Chapter 13: Fox in the Henhouse


The scene that greeted piglet was exactly what the monitor had shown: Ducky pinned face-down in the straw, Chicken Little straddling her back, Chick-a-Dee sitting on her legs.

Both chickens were pecking—fingers darting in to pinch Ducky's ribs, her inner thighs, the soft curve of her ass. Ducky's muffled quacks of protest were half laughter, half genuine distress.

Weird bird play, Piglet thought. If you asked her.

Across the barn, Farmer Fred sat behind Daisy Moo, one hand rubbing slow circles against her pink, glistening folds while the twins nursed at her breasts. Dora was already lifting one milk-drunk calf into the crook of her arm, its tiny mouth still working at empty air.

The other bull calf was nearly finished.

Piglets attention focus back to the fouls.

"Mom wants you up to the house for your vet exam." Wow she said the mom thing again-she felt a stir.

Piglet stepped into the straw, addressing Ducky but loud enough to cut through the chaos.

"Go away, Jenny!" Chicken Little didn't even look up. Her fingers had found Ducky's armpit, and Ducky squirmed, giggle-cry.

"I'm not Jenny." Piglet planted her feet.

Piglet need to take charge,a plan to…-shes gots it!

She contorted her face into something monstrous—lips pulled back, eyes wide, fingers hooked into claws. "I'm a hungry fox and I eat chickens. ROARRRrr!"

She lunged at them.
The chickens scattered, shrieking with delight.

Chick-a-Dee tumbled off Ducky's legs, and Chicken Little lost her balance, sprawling sideways into the straw.

Ducky scrambled up. “Noooo!" Chicken Little lunged after her, but Piglet caught her around the waist, dragging her back. The smaller girl kicked and squirmed, laughing, her sweaty skin slippery against Piglet's grip.

Ducky check on Daisy, she moo’s- Farmer Fred still rubbing her with care. That’s what ducky like about him. He’s so sweet and loving-he is also best and only butcher she knows.

Her collar charm swinging wildly as she threw her arms around Farmer Fred's neck. She planted a wet kiss on his stubbled beard.

She looked back at piglet blocking the children attempt to get her.

“Bye, suckers’ smell you later!" Ducky bolted for the barn door, her bare feet kicking up straw.

——

Dora kissed Fred on the mouth—a quick, fond press of lips—and gathered the second calf.
“Behave yourself Fredrick Arnold, this isn’t home.”
He smiles she knows him so well.

She headed for the farmhouse without a backward glance, babies cradled in both arms.

Piglet now had both chickens. She wrestled them down into the straw, one under each arm, and began teasingly biting—her teeth grazing Chick-a-Dee's shoulder, then Chicken Little's ear. They squealed and thrashed, their bodies tangling with hers, skin against skin.

This felt different from the rotisserie game. Wilder. More real. The children were loving this game.

A shadow form the trio.

"Farmer Fred! Save us!" Chicken Little's cry was theatrical, her voice pitched high and desperate.

Piglet turned.
Fred had crept up silently. He stood over them, his broad frame blocking the barn's amber light, his shorts tented with the erection she had felt pressing against her hip at the cookout.

"I wanna play." His voice was gravel. “Those are my chickens!”

He grabbed her ankle and yanked.
Piglet's grip on the chickens broke as she slid through the straw, her new tail plug grinding against something deep inside her. Swiftly she was airborne—Fred's hand gripping one slender leg, hoisting her up until she dangled. Her other leg kicked uselessly. Her arms windmilled. The weight of her young form light compared to the heavy quarters he has hauled.

Suspended. Exposed. Her crotch was inches from his face. He loves young pussy, such a sweetness about them-delicious as well.

A vulnerability shot through her like an electric current. Unwanted. And yet. Her pussy clenched around nothing, and she felt herself grow wet.

The chickens danced below her. "We captured the fox!" Chicken Little declared, clapping her hands. The play had flipped. Piglet was no longer the scary predator.
“She now our prey.” Chicken Little declared.

Prey, Fred chuckle, seeing their excitement.

Fred played along.
Little hands grabbed her breasts—Chicken Little's fingers, pulling and twisting her nipples with a roughness that bordered on painful.

Piglet gasped, tried to swat them away. Fred's grip on her ankle was iron. Another hand smacked her ass. Then another. The chickens circled, taking turns.

"Take this, you fox!"
Chick-a-Dee pressed her crotch into Piglet's face. The smell was salt and oily sweat and something musky. Piglet couldn't breathe. She tried to turn her head, but chick-a-dee's tiny hands clamped her ears, and then she was grinding—fast, erratic, nothing like the slow rotation of the rotisserie. A frantic, desperate rubbing that mashed piglet's nose against her clit.

Another smack landed on Piglet's ass. Hard. The sting radiated outward, and her anus clenched around the thick plug. Chicken Little's fingers found the tail and twisted.
The sensation detonated.

A wave traveled from piglet's rectum straight to her brain, short-circuiting every thought. Her bladder let go.

Hot piss gushed from her, spraying her own thighs, splattering Chick-a-Dee's legs, darkening the straw beneath her. She couldn't stop it. The release was total, humiliating, and her pussy throbbed with an arousal so sharp it was almost pain.

Chick-a-Dee didn't notice. Her hips jackhammered against Piglet's face, and her wetness smeared across piglet's lips, her chin, her cheeks. Piglet tried to lick—tried to kiss—but the pace was too fast, too brutal. Just salt and heat and the suffocating press of flesh.

Then Chick-a-Dee's rhythm stuttered. Her thighs clenched. A high, gutted moan escaped her throat, and she came, hard, her slick flooding piglet's nose and mouth.

She slumped backward into the straw, chest heaving.

Fred keep the game going.

"Let's hear what the fox has to say." Fred's voice rumbled through the barn.

He still held her ankle, her body swaying gently. She felt like hanging meat ready to butcher, piglet couldn’t tell what kind of game this was, yet she liked it.

Fred was getting into this little game. Over the years he had played all kinds of games with his little chickens. Age appropriate games like wake Mr. Wormy with plenty of cooking themes.

"What do you have to say, fox?" piglet's tongue was lead. Her mind had become a white static, the taste of another girl's orgasm coating her teeth. She opened her mouth. Nothing.

Two thick fingers pushed inside her pussy.
She gasped. Fred's fingers. She knew them. Had seen them portion Miss Goat's body with surgical precision, had watched them grip the cleaver. Now they were inside her, curling, thrusting, finding that rough spot on her anterior wall with unerring accuracy.

Her hips bucked against his hand. "What is it, fox? Do you want down?"
Her pussy said no—squeezing around his fingers, pulling him deeper. But something else, some survival instinct buried beneath the arousal, screamed at her to flee.

She couldn't answer.
"Still not talking." Fred smiled. "You still must be punished."

The chickens cheered.
"You can't go eating other farmers' chickens!" Chicken Little's voice was pure, theatrical outrage, but her hands were already reaching for the rope coiled on a nearby hook.

Fred eyed the rafters. "Let's string her up. Hang her from the beams."

---

Rope bit into her wrists. The fibers were coarse—hay-baling twine, not the soft leather of Ms. Baker's harnesses—and they burned as Fred cinched the knots tight. He hoisted the rope over a low rafter and pulled.

Her arms rose above her head. Her feet left the straw.

She swayed, spinning slowly. The tail plug felt enormous now, gravity pressing it deeper, the pink metal plug dragging against her inner walls with every rotation.

Her pussy was still soaked, her thighs still sticky with cooling piss.

The chickens gathered long straw stems. They whispered together, giggling, their fingers stripping leaves from the stalks until they held a bundle of thin, flexible switches.

The children we experienced at gather switches for their owners-as often needed to whip their naughty butts.

Chicken Little swished one through the air. It whistled.

Fred dragged a milking stool into position and sat. Ready for a show. His shorts were unbuttoned now, his erection jutting upward against his belly. He stroked himself slowly, watching.

The first switch landed across Piglet's ass.
The sting was a line of fire. Her body jerked, the rope creaking, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. The second switch followed—higher, catching the sensitive crease where buttock met thigh. Her legs kicked involuntarily.

"Foxes get what they deserve," Chicken Little said, and her voice had changed. The playfulness was still there, but underneath it hummed something else. Something hungry.

They took turns. Chick-a-Dee's strokes were lighter, teasing, the switch trailing across Piglet's belly, her breasts, circling her nipples until they tightened into hard peaks.

Chicken Little aimed for the ass—each stroke a sharp, precise stripe that left pink welts rising on Piglet's skin.
Then the pinching began.
Fingers found her nipples and twisted. Hard. Piglet screamed—a short, sharp sound that echoed off the barn walls.

Another pinch on her inner thigh. Teeth grazed her hip—Chick-a-Dee, biting just hard enough to leave marks. A switch flicked between her legs, catching her swollen clit, and piglet's whole body convulsed.

Given that the five year olds were relatively weak, better at being whipped then whipping. The pain was minimal-yet present.

The pain and pleasure had merged into something more-something indistinguishable,

Every sting made her even wetter. Every twist of her nipples sent a spike of heat directly to her cunt.

She was dripping now, her arousal running down her inner thighs in thin rivulets.

Fred watched from his stool, his hand moving slowly on his cock.
"Play with her tail," Chicken Little commanded.

Chick-a-Dee's fingers found the corkscrew tail of the plug. She pressed inward, driving it deeper, and simultaneously twisted—a single, deliberate rotation that pushing the thickest ridge across piglet's expanding rectum.

Piglet came.
The orgasm ripped through her without warning. Her back arched. Her mouth opened in a soundless scream.

Her pussy spasmed around nothing, gushing clear fluid that splattered into the straw below. The rope creaked with her convulsions, her bound wrists white-knuckled above her head.

Piglet couldn't tell which was which. She hung limp, panting, her mind a white void.

Fred stood.
He reached up and loosened the rope, lowering her into the straw.

Piglet collapsed, her cheek pressing into the rough bedding. Her wrists burned. Her ass was a constellation of pink welts connecting freckles. Her pussy still throbbed with the aftershocks.she was a mess, her hair sticky and wild.

She had been the one tortured. Yet the chickens lay sprawled beside her, their chests heaving, their switches scattered. They looked as exhausted as she felt.

Chick-a-Dee reached out and patted piglet's belly. The touch was almost tender.

“Good fox,"
she murmured.

Piglet closed her eyes. The straw prickled against her raw skin. Above her, the rafter creaked in the silence.

Farmer Fred looked up at the hidden camera. Big smile across his face.

With some editing this video recording will sell like hotcakes at the next Community gathering at the end of summer.

He needs a catchy title. He’d have to think about it.