Chapter 25: Ducky's Oven Confession


The brush hovered.
Chef Piglet held it suspended above Ducky's upturned face, glaze dripping from the bristles in slow, amber pearls.

Ducky's dark eyes tracked each drop. Her lips parted—not in demand, but in invitation. Trust. Admiration. Something deeper than either word could hold.

"You're staring," Piglet murmured.

"I'm watching my chef."
The first stroke landed on Ducky's mouth. Not a smear—a caress. The bristles slid across her lower lip, dragging the sticky sweetness into the crease, then swept upward to coat the upper lip in a single, deliberate pass.

Ducky's tongue darted out. Met glaze. Met salt. Her eyes fluttered but stayed open, fixed on Piglet's face.

Another stroke. The brush traced the seam of her lips, parting them slightly, and Ducky exhaled.

The bristles danced sideways, skating across her cheek to the delicate shell of her ear, then down the column of her throat.

Each pass left a trail of amber gloss that caught the fluorescent lights and threw them back in golden fragments.

Ducky's legs began to shake.

Not fear.

The straps at her ankles quivered against the stainless rings. Her folded body—legs bracketing her ears, sweet little pussy and asshole bared to the ceiling—she trembled with a frequency that hummed through the rack and into the prep table.

A moan slipped out, soft and surprised, as the brush circled the hollow of her throat.

"Ticklish?" Piglet's voice had gone husky.

"Tingly." Ducky's smile spread, dreamy and open.

"Every stroke. It's like—" The brush dipped into the glaze bowl again, and her words dissolved into anticipation.

Ms. Baker watched from the head of the table. Her hands were busy—aluminum foil shaped into a cap, fitted carefully over Ducky's Wet hair, the crinkling metal tucked behind her ears—she paid no attention to it, her eyes tracked the brush's path.

She saw the way Piglet's wrist rotated to follow Ducky's contours.

Ducky's pupils dilated whenever the bristles approached new skin. The way her pinned ankles strained toward the brush as if she could rise to meet it.

She couldn't.

The straps held firm. So Ducky did the only thing she could—a small, circular sway of her hips, a wriggle that made the potato-skewered thermometer in her ass bob like a metronome.

Piglet laughed. Soft. Fondly. The brush descended to Ducky's upturned rear, circling the puckered rim where the thermometer stem emerged.

Chef piglet pulled the thermometer, two potatoes popped out, Glazed the divots between potatoes. Piglet painted each one individually—the golden spheres now lacquered and gleaming—pushing them back in as Ducky's sway became a shudder.

"More," she breathed.

The brush traveled downward. Inner thighs. The tender crease where leg met groin, skin so seldom touched that Ducky gasped when the bristles grazed it.

Piglet worked slowly there, dragging the stroke longer than necessary, watching the flesh dimple and quiver. Ducky's pussy—still loose from the fisting, still glistening with butter and her own slick—clenched on nothing.

"Areas of concern," Ms. Baker said, and her finger landed on Ducky's hip. "Right here. The bone protrudes. Needs a thicker coat or it'll dry out."

Piglet dipped the brush. Applied. The glaze layered thicker, stickier, and Ducky's whimper vibrated through the neck strap.

"Here as well." Ms. Baker traced the ridge of Ducky's ribcage. "And beneath the shoulder blades. Anywhere the rack presses flesh."

Chef Piglet coated ducky’s fingers. Her palm. Her forearm to the elbow.

She abandoned the brush entirely and used her hands, smoothing glaze into the creases where Ducky's body met the alloy cradle, working the sticky sweetness beneath her bound shoulders, across the compressed flesh of her back.

Her fingers slid under the chest strap, coating the undersides of Ducky's budding breasts, and Ducky bit her lip so hard it blanched.

The brush returned for the the yummy mounds themselves.

The nipples had been hard since the fisting—peaked and pink and painfully erect.

Piglet flicked the bristles across the left one. Ducky's back arched as far as the straps allowed.

A second flick. A circle. A slow, dragging stroke that painted the entire aureole in amber.

Inside Ducky's pussy, the ceramic egg shifted.
The stuffing in her ass gave a wet, settling gurgle.

Her body reacted. Not gradually—all at once, a full-system clench that started in her cunt and radiated outward, seizing her thighs, her belly, her bound arms, her throat.

The thermometer bobbed violently. The neck strap creaked. A spray of clear fluid erupted from between her glazed folds—not urine, not slick, something thinner and more desperate—and Ducky's scream wasn’t muffled only by the fact that she had no gag yet.

She came apart on the rack. Legs shaking. Eyes rolling. The egg inside her pressing against her cervix with each spasm.

When the tremors subsided, she lay limp in her bonds, her chest heaving, her glazed body gleaming like a sculpture of honey and light.

"Best day of my life," she whispered.
Ms. Baker smoothed the aluminum cap.

“You don't count days, my pet."

"I know." Ducky's smile was beautiful.

"Still is a good day… okay night."

---

The orange slices came next. Thin as window glass, translucent in the kitchen light.

Ms. Baker pressed them into the glaze on Ducky's ass-cheeks—one on each apple of her bottom—then down her thighs. They stuck instantly, bright citrus circles decorating the amber canvas. Calves. Heels.

A row of orange coins marching down each leg, one perched precariously on the curve of her foot.

Ducky watched the placement with dreamy detachment. Then her expression shifted. The softness hardened into something pointed.

Something serious.

"I want to tell you a secret."
Piglet's hand stilled on the brush. Ms. Baker paused mid-slice, orange rind curling beneath her fingers.

"It's a big secret," Ducky said, softer now.

"Do you want to hear it?"

The chefs leaned in. Both nodded quickly.

"My parents brought me to America when I was four. We came from a province where the crops failed every third year.

When the famine came—" Her voice didn't waver. "—the government harvested people.

Not criminals. Not enemies. Just... the children. To reduce the population. To feed the workers. The politicians."

Ms. Baker heard rumors yet nothing confirmed.

Not because they wanted to eat children. It came down to the choice of starve or survive.

My parents hid me. Told the officials I'd died in infancy. Paid a smuggler to get us out." Ducky's dark eyes found the ceiling, found the lights, found something beyond them.

"I remember hiding in an oven once. Early morning. A knock at the door. My mother shoved me inside and closed it. I sat in the dark, smelling old bread, waiting for them to take us away."

"Who was it?" Piglet's voice was barely there.

"A vacuum salesman." Ducky laughed—a real laugh, bright and startled.

"Can you imagine? All that fear for a vacuum salesman."

She fell quiet. The kitchen hummed around her.

"China is having another famine.”

My parents were ordered home. For education." She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to.

"That's why I want this. The oven. To cook for family, growing up knowing I was meant to be food—I feel it inside me. It becomes what you want.

What you crave.

“When people look at me and see meat, I get so wet I can't think."

Her bound fingers twitched beneath the rack.
"Better to roast for you. With love. With Momma adding garnish and Chef Piglet painting my skin.

“Better than a dirty old slaughterhouse. No love there. Just meat on a hook."

Silence.

Piglet's glazed hand found Ducky's cheek. Pressed there, sticky and warm. "That's not going to happen to you."

"No, my pet." Ms. Baker's voice cut through, firm and final. She touched Ducky's aluminum cap, adjusting it with maternal precision.

"Mindy Chow is right here. With us. With those she loves." Her eyes met Piglet's

It was fortunate Ms Baker acquired Mindy through a businessman her parents trusted.

He loved money more than patriotism. Agreed to let her stay with her.

Mindy adapted quickly to the farm life, as a ducky.

Ms Baker turned to the roasting pan, scattering diced carrots and bell peppers into the butter pool below Ducky's suspended body.

A thin layer of duck sauce followed. Herbs. Poultry seasoning. The aroma bloomed upward—savory, complex, final.

"She's safe with us." Ms. Baker's hand rested on Ducky's glazed thigh.

"Safe as a ducky in the oven."

---

The oven door swung open. Heatless still, but the interior gleamed—brushed stainless, spacious enough for the rack.
The Tripod guy materialized at Chef Piglet's shoulder, checking his lens adjusting zoom, the red light blinking, ready to record like a steady witness.

Both chefs lifted. Ducky's bound weight settled onto the oven rack with a metallic sigh.

She peered around, disappointed. "It's cold."

"It'll warm fast enough’ but first!"

Ms. Baker produced a small orange from her pocket. Round. Dimpled.

"One more thing, pet. Open wide."

Ducky's jaw stretched. The orange forced past her lips, filling her mouth completely, pressing down on her tongue. Bitter rind.

Muffled breath. Her eyes watered, but she was grinning around it—she was always grinning.

"Bye bye, ducky."

Piglet pressed forwards, lifting up on her tippy toes.

"I'll baste you often."

The door closed. The latch clicked.
Inside,

Ducky examined her reflection in the polished walls—a glazed, trussed, orange-studded creature staring back at herself.

Then the heating element glowed orange. Low. Warm. Real enough. Her eyes widened.

Piglet watched sweat bead on Ducky's brow. Watched her wiggle, testing the heat.

She turn her foiled head and smile through the orange gag, seeing her two chefs watching back.

Piglets glaze-coated fingers found Her crotch. Slipped beneath the skimpy coat.

Circled her clit with sticky, sweet pressure. She didn't remember deciding to do it. Her hand was simply there, and Ducky was in the oven, and the sight of her—basting in her own sweat, glowing under the element's amber light—was the most erotic thing Piglet had ever seen.

Ms. Baker stepped close. Her fingers found Piglet's tail plug. Twirled the corkscrew curl in slow, circular motions that matched the rhythm of Piglet's fingers.

"I wonder what she's thinking," Piglet breathed.

The camera recorded. The oven hummed. Ducky's glazed body shifted, settling into the heat, her bound legs trembling with something that might have been pleasure or might have been the simple joy of becoming exactly what she'd always wanted to be. Meat.

"She’s most likely is thinking how delicious she will taste," Ms. Baker murmured. Her hand tightened on the buttplug piggy tail.

What is ducky thinking as she roast?

Next chapter is gonna cook!