Chapter 8: Chicken Dinner Foreplay

The black metal of the rotisserie had been soaking up the afternoon sun for hours.

Jenny noticed it first—the way heat shimmered above the frame, the way Chick-a-Dee's oiled skin began to glisten with something more than cooking oil.

Sweat beaded along the girl's ribs, trickling down the curve of her waist, dripping unto her puffy mound. with soft drippings from her lips. A sizzle that existed only in Jenny's imagination.

Chick-a-Dee felt it too. The warmth seeped into her muscles, loosening everything, making her feel heavy and slow and perfectly cooked. Her eyes drifted half-closed.

In her mind, she was browning, crisping, becoming something delicious.

The fantasy made her impossibly wet—her slickness mixing with the oil, her thighs pressing together as the rotisserie turned her in lazy circles.

Jenny couldn't stop watching the plump rump as it rotated into view.

Each pass, she dragged her basting brush slower, lingering on the curve of Chick-a-Dee's ass, watching the muscles clench and release.

Her free hand drifted between her own legs without conscious thought. Fingers found her clit, already swollen, and she rubbed in time with the rotation—slow, then slower, matching the rhythm of the turning body before her.

Chicken Little work her neck and face with increasing enthusiasm. Each stoke to Chick-a-Dee's oiled skin.

She moaned each time the basting brush coated her sensitive nipples.

Chicken little took notes in her little head as to how she wanted it done next.

Ducky stopped mid-brush. Her head cocked. A thought had arrived-Jenny recognized the look, that sudden brightness behind the eyes.

Ducky ran to Ms. Baker.
She whisper to her. Ms. Baker's eyebrow arched, then her mouth curved. "That sounds like fun. Hurry back."

Ducky dashed toward the farmhouse, bare feet slapping against the grass. She nearly tripped on the porch steps, caught herself, disappeared through the door.

Jenny and Chicken Little continued basting, though their strokes had grown distracted. Chick-a-Dee kept turning, her head straining against the clamps, trying to see what was happening.

When Ducky returned, she was carrying an armful.
The items clattered onto the table—seasoning shakers from Ms. Baker's kitchen, a fat carrot with its green top still attached, and the the egg vibrator.

The same one. Jenny recognized its shape instantly, the thin cord, the controller.

Ducky's smile was devilish. "Chickens lay eggs too."

No one looked more excited than Chick-a-Dee. She strained against her bindings, her oiled body writhing on the rotisserie rack.

Jenny grabbed the carrot.
She knew exactly where she wanted to put it.

Knew before her hand closed around the thick orange root. She brought it between her own legs first, rubbing the tapered tip through her wetness, coating it until it glistened.

Then she waited. Timing the rotation.
Chick-a-Dee's ass swung into view.

Jenny spread her cheeks with with her thumb and finger, chick-a-dee’s flesh slick and warm from the sun-heated metal. The carrot's tip pressed against the tight pucker.

She quickly wiggled it, worked it, felt the resistance give way. Inch by inch, the carrot disappeared, until only the green fronds remained visible.

The rotisserie turned. The cheeks swung out of view, then back around—still gripping the carrot, still clenching around it.

Chicken Little grabbed the seasonings. She shook paprika across Chick-a-Dee's belly and onto her thighs, something herbal onto the flat chest. "Basting and seasoning," she said, her voice thick. "Proper cooking."

Ducky held up the egg vibrator. Ms. Baker's voice cut across the yard: "Dip it in the oil."
Ducky submerged the egg in the basting bowl. It emerged dripping golden, the silicone slippery.

She approached the rotisserie and asked, "Can I stop it?" Ms. Baker nodded.

With the switch clicked. The rotation halted with Chick-a-Dee stop facing them yet the world still spin feeling dizzy—legs spread, pussy exposed, the green carrot fronds peeking from between her cheeks.

Ducky knelt. Her fingers parted Chick-a-Dee's folds, and she rubbed the egg across the girl's clit.

Chick-a-Dee shook in her bindings, her ass squeezing the carrot, her chest heaving. The egg pressed inside—slow, slippery, until it disappeared entirely, the thin cord trailing from her entrance.

Some thanks go to Farmer Fred for his efforts in expanding her stuffing capacity.

Ducky pressed the controller and the jerking started.

Chick-a-Dee went wild.
Her back arched. Her hips bucked. A moan tore from her throat—something between a cluck and a scream.

Ducky set the controller on the rotisserie's baseplate and flipped the switch for the rotisserie.
She almost flip the the heating element switch yet begrudgingly flip the correct one.

The rotation resumed.
Now everyone watched the chicken turn—bucking, writhing, the egg buzzing audibly inside her.

Jenny's fingers worked her own clit with desperate pressure. She didn't care who saw.

Didn't care that Coach was watching, that Fred and Dora were watching. Her orgasm built like heat in a closed oven.

Coach stood abruptly. His shorts were tented. "I’m heading to the barn to visit Daisy Moo."

Everyone at the table knew what that meant.

He walked toward the red barn, his gait stiff with need.

Farmer Fred looked at his watch. "We should get going. Cows need tending to." He had a dairy farm down the road a bit. Unfortunately real cow.

He’s looking to get some human ones one day. If the right one comes along.

The pets whined in unison. Even Jenny, who had no claim on the chickens, felt the protest rise in her throat.

"Can we at least taste her before we go?" Chicken Little asked, her eyes pleading.

Dora spoke up. "I wouldn't mind tasting her tootsie."

Fred looked at his watch again. Sighed. "I guess we can stay a little longer."

The pets cheered. Ms. Baker cleared the picnic table, spreading a cloth over the wood.

Fred turned off the rotisserie and unclamped Chick-a-Dee.

Her body was slippery and surprisingly warm—the sun and the black metal and her own arousal had heated her through.

He carried her to the table, laid her on her back, the egg still buzzing, the carrot still buried.

Everyone gathered around. Hungry looks. Wet lips.

Ducky looked to Mistress. Ms. Baker nodded. It’s really not like she is eating her.

"Ducky, you may lick too."

The onslaught began.
Tongues descended from every direction. Lips pressed against oiled skin. Teeth grazed—little nibbles, never breaking flesh, just tasting the salt and the sweat and the woman underneath.

Chick-a-Dee wiggled beneath them, her moans continuous now, her body responding to every mouth.

Jenny went for the pussy.
Leaning over the table- ass propped up. She felt her butt plug shift. She hardly notice it much.

She could feel the vibration against her tongue as she licked, the egg humming inside Chick-a-Dee's channel.

The taste was seasoning and oil. The arousal was mutual, she chased deeper.

"Flip her over!" Chicken Little demanded.

Fred effortlessly flipped her. Jenny's mouth lost its purchase, but she found new territory—the plump, seasoned buttocks.

Ducky fished out the carrot. It came free with a wet sound, and Ducky crunched into it with satisfaction. Chick-a-Dee's responding moan was guttural.

Chicken Little spread her sister's cheeks and buried her tongue in the tight pucker, tasting the residual carrot juice and oil.

Dora sucked on Chick-a-Dee's dainty foot, her tongue sliding between the toes. The toes wiggled in response.

Fred worked on her fingers sucking them into his mouth. Ms. Baker did the same with the other hand.

They sucked in tandem, tasting the salt, the oil, the faint residue of seasoning.

Someone bit into her butt—not hard, just a playful nip. Someone else lapped at the crease where thigh met hip.

Chick-a-Dee had entered la-la land. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing was deep and slow.

By the time they'd licked her clean, she'd fallen asleep.

Ms. Baker straightened. "I think she's had enough."

"One more thing!" Ducky grabbed the cord trailing from Chick-a-Dee's pussy and pulled.

The egg popped free with a wet, obscene sound. Chick-a-Dee moaned in her sleep.

Fred clapped his hands. "Time to go."

"Should we wash her up before you leave?"
Ms. Baker asked.
"Nah. We'll wash her when we get home."

They gathered their chickens—Chick-a-Dee limp in his arms and dreaming, Dora carried Chicken Little still licking oil from her lips—and loaded them into the pickup.
The truck rumbled to life and pulled down the gravel drive.

Jenny and Ducky waved until the dust settled.

Both pets were sticky messes—oil and sweat and each other's arousal smeared across their skin. Jenny's fingers were still pruned with wetness.

Ms. Baker watched Jenny with something new in her expression. Not just satisfaction.

Something deeper. Calculation, maybe.
Or primal lust.
"Such amazing progress," she said, almost to herself.

Amazing "In such a short time."

She touched Jenny's collar, her fingertip tracing the silver pig charm.

"I think it's time to show you the other kitchen."

Ducky's face lit up. "The other kitchen!" “It’s super amazing.”

"The one with the wash stations. The restaurant appliances." Ms. Baker's hand settled on the back of Jenny's neck, warm and commanding.

"Time to show you how to properly wash a little piglet“