Chapter 30 pt2: The final Chapter “The Feast of Pets”


The photographer circled the display table with the deliberate stride of a woman who had spent years learning to frame a subject.

Her plate was already crowded—kiwi coins, a cluster of red grapes, three cubes of cheddar stacked like dice, taken from Ken Doll’s body.

But her eyes kept snagging on Piglet's glazed flank, on the way the pineapple-cherry lacquer caught the chandelier light and threw it back in amber winks.

She stopped behind the platter. Piglet's neck craned, but the wrist clamps held her in place—all fours, spine arched, the new tail plug a heavy pink curl between her thighs.

A hand touched her hip. Fingertips, cool and clinical, traced the rim of her stuffed opening.
Then the carrot moved. A slow, wet drag that made Piglet's breath catch in her throat.

The photographer pulled it free with a sound like a boot sucking out of mud, and the sudden emptiness made Piglet's cunt clench around the remaining three carrots.

She felt the woman step back. Heard the soft clink of the carrot landing on a porcelain plate. Then footsteps, retreating, and the vegetarian who wouldn't taste Ducky's marinaded pussy was gone—carrying a cum-glazed root vegetable like a trophy.

Piglet's thighs trembled. Bitch, she thought, with something that was almost admiration.

---

Piglet watched from her advantage point, the feasters surged around the chickens.

At the carving station, Chicken Little's right leg was being requested by a burly man who held it up by her ankle like a drumstick, his tastebuds tracing the arch of the little leg with pornographic devotion.

The chef looks back at Ms Baker, it was such a large portion. Ms Baker gave a nod.

The chef sliced through her thighs, like butter, the leg detach from the hip with ease. The burly man held it over a plate capturing the dripping juices, off to enjoy the roasted wonder, not bothering to wait for stuffing.

A porky woman in a flowered dress bent low over Chick-a-Dee's plump roasted rear, her mouth salivating on the plump roasted cheek with an audible smack. The chef carves off a fatty chunk of chick/a-dee’s juicy rump.

He added stuffing to her plate, stuffing blended to compliment her young tender meat, seasoned perfectly-plating it next to the slick meaty cheek, the KFC aroma—that savory perfume of eleven herbs and spices, slow-roasted surrender—hung over the station like a benediction.

Heads of household were claiming honors. Farmer Fred shuffled over, leaning in for a big sniff, and pressed his weathered mouth to Chicken Little's glistening mound. Farmer Fred could taste it even before biting into to her tender pussy with her crispy clitoris, Dora requested Chick-a-Dee's folds with the same methodical patience she used basting her in the rotisserie.

The girls had squealed through corncob gags, their bound bodies spent hours roasting in the rotisserie, turning, twirling increasing their deliciousness as they roasted, enjoying orgasms, giving it their all.

If the five year old girls understood the concept of roasting would lead to this eventual fate.
No longer mattered, never mattered to Fred.

If it had his way they would of been just as easily skewed and roasted with the same recipe.

Dora was a little bit kinder, preferred a playful approach to roasting them.

Thanks to Ms Baker helped in hypnotic suggestions, she had the girls really thinking the were free range chickens-playing games like roast chicken and stuff the birdies.

They would seasoning and surrender themselves to play cooking game.

The rotisserie game at the cookout was no fluke, planned, staged, and initiated by Ms Bakers, her careful planning.

The benefits lay on plates as the chef carves their seasoned vaginas.

Piglet watched.
Horny would no longer describe watch she was feeling right now.

The look of Fred and Dora’s face holding a plate of the most personal and private part of the children-like proud parents seeing their child’s true talent-only much hungrier!

Piglet’s attention switched hearing Mr. Smith voice, he stood at Ducky's station. His Polynesian wife hung on his arm, her dark eyes scanning the lifeless duck-girl with measured appetite.

The British sauce-maker bent, his latex-gloved hands nowhere in sight—he lean down, a man who uses his heighten sense of smell to fathom it’s flavor, his tongue will taste Ducky's orange-glazed pussy lips with the same clinical precision as he studying the fine specimen between her legs

"A proper filet," he murmured, surfacing and ordering her delicious tender.

His wife hesitated, her gaze wandering across Ducky's glazed body.
The line behind grow increasingly longer.

Mr. Smith chose for her—a single glazed breast, the nipple pebbled and sweet.

The chef pinched ducky’s baked nipple, pulling up to carve at the base of her once budding breast, now a tender morsels being carved away from her chest. Another chef plated the fatty little breast, its glazed nipple stand upright-stuffing spooned beside it, followed by a spoonful of scrambled egg-treated like Caviar.

Mr Smith watch in delight as the chef carved around Ducky’s inner thigh, tracing the blade over her mound, with skillful grace carved her bake pride away-a perfect cut as she is relieved of her most cherished muffin.

The chef platted it adding the fixings as before. Ducky had a long line, all waiting for a piece of her.
The Smiths move on to the chickens line.

The Howdy Boys mobbed Barbie. They didn't queue. They surrounded her—six, seven, eight deep—the chef stepped back, each of the boys brought their own carving knives. Apparently traditional for butchers.

They knew what they wanted-Barbie’s barbecued meat.

Knives ready to descended on her barbecue-lacquered body like a horde.

The spit removed earlier, leaving a permanent roasted cavity between her pussy lips. Even her mouth forced open matching the fat spit rod that once filled throat.

One of the boys chose a meaty part, just below the asscheek. Best tasting steak come from that area he told the boys.

His sharp knife effortlessly slice into her meaty leg.

Barbie's eyes open, confused, numb! A full-throated raspy voice vibrated out her mouth.

She had passed away and obvious passed out, they just never bothered to check or even gut her after roasting.

She hadn’t been roasting long enough to be fully roasted. Medium rare, some areas of her body cook off more then other parts.

Worse part is most of her outer body and limbs are roasted, the muscle in her arms or legs were cooked. She could only lay as they position her on the platter.

None of this revelation deterred the carver from getting his steak cut. She felt him slicing into her meat, carving it-carving her, yet it wasn’t pain.

Her nerve ending roasted away over the fire. She is feeling the knives path. Feel where it sink in, carving off her meat to the bone. The blade withdrawing with a meaty of her.

They all joined in the carving, slicing pieces of her for themselves.

One of them sliced into the hollow of her knee, carved across like filleting a fish. He took her calve with that cut.

They all started carving they curve off strips of her back. Makes great tasting Back Bacon.

They took Many tender cuts, she had much to give—and the boys exploited it mercilessly.

She imagined zombies, like in old horror movies, moaning and hungry cannibals, pressing their mouths against their victims, biting, consuming every inch.

Finally she was a star. A no talking role, sadly their were no cameras for privacy reasons-or so the guest were told.

Piglet watched the butchering taking place, Barbies facial expressions said it all. She was felling every cut, every slice-at the hands of these ravenous butchers.
sides tables near the back wall fill with steamed dishes—roast potatoes glistening with butter, green beans casserole, topped with almonds, dinner rolls stacked in golden pyramids.

Enough to actually fill the guests while the grand feast continues.

The big-booby country girl approaches piglets display one more.

She smiled at Piglet—a sweet, toothed smile that made her look about ten, though she would argue she’s 13 and a half—she then turned to Ken Doll.

"Is she your girlfriend?" She selected a grape from his sternum, popping it between her lips with a wet, pink flash.

Ken Doll's head turned on its lettuce bed. His body remained paralyzed—that strange, floaty stillness that had settled over him in the barn—but his voice worked fine.

"She's a girl, and she's my friend." He didn’t want to presume their relationship. Uncharted territory.

"Oh." The country girl worked her way down his abdomen, plucking a cherry from his navel.

"I notice you look at her like my uncle looks at me."

Ken Doll waited. The girl chewed the cherry, swallowed, licked her lips.

"He likes to tie my breasts up and squeeze them real hard. Make them black and blue-Makes him happy."

She was dishing out information, maybe she just wanted to talk about herself? Who can tell what a 13 year old girl is thinking.

She picked up the banana from his crotch, examined it, returned it.

"Sometimes I prefer when he whips them. I cry but it makes me horny" She squeezed her own meaty breast.

Piglet's pussy dripped. Talk of whipping sparked memories—her own whipping at the hands of Farmer Fred’s chickens, Coach Bart relentless cat-o-nine slashing and Ms. Baker's paddle if that counted?—the ache between her thighs sharpened into something unbearable.

She murmured around the apple gag. Waited for a response-Nothing.

She murmured louder, jerking her head, rattling the platter's clamps.

The girl finally noticed. Realize she wanted the apple removed.

The country girl reached, finger slid through the hole in the apple's core, hooked her finger and the fruit came free with a wet pop.

"Thank you! Thank you!" Piglet replied, worked her jaw, testing the hinges.

Piglet was ten steps past horny.

"Please—fuck me with the carrot. The one in my pussy. Just grab it and—"

The girl's cheeks flushed. "I don't think I should-”

The girl was taken back by the request.

“Maybe Uncle Ben will do it. He likes sticking cucumbers up my snatch."

She ran off before Piglet could plead further.

"What's a tasty girl like you doing in a place like this?" Ken Doll's voice was warm, teasing.

Piglet laughed at the corny joke, despite the ache. "Just waiting for someone to gobble me up."

Table top pillow talk.

---

Uncle Ben was a man shaped like a refrigerator—broad, solid, with forearms thick as pork shoulders and a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

His niece, nicknamed Butter Cream, tugged him toward the display table with both hands, her big breasts bouncing under her country blouse.

"This one, Uncle Ben. The piglet. She needs help."

Ben looked Piglet over—glazed spine, stretched cunt, the three remaining carrots protruding like orange fingers.

"Well now." His voice was rough and gravel.

"That's a hole begging for attention."

Piglet pushed her ass higher. "Please sir, I need a good porking."

She didn't need to ask twice. His hand closed around a carrot, and he pulled it out slow—agonizingly slow—watching her cunt contract around the emptiness. Then he thrust it back in.

Not gentle.

Not cruel.

The motion of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

"Been stuffing holes with fruits and vegetables since before you were born, little piggy."

He worked the carrot in a sawing rhythm—in, out, in, out—and Piglet's arms strained against the clamps.

"Cucumbers, squash, eggplants. Once did a whole butternut. Now that was a stretch."

His other hand found Ken Doll's banana. Plucked it from the paralyzed boy's crotch. Piglet felt the blunt tip press against her opening—already occupied, already full—and she barely had time to gasp before he shoved it in alongside the carrot.

The stretch was magnificent. Her cunt yawned wide, wider than it had ever opened, the carrot and banana rubbing together inside her in a vegetable double-penetration that short-circuited her brain.

Uncle Ben pumped. One carrot in, banana out. Both together. A twist that made the tail plug shift against her rear wall.

Butter Cream watched with wide eyes, her hand drifting to her own breast, squeezing absently.

Piglet's orgasm built like a storm front. Pressure. Heat. The unbearable fullness of being stuffed with produce and still wanting more.

When she broke, she broke loud—a wail that cut through the dining hall's chatter and froze conversations mid-word.

Her cunt clamped so hard the a carrot shot free and rolled across the platter. The banana followed, slick and glistening. Her slick gushed down her thighs, pooling on the silver beneath her knees. Uncle was kind enough to stuff the carrot and new found banana in her dripping, wanting hole.

The room applauded.
Ms. Baker smiled from her post beside the display table. She has been silently watching it all.

Her pet was a marketing department unto herself. Her prized pet, her very edible piglet.

---

Farmer Fred's mouth savored the delicious pussy of Chicken Little's stuffing-smeared tender, slicing a corner, bring it to his lips. Extravagantly delicious, each bite better then the last.

Dora chewed gently at Chick-a-Dee's crispy clit, her eyes closed in culinary rapture. The seasoning—smoked paprika, garlic powder, the ghost of butter—coated their tongues, even better the KFC.

Piglet looked to her little friend.
Ducky had been carved up almost completely. She lay mostly bones, the chef had carved the more common cuts, a beatific smile plastered across her glazed face.

She may be an empty carcass now, yet her delicious dreams fulfilled.

A sweet little duck-prepped and baked for the hunger of strangers.

Barbie was exhausted, still nearly alive. In a way this was more satisfied than she'd admit. She felt her shoulder lift, the chef is slicing her fully roasted breast, first one, then the other. Going to a good family she hoped. She is delirious, loss of blood was taking its toll.

Her cowboy hat sat crooked on her head, her scorched body gleaming with barbecue sauce and saliva.

The Howdy Boys had mostly departed with their chunks of Barbie meat.

The chef is free to serve a proper line of guest formed. Still plenty of meat left on her- an older one of the older Howdy Boy return, Gramps wanted his prize and it was located between Barbie legs.

The chef offered to carve it but the man flashed his own steely knife.

“We boy cut our own meat”

She'd came as he carved, really came as he cut it away, hard to believe yet she did it, her throat had garbled every scream into a huffing laugh.

The guest feasted, piglet watched as her friends and Barbie got reduced down to bones and carcasses.

If it wasn’t for their head set aside you wouldn’t of know it was them.

---

Once the guest feasted. Ms Baker had more in store for her clients, partners, and guest.

Nothing says grand feast like desert.

A cart rolled in. On it: a chocolate fountain, three tiers of cascading brown silk. rising from the center, covered head to toe in liquid chocolate—the chubby little boy from Flora's salon station.

Bald now. Gleaming. His little erection jutted through the chocolate shell, a single recognizable feature in a landscape of flowing sweetness.

Ms. Baker hushed the chatter.

"If you've made room for dessert, Andy our sweet little chocolate boy would like to invite you to lick his body clean."

A pause.

"He doesn't mind a good dick-sucking, but please—no biting."

Laughter rippled through the room.

"And as a special treat, my pet Piglet is glazed with an imported recipe provided by our friend and partner, Mr. Smith."

Applauses.

She ran two fingers across Piglet's glazed rear, lifted them to her mouth, tasted.

"Perfect for a little piggy.

Piglet felt a sense of pride with Ms Bakers fawned opinion of her.

“You're all welcome to have a taste. Let me know what you think. Enjoy."

The lines formed.

Dora reached Andy first, still chewing the last of her chicken sample. She dropped to her knees without ceremony and took his chocolate-covered we-we into her mouth, sucking the sweetness from his shaft with the same enthusiasm she'd applied to Chick-a-Dee's pussy.

Her sister Flora joined her, licking chocolate from the backs of his knees, and

Farmer Fred stood back with his arms crossed, watching his wife suck on a toddler wiener.

Coach Bart shouldered through the crowd, Milly Miller crawling behind. He stopped at Piglet's platter, that cocky smirk plastered across his face.

“Well, well. Little ham-hock made it to the big leagues."

His hand closed around the pussy wedged banana—still slick, still warm—and he pushed it deep between Piglet's thighs. Pulling it back out partially.

Peeled it slowly, took a bite, chewed. He pulled it out and finished it off.

Dropped the peel onto Ken Doll's crotch, where it landed with a wet slap.

He took hold of a breast, squeezing between his fingers. She squealed in response to the pain, it was a welcoming pain.

He tasted his fingers, eyes widen, a nod of approval.
“Wow” his only response.

"Nice seeing you again, piggy." He moved on. Milly followed, her ball gag preventing words, but her eyes met Piglet's as she passed—a flicker of recognition, of possible solidarity.

She crawled after her master, and Piglet watched her go.

Farmer Fred and Dora stepped up to the display table, Dora wiping chocolate from her chin.

"Delicious chickens," Fred said, nodding toward the carving station. "Real good seasoning. You could taste the love."

His eyes dropped to Piglet's gaping cunt. The lips spread wide, still slick with her own release, the remaining carrots askew.

"Looks like you might be up for a challenge these days." He grinned. "My cock's a fair bit thicker than a carrot, but I reckon you'd manage."

Dora elbowed him.

They both tasted piglet, a simple shoulder for Dora, Fred went for the ass. Both pleased with the the sensational flavor.

They drifted toward the chocolate fountain again, where Krispy Cream was topless, already licking chocolate from Andy's inner thigh, breast getting covered in chocolate-prompting others to lick on her breast, still others join naked, turning it into a orgy of chocolate. One of the guests shoved his chocolate covered cock in Butter Cream’s mouth, she sucked gleefully, the chocolate boy grabbing hold of her breast and sucked it like a baby, her uncle Ben watching with paternal approval.

Guest after guest stepped up licking piglet and taking Ken’s diminishing items.

Mr. Smith appeared at Ms. Baker's side. His wife was picking candied nuts from Ken Doll's calf, her dark hair spilling over his paralyzed leg.

"Positive responses all around” Ms Baker said warmly

“You glazes has been a hit. The guest loved them, especially piglet glaze."
Mr Smith thanked her for such feedback.

“Best to test it on a live roaster, it could truly bring out a pigs fully flavorful potential.

Ms. Baker nodded, looking down at piglets expression. “

I believe you are right, we haven’t tasted it absorb into the flesh and roasted” her eyes tracking the crowd.

Mr. Smith turned to Piglet. "And you, little piglet.

How does it feel to showcase my product?"

Piglet blinked. The question caught her off guard—she was still floating in the aftermath of her orgasm, still glazed and stuffed and splayed on silver. Listening to Ms Baker talk about roasting a pig.

"I didn't know I was doing anything but being hot and tasty."

Smith's laugh was warm, genuine. He turned back to Ms. Baker. "I'll have a case delivered this week. Enough for this piglet and a dozen more when you choose to roast them."

Ms. Baker looked at Piglet. Her hand found the back of her pet's neck, thumb stroking the leather collar.

"I'm sure we'll put it to good use."

Piglet's brain buzzed—a champagne fizz of pleasure and anticipation that started at the base of her skull and spread downward.

A dozen more?
Case full of glazed, was this her future? A lost and found girl, a pets, a potential meal—It would be perfect.

Best news of all, Ken Doll can move his fingers and toes again!

What happens next? Well that’s entirely another story.