Chapter 29: Pork and Beans.


"Your soup smells delish!" Piglet called out as she trotted past the vats, her bare feet slapping tile still warm from the kitchen's heat —a low, bubbling sound that reminded Piglet of stock pots full of parted girls and other things.

The soup lady's wide face split into a grin. Her ladle paused mid-stir, dripping broth back into the simmering depths. "You come back and try some later, little piglet. I'll save you a bowl."

"On assignment!" Piglet threw the words over her shoulder like a shield, and the soup lady's laughter followed her down the corridor.

She rounded the corner into the wash station. Stopped—skidded on the wet tile.

A man stood beside the harness rig. Not a chef. Not a farmhand. He wore a long transparent raincoat, buttoned to his throat, the plastic gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Beneath it: a business suit. Charcoal grey. Impeccably pressed.

His trousers were tucked into plastic booties, and his hands—gloved in thin latex—held the harness open like a chauffeur holding a car door.

"Ah." His smile was warm, professional, utterly out of place. "You must be Piglet. I'm here to get you ready."

Piglet's heart kicked against her ribs. A stranger. A man in a suit and a raincoat, standing in the wash station, holding a bondage harness open and waiting for her to climb in.

Her pussy tightened. The tail plug shifted. She was no longer Chef Piglet—she'd shed the coat and hat the moment she crossed the threshold, leaving them in a crumpled heap by the door.

Just a pet now.
Just a piglet.

She moved toward him slowly, the cautious shuffle of an animal approaching an unfamiliar hand. Her collar caught the light. Her pig charm winked.

"Good girl." Mr. Smith's voice was caramel and tea. British, she thought. Definitely British. "Up you go."

She climbed into the harness like a saddle. The leather was cool against her inner thighs. He worked fast—waist strap first, cinched snug below her ribs. Then her wrists, guided into cuffs that dangled from the overhead frame. Her ankles, spread and locked into the lower stirrups. The harness cradled her suspended, immobile, a fly wrapped in silk.

"I'm Mr. Smith." He circled her slowly, inspecting his work. "An associate and business partner to Ms. Baker."

Piglet studied him through her piggy brain—the foggy, simplified lens that made everything easier.

Expensive watch. Clean fingernails. The kind of handsome that came from money and good dentistry. His accent rolled like a marble across velvet.

Warm water cascaded from the shower head. He worked a sponge into a lather, the suds foaming white and thick, and began at her shoulders. Slow circles. Methodical. The sponge traced her collarbone, her sternum, the soft swell of her breasts.

Grease from the kitchen dissolved. Gramps's dried cum—flaking on her belly, her chest, her chin—softened and slid away in thin, milky rivulets.

"Ms. Baker says you responded quite well to our farm therapy program." His gloved fingers parted her labia, the sponge dipping into her cleft with clinical precision.

"I see you also respond well to sexual stimulation. Nothing gets the chemicals in the brain to explore new ideas quite like orgasm."

Piglet's breath hitched. The sponge circled her clit—once, twice—and then traveled lower, cleansing the tender rim of her anus where the tail plug emerged.

He worked the suds around the base of the plug, rotating it gently, and Piglet moaned.
"Turn your head, please." He rinsed the sponge, refilled it with something that smelled of peppermint.

"This will tingle."

The mint soap was milder than the industrial scrub she'd endured before. It spread across her skin in cool, awakening waves.

Her nipples tightened. Her clit throbbed. The tingling settled into her pores like a whispered secret, and when the shower rinse came—cool water cascading down her suspended body—she gasped at the sensitivity of her own skin.

"I'd say you are one fine piglet." Mr. Smith stepped back, admiring her. "I'm glad you joined the program."

He disappeared into the equipment corridor. Piglet hung in the harness, dripping, and the shower head continued its lazy patter against the tile. A droplet hit her shoulder. Another.

She shifted her hips, trying to angle the spray toward her clit—that aching, tingling bud that the mint had awakened—but the wrist straps held firm. She couldn't reach. Couldn't touch. The water danced everywhere except where she needed it.

The torture.

Mr. Smith returned pushing a serving cart. The same kind Ms. Baker had used for Ducky. But this one bore a silver platter on top—oval, gleaming, restaurant-grade. Clamps lined its rim. Wrist clamps. Ankle clamps. Designed to hold something in place. Something that was meant to be displayed.

He unfastened her from the harness. Carried her—effortlessly, like she weighed nothing—and settled her onto the platter. Positioned her on knees and elbows.

Locked her wrists into the forward clamps. Her ankles into the rear. She was on all fours, silver beneath her, the platter's cool surface pressing into her kneecaps.

Piglet's mind raced. What kind of assignment was this? Who was this man?

"Mister S—"

"You can call me Mr. Smith." He was already pulling items from the cart's lower shelf. Jars. Brushes. A bottle of something amber.

"Mr. Smith, what kind of business man are you?"
He stepped behind her. His gloved fingers found her pussy lips, spreading an ointment that smelled of aloe and something floral. He worked it into her folds, around her clit, inside her—slow, soothing strokes that made her legs spread wider, offering herself without thought.

The soreness from Gramps's drilling began to fade.

"To answer your question, I'm a talent scout." He squeezed her pussy lips gently, then stretched them apart, examining her with the detached interest of a man appraising livestock.

"I also dabble in sauces and glazes as well."

His thumb traced her opening. "I see you have been tenderizing your vagina. It makes for a delicious filet."

He bent. His tongue—warm, wet, nothing like the clinical gloves—dragged up her slit in one long, slow stroke. Down to her clit.

He circled it with the tip of his tongue, and Piglet's arms strained against the clamps.

"Was that your duck sauce?" The words came out breathy, desperate. "I used on Ducky?"

Mr. Smith took his time answering. His mouth was busy. When he finally surfaced, his lips glistened.

"Why yes. That is one of our finest. Imported from England."

He went back to licking.

Piglet tried to say something about Ducky loving the glaze, but the orgasm was already building—a tight, hot pressure that started in her clit and radiated outward.

Her words dissolved into crying moans. The platter vibrated beneath her.

Mr. Smith stood. Composed himself.

Gripped the corkscrew curl of her tail plug and pulled.
The pop echoed off the tile.

The sudden emptiness—the release of pressure—sent her orgasm into overdrive. She convulsed on the platter, her cunt clenching around nothing, her thighs trembling.

"Ms. Baker has ordered an upgrade."
He held up the new plug. Same pink curl. Same metal gleam. But the girth—Piglet's piggy brain struggled with measurements, but the widest part had to be five inches across.

Maybe more.

Mr. Smith greased it thoroughly. The insertion was slow, inexorable, a stretch that bordered on pain before settling into something deeper. Fullness.

The soft rubber pigtail swung between her thighs as she tested it, swishing her hips side to side.

He lifted a fat basting brush. A jar of glaze that gleamed amber and gold.

The first stroke landed on her shoulder—sticky, fruity, cool.

"This is my pineapple cherry glaze. Especially made to bring out the flavor of pork."

"Like me?"

"Yes." The brush swept down her spine.

"Especially piglets."

The glaze spread across her skin in glossy layers. Sweetness filled the air—pineapple sharp as summer, cherry dark as sunset, a hint of brown sugar caramelizing in the warmth of her own body heat.

The brush found every curve. The dip of her waist. The swell of her hips. The tender crease beneath her buttocks.

Her skin gleamed, amber and gold, a sculpture of candied flesh arranged on silver.

"I don't know what my assignment is." Piglet cooed the words as the brush worked its magic.

"Ms. Baker wishes for you to be a—how did she call it? A showcase display at the dinner tonight."

He added garnishes around the silver platter. Sliced pineapple rings, overlapping down her spine like golden scales. Then carrots—thick, orange, freshly scrubbed.

He tested her vagina's elasticity with his fingers, then began inserting the carrots one by one. Four of them, bunched together, stretching her channel until she felt full to bursting.

Much more of this and she'd be able to ride Farmer Fred's cock without effort.

"Open wide."

Piglet tilted her head back. An apple pressed against her lips—red, polished, larger than Ducky's orange. It had a hole drilled through the core.

She opened her jaw until it ached, and the apple filled her mouth completely, the hole aligning with her throat. She could breathe.

She could not speak.

She was ready.
Piglet knelt on the silver platter, glazed and garnished, her upgraded tail curling between her thighs, her cunt packed with carrots, her mouth stoppered with apple.

She could see herself reflected in the stainless steel wall mirror—a glistening, golden creature, freckled and pink and utterly edible.

This had been the most excitement she had felt in her life.

She'd basted Ducky until the little duck screamed in ecstasy.

She'd saved Thirty-Six from a whipping that would have killed him.

She'd ridden Gramps until his old bones gave out.

She'd watched Barbie—that bitch—slide down a spit with an expression of rapture.

She'd seen the chickens, Chick-a-Dee and Chicken Little, in the rotisserie looking like a KFC family meal, golden and limp and ready to be eaten from head to toe.

And now she was the showcase.

The centerpiece. Kneeling on a platter while a British talent scout in a raincoat admired his handiwork.

The strangest thing it felt so natural. And that was saying something, considering others outside would think it wrong and immoral. If they only know how deliciously tasted she is. They would charge their minds

Mr. Smith adjusted a pineapple ring on her left shoulder blade.

"Perfection!”

“The guests will be so pleased."

Piglet breathed through the apple's core. The glaze was already warming to her body temperature, releasing waves of pineapple and cherry.

She wondered what Ducky would think.

She wondered where Thirty-Six was.

She wondered if Barbie was still turning over the coals, her perfect body lacquered with barbecue sauce.

She wondered what Ms. Baker had planned for her.
What ever it is she was willing.

The cart began to move.