Chapter 7 The Rotisserie Game

The rooster's cry sliced through the morning quiet, a jagged announcement that dawn had arrived. Ms.

Baker stood at the farmhouse counter, sleeves rolled to her elbows, the pot of cubed potatoes sending steam spiraling toward the ceiling. She hummed a tune from her college years, something with a minor key and a winding melody, as her knife worked through a slab of butter on the cutting board.

The weekends had their own rhythm. During the week, she walked the hallways of her middle school, clipboard in hand, eyes tracking the nervous tasty schoolers with their delicious student bodies and their desperate need for guidance.

The collecting was slow, careful work—identifying the right candidates, the ones who wouldn't be missed, frequent runaways, the ones whose families had already given up on understanding them.

But weekends? Weekends were for savoring.
She stirred the potatoes and glanced at the clock.

Her guests would arrive at noon. The meat cuts Miss Goat had provided sat marinating in the refrigerator, thick slabs that would sizzle beautifully on the grill. The rest set in her walk-in freezer.

The corn was shucked and wrapped in foil. Everything was ready.
She'd set pancake batter to rest beside a jar of Daisy's milk.

Both pets could eat pancakes. A rare overlap in their dietary needs.

She smiled at the thought of leaving them last night tangled together in the cellar, faces still crusted with the evidence of last night.

---

The cellar air was thick with the smell of sex and sounds of lite snoring.

Two bodies lay knotted together on the dark sheets, limbs draped and curled, the pink metal tail plug still nestled between Jenny's cheeks.

Her face was smeared with dried cum—hers and Ducky's and Ms. Baker's, all mixed into a flaking mask across her cheek and chin.

Ducky's eyes opened first.
She blinked at the amber glow of the lamps, still burning low from the night before.

The weight in her arms was warm and breathing and naked.

Piglet. Her piglet now—or at least, her farm-sister, her pack-mate. Ducky smiled and nuzzled closer, her nose brushing the dried crust on Jenny's cheek.

Her tongue darted out. She licked.
The taste was stale and salty and familiar. Herself. Ms. Baker. Ducky licked again, longer, wetter, working the dried residue free from Jenny's skin.

In her dream, Jenny was on all fours. The pigpen was soft with fresh straw, and through the open barn doors she could see Daisy Moo's silhouette,

Jenny snuffled at the ground, pushing her nose into the bedding, snorting happily. She was a piglet. Just a piglet.

No school grades. No worries. No father's disappointed silence.

In her dream Daisy lumbered out of the barn, her crawl making soft impressions in the dirt. She lowered her face and began licking Jenny's face with her wet sloppy tongue. It was wet and warm and utterly without hesitation.

Jenny's eyes fluttered open. Ducky's tongue was halfway up her cheek.

"Good morning, sleepy head," Ducky chirped, pulling back just enough to meet Jenny's gaze. Her dark eyes were bright with affection.

Jenny smiled. Her arms tightened around Ducky's slim waist. "Morning."

She kissed Ducky before either of them could think about morning breath.

The kiss was deep and slow, tongues sliding, the taste of old cum and something underneath that was simply Ducky.

Jenny's hand found Ducky's budding breast, the nipple already stiffening against her palm.

Ducky's fingers traced down Jenny's spine, following the groove of her back until they found the base of the tail plug. She pressed lightly.

Jenny gasped into the kiss. They rolled together, still tangled, mouths never separating. Ducky's thigh pushed between Jenny's legs, and Jenny ground down against it, her wetness slicking the skin.

Her own hand slid between their bodies, finding Ducky's prepubescent folds, two fingers pressing inside without preamble.

Ducky moaned, her head falling back. "Yes—"

They repositioned without speaking, a choreography learned in a single moment. Ducky spun, her face settling between Jenny's thighs at the same moment Jenny's mouth found Ducky's pussy.

The sixty-nine was sloppy, urgent, nothing like the deliberate play of the night before.

This was morning hunger—raw and fast and desperate.
Jenny's tongue worked Ducky's tiny clit in tight circles while Ducky's fingers pumped inside her, curling, stretching.

The tail plug shifted with each of Jenny's movements, and the sensation built quickly, too quickly, the coil tightening low in her belly.

Ducky came first, a muffled cry, her hips bucking against Jenny's face. The taste flooded Jenny's tongue, and that was enough—she followed, her own orgasm ripping through her, her thighs clamping around Ducky's head.

They lay there afterward, panting, still connected.

"Morning, pets."

Ms. Baker stood at the bottom of the cellar stairs, her arms crossed, her summer outfit under an apron, bright in the amber light.

How long she'd been standing there was impossible to say.
Both girls scrambled upright, grinning, unashamed.

The room smelled of fresh sweat and arousal now.
"Breakfast is almost done," Ms. Baker said, her expression warm.

"I think it best if you take showers."

"But piggies love being dirty," Jenny said, her voice playful in a way it hadn't been yesterday.

"Pigs like mud," Ms. Baker corrected, one eyebrow arching.
"Cum, on the other hand, doesn't qualify."

"We've been licking each other clean!" Ducky protested, still breathless.

Ms. Baker's mouth twitched. "I'll tell you what. You can shower together. How does that sound?"

They were on their feet before she finished the sentence.

---

She led them outside, not to a bathroom, but around the side of the farmhouse where an outdoor shower station stood against the white clapboard.

A simple wooden platform, a galvanized pipe, a shower head, a hand pump.

"Animals wash outside," Ms. Baker said simply.
Jenny stepped onto the platform, and Ducky crowded in beside her.

Ms. Baker worked the pump handle, and water burst from the shower head above them.
The cold hit like a slap. Jenny's body seized, her nipples springing painfully erect, goosebumps erupting across every inch of her skin. Ducky shrieked and pressed against her, laughing, shivering.

Ms. Baker handed them a bar of soap—not store-bought, but something brown and irregular, rendered from animal fat.

It smelled faintly of lard and herbs.
"Wash each other."
They obeyed.

Jenny worked the soap into a lather and ran her hands across Ducky's shoulders, her budding breasts, down the curve of her waist.

Ducky returned the favor, her slick fingers tracing Jenny's spine, the cleft of her ass, the place where the tail plug. It was erotic and playful and utterly without embarrassment.

They rinsed, the cold water needling their skin, and Ms. Baker pumped the handle once more to stop the flow. She pulled towels from a wooden cabinet and tossed them over.

"Chop, chop. Breakfast isn't going to eat itself.

Pancakes this morning."
Ducky's face lit up. Even Jenny found herself smiling as she toweled off.

---

The morning passed in a blur of sunshine and freedom. They visited Daisy Moo in the barn, and with the milking machine silent, each girl took a breast in her mouth, suckling the sweet milk directly from the source. Daisy moaned with pleasure, her head straining against the wooden yoke, one hand reaching down to stroke her own swollen belly.

Feeding her calves, Jenny thought. That's what this was. And the idea settled into her with a strange, warm rightness.

—-

By noon, they were called to the back of the farmhouse.

The grill was already lit, coals glowing orange beneath the grate.

A long wooden bench had been set up, and beside the grill stood something Jenny hadn't noticed before—a rotisserie cooker, large-sized, its metal frame cold and unused.

"Well, hello, Jenny."
She recognized the voice before she turned. Coach.

Her old soccer coach, the one who'd suggested Ms. Baker's treatment in the first place.

She ran to him without thinking, throwing her arms around his midsection.

"Thank you," she breathed. "Thank you for sending me here."

His hands settled on her bare hips. She felt him stiffen against her belly, his erection pressing through the fabric of his cargo shorts.

She didn't pull away.

"Of course, little one," he murmured. "I knew you'd fit right in."

Ducky hugged him next, and he kissed the top of her head with obvious familiarity. "I missed you!" she said.

"Are you here for the cookout?" Jenny asked.
"Wouldn't miss it."

A pickup truck pulled up, gravel crunching beneath its tires. A broad-shouldered man in overalls climbed out—Farmer Fred—and a woman in similar farm wear followed. Dora.

They took their time heading to the back of the truck. Dropped the tailgate, and two young children hopped down from the truck bed.
They were naked.

Both of them. Elementary -aged way younger than Ducky, one slightly taller than the other, both with undeveloped and smooth mounds and an easy, childish way of moving.

Ms. Baker approached the truck, hand extended. "Farmer Fred, Dora—glad you could make it."

"Never miss a free lunch," Fred said, his grin wide.
Dora slapped his arm playfully. "Behave."

"I see you brought your chickens."
"Yep. They been running around the house all morning. Figured they'd want to meet your new piglet."

The two girls approached Jenny with open curiosity. The taller one spoke first. "Hi, I'm Chicken Little."
The smaller one added, "And I'm Chick-a-Dee."

"Hello, I'm Piglet," Jenny said, yet before she could continue, Ducky bounced in front of her.
"And I'm DUCKY!"
"We know that," the chickens said in unison.
"I know, I just like saying it."

They all laughed, and Jenny felt the last thread of her self-consciousness unravel.

Here she was, naked in front of strangers, and it felt normal. It felt right.

Ms. Baker called her to the table. "This cookout is in honor of you," she said, and her hand opened to reveal a thin leather collar

—soft brown, with a silver pig charm dangling from the front. "Every pet needs her collar."

Jenny turned excitingly around, lifting her hair. Ms. Baker's fingers brushed her throat as she fastened the clasp.

The leather settled against her skin like it had always been there.

"Good girl."

The pleasure flooded through her, and Jenny's eyes welled with tears.

Not from the trigger. From the belonging. She was owned. She was wanted. She was good.

Coach reappeared with a tray of meat, laying the cuts across the sizzling grill. In moments the smell hit Jenny's nostrils, and her stomach growled.

Fred cracked a can of beer and raised it toward the farmhouse.

"Did Miss Goat provide the mutton?"
"Yes," Ms. Baker said, her voice quiet with satisfaction. "She gave her all."
"She always did," Fred said. "She gave her all."

After casual conversation The food was ready to be served. —the thick chops, the roasted corn, the potato salad. All ready.

Jenny ate with her fingers, grease running down her chin, and no one corrected her.

Piglets didn't need forks. She jest.

After the meal, as the adults sat back with their beers, Chicken Little pointed toward the rotisserie.

"Do you want to play a cooking game?"
Jenny blinked. "A cooking game?"
"I'll be the roasting chicken this time!" Chick-a-dee demanded.
Chicken Little turned to Ms. Baker, asking permission with her pleading eyes.

Ms. Baker nodded. "Go ahead, little ones."

"Come on, piglet! You can help be the cook!"
Jenny hesitated. She looked to Ms. Baker, who smiled and gestured toward the rotisserie. "It's okay, piglet.”

“The heat isn't on. It's just a game they like to play."

So Jenny walked to the rotisserie, Ducky at her side, as Chick-a-Dee climbed onto the metal rack. Chicken Little fastened the clamps around her friend's wrists, waist, and ankle. setting her into position—arms above her head, legs spread, body suspended.
She did look like a roasting chicken.

"Wait!" Ducky called out. "We need cooking oil!"

Coach rose from the table with a knowing smile and disappeared into the farmhouse.

He returned with a bowl of oil and three basting brushes.

He placed the bowl on the small table beside the rotisserie and flicked a switch. The heat didn’t turn on yet the frame began to rotate, slow and steady, turning Chick-a-Dee in lazy circles.

Chicken Little picked up the first brush, dipped it in oil, and began basting Chick-a-Dee's rotating body. Ducky grabbed her own brush and joined in, coating the girl's flat chest until he nipples glistened.

Jenny watched for a moment—the strangeness of it, the surreal moment —and then she picked up the third brush.

She dipped it. She reached out.
The brush slid across Chick-a-Dee's thigh, leaving a glossy trail.

The next rotation, she basted the girl's stomach. Then her puffy mound, the brush dragging slowly across her folds.

Chick-a-Dee's eyes fluttered closed, her lips parting.
Jenny felt the heat building between her own legs.

She basted again. Longer. Deeper. This was normal, she thought. Just a game. Just play.

And yet—she watched Chick-a-Dee's expression, that look of pure, surrendering joy, and something in Jenny's chest tightened. A hunger.

Not for food.
She wanted to take a bite.