Chapter 18: How the sausage is made.


The theater smelled of buttered popcorn and worn velvet. Piglet pushed through the double doors, Ducky's orange booties squeaking on the hardwood behind her, and stopped.

Chicken Little and Chick-a-Dee were there. Naked. Giggling. Sitting side by side in the front pew, their oiled shoulders pressed together, quacking—actually quacking—at some private joke.

Piglet's welts from yesterday's switching gave a phantom throb. These two had pecked and pinched and switched her until she'd pissed herself and come screaming-now they looked up, spotted the us, and their faces split into identical grins.

Five year olds popped off the pew and charged.
Arms wrapped Piglet from both sides, warm skin squashing against her, oily hands patting her back. "Piglet! We missed you!" Chicken Little's voice trilled against her ear. Chick-a-Dee jump up into her arms just to nuzzled her neck and made a soft clucking sound.

No apology. No acknowledgment of the welts. Piglet's mind flicked to payback—tan those plump little chicken asses, since she see how they liked the switch—but her arms were already hugging back.

Ducky bounced beside them, quacking her own hello.
The chickens loved ducky’s spiked hair-in walks 36 the chickens pulled away and their eyes slid past ducky.

Piglet greet the figure lingering in the aisle. Thirty-Six. Diapered. Hands hang by his side.

The white cotton bulged over his surgical site, and he stood frozen under the sudden attention of two golden-haired children.

"Hi." His voice came out shy, one hand lifting in an awkward wave.

Chick-a-Dee's mouth formed a perfect O. "He's hot."

Chicken Little tilted her head, taking in the diaper, the muscled chest, the uncertain stance.

She'd seen a lot of crazy things as a five year old pet chicken—a boy in a diaper barely registered to her. Just another fetish. Her lips curled into a smile.

"What are you doing here?" Ducky asked, still bouncing.

Chicken Little grabbed Chick-a-Dee's hand, their fingers interlacing. "Our farmer said we could roast with you at the Celebration Dinner!"

Ducky's quack of excitement echoed off the theater walls. "What! That's great!"

"We saw Ms. Baker's rotisserie machine in her private kitchen," Chick-a-Dee breathed, her voice dreamy. Her free hand drifted to her own belly, tracing a slow circle around her navel.

"It's so big. A rotisserie oven big enough we can both spin together. At the same time. Turning and turning." Her thighs pressed together.

"We want to roast together as rotisserie chickens."

"They're going to video it," Chicken Little added, her eyes bright. "So people who don’t get to eat us can enjoy us cooking."

Chick-a-Dee turned her dreamy gaze on Piglet. "Are you going to cook too?"

"No, I'm just here to watch the video with Ducky."
"That's not true," Ducky corrected, grabbing Piglet's arm. "She's going to be my chef and cook me up. She's going to brush the butter on my skin and everything."

Both chickens looked impressed. Then their attention swung back to Thirty-Six, who was lowering himself into a seat near the back.

"What about him?"

He glanced up. "I'm just an observer. And an emotional support animal."

The chickens laughed. He'd made a funny joke.

And something in his posture had shifted—shoulders looser, the hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. This place, this farm, Ms. Baker and her ridiculous naked pets.

The first time in his life he'd been part of something more than breeding stock.

——

The theater door swung open. Ms. Baker strode in, a black cassette case in one hand. "I see we have a guest." Her eyes found Thirty-Six.

"I'm their emotional support bull," he said, using the same joke as before-and the girls giggled.

Ms. Baker's lips twitched—amused, perhaps—before she continued toward the VCR player.

The chickens bolted for the front pew. Ducky followed, dragging Piglet by the wrist. Thirty-Six settled into the seat beside her, his bare thigh warm against hers.

"You three a going to be cooked in a real kitchen," Ms. Baker addressed them, the cassette held between two fingers like a scalpel.

"Real dangers. Like unnecessary burns. Touching jnives that cut. Many unforeseen things can happen."

Her gaze swept the row of naked bodies.

"Though I want this to be an enjoyable experience, simple kitchen rules apply.

This video may come off as boring, but it will instruct you on proper kitchen procedures."

She paused, letting the weight of it settle. Her voice softened into something more intimate.

"Being bound inside an oven while roasting can get stressful. This sort of pf live cooking is next level.

This video will address possible issues. Are you ready to watch?"

It wasn't really a question.

She inserted the cassette, pressed play, and slipped out through the side door.

Moments later the screen flickered. A spiral of color—pink bleeding into violet bleeding into amber.

The lights dimmed automatically.

The girls hushed.
Words flashed across the screen. Too fast to read consciously. Piglet stared, unblinking, the same way Ducky stared, the same way both chickens stared with their lips parted and their pupils fixed.

A cascade of triggers, embedded in the strobing light. Good girl. Obey. Sacrifice. It's your choice. Each pet's personal programming, reinforced in the dark.
They didn't notice the show had already started.
—
A cheerful jingle burst from the speakers. Bright, cartoonish text bloomed across the screen: So you decided to become meat. What now?

A silly costume tiger bounded into the frame, waving oversized paws.
"Hello there! I'm Bart, your friendly guide to a delicious end!"

The chickens squealed with delight. Ducky laughed and clapped.

Piglet found the production childish, almost insulting, until—
That voice. She knew that growl.

Coach. The hungry tiger who had carried her upstairs, hog-tied her on the guest bed, striped her belly and breasts with a nine-tailed flogger, fucked her ass raw, and throat-fucked her until she swallowed his cum.

The man who had looked at her like she was meat. Now he was bouncing around in a tiger costume, narrating kitchen safety.

She smiled to herself. Her pussy moistened.

Bart mimed slipping on a wet floor, his furry legs windmilling. "Always watch out for wet kitchen floors! Could ruin your cooking experience."

He popped back up, waggling a finger.

"Best plan of action: follow instructions from your staff and chef.

They're experienced and know what they're doing."

He sidled up to a gleaming vat of soup. "Don't jump into these soup machines. It may look like a mini Jacuzzi, but unless you want to be a lobster—watch out.”

“Watch out for Momma Sumi, if she catches you she’ll surely drop you in her pot, sorry we won’t be able to help you.

Surely your goose is cooked." He rubbed his belly. "Yummmmy."

The chickens erupted in giggles. Not just any giggle—something deeper sparked behind their eyes at the phrase goose is cooked.

Their laughter pitched higher, breathier. Chicken Little's hand found Chick-a-Dee's thigh.

Farmer Fred's trigger. A simple shared thought, so willing to please, so ready to be consumed.

The tiger bounded toward the wall oven. Ducky's fingers clamped around Piglet's wrist.

He opened the steel door, peered inside. "Wow, that looks cozy!

This baby can reach five hundred degrees." He mimed fanning himself. Ducky's breathing quickened.

Her grip tightened.
"Let's talk about pans."

The tiger slid to a prep table with an exaggerated boing-bonk sound effect.

"Problem with pans, they get real hot, even at low temps. But not to worry—because we use these!"

Triumphant music played. He held up a rack with raised footings that locked into a roasting pan, elevating the rack flush with the rim, the metal curving into a perch for the body.

"This rack won't burn you when you're bound to it. Special alloy. Resists heat."

Ducky moved Piglet's hand between her legs. The warmth there, the slickness soaking through her fingers. Piglet pressed two fingers against her folds, and Ducky's hips rolled forward.

On the other side of the pew, Chick-a-Dee had already leaned back, legs spread, fingers circling her own clit. Chicken Little watched the screen with one hand between her thighs.

“Something new in the kitchen. Our very own duel rotisserie cooker. Imagine strapped into its spindle.”
A drip catcher to collect all the dripping and pumps it up to drizzle back over our roasters.

A new location. A fenced-in yard, lounge chairs arranged around an enormous roasting pit. Assorted spits hung on holding racks.

A stepladder stood beside what looked like a drain hole set in the concrete.

"For those who want something hard and stiff shoved up your ass, you’re in luck-we have spits!
A motorized crank will have you turning brown in no time."

Bart picked up a long metal pole and slid it vertically into the shaft below. "Look what we have here."

Piglet's breath stopped. The spit. The ladder. The image of being impaled on that thick metal staff—mounted, sliding, helpless, slipping down.

Hands guiding her, sliding further, head held back, slipping. The point emerges, she is owned, the spit own her now—slammed into her with the force of a body blow.

Her cunt clenched around nothing. She grabbed Thirty-Six's hand and pressed it between her own legs, grinding her slick folds against his rough palm.

He startled but didn't pull away. She rocked there, eyes glued to the screen, while the tiger prattled on about chains and hooks
and butcher stations

“Don’t want to roast all day in an oven? Get a load of these.”
Chains with meat hook dangle next to a metal butcher table.

“You can hang from one of these sharp shiny hook. Upside down is a classic for slicing those cute little throats of yours… Or he pause for dramatic effect. “A mini guillotine to chop off those pretty little trophy heads. It’s your choice”

“Don’t forget to kiss the butcher’ he’ll butcher all your best part,

“

Bart growled, waving a farewell paw.

"Remember a safe word if you’re having second thoughts".

"Just make sure your safe word isn't more butter please.

Eat you later!"
Fade to black.

—

The lights rose. The screen went gray. Four naked girls sat stunned in the afterglow.

Chick-a-Dee exhaled a long, shuddering breath, her fingers still slick between her thighs. "I want to spin. Both of us inside that big machine, turning and turning, basted in glaze until we're golden all over."
Her oiled skin gleamed under the theater lights.

"We can cooked forever."

"Chicken Stars," Chicken Little agreed, her voice husky. Her nipples stood hard and pink, her flat chest flushed.

"We'll be the most delicious chickens anyone's ever tasted. Farmer Fred said so.

“He said he had a secret recipe to make us taste finger licking good, we'd be perfect."

Ducky hugged herself, rocking slightly back, her Mohawk crushed flat from the seat back. She folds herself legs over her head. "The rack. The warm pan. Imagining Piglet brushing her with butter."
She turned a delicious brown before Piglet eyes.

"I'm going to be the best duck you've ever eaten.

I dreamed about it, remember?

I came in the butter box thinking about you eating me."

Piglet didn't answer right away. Her fingers were still wrapped around Thirty-Six's wrist, his hand wet with her.

"I liked the BBQ pit," she murmured. "The spit. The ladder. The idea of being... mounted on that pole. Impaled."

The word left her mouth soft and reverent. "I don't know why. It scares me." Her voice dropped. "I think I want it."

Thirty-Six said nothing. He just sat there, his hand damp against her thigh, his dark eyes fixed on the blank screen.

He'd heard about roasting pets, eating them—food he could never eat.

But the four girls beside him, each one shivering with want, each one speaking about being consumed like it was a gift.

He didn't understand. And yet, listening to Piglet's breathing, the way her voice caught on want, he thought maybe understanding wasn't the point.


—
The underbelly of life’s choices.

Upstairs, Ms. Baker leaned back from her monitor. Her fingers unscrewed a small jar of Vaseline. She dabbed the gel onto her fingertips and smeared it carefully beneath each lower lid—not in her eyes, just along the waterline. Enough to make them glisten. Enough to make her look as though she'd been weeping.

Her pets were primed. The motivational video had done its work. Soon eager pets will soon willingly be cooked, filmed and edited, cassettes packaged, distributed through a network of four local farms she'd invited to the Celebration Dinner—all her closest clients and collaborators.

A dinner that was never just a dinner. A dinner that showcased her services, her hypnotic expertise, her ability to transform willing young girls and boys into pliable, eager product.

This was a different world than what her pets saw. A world of profit margins and territory disputes, of smaller farms like hers being gobbled up by larger operations.

If not for her family name, her veterinary license, and her unique hypnotic skills, this estate would have been absorbed years ago. Along with her.

The Celebration Dinner was her chance to remind the community why they needed Claire Baker. And for that, she needed something—someone—very special for the main course.

She blinked. The Vaseline shimmered. She had an urgent request to make, and she needed to look heartbroken when she made it.

The tears would convince them. They always did.

This is where the sausage is made.