Chapter 26: Ducky’s Oven Lovin.


The world shrank to a golden rectangle.

Ducky lay folded into herself, an offering glazed and trussed, and the oven’s window framed everything she needed.

Hot air moved across her bound body in slow, deliberate currents—the convection fan whispering constantly, a mechanical breath that wrapped her ribs, her inner thighs, the tender crease where leg met groin.

She imagined a beach. Not any beach she’d visited, but the idea of one: sand that held heat into the evening, a sun that pressed down without malice.

The roasting pan beneath her had become tidal, the butter and vegetable medley lapping at her back like a warm tide.

Her glazed skin began to give itself to the heat. Every pore wept. Honey and melted fat slid down her sides in long, slow drips, falling onto the diced carrots and bell peppers with a soft hiss she felt more than heard.

The air itself changed. What had been neutral warmth now carried a sweetness that coiled in her nostrils—duck sauce, rosemary, the deep bass note of poultry seasoning.

A savory perfume rose from her own body, and Ducky breathed it in like a greeting. That’s me, she thought, and the thought made her pussy clench around the warming ceramic egg still nestled deep.

Her foiled head tilted toward the window. Through the amber glow and the faint smear of condensation, she could see them.

Chef Piglet’s pink pigtails bobbing as she stirred something at the prep table.
Chef Baker’s in her pristine uniform, calm and unhurried, as she portioned ingredients.

Everyone busy. Everyone working to make dinner perfect. And Ducky—Little Miss Ducky—lounged in a roasting pan, doing the most important work of all: becoming.

She thought of Piglet. Her chef. Her friend. The girl who had knelt beside the vat and licked her foot with such reverence, who had fisted her on the rack until she screamed.

Ducky replayed the memory in slow fragments—the stretch, the fullness, the way Piglet’s arm had glistened to the elbow.

She wondered if Chef Piglet knew how much that meant. Not just the pleasure. The choice. To be first in line. To see Ducky as something worth savoring.

A ripple ran through her stuffed belly. The sage and apple filling shifted, and she imagined the dinner guests spearing their forks into her flank, the meat flaking tender, the steam curling upward.

What will they say? She pictured them leaning to one another. The duck is perfect. So flavorful. So moist.

Her hips made a small, involuntary circle. The thermometer in her ass bumped the rack.

She thought of Ms. Baker. Momma. The woman who had found her, paid a greedy businessman, brought her to a place where being food wasn’t a nightmare but a gift.

Ducky owed her everything. Tonight she would repay that debt—one glazed, roasted duck-girl doing her part to make the dinner guests happy.

The Celebration Dinner. A feast. And she, the a big part of it.

Her mind drifted further. To the farm. To Daisy Moo, heavy with milk, that dreamy smile never leaving her face.

Ducky wondered if Daisy ever thought about the calves—if she even could, that far into her own headspace.

To Miss Goat. Dear, sweet Miss Goat, who had walked willingly into the butcher’s hands so that others could eat. Ducky wish she had tasted her.

Was her meat gamy and rich, she watched piglet eating her meat, licked the grease from her fingers afterward, feeling a gratitude so complex it had no name.

She thought of the masters, To Farmer Fred and Dora, with their rough hands and secret spice blends. To Coach Bart, whose hunger was simpler, more direct—he’d visited the duck pen more than once, and Ducky remembered the way he grunted, the way he never stayed long.

All of it led here. To this oven. This heat. This surrender.

She had chosen it.

The thought bloomed in her chest, brighter than the heating element. Not a harvest. Not a slaughterhouse.
A delicious roast ducky, woven with love and glaze and the hands of people who would miss her when the meal was over.

Her eyes found the kitchen beyond the glass—Cameraman adjusting his lens, a photographer coming up snapping stills.

So much activity. So much preparation. And Ducky simply lay there, bound and stuffed and basting in her own juices, more at peace than she had ever been.

A drop of sweat traced her temple, cut through the honey on her cheek, and fell into the vegetables. The broth below was growing richer by the minute. She could smell it.

She was seasoning the pan. She was doing her job.

---

The oven door opened.
Cold air slapped her glazed skin like a palm. Ducky gasped—a muffled squeak past the orange gag—as the rack rattled and her body slid partway into the kitchen’s brightness.

Every nerve ending that had settled into the heat now shrieked with sensation. Her nipples, pebbled and painted, tightened into needles. The glaze on her thighs cooled instantly, turning tacky.

“Time for a basting, sweet ducky.” Chef Baker’s voice was honey itself.

Ducky’s vision swam. Chef Piglet stood on a stool beside the oven, the refilled glaze bowl cradled in one arm, a fresh basting brush held in the other.

Her chef’s hat was crooked. A smear of honey crossed her freckled cheek. She looked like a pastry chef who’d been in a fight with a beehive and won.

“Be careful, she’ll be hot,” Chef Baker cautioned.

Piglet leaned in.
The brush hovered—then descended. Cool glaze hit Ducky’s shoulder, and the sensation was so sharp, so sudden, that a whimper forced its way around the orange.

Piglet painted in broad strokes, no longer the reverent artist of the first glazing but something more playful.

A swirl on each breast. A quick flick across the throat. The brush darted to Ducky’s ribs, tracing the bones through the glaze and fat, and Ducky’s bound legs trembled against the straps. She knew this wasn’t for her comfort.

This was for flavor.

This was to make her crackle.

The thought—that Piglet’s every stroke was calculated to make her more delicious—wound a tight, hot coil in her core.

The brush found her pussy. The bristles parted her slick, swollen folds with the precision of a chef who had studied her anatomy.

Piglet circled the clit once. Twice. Then dragged the flat of the brush upward, coating the entire slit in fresh glaze.

Ducky’s hips bucked against the rack. A second pass—slower, the bristles catching on her hood—and she was gone.

The orgasm tore through her like a hook, pulling a muffled cry from deep in her chest, and her cunt spasmed around the ceramic egg, gushing slick that mixed with the honey and dripped into the vegetables below.

Her toes curled. Her eyes rolled. The kitchen swam in gold and white.

Piglet grinned. “That’s my ducky.”

Ducky could barely hear her. The pleasure had rewired everything. The survival instinct that screamed too hot, too much, get out had been drowned by the deeper, truer need: back in the oven.

Back to the heat. Back to becoming.

She wanted this to forever. She wanted to cook until her meat fell off the bone.

“Time to get you back in the cozy oven!”

Chef Baker slid the rack into place with practiced ease, and Ducky’s body re-entered the amber glow like a swimmer returning to warm water.

The door closed.

They watched through the window. Ducky was already adapting—her bound feet wagging, toes wiggling in little figure-eights.

Her head turned from side to side, resettling the aluminum cap, and the orange in her mouth bobbed as she smiled around it.

She was home.

---

A deep chuckle rumbled nearby. Chef Piglet turned. Farmer Fred stood at the rotisserie oven, a long-pronged fork in his hand, prodding gently at the twirling chickens.

He stuck it into Chick-a-Dee thigh, no reaction she hung limp, eyes closed, utterly nonresponsive.

Chicken Little jerked when the fork speared into her thigh—still present, still somewhere in there, but barely.

“Time to baste and get these birds really cooking.” Fred said.

The rotisserie slowed. Fred basted Chick-a-Dee first, her stuffed, golden body steaming. Roasting bundle of delicious toddler girl-meat.

Then Chicken Little, he basted her, whose eyelids fluttered but did not open.

Piglet’s stomach growled at the sight of them.

They smelled like Sunday dinner. Like home.

Like every good thing she’d ever eaten.

She wanted to talk to them, but their eyes were glassy and far away.

They were becoming nothing more then roasted chickens.

Farmer Fred slid the door closed an raised the heat. Only chicken little reacted to the increased temperature rise. Her body blasted with extreme heat, her whole core shook then stillness.

They were left to twirl and spin and revolve around each other, continuing to roast away.

---

Back at Ducky’s oven, the duck-girl had gone utterly limp. The tension had drained from her bound limbs.

Her head lolled, eyes half-closed, mouth working the orange in a slow, rhythmic suck. As Piglet watched, Ducky’s body hitched—a tremor, a clench—and then another orgasm rippled through her, softer this time, a gentle wave rather than a breaker.

“We’ll give her another basting in ten minutes, pop her back in for another thirty,”

Chef Baker said, interrupting Piglet’s deep stare into the oven.

She pointed toward the door just right of the soup vats. “Staff lounge. Take a break. Plenty of fruit and drinks.”

Piglet didn’t want to leave. But thirst clawed at her throat, and her legs ached, and a break from the relentless sexual hunger might clear her head.

She nodded and turned.

The soup vats bubbled as she passed. A woman rose from behind the nearest one—big, beautiful, a Momma June type with arms like hams and a smile that lingered too long.

The simmering broth smelled rich, savory, but Piglet’s mind seized on the woman’s eyes tracking her. Up. Down.

Lingering on the skimpy chef’s coat.

The safety video flashed in her memory. Bart the Tiger, warning about the soup lady. That she would snatch up up and put you in her soup.

Piglet froze.

“Well, ain’t you a tender little thing,” the woman said, licking her lips.

“Make a fine Irish stew, you would.”

“No thank you.” Piglet’s voice came out steadier than she felt.

“I’m Chef Baker’s pet.”

The words were a shield. The woman’s expression flickered—disappointment, then resignation, then a slow, oily shrug.

“What a shame. You one fine piece of meat.”

Piglet excused herself and pushed through the lounge door.

---

The staff lounge hummed with low conversation. Some talked shop. Some gossiped.

A few sets of eyes followed Piglet as she crossed to the refrigerator, but she didn’t flinch.

She’d grown used to hungry looks. The same way Ducky had.

The fruit punch was cold and sweet. She drank half the bottle before her ears caught the words.

“…Ken and Barbie.”

“Yeah, Ken doll is getting his ass pulverized. That naked cowgirl with the chaps and whip—she’s not holding back.”

“I don’t think he’ll make it to the spit-roasting. Not at this rate.”

The bottle slipped from Piglet’s hand. It hit the counter and rolled, spilling pink across the tile, and she was already moving—past the staring staff, through the door, into the kitchen.

She ran to Ms. Baker. Not Chef. But Momma. The word tore out of her in a sob.

Ms. Baker caught her. Calmed her. She scribbled something on a piece of paper and pressed it into Piglet’s trembling hand.

Piglet read it. Her eyes widened. This could work.

“Hand this note to the patriarch of the Howdy Boys. Gramps. Run now!”

She stopped only at the oven. Kissed her finger. Touched the hot glass where Ducky’s image glowed amber and serene.

“I’ll be right back, ducky!”

Then she ran—down the corridor, past the soup lady shaking her head, toward the patio where the fire pit waited and the whip cracked.

Her bare feet slapped the tile. Her pigtails streamed behind her.

Could she reach Thirty-Six before it was too late. She would.

Ms. Baker watched her pet disappear, and a smile curled the corner of her mouth.

Nothing like child drama. Love’s bitter sting.