Chapter 21: Buttermilk & Marinade

Ducky scooted to the rim of the vat, her oiled fingers gripping the stainless edge.

She beckoned Piglet closer with a tilt of her chin, her Mohawk drooping like a wilted feather.

"They gave us a special Daisy milkshake," she whispered, her voice carrying that conspiratorial quack.

"The staff lady brought them down. Tall glasses. Pink. Tasted like strawberries and cream."

Piglet leaned in, all ears, her chef's hat bobbing.

"It made us poop."

Ducky's face split into a gleeful grin.

"Everywhere. All over the shower room floors. I couldn't stop. Chick-a-Dee couldn't stop."

She giggled, a hiccuping quack that echoed off the humid tile.

"The chickens were crying!" Ducky grin.

"No I didn't!" Chicken Little's chirp cut through the steam from the buttermilk vat. Her feathered head poked up, indignant, oiled shoulders squared. Chick-a-dee just laid back rubbing buttermilk over her cubby checks.

"Liar, liar, chickens in a fryer!" Ducky shot back without missing a beat.

Her tongue poked out, pink and quick, before she continued.

"Then they hooked us up in the harnesses. You know the ones—the leather straps that go around your waist and thighs. And they stuck those hoses up our butts."

"Did it hurt?" Piglet's voice softened. Her own first enema rushed back—the cold nozzle, the cramping, the humiliating fullness.

"Yeah it hurt." Chicken Little cut in, abandoning all pretense of not listening. Her hand drifted to her rear beneath the buttermilk's surface. "My butthole still hurts. I'm not kidding. It's so sore."

Ducky reclaimed her story with the imperiousness of a duck who tolerated no interruptions.

"Do you know why we have to be so clean inside?"
A dramatic pause. The steam curled around her sharp little chin.

"They don't want us farting in the ovens during cooking us."

The room broke open-laughter. Piglet doubled over, her chef's hat sliding forward.

The chickens shrieked, their buttermilk sloshing over the vat rim.

Even Ms. Baker—standing by the doorway with her tablet—let a smile crack her professional facade as she thumbed through a text message.

Ms. Baker cleared her throat, and the laughter settled into expectant silence.

"Farmer Fred and Dora have arrived. They'll come get you two birds soon enough."

"What about me?" Ducky's voice pitched upward, eager and impatient, her thighs pressing together beneath the spiced oil.

"In a few as well, my scrumptious duckling." Ms. Baker crossed to the vat and trailed one finger across Ducky's glistening chest.

She lifted it to her lips. Tasted. Her eyes fluttered closed for half a beat—genuine pleasure, or the performance of it.

"Chef Piglet and I have to go over the preparation and recipe for your sweet little body."

Chef. The word landed in Piglet's chest like a hot stone. Her nipples tightened against the skimpy coat.

Chef Piglet. Ducky's personal chef. Licensed to do as she pleased.

"Now be a good little ducky and soak up the savory liquid. Let the marinade do its magic."

Piglet threw one last glance over her shoulder as they left.

The birds were already arguing—Chicken Little insisting she'd taste best with hot sauce,

Chick-a-Dee countering that honey glaze was much tastier, their voices chasing each other down the corridor.

"Can I see the spit-roasting patio?" The question fell out of Piglet before she could weigh it.

"The one from the video. Where he'll be."

Ms. Baker's eyes met hers. Something flickered there—assessment, perhaps, or recognition.

She nodded and guided Piglet to the double doors at the corridor's end.

---

The patio sprawled beneath a canopy of stars. Lounge chairs circled the prominent fire pit in a loose arrangement of lounge chairs and tables, their cushions damp with evening dew.

At both ends of the fire pit, holding posts rose from the concrete—thick oak beams with iron brackets, designed to cradle a spit.

The kind of spit used for whole hogs. The kind that turned slowly over open coals while fat dripped and sizzled and the meat grew tenderly roasted.

Piglet's gaze traveled to the vertical setup. A metal pole, thick as her wrist, mounted into a drain hole in the concrete footing.

A stepladder rising up beside it, its top rung level with the spit's tapered tip—sharp enough to pierce.

Sharp enough to mount a body from end to end.
Her pussy moistened. The tingle spread from her clit to her belly, a low frequency hum that had nothing to do with the night air.

Her nipples hardened further, pebbling against the chef's coat.

Would she ever?

The question didn't form in words. It formed in the ache between her legs, in the way her tail plug shifted when she clenched.

Two camera setups stood at the patio corners. Black tripods. Red recording lights not yet blinking.

They planned to capture everything—every lash of Barbie's bullwhip, every rough hand that touched her boyfriend's body.

The session he was enduring for her-to save her.


She looked up at Ms. Baker with wordless questions and saddened eyes.
"He’s doing it for you." Ms. Baker's arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her close. The floral cotton smelled of coffee and control. "He’s doing it for us."

---

They passed the vats on the return. Farmer Fred and Dora had arrived—Fred in his weathered coveralls, Dora in a flour-dusted apron—and were already hoisting the chickens from their buttermilk bath.

The sisters dripped pale rivers onto the tile as they were settled onto a rolling cart, their creamy little bodies gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

“I’ve read your recipe plans for these two clucks impressive.” Ms Baker

Farmer Fred love talking recipes, describing in detail the process.

"I gonna rub 'em down with egg batter first," Fred was saying, his rough hands patting Chick-a-Dee's plump rump with proprietary familiarity.

"Real gentle. I’m gonna work it into every crease. Then roll 'em in the flour."

"Not just any flour." Dora winked at the shivering birds.

"He's got eleven herbs and spices-a secret recipe. Only him and Colonel Sanders know the truth of it."

"Stuff us too!" Chicken Little bounced on the tray, her lingering baby fat jiggling, her voice cracking with need.
"We wanna be stuffed too. Full to I’m bursting." Chick-a-dee giggled.

Fred's grin spread wide beneath his weathered cheeks. "Oh, you'll be stuffed alright. Got a cornbread mixture soaking in buttermilk right now.

Gonna pack you so full you'll be leaking crumbs."

"And apples," Dora added, her hand stroking Chick-a-Dee's slicked-back hair.

"Little crabapples for your sister. She gets the fruit stuffing.

You get the cornbread. We'll baste you both in butter every fifteen minutes until your skin crackles."

The chickens quivered in unison—a full-body shudder that made the cart rattle. Their fingers interlaced, squeezing tight. "How long will we be in the rotisserie?" Chick-a-Dee breathed.

"Until you're golden brown. Until you're perfect-everyone at this dinner wants a taste."

Ms. Baker stepped aside as they rolled past, the cart's wheels squeaking toward the kitchen.

Ms Baker suggest they get to the prep table to prepare, she had picked out the perfect recipe for ducky.

"Sit tight, Ducky. We'll be back for you in a jiffy."
Piglet said it without knowing if it was true.

She just wanted to comfort the small, oiled figure left alone in the vat, her Mohawk now completely surrendered to the steam, her duck charm floating on the surface like a promise.

---

A woman approached from the corridor, a digital camera bouncing against her sternum. She wore black—practical, unobtrusive—and her smile was the professional mask of someone hired to document without judgment.

"May I take some photos in here? I've been assigned to capture candid shots of the event. For community promotion."

Ms. Baker nodded. "Of course. Little Ducky here is excellent at posing. You may want to take a few shots of her," She gestured toward the back of the room as well. "Don't forget the buttering machine. It's quite photogenic."

"Ducky can tell you all about it!" Piglet added, forcing brightness into her voice.

Ducky was already arranging herself—shoulders back, chest forward, her glistening budding little breasts breaking the oil's surface. Her smile was radiant, genuine, the smile of a girl who had wanted to be seen exactly like this.

Marinating.
Waiting.
Delicious.

"Start with my good side," she instructed the photographer, and struck a pose that made the duck charm dance.

Ducky was in good hand, she’ll probably have a good story to tell when she gets to the prep table.

For now Chef piglet had a recipe to review.