Melissa blinked, staring at the waitress in disbelief.

For a second, she genuinely thought she’d misheard her. Like something in the noise of the kitchen had twisted the words into something they weren’t meant to be.

“You’re kidding, right?”

The waitress shook her head, still looking at her with that same easy expression, like this wasn’t even worth softening. “Nope,” she said. “You’ll be out on the floor, showing off that tasty body of yours until someone buys it. Then you’ll be cooked in front of them.”

Melissa let out a small, breathless laugh. Not because it was funny. Because it had to be.

“Alive?” she added, the word coming out quieter than she meant it to, like saying it too clearly might make it real.

“Sure,” the waitress replied, completely unbothered. “That’s what Live Service is, Meatgirl.”

Melissa just stared at her, waiting. For the correction. For the moment where the woman would sigh, or roll her eyes, or admit she’d taken it too far.

It didn’t come.

The kitchen noise carried on around them, loud and constant, like nothing had changed. Like this was just another normal conversation happening in the middle of everything else.

Melissa swallowed. “That’s not—” she started, then stopped, her voice catching awkwardly as she tried to pull the thought together. “That’s not what I signed up for.”

The waitress tilted her head slightly. “Yes it is,” she said simply. “You chose Live Service. You confirmed it.”

“I thought—” Melissa cut herself off again, the words slipping away the second she tried to say them out loud.

Service. Work. Something she could do. Something she could survive.

The waitress watched her for a moment, not impatient, not unkind. Just waiting for her to catch up.

“You thought it meant something else,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

Melissa didn’t answer. Her chest felt tight, like her body hadn’t quite caught up to what was happening yet, like it was still trying to place the words somewhere they made sense.

“They don’t correct assumptions,” the waitress added after a moment, almost conversationally. “Not unless you say something that conflicts with your classification.”

Melissa’s gaze snapped back to her. “You didn’t,” she finished with a small shrug.

That was it. That was the explanation. No apology. No adjustment. No second chance.

Just… confirmation.

Melissa shook her head slightly, a short, sharp motion. “No,” she said under her breath. “No, that’s not—”

But it was.

She could feel it settling now, slow and heavy, pressing in from all sides in a way that didn’t leave room for anything else. She hadn’t been assigned. She’d chosen. And no one here was going to treat that like a mistake.

The waitress stepped a little closer, her hands settling on Melissa’s shoulders. Not rough. Just steady. Holding her in place like she might drift off if she wasn’t anchored.

“You made a bad choice,” she said, and there was something almost genuine in her tone now, a faint softness that hadn’t been there before. “I’m genuinely sorry for that. But we bought you from the Centre, and you can’t go back.”

Melissa’s breath hitched.

Bought.

The word landed heavier than anything else had.

She didn’t pull away. Didn’t try. Her body felt… slow. Like it wasn’t quite keeping up with her thoughts, like everything was happening half a second too late.

The waitress gave her shoulders a small, reassuring squeeze. “Accept it, Meatgirl,” she said, voice settling back into that calm, even rhythm. “Once you do, things will be easier.”

Easier.

Melissa let out a short breath through her nose, something close to a laugh but not quite making it. Her eyes flicked past the waitress, back out toward the kitchen, toward the movement, the noise, the heat—everything carrying on exactly the same as it had been a minute ago.

Nothing had changed.

Except it had.

Her jaw tightened.

Easier didn’t mean better.

It didn’t mean safer. It just meant she’d stop fighting it.

Melissa swallowed, her throat feeling tight, her voice coming out quieter than she meant it to.

“I didn’t choose this,” she said.

The words sounded weak even to her own ears.

Because she had. And they both knew it.

“Look on the bright side,” the waitress said, her hands still resting lightly on Melissa’s shoulders like she hadn’t noticed how tense she’d gone. “Everyone’s going to be paying attention to a good quality Meatgirl like yourself.”

She said it like it mattered. Like that was something to hold onto.

Melissa didn’t react straight away. The words slid into place somewhere in her head, neat and tidy, like everything else here. Categorised. Filed. Made acceptable.

It didn’t feel like a bright side. It felt like being looked at.

“And we don’t get a lot of customers buying whole Animals,” the waitress continued, almost conversational now. “So you might end up being with us for a few days.”

A few days.

Melissa blinked.

That should have felt like relief. Time. More time meant something. It always had.

But the way she said it—Not you’ll be okay. Not you’ll be safe. Just… you’ll still be here.

Melissa’s fingers twitched slightly at her sides.

“A few days,” she repeated, like testing the words, like maybe they’d sound different out loud.

The waitress nodded. “Plenty of time to settle in,” she said.

Settle in.

Melissa swallowed. Her body still felt wrong—too aware, too reactive, like it hadn’t got the message her brain was trying to force through.

A few days. Standing there. Being watched. Waiting for someone to decide.

Her jaw tightened slightly.

That wasn’t time.

That was just… delay.

“Alright, let’s get you washed and made to look pretty for the customers.”

The waitress didn’t wait for a response this time. She turned, guiding Melissa with a light pressure at her back, steering her deeper into the kitchen until they reached a section that felt… separate. Not closed off. Just understood.

Melissa slowed as she saw it.

A tiled corner, cleaner than the rest but in a way that didn’t feel comforting. A shower head fixed into the wall at an angle. A grated drain beneath it. Hooks to the side, empty for now.

Functional. Purpose-built.

“Just stand under there and clean yourself thoroughly,” the waitress said, already stepping back. “Don’t mind the stares.”

Melissa hesitated.

Then she glanced out across the kitchen.

They were staring.

Not all of them. Not constantly. But enough. Enough that she could feel it, the weight of it settling across her skin in a way that made her shoulders tighten slightly.

She’d expected something else. Something closer to what she’d seen before.

But it wasn’t that.

There was no lingering gaze. No smirking. No quiet exchange of looks.

It wasn’t that kind of attention.

This was… different.

Focused. Assessing.

Their eyes moved over her in quick, efficient passes. Not drawn out, not indulgent—just enough to take something in before moving on. Like they were checking quality. Not imagining. Not wanting.

Judging.

Melissa swallowed.

It took her a second to place it, to understand what felt so off about it.

They weren’t looking at her like something to touch.

They were looking at her like something to eat.

The thought landed heavy, sitting low in her chest as she turned back toward the tiled wall.

The shower waited.

Simple. Unavoidable.

Melissa stepped forward slowly, positioning herself beneath it, her hands hovering awkwardly at her sides for a moment before she reached up and turned it on.

Water spilled down over her skin.

Warm. Clean. Normal.

For a second, she focused on that. Just that.

But the awareness didn’t go away. The stares didn’t stop. And now that she understood them, she couldn’t pretend they were anything else.

After she was cleaned, the waitress handed her a towel.

Melissa took it quickly, almost gratefully, and dried herself in short, efficient movements, like getting it over with would somehow make the situation smaller. The fabric was soft, warm from somewhere, and for a second she focused on that instead of everything else.

It didn’t last.

“Come on,” the waitress said, already turning.

Melissa followed.

She was led into a small office space just off the kitchen. It was quieter here, the noise from outside muffled just enough to feel distant but not gone. A chair had been placed in the centre of the room, positioned under a bright, focused light.

“Sit.”

Melissa did.

The chair was firm, upright, not designed for comfort so much as positioning. She sat stiffly, hands resting awkwardly on her thighs, unsure what to do with them.

“Next we’ll apply some light makeup,” the waitress said, moving around her with practiced ease. “Just enough to highlight your face and body.”

Melissa frowned slightly. “Body?”

“Shush now, Meatgirl,” the waitress replied without looking at her. “Don’t make me mess this up.”

Melissa’s jaw tightened, but she stayed still.

The woman worked quickly, efficiently. A light touch at her cheeks, something cool brushed across her skin. Blush, subtle enough that Melissa barely felt it. A soft coat of lipstick, just enough to catch the light. Foundation dabbed and smoothed where needed, evening out small imperfections Melissa hadn’t even noticed before.

Nothing heavy. Nothing dramatic.

Just… refined.

“It’ll wash off easy,” the waitress said, her voice softer now, almost reassuring. “Won’t leave a taste on your skin either.”

Melissa stilled slightly at that. Didn’t respond.

A mirror was lifted in front of her.

She looked.

At first, it didn’t seem like anything had changed. It was still her face. Same features. Same shape.

But the longer she stared, the more it became obvious.

Sharper. Cleaner. Less soft.

Like the edges had been defined just enough to make her look… finished.

Not prettier.

Just… prepared.

“Alright, hands behind your head now, Meatgirl,” the waitress said.

Melissa hesitated.

It wasn’t a big movement—just enough to pause, just enough to show she wasn’t fully giving into it—but it was noticed immediately. The waitress stepped in without irritation, taking her wrists and lifting them into place herself, positioning them neatly behind Melissa’s head like she was adjusting something on display.

“Good girl,” she said simply.

Melissa didn’t feel anything from it. Not pride. Not comfort.

Just… compliance.

“Hold that.”

The waitress stepped away briefly, returning with a small container and a soft, feathery brush. She dipped it lightly into a pale pink body paint, tapping off the excess with practiced precision before stepping back in.

“This’ll highlight your nipples,” she said, tone casual. “Make you stand out.”

Melissa’s breath caught slightly as the brush touched her skin.

It was light. Almost nothing.

Just the faintest contact as the soft bristles traced a slow circle around her areola, careful and deliberate. The sensation was subtle, but it lingered, spreading outward in a way that made her shoulders tense slightly despite herself.

She shuddered.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just enough to betray her.

“Settle down, Meatgirl,” the waitress said with a small smile, not unkind, just… knowing. “Feels good though, right?”

Melissa didn’t answer. Didn’t trust herself to.

Her body had already answered for her.

She felt it—her nipples tightening, peaking under the light touch, responding without permission, without thought. The reaction came quick, automatic, and she hated how little control she had over it.

The brush moved again.

This time directly over them.

Soft strokes, layering the color carefully over the now solid nubs, enhancing what was already there rather than changing it. The paint wasn’t thick. It didn’t look artificial. Just enough to draw the eye.

To define. To present.

When Melissa glanced down, her stomach tightened slightly.

They stood out.

Not exaggerated. Not fake.

Just… noticeable.

Deliberately so.

The waitress stepped in again, her movements as efficient as before.

Two fingers brushed lightly along Melissa’s pelvis, tracing the area where hair would normally grow. The touch wasn’t lingering, not exploratory—just checking, the same way everything else had been. Still, it made Melissa tense slightly, her stomach tightening at the unexpected contact.

“Do you shave?” the waitress asked, glancing up at her.

Melissa shook her head.

“Ah,” the woman said, almost to herself. “Late bloomer.”

There was no judgment in it. Just observation.

Her fingers pressed a little more firmly this time, not enough to hurt, just enough to confirm what she’d already assumed, before she withdrew her hand and stepped back again like the moment hadn’t meant anything.

Melissa swallowed, her arms still held behind her head, her body feeling increasingly like something being checked over piece by piece.

Catalogued. Prepared.

“Okay, I need you to stand up and spread your legs.”

Melissa’s head snapped up slightly at that, her arms still held behind her head where she’d been positioned.

“What do you need to do down there?” she asked, the edge in her voice sharper now, defensive in a way she couldn’t quite hide anymore.

The waitress didn’t react to the tone.

“Oh, nothing,” she said lightly. “I’m just going to reward good behaviour.”

Melissa froze for half a second.

The words didn’t sit right. Didn’t connect properly to anything she understood.

But she stood anyway.

Because that was what she’d been doing since she got here.

Following. Positioning. Letting things happen.

She shifted off the chair, her legs unsteady for a moment before she forced them still, then slowly moved them apart like she’d been told.

The waitress knelt down and pulled Melissa forward, her warm breath suddenly caressing her sensitive area. The waitress didn’t speak, didn’t offer encouragement. Just expected her to take it without complaint.

Melissa’s breath caught sharply in her throat, her body reacting before her mind could catch up, a sudden, involuntary tension running through her as her fingers tightened slightly where they were held behind her head.

She didn’t understand it. Didn’t want to.

But it didn’t stop her body from responding, didn’t stop the way her breath hitched, the way something unfamiliar and unwanted built low in her stomach.

“See?” the waitress said softly, almost reassuring. “Good behaviour gets rewarded.”

Melissa squeezed her eyes shut for a second. Not in acceptance. Just… trying to get through it.

The tension between her legs built slowly, steadily, until it became impossible to ignore.

She was aware of the closeness. The warmth. The way the waitress moved in without hesitation, without ceremony, like this was just another step in preparation.

Melissa’s breath hitched.

It wasn’t unpleasant.

That was what made it worse.

Her body reacted anyway, heat pooling low, something building under her skin that she didn’t want, didn’t understand, couldn’t stop no matter how hard she tried to stay still.

And then—

It broke.

Sharp and sudden, the sensation rushing through her before she could brace for it. Something she had only ever experienced alone, something private, something that had belonged to her.

Now it didn’t.

The waitress pulled back, unbothered, reaching for a tissue and cleaning her mouth with casual efficiency like nothing unusual had happened.

“Good girl,” she said, straightening.

Melissa didn’t respond. Didn’t look at her.

She just stood there, arms still behind her head, trying to steady her breathing, trying to feel like she still had control over something.

“Now,” the waitress added, already turning away, “let’s get you on the service floor.”

Melissa was handed a tissue of her own, the waitress pressing it lightly into her hand like it was part of the routine.

“Clean yourself up,” she said. “As best you can.”

Melissa hesitated for a second, then did it. Quick, efficient, not looking too closely, not letting herself think about it more than she had to. Just something to get through.

The makeup had held.

That surprised her.

Despite the heat, the sweat clinging to her skin, everything still sat where it had been placed. Her reflection from earlier lingered in her mind—sharper, cleaner, prepared.

Nothing ruined. Nothing accidental.

“Good,” the waitress murmured, more to herself than to Melissa. “We’ll keep you like that.”

Melissa swallowed.

They moved back through the kitchen.

And the eyes followed again.

Not all at once. Not openly. But enough. Quick glances. Passing looks. That same quiet assessment she’d felt before, like she was being checked without it needing to be obvious.

Only now it felt heavier. More intentional.

“Looking good, Meatgirl,” one of the chefs called out, barely glancing up from where he stood over a stove. “With skin like that, you’d crisp up nicely.”

Melissa’s stomach twisted.

The words didn’t sound like a joke.

Not really.

She opened her mouth slightly, then closed it again, unsure what the response was supposed to be. Was she meant to say something? Acknowledge it? Ignore it?

The silence stretched just long enough to feel awkward.

“Thanks,” she said finally.

The word felt wrong the second it left her mouth. Too normal. Too automatic.

The chef nodded, like it was the correct response, like she’d done exactly what was expected of her, and turned back to his work without another thought.

Melissa stared at him for a second longer.

Then kept walking.

The noise of the restaurant floor was softer.

Not silent, but controlled. Conversations layered over each other in low tones, the occasional clink of glass or cutlery breaking through, everything kept just under a level that would carry too far.

It felt… managed.

Melissa noticed it immediately.

And a small, traitorous part of her felt relieved.

It was easier to breathe out here. Easier to stand. Easier to exist without flinching every time something slammed or someone shouted.

For a second, she let herself think it.

This is better.

Better than the kitchen. Better than the heat, the noise, the constant pressure of it.

Better.

Then the thought caught up with her.

If she’d been working in the kitchens—

If she’d been Service Stock, collar around her neck, hands busy, head down—

She’d have a place. A function. Something to do.

She’d last longer.

Melissa’s jaw tightened slightly, the brief sense of relief turning sour in her chest.

This wasn’t better.

It just felt like it was.

And that was worse.

“Melissa, come meet the other girl we bought.”

The waitress had already moved ahead, not checking if she was following, just expecting it.

Melissa did.

She stepped out onto the floor properly now, the space opening around her—tables arranged neatly, soft lighting, customers seated in quiet conversation like this was just another evening out.

And then she saw her.

A girl, roughly her age, standing in front of a young couple. Her posture was familiar—hands behind her head, chest open, still and compliant in a way that looked almost practiced.

The couple stood close.

Their hands moved over her body.

Melissa’s first instinct was to recoil from the word that came to mind.

Groping.

But it didn’t fit.

There was no urgency in it. No fumbling. No heat.

Their touch was deliberate. Measured. Fingers pressing lightly, then more firmly, shifting, comparing. The way they moved wasn’t about taking.

It was about assessing. Weighing.

The girl didn’t react the way Melissa expected.

No tension. No hesitation.

If anything, she seemed… at ease, a small, easy smile resting on her face as she looked between them, like she was part of the interaction instead of enduring it.

Melissa slowed without meaning to, her steps faltering just slightly as she took it in.

This was what the waitress meant.

Out front. Where everyone could see.

“How’s it feel?” the girl said, her voice light, a soft country accent curling around the words. “The Aunts and Uncles at the Farm said I’d graded A- before shipping me off.”

Melissa blinked at that.

Graded.

The word sat strangely in her head, too casual for what it meant.

The woman in front of her hummed, her hands still resting against the girl’s side, thumbs pressing lightly as if confirming something she already knew.

“Exceptionally good,” she admitted. “Farm Animals always end up good, though.”

The man nodded beside her, his hand giving one last measured press before he stepped back.

“But that’s why we could never afford you,” he said with a small shrug. “But thank you for letting us assess you.”

The girl beamed.