Chapter 23: A Chef’s Eye View


The cart wheels squeaked as ducky fridges back and forth. Waiting for Ms Baker to return. Chef piglet was admiring her sweet little body.

Ms. Baker emerged from the equipment corridor carrying a stainless steel rack—the same curved cradle from the safety video, its alloy gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
A roasting pan hung from her other hand, large enough to hold ducky’s folded body, its bottom available for the diced veggies, her drippings she’ll add when she roast.

"All set."
Ms. Baker's voice carried the satisfaction of a woman who had done this many times before.

“Just need to gather some ingredients!” Ms Baker seem rushed to catch up with her prepping.

Something must have distraction her when fetching ducky.

Ducky rose onto her knees, her oiled thighs spreading on the cart's tray, her duck charm swinging. Her Mohawk gone, just wild feathery hair, spiked crest lost its former defiance.

Piglet's chef hat slipped forward. She pushed it back with one hand, smearing a streak of flour across her forehead she didn't notice.

Her heart hammered against her ribs—the same rhythm it had beaten when Ms. Baker first took her to the exam table, when the tail plug first breached her. That cocktail of fear and hunger and surrender.

"Chef Piglet."
Ms. Baker set the roasting pan on the prep table with a resonant clang.

Piglet’s eyes tracked the roasting pan like a bird tracking prey.

Ducky heard a sound across the room and popped up on her knees, cheering when she caught sight of the rotisserie oven again.

The chickens were visible through the open door—two flour-dusted bodies twirling in slow revolution, their foil-capped heads drooping, their corncob gags gleaming with saliva.

It was beautiful seeing the contrast between twirling flesh and blackness of the oven walls, casting shadows across their preadolescent bodies the cute bulge of their stuffed bellies.

"Look at them," Ducky breathed.

"They're so pretty."

"Would you like a closer look?" Ms. Baker gestured toward the cart's handle.

"Chef Piglet, why don't you push Ducky over while I finish setting up?"

This made Ducky extremely happy. Ducks are such social creatures.

Chef Piglet gripped the cart's push bar. The metal was cool against her palms.

She pushed, and the wheels squeaked again—a two-note song that matched the rhythm of her heartbeat.

Ducky knelt on the tray like a figurehead on a ship's prow, her oiled body gleaming, her eyes fixed on the spinning chickens.

A high, plaintive sound that cut through the rotisserie's mechanical hum, and Ducky's head swiveled toward the noise before her brain caught up.

Farmer Fred and Dora stood by the rotisserie, admiring their handiwork.

Fred's coveralls were dusted with flour, his rough hands clasped behind his back. Dora's apron had acquired new stains—egg yolk, butter, something darker she'd wiped from her fingers.

They looked like artists contemplating a finished canvas.

The pregnant-looking chickens twirled around and around. Their restraints were tighter than ever—the clamps, the straps, the stabilizer rods buried deep—and their brains had gone dizzy from the spinning.

Moans emanated through the corncob gags, muffled and rhythmic, a song of surrender that matched the rotation of the spindle.

As Chef Piglet pulled up, Tripod stepped forward. She named the cameraman tripod because of the pitch in his trousers as he filmed.

His hand came up—a flat palm, the universal gesture for stop. "Hold it there. Don't block the shot."

Piglet halted. The cart's wheels went silent. Ducky was now perfectly positioned—close enough to see the chickens, her fine feather friends.

The chickens noticed her. Or rather, they noticed the cart, the duck-shaped figure on it, the familiar Ducky smile.

Their eyes tracked Ducky as they rotated into view, then lost her, then found her again on the next revolution.

The turning only gave them sight periodically—a strobing recognition that made them seem to be waving, though their arms were bound tight behind their backs.

They couldn't wave. They couldn't speak. They could only crack a smile around the makeshift gags, their lips straining against the buttered corncobs.

Ducky waved back with both hands. "Hi, birdies! You look delicious!"

A muffled cluck answered her. Then another. They continuously rotated away.

"Do you remember that lady taking pictures?" Ducky turned to Piglet, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial quack.

"While I was left in the vat to marinade?"

Piglet nodded.
The chickens shook their heads no—or tried to, their motion restricted by the flex straps at their necks.

"She wanted pictures." Ducky sat back on her heels, settling into storytelling mode.

Her hands gestured as she spoke, painting the scene in the air. "So I posed for her in the vat.

I was like all smiles. Cute poses." She demonstrated—shoulders back, chin lifted, the duck charm catching the light.

"I even popped my butt out so she could get a great shot." A wiggle of her hips that made the oil glisten.

"I pulled up out of the mixture—" Ducky mimed rising from the vat, her torso lifting, her breasts bouncing "—and asked her if she wanted to taste my marinaded pussy."

Piglet leaned on the cart's push bar. "Okay…"

"She said no thank you!" Ducky's expression turned stern, her brows furrowing, her mouth compressing into a thin line of theatrical outrage.

"What? Why not?" Piglet's voice carried genuine indignation—the loyalty of a chef defending her dish.

"Right!"
Ducky pointed to her smooth-tasty mound, the skin glistening with herb-infused oil.

"Who wouldn't want to taste this muffin?"

Farmer Fred's weathered face cracked into a grin. He nodded—slow, appreciative, the nod of a man who knew good poultry filet when he saw it.

Tripod's chuckle was audible behind the camera.

The chickens were having a hard time keeping up. Their minds were fixed on the twirling, the tight restraints, the stuffing making them feel thick and solid—ready to burst. But they tried. They blinked in and out of view, their eyes tracking Ducky's silhouette, their muffled clucks punctuating her story.

"I offered her my foot to taste." Ducky lifted one leg, the orange bootie long gone, her toes splayed and dripping oil. "Who doesn't like feet?"

"And?" Piglet was invested now, though she knew better than to rush Ducky's storytelling.

"No!"

Ducky planted both hands on her hips.

"She said she wasn't hungry. She just kept taking pictures of the stupid buttering machine."

"So sad for you, Ducky." Piglet's hand found Ducky's shoulder, her thumb tracing the curve of her collarbone. The skin was slippery and warm.

"Are you okay?" Piglet trying to comfort her as if she was going through a breakup.

"She then left without saying goodbye." Ducky's voice pitched into genuine offense.

"That's just rude."

"Is that it?" Piglet should’ve realized its never it for ducky.

"No."

Ducky's smile returned, secretive and bright. She touched the cart tray, then lowered herself onto all fours—a practiced motion, fluid and graceful. "Ms. Baker came rolling up with this cart. I told her all about it, and guess what?"

She paused. The dramatic timing was impeccable.

"The photographer was a vegetarian!"

The laughter erupted—Piglet's bright snort, Fred's deep rumble, even Tripod's surprised bark from behind the lens.

Ducky basked in it, her grin spreading, her body swaying on the cart.

"Ms. Baker had me lower my shoulders on the cart." Ducky demonstrated, folding forward until her chest pressed against the tray, her chin resting on her folded arms.

Her ass rose, the oiled cheeks parting to reveal the delicate pucker of her anus and the glistening folds of her sweet little cunt.

She swayed—a slow, hypnotic pendulum that made Piglet's mouth water.

"I raise my ass. Rest my chin right here, just like she asked me to."

Chef Piglet felt the hunger stir. That deep thing Ms. Baker had planted—the desire to taste, to consume, to devour.

Watching Ducky's marinaded ass sway, her little cunt visibly slick even beneath the layer of oil,

Piglet's fingers curled against her own thighs.

"You know what?" Ducky's voice was muffled by her folded arms.

"She licked my pussy. Fingered me. Sucked on it too." Her hips rolled, remembering.

"Momma's so nice. She knows what makes me happy. She has a great tongue as well."

Piglet figured out why Ms. Baker had taken so long returning from the vat room. The image bloomed in her mind—Ms. Baker's head between Ducky's thighs, that maternal mouth working the pet's cunt with the same clinical precision she'd used on Piglet's tail plug insertion.

The thought made Piglet's own pussy clench.

"Hate to break up the party." Farmer Fred's voice cut through the moment.

He was already stepping toward the rotisserie oven, his hand reaching for the temperature dial. "But we need to get these birds cooking."

He popped the igniter. Small flames shot out of ports around the oven walls—not the roaring inferno of five hundred degrees, but a low, gentle warmth that made the air shimmer.

The chickens felt it immediately. Their bodies, packed full of cornbread and crabapples and sweet onion, squishing, their little bodies shift, they began to fell the warmth of the oven.

Chick-a-Dee was the first to react. A shudder ran through her bound body, her thighs straining against the clamps, her hips bucking as best they could. The warmth radiated into her flour-dusted skin, and each rotation brought a fresh wave of heat, and her moans pitched higher through the corncob gag until—

She came. An explosive release that made the stabilizer rod vibrate and the drip pan catch a fresh stream of slick sweaty drippings.

Her cum mixed with the onion seal. More flavor for the stuffing—that was Dora's thought, watching with the satisfaction of a woman who knew her recipe was working.

Chicken Little followed seconds later. Her orgasm was violent by any standard—hips rocking, body convulsing, head collapsing forward until the flexible neck strap was the only thing holding her upright. She huffed through the corncob gag, her eyes rolling back, squirting hard, then she went limp—seemingly asleep, smiling, spent, surrendered.

Tripod captured it all. The blinking red light never wavered.

Farmer Fred smiled. His chickens. The pets he'd taken care of for almost a year now, finally beginning to sweat and drip in the oven.

Lora and Tracy, were their actual names—two children, living with a single mother, no support or help with bills, the children always prancing around half-naked.

They'd been a burden since their abusive farther left. Tragic story too often told. A mother at her wit's end.

Dora had met her in a chat room for battered women, and in time they'd become friends.

The suggestion of farm life, a change of pace, a place for the girls to be raised and find and have purposeful life.

Dora offered a substantial cash amount that would change her life forever. With practically no bargaining, it was a done deal.

Their mother would go off to live the life she always dreamed of. To France, maybe England.

The Farmers got the children. Tender little pets, tasty little chickens.

With the help of Ms. Baker's hypnosis technique, they were clucking and pecking and thinking they were chickens in no time.

Now they turned deliciously in the rotisserie, pre-roasting their little hearts away.

Fred slid the transparent door closed. The latch clicked. The heat rose, trapped, and the chickens continued their slow, twirling dance—sequenced dancers in a ballet of consumption.

Piglet watched them spin. Her hand found the cart's push bar again. Ducky was still on all fours, still presenting, still waiting.

—-

"Chef Piglet." Ms. Baker's voice came from the prep table, where the rack and roasting pan waited, where butter pooled and gleamed under the lights.

"We need to get ducky ready."
Ducky quacked.

Piglet's fingers tightened on the handle. Returning the cart to the prep table.
It was time.

"Would you like to help your duck onto the rack?"

The question wasn't really a question.

Ducky was already scrambling—all fours on the cart, ass swaying, booties skidding on the tray's wet surface.

She slipped. Giggled. Caught herself on both palms and presented her rear to the room like an offering.

A photographer's camera clicked somewhere behind them.

Tripod came over to check ducky’s camera. It's red light blinked.

"Careful, my pet." Ms. Baker's hand found Ducky's lower back, steadying her.

"We don't want you bruising before you're even in the pan."

Piglet stepped forward. Her bare feet slapped the tile, and she felt the coolness of it through her soles, grounding her.

Chef piglet-she was the chef. Ducky was her dish.

The thought sent a pulse between her legs that made the tail plug shift.

"Come here." Piglet's voice came out lower than she intended—not Jenny's nervous tremor, not Piglet's playful snort.

Something new. Something with teeth.
Ducky's dark eyes widened.
She crawled to the edge of the cart and raised both arms like a child asking to be picked up.

"Don't hug her yet," Ms. Baker warned, but it was too late.

Ducky's oiled arms wrapped around Piglet's neck, her spiced body pressing against the skimpy chef's coat, and the marinade transferred instantly—rosemary-scented streaks across white fabric, a damp heat that soaked through to Piglet's skin.

Ducky's breasts squashed against her collarbone. Ducky's belly pressed against her navel. Ducky's slick thighs bracketed her hip.

"Oops." Ducky pulled back, her lower lip jutting.

"I got your coat all sticky."

Ms. Baker sighed—the long-suffering sigh of a woman who managed pets for a living.

"What did I just say?"

Ducky folded her arms across her chest. The pout that followed was theatrical, a performance of contrition undermined by the mischievous glint in her eyes.

"I was just happy she’s my chef."

"Don't fret, my ducky." Ms. Baker's voice softened into something maternal, something that wrapped around the pet like a warm blanket.

"She'll be able to touch you all over soon enough."

Ducky looked at Piglet as if for confirmation. Her dark eyes searched Piglet's face, needing to hear it from her chef, her friend, the girl who had promised to be first in line.

"Of course." Piglet straightened her chef hat. "I'm your chef, after all."

The transformation was instant. Ducky's pout dissolved into radiance—a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes and made her hair seem to stand taller.

Ducky’s mind had gone to the birds since she'd decided to roast in the oven.

The sexual pleasure of the idea had colonized her thoughts, leaving no room for anything but anticipation.

She existed now in a state of perpetual arousal, a low hum beneath her skin that spiked every time she imagined the heat, the butter, the brush.

They guide her onto the curved rack. The rack she will be clamped to, the rack she will spend the rest of her life in.

She was eager and ready.

So was chef piglet.