Chapter 24: Stuffed Ducky & Other Stuff.


The rack settled into the roasting pan with a metallic clank that vibrated up through Piglet's bare soles.

Ducky lay back against the curved alloy, her head and shoulders cradled in the low end, her oiled spine conforming to the cradle's slope. The higher end lifted her hips until her ass rose like an offering, ankles already hooking behind her ears in that impossible roast-duck pose she'd practiced in the theater.

Her cunt and star pucker faced the ceiling, completely bared.

"Perfect," Chef Baker murmured, and the first cooking strap slid across Ducky's chest—above her budding breasts—then cinched tight. Another strap below the lady bumps, compressing the soft flesh until it bulged.

A third at her waist. Each pull of the straps pinned Ducky more firmly to the rack, and each time, her smile widened.

Chef Baker lifted her ankles from behind her head. "Long-term strain on the neck isn’t good.
We'll keep you folded, darling."

She guided the ankles to stainless rings on either side of Ducky's ears, strapping them in place.

Ducky's knees framed her own face now, her folded body a landscape of glistening skin and surrender.

She tested the bonds—not struggling, just feeling them—and a contented quack escaped her throat.

Not a fuss. Not a tremor of fear.
A girl living her dream.

Chef Piglet stood motionless, bowl cradled in trembling hands.
The stuffing. Ducky’s stuffing.

The recipe card sat tacked to the prep table's edge—sage, cubed sourdough, chopped apple, onion, celery, a slurry of stock and melted butter.

Her fingers moved without her permission, tearing bread into craggy pieces while her eyes kept dragging back to the rack.

Ducky's exposed slit. The puckered rim of her anus, still glistening from the marinade.

The duck charm was gone. Chef Baker had removed the collar, hushing Ducky's pout with a flexible neck strap that pinned her throat to the rack.

Now Ducky wore only bindings and a beatific expression.

Piglet's knife slipped on the cutting board. She caught herself, blinked, refocused on the celery. Dice fine. Half-inch cubes. The recipe swam before her.

Then the smell hit.
A wall of warm air rolled across the kitchen as

Farmer Fred cracked the rotisserie oven. The transparent door slid open, and the fragrance bloomed—butter and crackling skin, sage and black pepper, the deep savory perfume of roasting chicken. Piglet's nostrils flared.

Her stomach clenched with a hunger so sudden it bordered on pain. She turned, knife forgotten.

Inside the oven, Chick-a-Dee and Chicken Little revolved in slow, hypnotic unison.

Their flour coatings had bronzed to gold, sweat and juices streaming down their trussed bodies, seasoning sparkling as they turned through low flame. Drippings pooled in the pan below them, a pump cycling the liquid back to the top cap, where it drizzled down in continuous self-basting rain.

Their chests heaved. Through corncob gags, muffled moans escaped in rhythm with the spindle's rotation.

Fred ejected the spindles stopping the rotation, time for a round of basting.

A garbled protest erupted.

They wanted back in. Another orgasm was building—Chicken Little's thighs quivering against the clamps, Chick-a-Dee's foil-wrapped head lolling.

He let the spindles retreat back into the rotisserie oven-the rotation commences.

Fred glanced at his watch, shrugged, and lifted a spray bottle filled with buttery herb baste.

He misted their revolving bodies generously, the sweet liquid sizzling as it hit hot skin. Assuring they are well basted.

He slid the door shut, latched it, and the smell lingered like a promise.

Piglet's mouth watered. She turned back to her bowl.

The stuffing. Still not finished. She worked faster, folding the aromatics into the bread, pouring warm stock until the mixture held together when squeezed.

Her eyes kept flicking to Ducky, who had been repositioned—arms threaded through the gap in the rack beneath her shoulder blades, elbows strapped together, wrists bound and chained to the undercarriage. Her tiny breast popped upward, pink nipples aimed at the ceiling like twin accusations.

"Are you finished with the stuffing?" Chef Baker's voice was all business.

"Yes, Mom."

"We are chefs in this kitchen. I'll address you as chef as well. Do you understand, Chef?"

A flush crept up Piglet's throat. "Yes, Chef."

"Good. Bring it here."
Chef Piglet crossed the tile, bowl in hand, and winked at Ducky.

A slow lick of her lips.

Ducky's dark eyes tracked the bowl. "How are you going to fit that all in me?"

Piglet looked into the mound of sage-flecked bread, then back at that impossibly small pucker. She shrugged.

"The old-fashioned way." Chef Baker answered before Piglet could, pressing a cold steel anal spreader against Ducky's anus.
Ducky's "ooooh" slid up into a gasp as the instrument pushed deep. Chef Baker squeezed the handle. The petals opened, spreading the delicate rim wider than Piglet had ever seen—a three-inch gape that made Ducky's eyeballs roll.

"First, warm butter. Makes everything slippery."
A thin stream of melted butter poured from a spouted cup, disappearing into the open rectum. Ducky responded with a spasm—a sudden, involuntary release that splashed clear urine against the drip pan's bottom.

The temperature difference was nominal, but her body had surrendered the last of its resistance.

Piglet scooped the first spoonful of stuffing. The buttery track swallowed it instantly.

Plop. Another scoop. Ducky's belly made a sound—something gurgling and deep—and her expression shifted into something almost narcotic as she tracked the stuffing's descent through her own interior.

Plop. More.

Chef Baker produced a stuffing rod, smooth and blunt, and began packing the mixture deeper with firm, rhythmic strokes. Warm butter. More stuffing.

Ducky's flat tummy began to bulge.
The bowl emptied. Chef Piglet stared at the distended curve of Ducky's lower abdomen.

"Chef Piglet, when I pull the spreader, plug her with your finger. Immediately."

The spreader slid out. Piglet shoved her index finger in to the knuckle before the pucker could close, her digit swallowed by hot, butter-slicked stuffing. Ducky wiggled her ass. Piglet wiggled her finger back.

Chef Baker showed Piglet the thermometer—a flat-faced dial with a lethally sharp stem. She skewered golden baby potatoes onto it, one by one, fashioning a plug that looked almost obscenely perfect.

Potato by potato, she inserted it into Ducky's asshole until the last one vanished past the rim. The dial stood straight up from Ducky's rear like a perverse flower.

"Since you've been so good, a surprise."
She set a ceramic egg on the table. Split it open to reveal a scramble of duck eggs, cream, paprika, and parsley.

She closed it.

Positioned it. Above her eggy hole.

"Chef Piglet, be a dear and butter Ducky's pussy."

Piglet's hand trembled as she reached for the butter dish. She dipped two fingers, then pressed them to Ducky's slick folds. The outer lips parted easily—swollen, hot, dripping with more than marinade.

She traced the slit up and down, coating every inch in warm fat, then circled the clit with a single buttered fingertip.

Ducky's gasp turned into a whimper.
Piglet's finger dipped inside. No resistance—just a velvet clench and a rush of fluid.

She added a second finger, pumping slowly, watching Ducky's bound body strain against the straps.

A third finger.

Ducky's channel stretched to accept it, and a moan vibrated through her neck strap.

"More,"

Ducky breathed.

Piglet tucked her thumb and pressed. Her knuckles breached the opening, and then—with a slow, steady pressure—her whole hand slid inward.

Ducky's pussy swallowed her wrist. The sensation was unimaginable: tight heat, rippling contractions, the throb of a heartbeat not her own.

She curled her fingers inside the slick cavern, and Ducky screamed.

Not pain. Orgasm. A full-body detonation that racked the stainless rig and made the thermometer in her ass shimmy.

Her cunt clamped around Piglet's wrist with rhythmic ferocity, gushing hot slick down Piglet's forearm.

The sound that came out of Ducky was no longer a quack but something primal—a cry that echoed off the stainless steel and the blinking red lights of the cameras.

Piglet withdrew her hand slowly, watching the stretched pink flesh contract back to its usual tight slit. Her entire arm glistened to the elbow.

Ducky's chest heaved. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, but her lips curled into that same beatific smile.

"Now," Chef Baker said, holding the ceramic egg open, "let's get this inside you."

Ducky's gaze fixed on the egg. A fresh tremor ran through her thighs.

She was ready. Was she ready? It didn’t matter anyway, she was helpless to stop it.

Chef Baker pressed the ceramic egg gently at first, it was larger then chef piglets wrist yet Chef Baker is sure she can make it fit.

Ducky’s lips spread wide, as did her eyeballs.

She remember trying to mount onto Farmer Fred’s dick when she was feeling frisky one day. She just rocked back and forth on the head of his cock.

This egg was about the same size and chef Baker was determined to make it fit.

Ducky shook as the fattest part of the egg slipped in. She was panting, like giving birth in reverse. Or in ducky’s case, laying a egg.

The spike of pain had subsided and now a sense of fullness.

Ducky smiled up at chef piglet. She has been tasked with basting her, to add sweet duck sauce to her already delicious little body.

Piglet has brush in hand, ducky smiles with a Twinkie in her eye.

Time to get basted!