Chapter 28: Miss Barbie Barbecue.


Barbie slid down the spit, breathing in short bursts. One of the men clamped a short 8” stabilizer rod to the spit—Barbie felt the kiss of stainless steel against her slick inner thigh a heartbeat before the man's thick fingers spread her cheeks apart.

He lined up the rounded tip with her anus, and she exhaled, letting her weight settle on it. The rod pressed past her rim with a wet, obscene pop, and then she was seated, full at both ends, the spit in her mouth and the rod in her ass-causing her sliding to end.

Her boots swayed two feet above the flagstones. Her arms dangled, useless, more comfortable that way—wrists already pulled behind her, cuffed behind her back with cooking wire, elbows cinched tight enough to make her perfect breasts jut forward.

Sweat beaded on her sternum.

The gang wasted no time. Cooking wire spiraled up her calves, binding her boots together, then wrapped her thighs in snug, silver loops that bit into the legs. Her boots stayed on.

Her hat, which had tumbled off during her descent, was retrieved and pressed back onto her cherry blonde head with a reverent pat.

She looked like a rodeo queen trussed for the county fair barbecue—aesthetic, the men called it, and Barbie, even with a steel rod skewering her tongue, found the professionalism gratifying.

The bearded man who'd guided the stabilizer home now circled her, spraying something tacky and sweet onto her ribs.

Barbecue sauce mixed with cooking oil. She smelled brown sugar, smoked paprika, the sting of vinegar.

She was lifted with her standing spit, shifting horizontally and unceremoniously propped on the shoulders, heading to the roasting pit.

The fire pit's coals is burning bright red throughout the black and grey charcoal, radiating a heat perfect for roasting. Barbie is set over the pit, spit set on raised post, the persistent heat that rose through her beautiful dangling breasts and belly, a big contrast to the night air cooling the sweat on her back.

A brush followed, spreading the sauce in slow, possessive strokes across her backside.
She shivered under the strokes despite the heat.

Piglet watched it all from Gramps's comfy seat, still stroking his hardened cock.

He'd tugged her over, one hand on her hip, and she understood without words what he wanted.

She swung her leg over his thighs, facing away, reverse cowgirl, as her tail plug pressed against his belly when she positioned herself. The corkscrew curl scraped his skin. His cock—already slick—nudged at her opening, and she sank down with a groan that vibrated through her chest.

The plug pushed inward as she took him deeper, the pressure a strange, dense fullness that made Gramps grunt and grab her hips.

"Great dang," he muttered. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her waist, and then she was seated to the hilt, ass cheeks flush against his lap, the spit in her mind as much as in her cunt.

She imagined a steel spit. The way it would part her folds, spread her open inch by inch, fill her until she couldn't tell where she ended and the pole began.

She rose. Fell. Rose again, her inner walls dragging along his length, and each downward stroke made the tail plug shift against his cock through the thin membrane, a double penetration that made her gasp.

Gramps's hands slid up to cup her breasts, squeezing the sweat-slicked mounds, and when he pinched her nipples—those tight, aching buds already sore for reasons unsure—Piglet cried out.

The discomfort sharpened into pleasure, a bright electric line that shot from her chest to her clit.

She bounced faster, chasing the edge, her eyes locked on Barbie's bound form across the patio.
The gang was basting her real good now, working brushes under her breasts, along her inner thighs, painting her like a canvas.

Barbie's eyes were wide, her chest heaving, and Piglet thought, She's beautiful. She's food. The thought undid her.

She came with a wail, her pussy clamping around Gramps in rhythmic pulses, her whole body shuddering against his chest.

Meanwhile Barbie's thoughts drifted on the slow current of heat and sauce.
Her contract with Ms Baker. They were such a binding things in this community—break one, and your reputation never recovered.

She should have negotiated better. Read the fine print. She didn't mind the fact that now she is a spit roast; she'd fantasized about it often enough, watching others ride the spit and be roasted, one hand between her thighs.

But she'd imagined a different theme. A High School prom night, maybe, where she was crowned queen and then offered up to the graduating class on a silver platter, the crowd cheering as she slid down the pole.

More pomp and circumstance. A solo performance with proper billing of course.

Instead, she got the Howdy Boys and a pig-tailed sous-chef who'd traded her like a cheap bargaining chip.

Still. She was the star. The Ken and Barbie Show had become the Barbie Barbecue show, and she'd taken top billing. A solo act.

She ran through her mental resume:
Nineteen years old. Winner of the gene pool. Natural cherry blonde. Blue eyes. Pearly whites. Aspiring actress. Performer—whips. Bondage actress. And now… meat.

She should of had an agent. Better representation.

Next time—she laughed inwardly, a silent quake that made the spit rod vibrate in her throat—no next time.

The heat on her hanging sweaty breast was becoming unbearable.

"Mum Me Malmaee!" she tried to shout, the rod garbling every syllable.

Turn me already.

The bearded man seemed to understand. He stepped forward with a crank, fitting it to the front end of the spit, and met her eyes with a grin that was almost gentle.

Then he turned the handle. One revolution. Her world tilted, the patio swinging sideways, and her hat stayed miraculously in place as she rotated.

The gang cheered. Brushes dipped into sauce buckets, and as she is turned belly-up, they basted her reddish flesh—the soft plane of her stomach, the delicate curve of her ribs, the undersides of her breasts that had been hidden from the coals.

The sauce was cool on her hot skin, a shock that made her nipples tighten and her bound legs twitch.

Another revolution. Belly-down again, the heat from the coals rising through her like a continuous waves, raising waves of heat. Again brushes were slathering her back, her shoulder blades, the cleft of her ass where the stabilizer rod protruded.

The sauce dripped into the coals and sizzled, releasing a sweet, smoky perfume that wrapped around her like a promise.

The turning became a rhythm. Face-up: they painted her throat, her collarbone, the aching swell of her breasts, a man’s knuckles brushing her areola with deliberate, teasing slowness.

Face-down: they traced her spine, her flanks, her bound calves, every brushstroke a claim.

The flames from below flickering upward as greasy oils droplets aroused it—she could feel herself cooking, but a steady, slow cooking that made her skin flush and her pores open.

She felt the sauce sinking into her, the sugar caramelizing just slightly where it touched the hottest parts of her flesh.

And she felt the cool night air on every rotation, a brief, gasping relief before the warmth heat again. She was turning. She was basting.

She was, she realized with a pulse of arousal that made the stabilizer rod seem to throb, becoming dinner.

—-

Gramps came with a roar that drowned out even the gang's cheering.

He pulled piglet off his cock at the last second, and his seed erupted across her belly, her chest, her chin, hat and skimpy chefs uniform—thick, white ropes that stood out against her flushed skin. He'd never come that hard, not in years.

Something about the way she'd ridden him, that extra pressure from the plug, like fucking two holes at once.

He gasped, slumped, then swatted her bare rear with a hand still trembling.

"Run along, little piggy. Thank Ms. Baker for me."

His tone was softer now, almost fond. "Now get before I put you on the spit myself."

Piglet didn't need telling twice. She scrambled off his lap, cum dripping down her thighs, and darted toward the fire pit.

The flagstones were cool under her bare soles. She paused at Barbie's side as the spit made another slow revolution, bringing those blue eyes level with hers.

Barbie's gaze was glassy but aware, her mascara smudged, barbecue sauce smeared across her cheek like war paint.

Piglet thought about the welts on Thirty-Six's body, the way Barbie had laughed as she counted the lashes.

But there was no vindictiveness in piglet now. Just a strange, exhausted empathy.

Barbie had been a performer doing a job. Yet she didn’t have to hit so hard, so many times, he like hurting others, now it was her who took his place-now the performance had changed.

"See you on a platter later, Miss Barbecue Barbie!"

Piglet smiled, licked her lips, and skipped away before Barbie could reply—not that the rod would have let her.

—

Chef Baker stood in the kitchen doorway, preparing another bowl of duck sausage for basting,

When she saw Piglet—cum-streaked, sauce-flecked, chef's hat listing dangerously to one side—her expression flickered between exasperation and pride.

Piglet ran the last few feet and threw her arms around her, a volley of thank-yous spilling out in a breathless rush.

Thirty-Six was safe, she saved him. Ms. Baker told her, being cared for. All was well.

"Look at you. You're a mess again." Ms. Baker held her at arm's length.

"This is why farm animals don't wear clothes." A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

She tilted her head toward the oven where Ducky's amber glow still flickered.

"She's ready for another basting. Still with us I believe."

The camera's red light still winked.

Piglet pressed her hands to the oven window. Ducky's glazed form looked transcendent—eyes closed, orange gag glistening, chest rising and falling in slow, peaceful rhythm.

"Piglet, dear." Ms. Baker's voice dropped into that maternal register that never failed to make Piglet's stomach flutter.

"Be a good girl and report to the wash station. I have a very important task for you at the dinner celebration."

Piglet turned. The words hung in the air, heavy with promise. She didn't need a trigger.

Her feet were already moving to the showers.