Chapter 17: Groomed for the Feast


The hay rustled against his back. Not uncomfortable—just different from the straw pallet he'd slept on for 14 years. Thirty-Six lay still.

Piglet's curly mass pressed against his right shoulder, Ducky's smaller frame tucked under his left arm. Both breathing slow. Both… snuggling.

The word felt foreign even as it formed in his mind. No one had ever snuggled against him. Cowgirls were mounted, not held.

The older bulls had taken what they wanted and left him sore and silent.

Affection was not part of the vocabulary of a breeding slave.

Yet here they were. Two strange, naked girls with animal charms and one with a tail plug, curled against him like he was something warm.

Something safe.
They'd fallen asleep that way—mid-sentence, Ducky's question about the potato peeler trailing into a soft snore. He'd waited for the demand.

The expectation. Just their breathing, his breathing.

Ms. Baker had said she could help him. Surgery would fix him up sound. Maybe not make him whole—nothing could do that—but make him a whole new person. Give him time. Time to find a purpose. His purpose.

Even here, surrounded by hay and warmth and the unfamiliar weight of sleeping bodies, he felt out of place.
He just never felt—

---

The rooster crowed. Not dawn—still dark through the barn window—but the bird didn't seem to care.

Piglet stirred first, sitting up and shaking hay from her orange frizzy curls with a vigorous head-waggle. A yawn cracked her jaw. A stretch pulled her arms high, the pig charm on her collar catching the faint gray light.

She looked down.
Thirty-Six was awake. Just lying there, dark eyes open, watching her without expectation.

Ducky remained balled under his arm, a small, breathing mound.

"Good morning." His voice was quiet, almost surprised at itself.

Piglet blinked. He'd initiated. "Good morning to you." A genuine smile spread across her freckled face. "Sleep well?"

"I slept some. Heard an owl last night." He said it like it mattered—like the owl's call was the first thing he'd ever noticed that wasn't a command.

Piglet laughed, the sound right for a barn.

"I dreamt about eating someone."
His eyes shifted to his right shoulder. She followed his gaze. Little bite marks. Faint scratches.

"I know. You had been biting and licking my shoulder last night."

"Oh—so sorry!" Heat flooded her cheeks.

"Don't be." His mouth curved. An actual smile, small but real. "I thought it was amusing, I… kind of liked it."

He gestured at her back. "You had fresh whip marks last night. They're fading to light pink now."

"Yeah." Piglet rolled her shoulder, feeling the ghost of the flogger's kiss.

"It's sort of my thing. Not like I ask for it—people seem to want to whip me."

"Does it hurt? I mean, to get whipped?"

"A little." She considered the question. "I just fantasize while it's happening. I pretend I'm roasting like a pig on a spit.

The whip strikes are like flames licking my body—kissing my flesh. Feel like I'm being cooked for dinner."

"Yummy fantasy." His smile widened. "I'm sure you would taste great."

She smiled back. He was easy to talk to. He listened.

"I'm a piglet. Pigs on a regular farm are raised for one purpose. Slaughter. Here on this farm we are free—I can eat whatever I want. I can even eat other animals."

"I can tell." He shifted his bitten shoulder, and they both laughed.

"So you're going to be groomed today?"

"Yeah. Big day."

For what?

Where to start?
She questions-she would brings him up to date the only way a 13 year old girl can.

Piglet took a breath and launched into it—the words tumbling out in a rush, one event bleeding into the next. "Okay so

Daisy Moo had twins—she's the cow pet, you'll meet her, she's at Farmer Fred's now—and Ms. Baker is planning this whole celebration dinner, and there was a cookout with chickens and a rotisserie and we watched this video, and now Ducky wants to be cooked—not on the rotisserie, in the wall oven—" She paused, gasping dramatically.

"And the video was about Miss Goat, who sacrificed herself for a welcome feast for me, except I didn't even know her, and I used to be Jenny by the way, but now I'm Piglet, and that's a whole thing, and today we're doing photos for the invitations, hence the grooming, and—"

Thirty-Six found it hard to keep up. He didn't try. He just liked the sound of her voice.

"Still dark," Piglet said, glancing out the window.
"Yeah. Roosters don't really get it right. They crow when they want to."

She snuggled closer, her shoulder pressing against his. The contact was deliberate. Warm. "I think I owe you a taste," she whispered into his ear.
He turned his head.

"What?"

"Have you ever licked a cowgirl's pussy?"

"No. We weren't allowed."

"You're allowed here."

She rose, swinging one leg over his chest, then the other, until she straddled his face, her knees bracketing his ears.

The pigtail plug shifted inside her with the movement, a heavy, pleasant presence.
Thirty-Six inhaled.

Salt and musk and something sweet, like the Daisy milk she'd drunk the night before. His hands rose, uncertain, then settled on her thighs.

She lowered herself, and his tongue met her folds—tentative at first, a single experimental stroke that made her breath catch.

"You don't have to be gentle," she murmured, gripping the hay on either side of his head.
He wasn't. His mouth opened wider, tongue plunging, lapping at her wetness with the eagerness of a man who'd been denied taste his entire life.

Piglet's hips began to roll, a slow gyration that dragged her clit across his lips, his nose, the faint stubble on his chin. M

Her tail plug rolled with each circle, bulb pressing against sensitive inner walls. His hands slid upward, grabbing her ass cheeks, squeezing. The sensation of being gripped, held, devoured—she ground down harder, her thighs trembling.

"Came—" she gasped, and the orgasm hit, her pussy flooding his mouth with warmth and slick. He drank it down. Every drop.

His tongue kept moving through the aftershocks, gentler now, savoring.

Piglet pitched forward over his head, her palms slapping the straw, her body shuddering. Thirty-Six held her legs steady.
"Not fair." Ducky's sleepy voice cut through the barn.

"Morning, Ducky!" Piglet managed, still breathless.

Ducky scrambled toward Thirty-Six's face, where he was still licking the glistening evidence from his lips.

Piglet interrupted "Come on ducky. Ms. Baker told us we have a busy day."

Piglet flipped her messy curls out of her eyes and stood.

Ducky planted both hands on the sides of his face. Looked directly into his eyes.

"You owe me a lick."

She hopped up, stepped over to Piglet.

"Coming to breakfast?" Ducky asked.

Thirty-Six started to rise. His arms worked. His chest lifted. But below the waist—nothing. No sensation. No movement. His legs lay dead in the straw, two slabs of unresponsive meat. No pain. Just… absence.

His face must have shown something. Panic, maybe.
"Don't panic. We'll get Ms. Baker." The girls bolted for the farmhouse.
---
The front door swung open. Sausage and pancakes and fresh coffee hit their nostrils. The kitchen table sagged with food—eggs, goat sausage, a center platter stacked high with flapjacks.

"Slow down. Plenty of time for breakfast." Ms. Baker stood at the stove, spatula in hand.

"Thirty-Six can't get up!" The words tumbled from both pets at once.

Ms. Baker set down the spatula. "It's okay. I slipped in last night and gave him a shot of succinylcholine. I didn't want him moving too much while the stitching heals." She had slipped in, she explained

It was true she had seen her three pets huddled together in the straw, keeping each other warm.

As she poked him-Thirty-Six had stirred, drowsy from the drug. "He asked if anyone was there," she hooted. 'WHO' before slipping back out the barn.

"I'm going to bring food and check on him. He'll need time to heal." She assured them he would be fine.

"As for you two, eat up. I'll check on Thirty-Six and then we'll head to the private kitchen.

There's a grooming station in a side room."
Ducky perked up at the mention of the private kitchen. The wall oven.

The oven she'd be roasted in. She gobbled pancakes with renewed urgency.
Piglet went for it all—eggs, sausage, a second pancake dripping with syrup.

"How dare you!" Ducky jabbed a finger at Piglet's plate. "Those are my babies!" She played at outrage, her lower lip trembling theatrically.

"You should have kept them safe!" Piglet shoved a fried egg into her mouth whole. They laughed m, cheeks puffed with food.

Ms. Baker disappeared through the door, a plate balanced in one hand.

The girls finished breakfast, their chatter circling the celebration.

Ducky leaned forward, syrup-sticky fingers drumming the table. "When I'm in the oven, the heat will be so nice—just warm, like a summer afternoon. And you'll brush the glaze on me, right? All over." Her voice went dreamy.

"My little titties first, then my tummy, then my legs. I’ve dreamt the brush will tickle. The butter will drip.

I'll be trussed up so tight I can't move, and everyone will watch me turn golden brown."

Piglet's breathing shallowed. "I'll be the best chef you've ever had."

"You will. You'll season me perfectly." Ducky's hand drifted between her legs, rubbing slow circles against her clit.

"Then when I’m all cooked they'll carry me out on a platter. People will carve me up, each tasting my glaze. One after another will eat me!"

Piglet's hunger stirred—not her stomach, but the deeper thing Ms. Baker had planted. The desire to taste. To consume.

"I'll be first in line."

Ducky's eyes met hers.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

A pat of butter sailed across the table and splatted against Piglet's cheek. Ducky squealed.

€€€€€€£€£

Piglet scraped it off with one finger and sucked it clean, never breaking eye contact.

The front door opened. Ms. Baker returned, peeling off her medical gloves and dropping them into the kitchen bin.

"I see you were hungry." The table was a war zone of empty plates and crumpled napkins.

"How's Thirty-Six? Is he okay?"

"Resting. We're going to move him into the house, to a room upstairs. He may feel awkward staying in an actual home, but it'll be best for him to heal."

"We'll keep him company!"
Ducky cheered.

"Are you two pets ready?" Ms. Baker's eyes swept the mess.

"Don't worry. The housekeepers will be arriving shortly."

So she does have servants. Piglet recalled the upstairs bedroom—the lube-smeared sheets, the wet spot on the quilt. Someone else's problem now.

---

The private kitchen hummed with activity. Two men in white cook's uniforms milled near the prep station, adjusting lights and checking camera angles. Ducky's eyes locked onto the wall oven—that massive stainless door she'd dreamed about—and her feet slowed.

Ms. Baker caught her arm. "Plenty of time for that later."

They moved past the wash stations, around a corner, into a wide corridor. The grooming room opened before them: four hairstylist chairs, mirrors ringed with bulbs, counters glittering with brushes and bottles and palettes.

Dora stood beside one chair. Beside her, a second woman—same kind eyes, same capable hands.

"Hop up, pets." Dora patted the vinyl seat. Ducky ran to her, a familiar face in an unfamiliar room.

"I'll leave you two in good hands," Ms. Baker said, and was gone.

Dora introduced the other hairstylist as Flora, her sister. Piglet approached without being asked, climbing into the second chair and settling back against the headrest.

Warm water. Flora's hands worked shampoo into Piglet's curls, scrubbing the scalp with firm circles that sent tingles down her spine.

The scent of coconut and shea butter filled her nostrils. Rinse. Condition. Rinse again. Then the straightening iron—slow passes that pulled her orange mane into smooth, glossy sheets. Snip. Snip.

Flora's scissors shaped the ends, layered the front, then gathered two sections above her ears and pulled them into high pigtails. The bands were pink, matching her tail plug.

Across the room, Ducky's dark hair was getting its own treatment. Dora scrubbed, rinsed, then attacked the lengths with thinning shears—feathering the tips until they wisped like real plumage.

Gel came next, worked through the roots, then a comb lifting the center strip into a stiff, spiky Mohawk that curved back from her forehead like a duck's crest.

Facials followed. Cool cucumber paste spread across Piglet's cheeks, her nose, her chin. The mask tightened as it dried, pulling at her pores, and when Flora peeled it away, her skin felt new—pink and tingling and impossibly smooth.

Ducky got the same treatment, both of them lying back with cucumber slices over their eyes, the silence punctuated only by the sisters' quiet murmurs.
They're such tasty little pets.

Makeup came next. Light touches. Neutral tones. A sweep of mascara that made Piglet's lashes feathery, a dusting of blush that highlighted her cheekbones, a lipstick in petal-pink that tasted faintly of vanilla.

Then the manicure table—fingernails filed, buffed, polished. Toenails shaped and glossed. Flora worked between Piglet's toes while she wiggled them, giggling.

When the chairs swiveled toward the mirrors, both pets stared.

The girl in Piglet's reflection was adorable—cute pigtails, glossy lips, skin luminous and dusted with glitter at the collarbones.

Ducky's Mohawk made her cheekbones sharper, her dark eyes larger, her whole face somehow fiercer and more birdlike.

Ms. Baker appeared in the doorway, a hanger draped over one arm. "You two look delicious."

She held up the garment. A kids chef's coat, but skimpy—cropped short in the back, no buttons in the front, designed to be worn open. No bottoms pants came with it.

Piglet slipped into it. The fabric hugged her shoulders, the abbreviated back exposing her freckled bottom, the pink tail plug winking beneath. She turned, staring at her reflection. Like Porky Pig.

She snorted, and the image completed itself.

Ducky jumped out of her chair when Ms. Baker set a chef's hat on Piglet's head.

The pigtails popped out the sides, orange curls framing her face beneath the white puff of the toque.

"Hop back in the chair, Ducky. I have something for you." Ms. Baker produced orange booties—soft, fleece-lined, with non-slip soles.

Dora rewash Ducky's feet, wiped them clean, and slid the booties on. Snug. Comfortable.

"We'll be taking shots of you on the prep table. No dirty feet in the photos."

---

The cooking section had been rearranged. The prep table stood front and center, the wall oven gleaming behind it. The two men in white uniforms adjusted light stands.

Piglet took her place, chef's hat tilted just so, coat hanging open, tail exposed. Ducky stepped beside her, nude except for the orange booties, and someone pressed a hand-lettered sign into her grip: Celebration Dinner—You're Invited!

The camera clicked. Ducky raised the sign higher, grinning. Click. Piglet adopted a stern chef's expression, one hand on her hip. Click.

The seven year old really ducked down, squatting low, flapping her bent elbows like wings while still holding the sign aloft. Click click click.

"Well done, pets. We got some great shots."

One of the workers approached with a flexible tape measure, the kind tailors use.

"Ducky, be a pet and let this man take some measurements."

Ducky stood still, arms at her sides, as the tape stretched from her crown to the curve of her buttocks. The man called out a number.

His partner jotted it on a clipboard. He measured the span of her shoulders next.

"P42," he called.

Piglet glanced at Ms. Baker. "Pan size," Ms. Baker murmured.

The tape measure moved to sections now.
Shoulder to ass.
Thigh to knee.
Knee to ankle.
Shoulder to elbow,
elbow to wrist.
Each measurement recited, recorded.

"R30p."

"Rack dimensions," Ms. Baker said, answering the question in Piglet's eyes. "Type and size of rack used to truss up our ducky.
Rack is set and locked inside the roasting pan."


"Are we done?" Ducky's voice held a whine.
"I'm getting bored."

"One second." Ms. Baker motioned to the workers.

"Bring back the prep table."

Ducky climbed onto the island's surface, the stainless steel cool beneath her orange booties. She lay on her back, then lifted her legs—knees bending, ankles hooking behind her neck. Her body folded with a gymnast's flexibility, her ass rising from the metal, her pussy exposed and pink and already glistening.

She smiled big for the camera, upside down, her Mohawk crushed against the table.

Click. Click.

"Piglet, get in there."
Piglet stepped into the frame, her chef's hat towering, her coat gaping. She laid one hand on Ducky's upturned rump, chef-like, proprietary.

Ducky's grin widened.
The camera clicked one last time.

——

By noon they ate a light lunch then visited 36 in his new room, he was feeling better and he could walk somewhat.

They told him about the salon, the makeover, the photoshoot, ducky reliving everything.

Again girls talking in circles. One thing stuck out in the visit. He was liking piglets new hair style.

We have to watch a informational video. It’s supposed to inform pets of the real consequences of become meat. I guess to make sure a pet is making the right decision.

We’re heading to the theater room do you want to come? Ducky asked.

36 thought for a moment.

“Sure, why not?”

He’s been laying around for hours, he wanted to move, besides he’s never been in a theater.