into the bath. The marinade parts around her hips and stomach before slowly rising up her body, the warmth spreading as she sinks deeper. When she finally settles, the liquid reaches the base of her neck, leaving only her shoulders and head above the surface.

The sticky warmth presses against every inch of her skin.

“That’s right, Meatgirl,” she says approvingly as Riley settles into the bath. “Nice and slow.”

Her voice carries a faint, playful warmth now.

“We don’t eat heads, so there’s no need to drown that pretty one.”

Steam curls lazily around Riley’s shoulders as the marinade laps gently against her skin, the smell of barbecue thick in the air.

“Oh, that feels lovely,” Kara says from the neighboring tub as she eases herself deeper into the darker marinade. The liquid laps gently against the rim while steam curls around her shoulders. She tilts her head back slightly, clearly enjoying the warmth soaking into her skin.

“How does yours feel, dear?” she asks, turning toward Riley.

Riley has already settled into the padded edge of the tub. The thick honey barbecue mixture presses warmly against her body, sticky and heavy but strangely comforting as it clings to her skin. The scent of smoke and sweetness hangs around her face with every breath.

She lets her head fall back against the cushion lining the rim.

Instead of answering, Riley simply hums in quiet approval, the sound low and content as she relaxes into the heat of the bath.

For a while the room falls quiet.

Steam drifts lazily through the tiled chamber while the two baths give off their thick, savory scents. The honey barbecue around Riley releases a constant sweetness into the air, mixing with the deeper roasted smell rising from Kara’s tub. Together they make the entire room smell less like a spa and more like a kitchen preparing dinner.

Riley lies back against the padded rim of the bath, her shoulders resting above the surface while the warm marinade presses against the rest of her body. The heat seeps slowly into her muscles, heavy and relaxing, and the sticky liquid clings to her skin every time she shifts even slightly.

Across the room, the Service Stock lowers herself to the floor and sits with her back against the tiled wall.

She doesn’t look relaxed at all.

Her eyes stay on the two tubs the entire time, alert and attentive as she watches them soak. Every small movement draws her attention—the shift of a shoulder, the repositioning of a leg, the idle drift of a hand near the surface of the liquid.

Like a hawk watching a field for the slightest twitch of movement.

The moment stretches quietly, filled only with the soft lap of marinade against porcelain and the slow hiss of steam rising into the warm air.

Riley lifts the wine glass to her lips and takes a careful sip, savoring the rich barbecue marinade that her body is currently soaking in. The flavor is thick and sweet with a smoky edge, the honey lingering on her tongue as she swallows.

“Let me have some?” Kara asks from the neighboring bath.

Riley leans slightly across the space between the tubs and hands the glass over. Kara brings it to her nose first, inhaling the scent with exaggerated seriousness before taking a sip.

Her eyebrows lift immediately.

“Alright, that’s fantastic,” she admits.

“Let me try yours,” Riley says.

Kara passes her own glass across. Riley takes a small sip and nearly laughs at the intensity of it. The flavor is deep and savory, rich in a way that reminds her instantly of Sunday dinner—roasted chicken juices blended with thick, herby gravy.

“That’s excellent,” she says, handing the glass back.

Kara settles deeper into her bath with a grin spreading across her face.

“Look at us,” she says, lifting her glass slightly. “Sipping marinade like fine wine.”

Riley puts on an exaggeratedly posh accent.

“We are dignified ladies, mother,” she declares. “Only the finest barbecue sauce for my delicious body.”

“Indeed,” Kara replies with matching seriousness.

They lean toward each other as far as the tubs allow and clink their glasses together. The moment holds for a second before the absurdity of it finally breaks through and both of them start laughing.

The Service Stock glances over from her spot on the floor, watching the exchange with mild amusement while still keeping a careful eye on their hands.

Riley doesn’t remember closing her eyes.

One moment she’s lying back against the padded edge of the tub, the sweet barbecue scent hanging thick in the warm steam, and the next she feels a hand resting on her shoulder.

She startles slightly as she wakes.

“Time to get out, Meatgirl,” the Service Stock says quietly.

Her voice is calm, almost gentle, careful not to carry across the room.

Riley blinks sleep from her eyes and lifts her head. The marinade around her shifts as she moves, thick and warm against her skin after what must have been a long soak.

The Service Stock nods toward the other tub.

“Before I wake your mother,” she continues, lowering her voice a little more, “I just need to wipe you down.”

Steam curls slowly through the tiled chamber while Riley pushes herself upright, the sticky liquid clinging to her body as she rises from the bath.

Riley pushes herself upright in the bath, the thick marinade sliding slowly down her skin as she rises. The liquid clings stubbornly to her body, stretching in glossy strands before dripping back into the tub.

The Service Stock steps forward and offers her a hand.

Riley accepts it.

The woman’s grip is firm as Riley carefully lifts one leg over the edge and steps out onto the warm tile floor. The air feels cooler immediately, sending a faint shiver across her shoulders as the marinade begins to run in slow trails down her body.

She looks down at herself.

Her skin has changed color completely.

Where it had been pale before, it’s now a deep, glossy brown—dark and rich, the exact color of treacle. The sticky sheen catches the light from the room as it coats her from neck to ankle, making her look less like someone who’s just taken a bath and more like something that’s been carefully glazed.

The smell rises from her skin every time she moves.

Sweet.

Smoky.

Thick with barbecue.

“No shower this time, Meatgirl,” the Service Stock tells her.

Riley is guided away from the bath toward a wide ceramic sink set into the tiled wall. As she walks, thick lines of marinade continue to slip down her body, trailing slowly from her elbows and fingertips before dropping onto the floor in sticky beads. Each step sends another wave of the sweet, smoky scent drifting back up toward her face.

Barbecue and honey.

Warm and rich.

The smell follows her.

Somewhere in the middle of the room she realizes something strange.

She’s suddenly hungry.

“Stand with your arms out.”

The instruction is given without force or urgency. The woman’s voice carries the same patient professionalism she’s used through the entire treatment.

Riley raises her arms.

The Service Stock dips a soft cloth into the sink and begins wiping along the length of Riley’s arm. The motion is slow and careful, deliberate enough that the cloth gathers the excess marinade without stripping away the glossy coating that has soaked into her skin.

The touch is gentle.

Almost careful.

She works from Riley’s wrist upward, collecting the sticky drips while leaving the dark treacle sheen behind.

The cloth continues its slow path across Riley’s body.

The Service Stock works methodically, her movements gentle but unavoidably intimate. The soft fabric glides across Riley’s chest first, carefully wiping away the thick drips that have gathered beneath her breasts without disturbing the glossy treacle sheen coating her skin.

From there the cloth moves lower.

Her stomach.

Her hips.

Then between her legs, where the woman had earlier warned Riley not to touch herself.

The same careful attention is given everywhere—the curve of her ass, the inside of her thighs, any place the marinade might pool or drip too heavily. The woman works with practiced efficiency, lifting excess sauce without stripping away the flavor that has soaked into Riley’s skin.

Riley tries to focus on anything else.

The smell.

The warmth of the room.

The quiet sound of cloth moving across skin.

Anything but the slow, uncomfortable heat building between her legs.

“Will my skin stay this colour?” Riley asks, her voice a little too casual as she tries to distract herself.

The Service Stock glances up briefly while continuing her work.

“No,” she says calmly. “Take a shower tonight before bed and the color will wash away. You’ll retain the flavour enhancement without spoiling your beautiful pale skin.”

Riley lets out a small huff.

“It’s not that pretty,” she says automatically, the deflection clearly habitual.

The woman pauses for just a moment before answering.

“I see a hundred Meatgirls a week,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact rather than flattering. “Very few have such lovely skin.”

Then the cloth resumes its slow, deliberate work.

“I bet you say that to all the Meatgirls,” Riley says, her tone teasing as she tries to push back against the compliment.

The Service Stock only gives a small shake of her head while she rinses the cloth under the sink, the dark water swirling briefly before disappearing down the drain.

“Nope,” she replies calmly. “Good skin like yours crisps up beautifully.”

She wrings the cloth out and looks back at Riley with the same casual professionalism she’s maintained the entire time.

“You should ask to be spit roasted.”

Riley lets out a small, startled laugh before she can stop herself, unsure whether the woman is joking or simply stating a culinary preference.

“Oh,” she says after a moment. “I thought Animals my age were put to sleep.”

“You’re allowed to ask for something different,” the woman replies easily.

The cloth returns to Riley’s skin as she resumes wiping away the slow drips of marinade, her tone suggesting the topic is no more unusual than choosing how a steak should be cooked.

“I never really considered it,” Riley says after a moment, watching the woman rinse the cloth again. “What would you choose?”

The Service Stock shrugs lightly.

“I’d choose euthanasia,” she replies without hesitation. “I’m terrible with pain.”

Then, without warning, her free hand darts upward and pinches Riley’s nipple.

Riley hisses at the sudden sting, her shoulders jerking.

The woman’s expression barely changes.

“But you look like you can handle a little pain,” she continues calmly, as if the pinch had been part of the conversation all along. “For that final euphoria.”

Before Riley can respond, the woman’s hand slips lower.

This time it isn’t the cloth.

Her fingers slide briefly between Riley’s legs, quick and deliberate.

When she pulls them back, they’re wet.

And it isn’t marinade.

The Service Stock glances at her fingers, then back at Riley with a faint, knowing smile.

“You might even like pain.”

The Service Stock lifts her hand slightly, the glistening fingers hovering in front of Riley’s face.

“Open,” she says simply.

Her voice isn’t harsh, but the calm certainty in it leaves little doubt about what Riley is expected to do.

Riley hesitates for only a moment before parting her lips.

The woman’s fingers brush lightly across her tongue before withdrawing again.

“Taste,” she tells her in the same steady tone. “That’s excitement.”

Riley swallows reflexively, the taste lingering strangely against the smoky sweetness still coating the air around them.

The Service Stock studies her for a moment, tilting her head slightly as if evaluating something.

“You might even make it as more than your average Meatgirl,” she adds.

Then the cloth returns to its slow, methodical work, wiping another glossy trail of marinade from Riley’s skin as though the brief interruption had simply been part of the treatment.

“What do you mean?” Riley asks, her brow furrowing slightly.

She already knows about Working Animals and Service Stock. The thought that the woman might be referring to one of those sends a quiet unease through her stomach.

She really hopes that isn’t what she means.

“Companion Animals,” the Service Stock explains.

She says the term the way someone might introduce a prestigious job title.

“It’s a hard classification to earn,” she continues, wringing the cloth out again before returning to Riley’s arm, “but it’s the best thing that can happen to an Animal.”

“How so?” Riley asks.

“You’d be purchased by a private household,” the woman says matter-of-factly. “People wealthy enough to own a whole human life.”

The cloth slides slowly along Riley’s shoulder as she speaks.

“There are strict laws protecting Companion Animals from abuse,” she adds. “You’d be representing the System, after all.”

She gives Riley a small, almost approving glance.

“It’s considered an honor.”

“There,” the Service Stock says at last, setting the damp cloth aside. “All done.”

She steps back to look Riley over, giving a small nod of approval.

“Head back to the waiting room and we’ll let you know when we’re ready for the final treatment.”

Riley opens her mouth as if to ask something—about Companion Animals, about the choices she hadn’t known she had—but there’s a quiet sense of finality in the woman’s tone. The conversation is finished.

So she leaves the bathing chamber.

The hallway feels cooler after the warm, steamy room. The sweet smell of honey barbecue follows her as she walks, drifting faintly in the air with every step until she reaches the waiting room and sits down in one of the chairs.

It’s still empty.

A moment later the clerk returns from behind the counter carrying a small plate.

“Energy bar?” she offers, holding it out. “I bet you’re hungry.”

Riley realizes she is.

“I am, thanks,” she says, taking one from the small stack and tearing the wrapper open immediately.

She takes a bite.

The clerk pauses nearby, sniffing the air with a faintly amused expression.

“Oh, honey BBQ suits you, honey.”

“You think so?” Riley asks around a mouthful, still chewing.

“Oh yes,” the clerk replies. “The Service Stock know exactly what they’re doing.”

Her eyes drift over Riley’s body with professional appreciation.

“Your skin already looks nice and cooked.”

Riley glances down at herself again, the treacle sheen still dark across her arms and stomach.

“A bit well done maybe,” she says.