Chapter 22: The Colonel would be proud.

The menu blurred. Not the words themselves—Ms. Baker's cursive was immaculate, each ingredient listed in looping letters that should have been easy to follow.

But Piglet's eyes kept sliding off the page, dragged toward the shallow bin where Farmer Fred's rough hands were doing unspeakable things to Chicken Little.

Raw egg glistened on his knuckles. He worked the batter into the crease of her thigh with the same matter-of-fact thoroughness he'd used on Piglet in the barn—effortless, proprietary, like he owned every inch of skin beneath his palms.

Chicken Little giggled, a breathy clucking sound that hitched whenever his fingers found a new crevice.
"Slippery little hen," Fred muttered, and two of his fingers disappeared inside her pussy, cupping a palmful of raw egg and shoving it deep.

Chicken Little's giggle became a moan. Her hips bucked against his hand.

Dora was gentler with Chick-a-Dee. Her fingers circled the girl's clit while her other hand worked egg batter into the puckered rim of her asshole—slow, teasing rotations that made Chick-a-Dee arch and chirp.

When Dora's fingers finally pressed inside, Chick-a-Dee's mouth fell open. No sound came out. Just a trembling exhale.

"First time in a restaurant-style kitchen can be very distracting."
The touch on Piglet's shoulder made her jump.

Ms. Baker's hand was cool through the skimpy chef's coat.

"Sorry, Mama." Piglet's voice came out breathier than she intended. "I just—I've never seen this kind of cooking before."

"I know, my pet." Ms. Baker's thumb traced a circle on her shoulder blade.

“Don’t fret my pet, you will see them for how delicious they will become.” Her hand lowered to piglets tail-rolling it around.

“I’m sure you’ll be-“

“TERRIFIC!”

Piglet felt the hunger, her pussy dripping-she could bite someone… Where’s 36 when she needed him.

Her thoughts paused, her poor 36, save her from fiends only to become their victim-and that bitch Barbie!

She wanted to take a bite out of her, out of anyone.

Ms Baker once again got her attention.

"I wanted you to get familiar with the recipe. I'll be here to instruct you all the way."

A teachable moment. Piglet could feel it radiating off her—that maternal satisfaction

Ms. Baker wore like perfume whenever her pets learned something new.

Culinary arts. The trade of transformation. Turning a living thing into a meal.

It's an eat-or-be-eaten world. Either you're the chef, or you're the dish.

"How about I go get Ducky?" Ms. Baker's smile crinkled the corners of her eyes.

"You can hop over to the other prep table. I'm sure the chickens would love a visit."

Piglet didn't wait for her to finish. Her bare feet slapped the tile as she crossed to where Farmer Fred was flipping Chicken Little into a bin of white flour.

The cloud of powder bloomed upward, dusting his coveralls. He pulled Chicken Little's head back by her hair—not rough, just efficient—and smacked flour across her throat. Her chest. The meaty swell of her cheeks.
"Hello, little Piglet." Fred didn't look up from his work.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Yes, sir." The words came out steadier than she felt.

"I'm a chef now."

That got his attention. His eyes met hers, and something flickered behind them—approval, maybe, or the memory of how she'd looked bent over in his barn, tail plug winking, asking for things she didn't have words for.

"Are you now!" He lifted Chicken Little by one ankle, hoisting her entire body into the air like she weighed nothing. Her Egg drenched hair-feathers dangled. Her oiled skin and white flour gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

"And what are you cooking tonight?"
Asked working while he talked. A squirt bottle appeared in his free hand. Olive oil.

He sprayed her dangling body in slow, even passes, turning her with a twist of his wrist to coat every side.

"We're cooking Ducky."

"Mmmm." Fred dropped Chicken Little into a bin of seasoned flour—his secret eleven-herb-and-spice recipe, the one Dora compared to Colonel Sanders.

The coating clung to her oiled skin in fragrant clumps.

"That little ducky of yours been dreaming about this. Good for her." Farmer Fred knew it would be good for him when he gets himself some carvings.

Chick-a-Dee surfaced from her own flour bin, sputtering and laughing. Dora repeated Fred's process with the squirt bottle, the oil, the second coating.

The sisters' eyes met across the prep station—floured and glistening and utterly transformed—and they both broke into breathless giggles.

Chicken Little already looked like a roasting hen. Ghost-pale from the flour, speckled with dark herbs, her limbs trussed tight against her body by nothing but Fred's grip.

Piglet followed as he carried her in his arms toward the rotisserie oven.

The machine was massive. The revolving spindle extended from the oven's mouth for convenient loading—a vertical rod rising to a top cap, a drip pan at its base to catch the juices-chicken little and chick-a-dee’s juices that will drip down from their twirling bodies.

An eight-inch stabilizer skewer jutted upward twelve inch’s from the drip plate.

Chicken Little looked down. Her eyes went wide.
Fred settled her greased asshole over the stabilizer rod.

She wiggled. Squirmed. Her mouth formed a perfect O as the metal penetrated her—not pain, just surprise, a squeak that became a shiver that became a moan as she settled onto the base, her chubby cheeks resting against the stabilizer base twelve inches above the drip pan.

Clamps. Fred worked fast. Her thighs lifted and locked to the horizontal rack, spread wide for access. Knees bent back, her ankles clamped into place. Her neck pressed back against the vertical rod, secured by a flex strap.

He spun the spindle—her elbows pulled together, bound behind her back, then her wrists—and when he spun her back around, her body was an offering.

Chest thrust forward. Legs rising and spread. Completely accessible.
She looked like a rotisserie chicken. That was the point.

Chick-a-Dee was still being coated by Dora, her eyes tracking her sister with naked envy. "Hurry," she breathed. "I want to spin."

Piglet quietly watch it unfold, it was making her hungry seeing these 5 year olds having the time of their lives, welcoming the oven. A oven that they will spend the rest of their short life in-as food.

Dora signaled Fred. chick-a-dee was ready for mounting.

He stepped over, retrieved his second little roaster, she giggled in excitement.

He repeated the process—stabilizer rod, clamps, thighs spread, neck strapped. When both chickens were mounted, their bodies wiggling in unison, their faces flushed with something beyond arousal,

Piglet realized she'd been holding her breath.

A man in blue jeans bumped her shoulder. Tripod. Video camera.

He muttered an apology as he adjusted his lens, the red recording light blinking to life.

They were going to film everything. Record the two delicious children roasting away.

Record willing pets, eager to be meat, like miss goat, like ducky-like 36.

The stuffing came next. Cornbread mixture for Chicken Little—golden and crumbly, studded with sage.

Crabapples for Chick-a-Dee, small and tart and glistening.

The way they were clamped, the stuffing had to be packed upward, each handful followed by something else—a dildo, thick as a nightstick, that Fred worked in slow, relentless thrusts.

Dora matched his rhythm with Chick-a-Dee, one hand on the dildo, the other on her clit.

The chickens' bellies extended. Their moans became unintelligible. Their pussies dripped onto the stuffing, adding flavor to the mix.

Fred fetched peeled sweet onions. Popped one into each gaping cunt to hold the stuffing in place.

Chicken Little came with a shuddering cry, her cum drenching the onion, her body convulsing against the clamps.

"Can we spin already?" The words came out garbled, drunk with sensation.

"In a moment." Dora soothed Chick-a-Dee's trembling thigh. "Just a couple more things."

Aluminum foil.
They shaped little caps for their heads—something about NASA and heat protection.

Then they applied aluminum strips along the crotch, covering the onion-stuffed pussies, pinched to form around each clit.

More foil for the nipples, already hard and peaked, the metal crinkling as it encased them.

Corncob gags. Short ones, hollowed out, buttery and yellow.

Both chickens opened their mouths without hesitation—anything to get this ride going.

Chicken Little was barking orders around hers corncob, utterly unintelligible, her eyes blazing with need.

Fred checked with the cameraman. A nod. The rotisserie motor hummed to life—no heat, just movement—and the spindle retreated into the oven's mouth.

The chickens squealed as they began to turn and swirl around each other.

"Piglet!"

Ducky's voice cut through the kitchen noise. Piglet turned.

There she was. Kneeling on a rolling cart, arms flapping like wings, her Mohawk fully surrendered to the steam, her duck collar glinting. Ms. Baker pushed the cart with both hands, she is wearing a tied chefs uniform, apron swishing against her calves.

Ducky quacked. Loud. Joyful. Utterly unafraid.

Piglet straightened her chef's hat. Adjusted her coat. Felt the tail plug shift inside her clenched.

She was hungry. Tonight she is Chef Piglet.

Her dinner approaches.