PART FOUR: Stuffed Bunny


The assistant's latex bodysuit creaked as she circled the prep table, phone gimbal steady. Amy crawled onto the stainless steel surface on all fours, her knees finding the padded indentations clearly designed for exactly this purpose.

Shoulders down. Ass up. The position made her feel like an animal. Prey. Produce.

"Chat," she managed, turning her cheek to the cold steel, "I'm about to be stuffed. With vegetables. Up my—" A nervous laugh. "Up my butt. Actual vegetables. This is happening."

Her ponytail draped over one shoulder, the blonde ends brushing the table. From this angle, with her chest pressed flat and her rear elevated, she couldn't see Chef Markel behind her.

She could only hear him: the soft clink of a ceramic bowl, the wet slide of something being handled, the deliberate footsteps circling toward her exposed backside.

A fox mask covered his face. The russet ears and pointed snout transformed him from culinary professional into something else. Wilder.

The mask's eyeholes revealed only glints.
"We begin with the root vegetables," he announced, voice slightly muffled by the mask but no less commanding.

"A traditional assorted blends adapted for the cavity."
Amy's fingers curled against the table's edge. "He's—he's actually starting, chat. Oh god. Okay. Okay okay okay."

The first vegetable was cold. Slicked with oil, it pressed against her anus with a pressure that made her gasp and clench. Chef Markel's free hand settled on her lower back, thumb stroking the base of her spine.

"Carrot," she guessed, voice jumping an octave. "That's—that's a carrot. Definitely a carrot. Baby carrot. It's-”

The vegetable popped past the ring of muscle and she lost the rest of the sentence.
The assistant zoomed in. Amy's face filled the phone screen: mouth a perfect O, eyes fluttering, the tendons in her neck standing out as she processed the sensation of being filled from behind with root vegetables.

"Second," Chef Markel murmured. Another cold shape. Wider. "Parsnip."
"Parsnip," Amy repeated for chat, her voice straining toward casual and missing by a mile.

"He said parsnip. It's—thicker. Definitely thicker than the carrot. I can feel the difference. I'm learning vegetable shapes with my—with my butthole, chat. This is my life now."

Her joke dissolved into a whimper as the parsnip slid home. The fullness was becoming cumulative, each vegetable nestling against the others inside her, a solid packed presence that made her feel heavier. Rooted.

The assistant shifted position, capturing Amy's face from a lower angle. Sweat beaded on her hairline.

Her cheeks were flushed the color of the consommé-scented steam rising from somewhere behind her.

"Oh!" A small, round pressure. "What was that? Chat, that felt—" Another. Another. "Pearl onions. They're—they're tiny. He's putting them in one at a time. Like. Like marbles. Like I'm a—"

A potato. Bigger than she expected. Her narration faltered as it stretched her, the skin of the petite red potato dragging against sensitive internal walls. Her hips jerked involuntarily.

"Sorry—sorry, I—that was—a potato? Mr. Fox, was that a potato? It felt like a potato."

"Yukon Gold," Chef Markel confirmed. His thumb traced circles on her tailbone. "Firm. Holds its shape well under heat."

"He's rating the structural integrity of the potato currently in my rectum,"

Amy said to the lens, and a laugh bubbled out of her, borderline hysterical, cut short when the next vegetable pressed against her

This one was bigger. Rounder. Her body resisted.
"Wait—wait wait wait—"

The pressure built, relentless and slow, and Amy's hands scrambled against the table.

"Mr. Fox. Mr. Fox, is that an onion?
That's—that's a lot. That's—"

"The vegetable stopper," he said. "A cipollini onion. It seals the stuffing. Keeps everything contained during the simmer."

The onion breached her. Amy made a sound that was not a word, not a moan, something in between that got trapped in her throat.

The lens caught it all: her jaw unhinged, her eyes squeezed shut, a single tear tracking down her temple as the onion pushed past her sphincter and settled deep inside her, joining the carrot and parsnip and pearl onions and potato in a packed, solid fullness that made her feel split open.

"I'm feeling real full, chat." Her voice came out reedy. She swallowed. "I have to tell you guys, the sexual tension I'm feeling is off the charts. If only—"

A new pressure. Different. Lower. Not at her anus.
Her vulva.

The carrot was long. Thick. Ridged. Chef Markel dragged it through her folds, collecting the slick that had been gathering there since the shower, and Amy's narration stopped.

The lens captured her expression shifting from surprise to recognition to a desperate, open-mouthed want that she didn't bother hiding.

"Th—" She tried. Failed. Tried again. "There's a carrot in my pussy now, chat. A big one. In my—he just—"

He pushed. The carrot slid in, and Amy's back arched so sharply her shoulders lifted off the table.

The sound she made was raw, unmediated, a groan that started somewhere in the vegetable-packed cavity of her and rumbled outward.

"Oh yes. Oh—" Her hips pushed back against the intrusion, meeting it, taking it deeper.

"I need—chat, I know this is—I'm sorry but I need to—I can't just—"

Her hand flew between her legs. Fingers found the carrot's base, the wet green fronds still attached, and she gripped them. Her first pull was tentative, a shallow withdrawal before pressing it back in.

The second was faster. The third was a rhythm, a fuck, and Amy stopped pretending she was doing anything else.

The assistant circled the table. The lens caught Amy from behind now: the onion stopper visible at the base of her anus, the carrot sliding in and out of her cunt, her fingers curled white-knuckled around the green tops, her back undulating with each thrust.

"Look away, chat," she panted, not remembering this was a recording.

"Look—I—I can't—"
A cool drizzle hit her upturned ass. Not water. Thicker. Fragrant.

The smell hit her before the sensation registered: rosemary, bay leaf, a wine note underneath, something that tingled on contact.