Chapter 16: Porking the Piglet


The muffin was still warm when piglet bit into it, blueberries bursting across her tongue, and she let the crumbs fall where they may. Her bare freckled chest. The floor. She played didn't care.

Coach watched her girly sass, watched every morsel tumble, his beer forgotten on the counter, his shorts doing a poor job of hiding what was underneath.
"Good muffin," she said, licking purple from her thumb.

"You got a little something." He gestured vaguely at her chest.

"I know." She took another bite, chewed slowly, swallowed. Then she turned toward the fridge, extending her little ass in a slow, deliberate sway. The base of her tail plug caught the kitchen light, pink metal winkling. She felt the bulb shift inside her—a small, private pleasure—she could heard his breathing change.

The milk was cold. She poured a glass, took a sip, let a white mustache form on her upper lip.

His eyes tracked her tongue when she licked it away. When did thirteen year olds become so seductive?

"What do coaches do when when schools out for the summer?"

His grin was slow, spreading like a crack in ice. "You do know I'm not just a coach. I do other stuff."

"Like what?" She asked letting milk drip from her chin onto her freckle chest.

"Let's see…" He tries to form words as she smear the milk over her developing breast, he counted on his fingers.

"I work out. Drink brews." A pause. "And I Fuck horny little bitches."
The last two words came out amplified, and the grin that followed was all teeth.

Piglet opened her mouth to to make a witty respond.
He was on her before the words formed.

A pouncing tiger. That was the image that flashed through her mind as his hands clamped around her waist and he lifted, swung her up. His little prey to be taken and eaten.

He carried her out of the kitchen toward the staircase. Her legs dangled. Her tail plug pressed deeper from the angle, and she let out a small oof that turned into a laugh.

Second floor of the farmhouse. She'd never been up here. Guest bedrooms lined the hall, doors closed, country-style wallpaper glowing amber in the evening light.

He popped open of the doors.

"This is where we make the bacon." The joke landed. Her nipples tightened into hard peaks.

Her pussy, already wet, grew slicker. Last week she would have screamed, fought, clawed at his eyes. Now she was his to do with as he wanted, taken to who-knows-what for who-knows-why, not-knowing was the best part.

She already knew the answer. His tent had grown into a full pavilion.

He dropped her on the bed. Simple room. Quilt. Wooden headboard. Nightstand with a lamp. Homey.

She propped herself up on her hands, legs dangling off the mattress edge, and watched him strip.

Shorts first—his cock springing out, thick and hard, a bead of moisture already at the tip.

Then his T-shirt. He had the build of a man who worked out but by the girth of his belly, he loved his beer and country cooking, thick around the middle, solid through the shoulders. Towering over her.

Piglet tilted her head up, letting her voice go playful and small. "Am I going to be punished?"

"Well." He climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. "You are a naughty little piglet."

She spread her legs. Leaned back on both hands. "What are you going to do to me?"
Tremble in her voice. She manufactured it. She also meant it.

"First of all." He reached for the bedside dresser, pulled the drawer open.

"Piglet needs to be tied."
Straps. Leather. The sight of them sent a spike of heat straight to her cunt.

Ms. Baker had bound her wrists that first night in the cellar—had her way with her while she lay helpless—and Piglet had craved more of it ever since.

"Best way to truss a piglet is to hog-tie her." He grabbed her ankle and flipped her.
She landed on her belly, face pressing into the quilt, and let him work.

He pulled her arms behind her back. Elbows bent, forearms together, wrists and elbows strapped tight.

Her knees were next—bent backward, ankles crossed, leather biting into the delicate skin.

A short strap connected her wrists to her ankles, and when he cinched it, her body curved into a tight bow.

She tested the bondage. A twist of her shoulders. A bob of her hips. Nothing. She could barely move.
Her cunt dripped onto the quilt.

"I don't have an apple." His voice came from somewhere above her. "But this will do."
The gag ball pressed between her lips. Rubber. Tasting faintly of someone else's spit. He strapped it behind her neck, and her protests became muffled nonsense.

Then the hood.
Black fabric descended, soft and suffocating, stopping just above her nostrils. It was fitted that way—breathing possible, sight impossible.

The world became a void. She could hear her own heartbeat. The rustle of him moving around the bed.
A drawer opening. A small buzz—battery test. Then a whispering smack as something soft and many-tailed kissed the air.

The first stroke landed across her belly. Nine thin tongues of fire that made her arch as much as the bondage allowed.

In the dark she images she is a piglet roasting on a grill.

A mewling sound escaped around the gag. The second stroke caught the underside of her breasts, and the sting radiated outward, her nipples hardening further, almost painfully.

She images those stings are flames rising up to kiss her flesh.

The third—her inner thigh, that tender crease where leg met groin—and she jerked so hard the bed frame creaked.

Her mind feel the bit of the flame roasting her most intimate areas.

He worked in patterns. Horizontal stripes across her soft stomach. Vertical lines down her chest. Circles around her nipples until each breast was a constellation of pink welts, her skin hot and singing.

She feels the heat of the grill turning her flesh into cooked meat.

The whip kissed her thighs, her hip bones, the sensitive dip where her pubic mound began. Every stroke was a note, and her body learned the song.

She feels cooked ready to eat, ready to taste her delicious meat.

Then his mouth descended. Lips closing around her whipped nipple. Tongue lashing the abused peak.

The suction drew a long, guttural moan from somewhere behind her gag, and the pain bloomed into something else—something that traveled down her belly and settled between her legs like warm honey.

A vibrator pressed against her clit. Bumpy. Ridged. He twisted it in slow circles, and her hips bucked against the mattress, chasing friction.

The ridges caught on her swollen bud, dragged across it, let it snap back.

Her vision—sightless as it was—exploded in static.

His fingers found her tail plug. Twirled it. The pink metal rotated inside her, ridges bulb against sensitive walls, and her anus clenched around the intrusion.

He pulled it almost free, then pressed it back—a slow, deliberate fuck that made her spine bow and her toes curl and her useless bound hands clench into fists above her ankles.

The vibrator's speed increased. His mouth stayed on her breast, sucking, teeth grazing the whipped flesh. The tail plug twisted. The ridges rolled. The gagballvswallowed her screams as the orgasm crashed through her, a tidal wave of sensation that left her shuddering and limp.

Coach let her ride it out. When the trembling stopped, he removed the strap connecting her wrists to her ankles.

The ankle cuffs came next, then the hood slid upward, light flooding her eyes.

Her wrists remained bound. The gag stayed.
He stood before her, cock jutting, stroking himself slowly. Showing off.

Expecting a reaction.

She gave him one. Eyes wide. A manufactured terror that made her pupils blow huge as she stared at his menacing length.

He laughed, low and pleased. Then he grabbed pillows and stuffed them under her belly, forcing her ass high, her freckled cheeks spreading. Her shoulders and face pressed into the mattress.

Tail plug glinting. Pussy exposed and dripping.
He kicked her legs apart.
Something hard and buzzing pressed against her entrance. Not a simple vibrator—this was shaped like a dildo, attached to a stick, and he shoved it home in one wet stroke. The vibrations hit her anterior wall, and her whole body jolted.
His fingers found her tail. Fiddled with it. Moved the plug in circles, side to side, tracing the inner walls of her anus while the vibrator jackhammered her pussy.

She writhed. Danced her ass in the air, helpless and obscene, the piggy tail waggling like a real animal's.
He pulled the plug as her second orgasm hit her.

The sudden emptiness amplified everything—her asshole gaping open, her cunt spasming around the buzzing wand, her screams lost in the gag.
Then his hands spread her cheeks. His cock pressed against her loosened pucker.

Larger than the plug. Not as thick as Farmer Fred, but longer—much longer—and it could reach where the plug never did.

She'd never been ass-fucked before. Never had anything up there except Ms. Baker's toys and her own pink metal tail.

"This is what we call porking the piglet." He laughed at his own joke.

He pushed. Her asshole offered no resistance—just parted, welcomed, swallowed.

Her guts gave way to his unrelenting drive, straightening, accommodating.

She felt like a stick piglet.

The vibrator's buzz helped divide the pain from the pleasure, then blended pain with pleasure, and finally—finally—made pain and pleasure the same indistinguishable thing.
His pelvis reached her freckled cheeks. Pressed. Held. She moaned a lengthy, gurgling sound behind her gag.

He pulled back just enough. Bucked forward again. Drove in to the hilt.

The pounding began. Hard, rhythmic, relentless—his hips slapping against her upturned ass, his cock plumbing depths she hadn't known existed.

She squealed. Genuinely squealed, high-pitched and desperate, the sound escaping around the gag and reamed like a stuck pig.

Each thrust shoved the vibrator deeper into her pussy, the dual sensations turning her brain to white noise.

Her bound hands clawed at the air. Her toes curled and uncurled. Saliva dripped from the corners of her gag-stretched mouth.

He grunted. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto her back. The pig charm on her collar jingled with every impact. His rhythm grew erratic—faster, shallower, a jackhammer descent into animal need.

She felt him swell inside her, and then he roared and emptied himself, hot pulses flooding her bowels as he ground his pelvis against her cheeks.

He pulled out. Her asshole stayed open, a puckered star gaping at the ceiling, his cum trickling from the loose ring of muscle.

She lay face-down in her own sweat and arousal and spunk, twitching with aftershocks.

He shifted to her head. Removed her gag.
His soiled cock hung in front of her face.

Did he expect her to lick it? Apparently so.

"Suck it. Suck it clean." His voice left no room for argument.

"Be a good girl."
The trigger landed. Warmth flooded her limbs.

"Your a piglet. Pigs eat everything."
She couldn't argue. She'd declared herself a piglet. Pigs ate shit.

She opened her mouth. He hesitated.
"Hold up now. Don't get any crazy ideas and bite it." His eyes narrowed.

"Yes, I know what you did to Ol' Fred. He went easy on you. I'm not him."

Piglet gave a wicked smile at the corner of her mouth. Coach wasn't Farmer Fred. Fred had a bigger cock.

She opened her mouth again. He inserted slowly. They watched each other, her eyes tracking his face, his eyes tracking her teeth. Bitter. Blood. A faint reminder of the enema from the night before—thank for small mercies.

She licked the shaft clean, gagging a few times as the head bumped the back of her throat. After a while, the taste improved.

He began sawing back and forth, fucking her mouth with lazy strokes.

He shifted off the bed. Scooted her to the edge. Her head hung off the mattress, throat aligned, a direct passage.

The vibrator staff still buzzed inside her pussy, and her wrists were still strapped.

He dove in. Her throat accepted him—resistance, then surrender, then a tight, wet seal. Her eyes widened as his pelvis closed in. Light sawing, inch by inch deeper.

Then he jammed it home, pressing her face against his groin, holding there until her eyes bulged. He pulled out completely.
She gasped. Coughed. Breathed. After a minute or two, "Do it again," she rasped.

He did. Throat-fucked her rough and fast, one hand gripping her hair, the other on the vibrator wand, twisting it inside her pussy with each plunge. She gagged, swallowed, gagged again.

Tears streamed from her eyes. Her third orgasm built from somewhere impossibly deep—her throat, her cunt, her gaping ass—and when he came, hot salt flooding her esophagus.

She swallowed most of it and came around the buzzing wand with a convulsive shudder that rattled the bed frame.

He untied her wrists. Pulled the vibrating stick from her pussy with a wet, obscene sound.

Dressed without ceremony.

"Bathroom's through there. Toothbrush, paste. Clean yourself up. Relieve yourself as well before you reinsert that." He pointed at the pig-tail plug on the nightstand—smeared, sticky, in need of washing.

He was gone when she emerged from the bathroom, plug clean and back in place, her body still humming.

The bed was a crime scene. She wondered if Ms. Baker had maid service.
—-
Downstairs, light noise from the kitchen. She followed it.

"Glad that you could join up." Ms. Baker dropped a corn fritter onto Ducky's plate.

"Where were you?" Ducky's voice was all duck.
With her throat soar and raspy "Ummm. Getting a muffin." Technically true.
Ducky looked at her fresh whip marks.

"That's who left a mess on the table." Ms. Baker's eyes sparkled. She seemed in a good mood.

Thirty-Six stood at the table, quietly eating a fritter. He wore a diaper over his surgical site, white cotton thick around his groin.

Piglet slipped into a chair painfully as a hot fritter landed on her plate.

Ms Baker set a plate for herself. The girls look at the plate “what is that?”

Ms Baker had two fried oysters on her plate-actually 36’s useless balls. They would of shrivel away to nothing.

“36 has offered me his balls since he had not further use for them.”

She cut into one, lifting a fork to smell its buttery goodness. Tasting exquisite! Cutting a piece and offer a piece to piglet, she took it rolling it her mouth before swallowing the whole chunk. Delicious!

36 said nothing, just look at what he was eating.

"I have some news for you all." Ms. Baker paused.

"Big news first.

Daisy has been moved to Farmer Fred's cow farm."
"Whaaat—" Ducky's protest was cut short.

"Hush a minute. Obey."

Both pets stiffened, mouths closing.

"Daisy will be better suited there. Her calves will have full access to her.
Farmer Fred and Dora have made a special offer for the dinner celebration.

Daisy will be happy, and we can visit when we like.”

“We will have Thirty-Six move into the barn."

"Can we sleep in the barn with him tonight?" Ducky's question came out in a rush, the moment the trigger loosened.

Piglet nodded. "We can keep him company. First night and all."

"Fine. But I want you two to get some sleep.

Tomorrow's a big day."
"Big day for us?" Ducky's eyes went wide.

"Both of you. We have Groomer. Photoshoot for the invitations. And most importantly—an intro to becoming meat."

"A what?"

"An informational video telling you facts about cooking. Food preparation, and what’s it like to cook-for no surprises"

She waved them toward the door. "Please show Thirty-Six to his barn. I'll clean up."

Ducky grabbed Thirty-Six's hand, pulling him along. Piglet snagged another corn fritter on the way out, the taste of butter and fried dough and Coach's cum still lingering on the back of her tongue.

They head to the barn.
Tomorrow looked promising

Make-up, a photoshoot, and a movie.