Chapter 19: Spitting Decisions.

Ms. Baker’s fountain pen scratched against the notebook page, her neat cursive filling the margins with observations.

On the monitor, the theater had descended into a delightful chaos of naked limbs and hungry mouths.

The chickens had abandoned their pew and sprawled across the carpet in a sixty-nine tangle, Chicken Little perched on top as always, her plump little ass bobbing as she ground her cunt against her sister's eager mouth.

Chick-a-Dee's oiled thighs wrapped around her sister's ears, both of them making those breathy clucking sounds that meant they'd be at it for a while.

Piglet stood over Ducky, who had folded herself into that ridiculous roast-me pose—legs hooked behind her head, ass upturned, Mohawk crushed against the theater seat.

Thirty-Six stood near her, his diapered groin level with Ducky's presented rear, and even through the grainy feed, Ms. Baker could see the confusion warring with curiosity on his handsome face.

She set down her pen. Removed her white coat. The summer dress hung on a hook behind the door—floral print, soft cotton, the one that softened her shoulders and made her look like someone's favorite aunt.

She slipped it over her head, smoothed the fabric across her hips. The kitchen would be the best place to ask.

Coffee brewing. Something cinnamon sweet in the air. The trappings of maternal concern.

On the screen, Piglet's lips moved.

---

"She's not going to stop pestering you until you do it." Piglet's voice carried a note of amusement, her hand resting on Thirty-Six's shoulder.

"Do what?" But his tone said he already knew.

"She wants you to lick her pussy and make her come."

Thirty-Six looked down at the little Asian-duck, her sweet ass aimed at his face like an offering.

There was something delicious about the pose—the small body folded in supplication, the glistening slit visible between her thighs, the way her orange booties bobbed with impatience.

She was not taking no for an answer. He glanced at Piglet. "Does she usually gets what she wants?"

"Always." Piglet said gesturing for him to go for it.

Ducky's hips wiggled. A demanding little shimmy that made her duck charm swing.

Thirty-Six exhaled—not a sigh, but a surrender—and bent lower.

His tongue met her folds with the same tentative reverence he'd shown Piglet in the barn. A single stroke. Then another.

Ducky's flavor bloomed across his palate—salt and butter and something floral, like the perfume of warmed honey.

His hands found her ass cheeks, gripping the firm muscle, squeezing, spreading her open. The cleft of her ass was pale and smooth, the tight pucker winking at him as she squirmed.

He licked a long stripe from tailbone to clit.

Ducky gasped—a quack-like sound that caught in her throat. His tongue circled her asshole, tracing the delicate ridges, and she pushed back against his face, demanding more.

A finger slid inside her pussy while his mouth worked her other entrance—licking, sucking, nibbling at the sensitive rim until her thighs began to tremble.

He added a second finger, curling them upward, finding that rough patch on her anterior wall.

Ducky's little body shook. Not the gentle tremble of approaching climax but something violent, a full-body convulsion that started in her core and radiated outward.

Her piss came without warning—a warm, clear stream that splashed his chin and dripped onto the theater seat. He didn't pull away.

His tongue pressed deeper, lapping up everything she gave him, drinking from her like a boy who'd been dying of thirst.

She came with a wail that echoed off the theater walls, her ass bucking against his face, her pussy spasming around his fingers.

He held her thighs tight, anchoring her through the aftershocks. Even after she went limp, he continued licking—gentler now, savoring.

He had never tasted something so sweet. He could lick all day.

He'd always liked Asian birds, back on the ranch he would see them brought in. Not for breeding.

The rancher would take them to the fire pit, play with them before a cookouts.

Nothing for them to take a few to the chopping stump-with axe, they would lob off their pretty little heads.

Gut their carcass, then run skewers through their little bodies.

Roasting those petite little birds would make him hungry. He just wanted to eat them up.

He’d watched them from across the yard, watching their bodies turning, roasting over an open flame, the delicious smell, making him drooling yet sadly knowing he could look but never taste.

When finished with ducky he composed himself.
As he stood up-Piglet's mouth was on his.

Not a kiss—a feast. Her tongue slid across his chin, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, licking Ducky's cum from his skin with greedy strokes.

Maybe she was tasting him with a Ducky-cum glaze.

Thirty-Six didn't care. He was drowning in all this love—unexpected, undeserved, freely given.

His hands found Piglet's ass. Grabbed tight. Pulled her up against him with a sudden, possessive urgency that surprised them both.

No cock. No sack.

Yet his mind sprang erect, thoughts rising like a standing ovation.

He felt rescued. By Ms. Baker, by Piglet, by this ridiculous duck-girl now unfolding herself from her roast-me pose.

Ducky rose on wobbly legs, her Mohawk askew, her face flushed.

"You are invited to dinner!" she announced, her voice carrying a note of genuine admiration.

"That was so good! Hey!Super tongue’ do you hear me?." Ducky attempt to get his attention.

Piglet and Thirty-Six kept kissing. They weren’t stopping.

Ducky watched for a moment, then reached down and tugged at his diaper.

"How much longer do you have to wear this?"

Their lip-lock broke. Piglet and Thirty-Six had been breathing in unison—a shared rhythm, a connection—and now the moment unplugged. Ruined.

Ducky tugged again.

"Well?"

"I don't know. Ms. Baker didn't say. I wear it mainly to protect the bandage."

The truth was more complicated. He felt comfortable in it. Less focus on his crotch. Less shame.

He hadn't seen the results of Ms. Baker's surgery—he'd been out for most of it, swimming through sedation, surfacing only briefly to see her applying a caky spread across his wound.

She'd called it a military crustacean patch. Worked like a bandage but healed ten times faster.

Piglet pulled the front of his diaper and peered inside. Something covered his crotch—pinkish brown, textured like coral, smelling faintly of fish.

Her finger reached to touch it.

"Privacy!"

He pulled her finger away, and the diaper snapped back against his belly.

The word came out light, joking, undercut by the fact that he was addressing a completely naked 13 year old girl.

"I'm getting hungry," Ducky quacked.

Piglet agree, her stomach growling, hungry and perpetually horny.

She step over to the chickens devouring each other’s pussy.

“Smack”

Piglet's palm across Chicken Little's upturned ass cracked through the theater's velvet hush.

Both chickens jolted, their sixty-nine collapsing into a tangle of oiled limbs and indignant squawks.

"Come on, chicken-butts." Piglet's stomach roared—audible, insistent.

"We're getting something to eat."

Ducky was already bouncing toward the doors, orange booties squeaking. Thirty-Six rose more slowly, one hand adjusting his diaper, his dark eyes tracking Piglet's freckled shoulders as she herded the chickens into the aisle.

They moved as a flock—naked, collared, still flushed from the safety video's lingering heat, the hypnotic affects at work on them.

They slipped through the corridor, finally into the farmhouse kitchen.

—-

Ms. Baker sat at the table. The floral dress softened her shoulders, but her face was wrong. Worry had carved lines around her mouth that Piglet had never seen before.

No coffee. No clipboard. Just her hands folded on the oak, knuckles white.

Ducky flew to her first. Arms wrapped around Ms. Baker's neck, Mohawk brushing her chin. "What's wrong?"

"Don't worry your pretty little heads, my pets. It's a big farm issue."

Piglet stepped closer. The word felt wrong in her mouth, but she said it anyway. "What's wrong, Mother?"

Ms. Baker's smile was a thin, frayed thing. She spun her story like a spiderweb—each strand glistening, tensile.

Miss Hog, was scheduled to entertain and roast for our Celebration Dinner, guests are expecting an exclusive spit-roast party, sadly she has been reassigned to the communities butcher shop.

We won’t have a pet to roast when guests arrive.

The Howdy Boy expected a main course. A body bound and spitted through, a pet roasting over an open fire pit.

Piglet's pussy clenched. The BBQ pit from the safety video. The ladder. The spit. Her heartbeat filled her ears.

"I can do it."

"Oh no my pet, the Howdy Boys tend to be a little rough with the pet before roasting," Whipping. Double-teaming. Gang-banging. Welt marks that bleed.”

Ms. Baker said, and her voice carried a tremor.

"Not like roasting in an oven. Ducky will receive gentle basting and enjoy the sweet glaze."

“But I think I want to, for Daisy, for you mother.”

The words left her mouth before her intelligent pig-mind could catch up. Stupid. Dangerous. Deadly.

The welts Coach had left were still fading, sexual feelings remain.

Yet the thought of being mounted on a sharp spit, lowered on that pole, sliding down helpless, feeling the unyielding point rising upwards-even though it is she who’s descending.

Would she cough as the spit enters her throat? Questions running through her head.

Roasting, turning above flames licking her flesh, glistening-while strangers baste her roasting body!

Piglet was deep in thought, almost not hearing as Ms Baker Spoke—

"No, my pet." Her voice cut through the fantasy. "These boys are not here for the pleasure of pets. They’re a rowdy bunch far too painfu—"

"I'll do it."

Thirty-Six stepped forward. His hand found Piglet's shoulder—warm, steady, solid.

"I'm used to this type of abuse. I can take the gang-bangers, the double spit roastings, the whipping. My body is fit."
His thumb traced the curve of her deltoid, slow and deliberate.

"Piglet’s flesh is so soft. If she wants to roast it should be by Ms Baker, not by strangers who want to hurt her."

“I’ll do it for her, for you all” 36 was genuine in his little statement.

Piglet melted. Her knees went loose and strange.

The room erupted. Ducky threw herself at Thirty-Six, quacking approval.

The chickens clapped and bounced.

Ms. Baker's face transformed—the worry dissolving into something radiant, something almost surprised.

She'd intended Piglet to be spit-roasted. Even if meant her suffering at the hands of the Howdy Boy.

But watching her young piglet over these past days, she'd found a strange, inconvenient attachment.

A memory of her childhood, of her sister, of the choices made.

And now this broken boy, whom had fallen into her lap, was volunteering himself for the spit and fire.

"Piglet, my pet." Ms. Baker rose, all business now.

"You and Thirty-Six grab something from the fridge. It will be a few hours before we start."

"Start what?" Piglet was already in the fridge, chewing a slice of meat from a cold-cut tray.

"The Celebration Dinner, silly, it’s tonight!”

Ms. Baker shooed
Ducky and the chickens toward the private kitchen.

"It starts tonight at midnight."

Ducky and the chickens erupted into fresh excitement.

“We gotta get you birds cleaned up and dropped in the vats.” Ms Baker chimed lining up the eager birdies.

“Vat?” Piglet questioned with a mouth full of food being chewed.

“To marinade them!” Ms. Baker herded them away like a mother bird with her chicks.

Ms Baker informed the someone would retrieve the soon, leaving Piglet and Thirty-Six alone in the kitchen's amber light.

Piglet look at him, her hero-he would die for her.

He was studying the freckles on her face. Counting them.

A look, a notion, a common thought-joint smiles.

They grabbed hands and ran.

---

He lead her to his room.
His bedroom door didn't close. Didn't matter.

Piglet flew onto the mattress, bouncing once, and Thirty-Six was on her—his mouth finding hers, his hands cradling her jaw. The kiss deepened.

Broke.

She sat up as he stood before her, and she watched him hook his thumbs into the waistband of his diaper and pull.

The crustacean patch covered his crotch in a V-shaped shell—pinkish brown, textured like coral, gleaming faintly. She tapped it with one fingernail. A ceramic clink.

"It’s like crotch armor," she laughed. “Does it hurt?”

"Chafing a little." He winced. "But no. Doesn't hurt."

Her palm flattened against the patch. Rough. Warm from his skin. Her hand rose—stomach tight as drum leather, chest broad and rising with quickened breath.

She climbed onto her knees on the mattress, bringing her face level with his, and kissed him again with salt and ham and hunger.

His hands found her hips. Turned her. Bent her forward over the quilt so her ass rose and her pigtails spilled across the pillows.

The pink metal plug glinted between her cheeks, and his fingers closed around its base. He twisted—one slow, deliberate rotation that scraped every ridge across her inner walls.

Her gasp buried itself in the bedding. He pulled. The widest bulb stretched her, held, then popped free with a wet, obscene sound that left her pucker gaping at the air.

She felt open. Empty. Waiting.
His tongue found her.

A broad, flat stroke from perineum to tailbone that made her spine curl. He licked her like she was the last sweet thing on earth—circling the loosened ring, tracing each delicate fold, then pressing inside with the pointed tip.

Her hands fisted in the sheets. Her thighs spread wider, knees sliding on the mattress, offering more. He speared her with his tongue, withdrew, speared again, and she made a sound that was not quite human.

His thumb found her clit. Circled it in counterpoint to the rhythm of his mouth. The dual sensations—wet pressure in her ass, rough friction on her bud—built something behind her navel that had no name.

Just heat.

Just inevitability. When his teeth grazed the sensitive rim where plug had been, she came apart with a cry that shook her shoulders and left her slick dripping down both thighs.

He guided her onto her back. Kissed the inside of her knee. Then her other knee. Then he was climbing up the bed, positioning himself above her, and she understood.

"More," she breathed.
She scrambled upright, pushing him onto his back against the headboard.

Swung one leg over his chest, then the other, until her knees bracketed his ears and her cunt hovered inches above his mouth.

His hands settled on her ass—no hesitation now, just the grip of a boy who knew what he wanted. He pulled her down.

His tongue plunged inside her pussy. No preamble. No gentle strokes. Just deep, hungry, relentless—lapping at her walls, drinking the arousal that had been building since the spit appeared on the safety video screen.

She ground down, rolling her hips, smearing slick across his lips and chin. His nose bumped her clit on every rotation.

Her tail plug was gone, but something else filled her—his tongue, his need, the knowledge that this boy who had never been allowed to taste was devouring her like a feast.

She leaned forward, bracing her palms on his chest. Her teeth found the curve of his shoulder—not the playful nips she'd given the chickens, but something harder.

Something that broke skin. A bead of copper bloomed on her tongue, and a growl vibrated in her throat, possessive and wild.

She bit him again, lower, at the junction of neck and trapezius, and his hips bucked beneath her—a reflexive thrust from a body that still remembered desire even if it had lost its instrument.

Thirty-Six moaned into her cunt. The vibration traveled through her clit, her belly, her spine, and her fourth orgasm of the day detonated without warning.

She screamed around a mouthful of his flesh, her thighs clamping his ears, her pussy gushing against his lips.

He swallowed. Sucked. Milked every aftershock until she collapsed forward, forehead pressed to his sternum, her breath coming in wet, ragged gasps.

She kissed the bite marks. Licked the blood away. Tasted salt and iron and something that was just him. His hands slid up her back, tracing the fading whip marks, the dimples above her ass, the curve of her ribs.

Gentle now. Reverent.
She shifted, tucking herself against his side, one leg thrown across his hips.

The crustacean patch pressed cool against her inner thigh. His arm wrapped around her shoulders, and her curls spilled across his chest like orange water.

"Love," she murmured, the word slipping out before she could catch it.

His breathing hitched. Then his lips pressed to the top of her head.
Outside the window, the farm lay still and dark.

Midnight was hours away. The spit was waiting. But in this room, in this bed, two broken things had found something neither had ever been allowed to keep.

They fell asleep still tangled, still tasting each other on their tongues.

—-

A country girl in a cowgirl outfit stood at the open door.

She gave a soft hello attempting not to startle to two tangled bodies asleep on the bed.

“Helloooo! Pardon me.” She spoke a little louder, in a southern drawls.

Piglet woke shifted, as did 36 when he felt piglet sudden moment.

She finally got their attention.

“It’s six o’ clock, they sent me to fetch you for the kitchen.”