Chapter 20: Marinated Foreplay!

"Rise and shine, y'all."

Piglet's eyes cracked open. A woman filled the doorway, backlit by the hallway sconces, one hand propped on a hip that curved like a question mark.

The name tag pinned to her blouse read Barbie in letters red as fresh paint. Not a costume. A uniform. She'd committed to the bit so thoroughly that Piglet blinked twice, expecting molded plastic seams.

"Time's a-wastin'. Gotta get supper on." The drawl was syrup-thick and manufactured, each vowel stretched past its breaking point.

Post-grad acting student, Piglet's brain supplied. Model material. The face was mathematically perfect—symmetrical as a reflex, cheekbones you could cut glass on. Her blonde hair cascaded from a white cowboy hat in waves that defied physics.

The white blouse strained across breasts that seemed to actively fight the buttons, and her denim skirt ended well north of modesty. Cowboy boots.
A real life, Country Girl Barbie doll. Accessories sold separately.

Thirty-Six stirred beside Piglet, his arm tightening around her shoulder.

"Ain't you two a picture." Barbie stepped into the room, her boots clocking on the hardwood. "Come on now. Up and at 'em."

Piglet's hand found Thirty-Six's chest. Possessive. Territorial. They'd fallen asleep tangled and tasting each other, and now this plastic predator was pulling them apart with nothing but her presence.

Thirty-Six sat up, reaching for the diaper folded on the nightstand. His movements were slow, still clumsy with sleep. He lifted his hips, working the cotton into place, and Barbie's eyes tracked the motion.

Then stopped.

"Oh my pixie sticks." Her drawl cracked into something genuine. "What in tarnation is that?"

She stared at his crotch. The diaper hadn't covered it yet—the pinkish-brown crustacean patch, textured like coral, gleaming faintly in the lamplight. Barbie took a step closer, her painted lips parting.

Thirty-Six said nothing. His jaw tightened. He pulled the diaper up with a crisp, final snap.

Up close, Barbie stood a full foot taller than Piglet. Same height as Thirty-Six.

Her fingers reached out before anyone could stop them, threading through his dark hair with a familiarity that made

Piglet's stomach clench.

"What a handsome boy." Barbie's voice dropped into something warmer. Flirtatious. Her nails scratched lightly at his scalp. "What a cutie."

Flame. Bright and sudden, licking up Piglet's spine. Her fingers curled into fists. The ginger temper—the one Jenny had spent years swallowing, the one the farm had somehow unlocked—surged to the surface like a geyser.

"Hey!" Piglet grabbed his wrist and yanked him sideways. "He's my guy."

Barbie's eyebrows lifted. The smirk that followed was a masterclass in condescension—charming, practiced, utterly unbothered.

"Simmer down, honey-bunch. We're in the barbecue show together. I've been hired to rough him up a bit." Her eyes met Piglet's, and something flickered behind the blue. Not cruelty. Worse. Amusement.

Piglet held on tighter.

---

They followed Barbie down the stairs, her boots beating a rhythm on each step. She talked the entire way—something about acting school and paying tuition with gigs like this, performing domination for private clients, a bullwhip she'd bought special.

The words washed over Piglet like static. She clutched Thirty-Six's hand, and he still hadn't spoken. Not a word since Barbie appeared.

"…so I get to whip pretty boy here until the Howdy Boys go wild." Barbie glanced over her shoulder, catching Piglet's eye.

"Don't you worry your pretty head. I'm a professional."

The private kitchen yawned before them. Fluorescent lights. Stainless steel everywhere. Staff in white uniforms moving with purpose around the prep stations.

A cameraman adjusting his rig near the cooking area.

Piglet's gaze swept the room. The wall ovens sat dark and silent. The rotisserie stood empty, its prongs gleaming under the lights.

No Ducky. No chickens. Just the sour-metal smell of raw meat and the low hum of professional machinery.

They walked past the cooking equipment towards the butcher station, where an unfamiliar girl’s head sat on the table with vacant, eyes still.

Piglet watch as a tray of freshly cut cubed of meat was hoisted and carried toward the soup vats, the camera tracking every step.

They passed through it all—past the filming, past the girl head on the table—and arrived at the shower station.

Ms. Baker stood waiting.

"Two meat puppets, delivered as you requested." Barbie's accent curled around the words, and she side-eyed Piglet with that same knowing smirk.

But Ms. Baker wasn't looking at Barbie. Her gaze rested on Piglet—the sleep-mussed pigtails, the bare skin, the collar still snug at her throat.

"Let's get him washed up. You too, Piglet. You look a mess again."

Always the piggy. The thought came in Ms. Baker's voice, fond and faintly exasperated.

---

Ms. Baker took Thirty-Six's hand. Led him under one of the shower heads.

Piglet found herself under the next one, cold water blasting her skin while she watched the Ms Baker’s hands move across his body.

Soaping his shoulders. Lathering his back. Cupping his firm ass cheeks with the clinical familiarity of a woman who had seen everything and owned most of it.

Barbie leaned against the doorway, watching. Not watching Piglet.

Thirty-Six. Her eyes tracked Ms. Baker's hands like a cat tracking a bird.

"This will dissolve the crustacean patch." Ms. Baker produced a bottle of lotion—milky white, unscented—and poured a generous pool into her palm.

She worked it across his groin, her fingers sliding beneath the waistband of his diaper. The water activated something, and the patch began to loosen. Crack. Flake. Separate from his skin in pale, peeling sheets that swirled down the drain.

Piglet forgot to breathe.

What remained was smooth. Pale pink. Completely hairless. No penis. No testicles. No scar beyond a faint line that might have been a healed incision. Just a small, neat opening—a urethral port, functional and unremarkable.

"I did the best we could with limited resources."

Thirty-Six stared down at his own body. His expression was unreadable—a mask of stoic acceptance that cracked only at the corners, where his eyes softened with something like relief.

"It's fine. Better than a burnt stub." His voice came out steady. "Thank you."

Barbie's laugh erupted into the quiet. Bright and sharp and utterly genuine.

"Oh, this is too good." She clapped her hands together. "You look like Ken. Like the Ken doll.”

“We're gonna be Ken and Barbie!"

She was still laughing when Ms. Baker fixed her with a look that could freeze water.

"Sorry, ma'am." Barbie's glee dimmed to a smolder. "The Howdy Boys are gonna go nuts for the show."

"I'm sure they will." Ms. Baker's voice was dry as paper. She rinsed Thirty-Six clean, her hands moving with efficient care, then shut off the water.

Piglet finished her own rinse. The skimpy chef's coat waited on a hook—after drying herself she shrugged into it, the abbreviated hem exposing her tail plug and bare bottom.

The chef's hat came next, her pigtails spilling out the sides. She looked absurd. She looked like a Chef action figure. She didn't care.

Ms. Baker produced a collar—leather, brown, simple—and buckled it around Thirty-Six's neck.

A leash clipped to the ring. She pressed the lead into Barbie's waiting palm, then rose kissed Thirty-Six's forehead.

"Thank you," she whispered. Just for him.

Barbie tugged the leash. He stumbled forward one step.

Piglet moved without thinking. Threw herself against him, arms wrapping his chest, face pressed to his shoulder. She squeezed until her muscles ached, until his arms came up and squeezed back.

They kissed—salt and heat and the taste of goodbye—and the words slipped out before she could stop it.

"I Love you."

Barbie pulled the leash. He slipped from Piglet's grasp like water through fingers.

"Bitch." Piglet said it just loud enough to carry.

Barbie's smirk flickered but held.

Ms. Baker's hand landed on Piglet's shoulder. Light. Grounding. "Don't worry, my pet." Her thumb traced a slow circle. "She'll get hers someday."

Piglet turned and buried her face in Ms. Baker's floral dress. The cotton smelled of coffee and antiseptic and something maternal. She needed the hug more than she'd needed anything in days.

"Would it make you feel better if we saw Ducky?"

Piglet pulled back. Wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Nodded.

---

They walked past the beauty station where Flora was organizing brushes. Down a corridor that smelled of herbs and something sharp. The voices reached them before the sight did—familiar, welcome, alive.

The room opened into a humid warmth. Three vats stood side by side, each large enough to hold a body.

In the nearest, Chicken Little and Chick-a-Dee bobbed together in a bath of buttermilk, their oiled shoulders rising above the pale surface, their hair slicked back.

The liquid had turned their skin buttery soft, almost translucent at the fingertips.

"When can we go for the rotisserie ride?" Chick-a-Dee's voice was dreamy, floating.

"We're so ready. So soft. So delicious."

"Soon," Ms. Baker said. "We're waiting on Farmer Fred and Dora."

In the second vat, Ducky sat alone. The liquid around her was darker—herbs and spices suspended in oil, the scent pungent and savory. Her Mohawk drooped, wilted by the steam. Her duck collar glinted just above the surface. And when she saw Piglet, her entire face transformed.

"Taste me!" She popped one foot out of the vat, ankle dripping with spiced oil, orange bootie long gone. The toes wiggled. "I taste delicious. I know I do."

---

Piglet crossed the room without a word.

Her knees hit the tile beside the vat, and she took Ducky's foot in both hands—cradled it like something precious. The skin was warm from the bath, slick with oil that smelled of rosemary and thyme and black pepper. A single drop ran down the arch, tracing the curve of Ducky's instep, and Piglet caught it with her tongue before it could fall.

She licked from heel to toes in one long stroke.

The flavor hit her like a memory she hadn't made yet. Savory. Complex. The salt of Ducky's skin beneath the herb-infused oil, a sweetness that might have been honey or might have been simply Ducky herself.

Her tongue found the tender hollow beneath the ankle bone. Circled it. Pressed.

Ducky's whole body shivered. The vat rippled. "Oh." The word came out small and breathless. "Oh, that's—"

Piglet took the big toe into her mouth.

She sucked gently, her lips sealing around the digit, her tongue tracing the tiny ridges of the knuckle. The oil coated her palate—thyme forward, then rosemary, then the slow burn of pepper at the back of her throat.

Ducky's foot flexed in her grip, toes curling, and a whimper escaped the girl in the vat. Her hips shifted, disturbing the surface of the bath, and the spice-scented steam rose thicker around them both.

"Chef's prerogative," Piglet murmured against the ball of Ducky's foot. Her lips moved to the second toe. Drew it in. Sucked. A drop of oil slid down her chin.

Ducky's head fell back against the rim of the vat. Her Mohawk collapsed into the liquid, and her mouth opened, and the sound that came out was half quack and half moan and entirely surrender.

"You're going to eat me so good," she breathed. "You're going to eat every last bite."

A nibble. Just the faintest pressure of teeth against the pad of Ducky's smallest toes. Not breaking skin. Just promising. Ducky gasped, and her thighs pressed together beneath the surface, and the oil sloshed against the sides.

Piglet pulled back. Licked her lips. The taste lingered—rosemary, salt, Ducky—and she knew, with the certainty of a chef who has sampled her dish and found it perfect, that she would eat well tonight.