Chapter 27: The Ken and Barbie Show.


The corridor blurred. Piglet's bare feet slapped cold tile, her open chef's coat streaming behind her like a flag of war.

Each breath scraped her throat raw. The note folded, stuffed in her pocket, Ms. Baker's cursive words safely secure—she'd darted down the hall in a sprint.

Flora's station flashed past. A little four year old naked boy sat in her chair—head already shaved to gleaming skin, a popsicle dripping red down his fingers onto his fat belly.

Flora lifted her hand in a wave, her kind eyes crinkling,
"Piglet, dear—"

Piglet didn't stop. Didn't answer. The double doors loomed ahead, brass handles catching the corridor light, and she hit them with both palms.


They flew open yet no one took notice except a serving staff walking with a tray of beer.

The patio erupted into her senses all at once—firelight, whiskey, sweat, sex.

Torches blazed around the perimeter, their flames licking upward into a sky velvet with stars.

The Howdy Boys sprawled across lounge chairs in various states of undress, their laughter thick and easy, their hands roaming across the serving staff with proprietary hunger.

An older woman with arms like cured hams bounced on a service boy's lap, her head thrown back, her throat working around a moan.

A man with a beard down to his sternum had a serving girl bent over a barrel, his hips pumping slow and lazy, banging away.

No one stopped. No one cared. A staff girl's eyes were glazed but not frightened—she'd been conditioned for this, trained to open her mouth and her legs and whatever else the guests required.

The fire pit blazed at the patio's center. And beyond it—

Thirty-Six tethered to a post. His wrists were bound behind his back, the rope cutting deep into his wrist that he no longer felt his fingers.

His battered crotch once smooth, hairless now had welt marks, skin exposed to the night air.

His back was a lattice of red welts, some beaded with blood, others layered so thick they'd turned purple.

He didn't move. His head lolled forward, laying still against the ground, and for one horrible second Piglet thought she was too late.

Then his leg moved. A spasm. He was still alive.

Barbie stood over him, her body gleaming with exertion. She'd stripped down to her cowboy hat, the boots, and a pair of leather chaps that framed her bare cunt and ass in a glistening V of skin.

Her breasts swung free, nipples hard from the thrill of it. The bullwhip coiling back, her hand ready readied for another strike.

She was counting under her breath—Piglet could see her lips moving, shaping the number thirty-one, thirty-two—and her arm was already pulling back for another strike.

"Stop!" Piglet cried out.

The word tore out of Piglet's throat before she could measure it. The whip froze mid-arc.

Barbie's head swiveled, her perfect face splitting into a grin of pure, delighted surprise.

Every eye on the patio locked onto the half-dressed redhead framed in the doorway.

Her chef's hat askew, her pigtails wild, her coat hanging open to flash her sweat soaked chest, between her thighs, the pink curl of her tail plug reflecting light of a lounge table candle.

Gramps pushed a serving girl off his lap. She tumbled to the flagstones with a wet gasp, a string of saliva still connecting her lower lip to the head of his cock.

He didn't bother tucking himself away. Just let it jut upward—thick, veined, improbably hard for a man his age—and fixed Piglet with a stare that had probably been stripping women bare since before she was born.

"Missy." His voice was gravel and smoke. "You have two seconds to explain yourself, or I'm gonna set my boys on you."

The gang stirred. A woman with a face like a hatchet licked her lips. A man cracked his knuckles.

Barbie's grin widened—she wanted this, more meat for her whip.

Piglet realized this by the look in her eyes.

She wanted an excuse to turn that whip on her fresh skin.

Piglet's heart hammered against her ribs. Her anus clenched around the tail plug, a traitorous response she couldn't control.

She looked at Thirty-Six—at the welts, the stillness, the way his breath came in shallow, wet gasps—and something hardened in her chest.

"Look at him!" She stepped forward, fists balled at her sides. "He's practically lifeless. What kind of entertainment is a boy who can't even scream anymore?"

Gramps tilted his head. A smile cracked his weathered face—not warmth, but appreciation.

The girl had spine. He liked that.

"Shall you take his place, then?" He rose from his chair, leaning on a cane Piglet hadn't noticed before, his gait unsteady but his presence filling the patio like a storm front.

"We can have that tasty little body of yours up the ladder and down the spit. I'm sure that would entertain us plenty."

Piglet's gaze slid to the vertical spit. It rose from its concrete footing like a steel accusation—thick as her wrist, tapering to a point that caught the firelight and threw it back in silver flashes.

The ladder stood beside it, its top rung level with the tip.

She imagined climbing it.

Imagined positioning herself above that point. Imagined the cold metal tip kissing her labia, then parting them, then—

Her nipples hardened. Her mouth went dry.

Could she do it?

Could she settle her weight onto that spear and let gravity do the rest?

The descent would be slow—agonizing, exquisite—each inch of steel sliding deeper until it filled her completely, the spit would own her.

She'd feel it in her throat. The ultimate penetration. The final surrender.

Bound to it for the rest of her short life, then come the fire. The fire pit with the holding post, ready to accept the spit’s offering.

The heat, the flames, forever turning-squirming on her stiff master. Knowing guests are watching her cook.

"We'll? What will it be?"
Gramps's voice yanked her back. She found her hand once again at her crotch.

She looked at Thirty-Six. His head had lifted, just barely, and his dark eyes were fixed on her face. He was shaking his head—a tiny, desperate movement that cost him everything he had left. No. Don't. I'm not worth it.

She looked at Barbie. The bitch was smirking, swaying her whip, waiting to hear Piglet seal her own fate.

She looked at the gang. Silent now. Hungry.

A circle of wolves with grease on their chins.

Finally she looked up at Gramps.

"No’ Neither."

The word fell into the silence like a stone into still water.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Gramps's grip tightened on his cane. His expression shifted from amusement to something darker—the affront of a man who was not accustomed to hearing no.

Piglet reached into her pocket. The note came out folded and intact, and she thrust it toward him like a shield.

"From Ms. Baker." She finally said waiting for his response.

Gramps stared at the paper. Then he laughed—a dry, rattling sound that made his whole body shake.

"A note, boys!" He snatched it from her hand and held it aloft.

"This little piglet brought us a love letter!"

The gang erupted in jeers. Someone toasted the note with a whiskey bottle.

"Let's have a look, then." Gramps unfolded the paper with exaggerated ceremony, his smirk firmly in place. His eyes tracked across the words.

The smirk died.
His lips moved silently. A raised eyebrow. A tilt of his head. Then—impossible, inexplicable—a smile.

Not cruel. Not hungry. Something closer to admiration. He looked at Piglet over the top of the paper, and she felt the weight of his attention like a physical thing.

"Seems like we have a letter from Ms. Baker herself!"

The name hit the crowd like a spark in dry grass. They cheered—not the polite applause of strangers, but the genuine roar of people who knew that name, respected it, maybe feared it a little.
Gramps cleared his throat and began to read aloud.

"'Dearest Grandpa Cromwell—'" Dramatic pause. The crowd hooted.

"'Thank you for receiving Piglet, my prized pet. Please forgive my untimely interruption. I urgently require my Ken pet for an important function at the dinner celebration tonight.'"

Boos erupted. Gramps raised a hand.

"Hold on there, there's more!" He waited for the grumbling to subside.

"'I would hold this small favor in the highest regards. As a show of my appreciation, you may have Barbie, who is contractually bound to me. Do as you please, and I'm sure she will make a delicious addition to tonight's dinner. Best regards, Doris Baker.'"

The cheer that followed shook the flagstones.

Barbie's face went white, then red, then white again.

"Wait—what? I'm contracted to entertain you guys tonight!" Her voice pitched into something almost panicked.

"That's the deal. I whip the guy, I get paid, I go home."

"Entertainment comes in many forms, my dear."

Gramps folded the note with care, tucking it into his shirt pocket.

He studied Barbie for a long moment, then turned to Piglet—still trembling, still clutching the tail of her coat like a lifeline. Then back to Barbie, who was shaking her head with increasing violence.

"Looks like we're gonna have a Barbie Barbecue, boys."

The patio erupted.

Barbie's protest died in her throat as two of the Howdy men closed in—big men with hands like shovels and grins like open graves.

They gripped her arms, and something shifted in her expression. The fear flickered. Then caught.

Then transformed into something that looked very much like excitement.
"I—" She swallowed.

Her thighs pressed together, and Piglet could see the gleam of moisture on her inner leg.

"I've thought about this. Oh god, I've thought about this so many times." Her voice dropped to a fervent whisper.
"The spit.
The fire.
Everyone watching me turn."
"You bitch!" She shouted it at Piglet, her face luminous with something between terror and surrender. The men pulled her toward the ladder, and she went struggling yet willingly—helplessly—her chaps swaying, her boots clicking on the flagstones.

Piglet gave a short satisfying smile, "You're welcome."

The words felt insufficient. Everything felt insufficient.

She turned to follow Thirty-Six's stretcher as two serving staff lifted him toward the doors.

Gramps's hand closed around her wrist.

"Not you, missy." His grip was dry and surprisingly strong.

"You might as well watch the show."

Piglet opened her mouth to protest, but his other hand was already on her hip, steering her toward his chair. The leather was warm from his body heat when he pulled her down beside him. His cock was still out—still hard—and his hand found the back of her neck with the casual authority of a man who had never been told no by anyone who mattered.

"You owe me a show, little piglet." His breath was hot against her ear. "And I intend to collect."

She didn't fight. Not because she couldn't—because she didn't want to.

The adrenaline was still singing in her veins, and the sight of Barbie climbing that ladder sent a pulse between her legs that had nothing to do with fear.

Gramps's hand slid from her neck to her thigh, pushing aside the flap of her coat, finding the wet heat of her cunt with unerring accuracy.

One thick finger pressed inside her, and she gasped.

"Watch," he commanded.
Barbie reached the top rung.

She straddled the spit, her chaps spreading, her bare pussy hovering inches above the steel tip.

The firelight painted her body in shades of gold and shadow. Her hand reached down—wrapped around the shaft of the spit—guided it toward her opening.

The crowd held its breath.
She lowered herself.
The tip kissed her folds. Parted them.

Her mouth fell open in a silent cry as the first inch of steel disappeared inside her.

She was wet enough that it slid easily—too easily, maybe, because she dropped faster than she meant to, taking three inches, four, five.

Her body swallowed the metal with obscene enthusiasm. Her legs began to shake.

"There we go." Gramps's finger curled inside Piglet, finding that spot behind her pubic bone that made her vision white out. His thumb circled her clit with the same lazy expertise.

"That's a good girl. Watch the show."
Piglet watched. She couldn't look away. Barbie was descending the spit in slow, rhythmic pulses, each one forcing her wider, deeper, fuller.

Her hands tried best to gripped the steel shaft between her thighs, trying to control the speed, but gravity was stronger. Her own weight was doing the work.

The metal slid past her cervix. Past her womb. Up toward her diaphragm.
And then she began to scream—might call it pain, or maybe avrelease. An orgasm that seemed to go on and on, wracking her body as she impaled herself inch by inch. Men holding her steady.

Her cum slicked the steel, making the descent smoother, faster, more inevitable.

The crowd roared.

Gramps's fingers worked Piglet with merciless precision, and she felt her own climax building like a wave.

"We'll see," Gramps murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. "We'll see if you want the spit for yourself, little piglet. By the end of tonight, I think you will."

Piglet came with a cry that was swallowed by the noise of the crowd. Her body clenched around his fingers, around the tail plug, around the memory of Thirty-Six's broken body and Barbie's ecstatic face. And when it was over, she didn't move.

Just slumped against Gramps's chair, panting, watching the blonde cowgirl sink lower and lower onto her steel fate.
The fire crackled.

The spit held steady. And somewhere behind her, through the double doors, Ducky was roasting in her oven.

Thirty-Six was being carried to safety, and the Celebration Dinner would soon begin.

For now she was going to watch the bitch roast over open flames, she was unknowingly stroking Gramps cock.

Gramps wasn’t complaining one bit.