"They're basting me, chat," she gasped, her hand never stopping, the carrot never slowing.

"They're—to season the soup, I guess. Enhance my flavors. It's—it's cold. It's so cold and I'm so—"

The marinade dribbled down the cleft of her ass, across her stretched anus, over the vegetables still protruding slightly. Chef Markel's brush—she could hear the silicone bristles—swept the liquid in long, painterly strokes, coating every inch of exposed skin.

Her thighs. Her cheeks. The small of her back. His brush found the crease where thigh met pelvis, and Amy keened.

She was fucking herself harder now. The carrot made wet sounds each time it bottomed out.

Her commentary had devolved into fragments, single syllables, words that weren't words.

"I feel like—a sack of—vegetables—I wanna poop but I can't—I know, TMI, chat, I know—but I'm so full, I'm so—"

The basting brush dipped lower. Swirled over her clit.
Amy came.

Her entire body seized. The vegetables inside her rectum shifted with the contraction, a strange internal pressure that prolonged the orgasm, dragged it out of her in waves.

The carrot stopped moving. Her hand clamped down, holding it deep. A sound tore out of her throat—half-scream, half-sob, the kind of noise that doesn't belong to any recognizable emotion.

The assistant captured every frame. Amy's face, buried in the crook of her elbow. Her shoulders, shaking. Her ass, still upturned, the vegetables glistening with marinade and her own fluids. The carrot fronds, motionless now, the only green in a tableau of pink flesh and silver steel.

She sagged. Forehead to the table. Breathing ragged.

"Sorry about that, chat." Her voice was wrecked. "A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do." The cute voice she always deployed for damage control was hoarse around the edges, unconvincing.

She tried again. "Totally normal. Totally—totally fine."

Chef Markel withdrew the brush. Set it aside with a soft ceramic click. His gloved hands found her hip, her shoulder, and gently rolled her onto her back.

The change in position made her gasp.

Vegetables shifted inside her, weight redistributing, the onion pressing against internal walls from a new angle. She stared up at the lights. At the fox mask leaning over her.

The brush returned.

This time it found her breasts. Cool marinade circled each nipple, and Amy watched herself respond—the skin puckering, the areolas tightening, the peaks hardening into points that ached.

"He doesn't talk much," she told the lens, her voice dreamy now, post-orgasm slow, "but he sure knows how to treat a lady."

The brush swept under the curve of each breast. Across her collarbone. Down the channels of her ribs.

A tingling warmth followed the liquid wherever it touched, a sensation that wasn't quite heat and wasn't quite cold, something in between that made her skin feel newly made.

Her armpits.

The brush found the hollows there, and Amy squirmed—ticklish, ridiculous, laughing through the sensitivity.

"The chef is—he's basting my armpits, chat. Even my armpits. I'm being seasoned everywhere. I'm going to be the best-tasting bunny they've ever—"

Chef Markel set down the brush. His fox mask tilted, regarding her with those blank eyeholes that somehow still conveyed satisfaction.

"Your dipping seat awaits," he said.
A beat of silence.

Amy propped herself on her elbows, the vegetable stuffing shifting inside her with the movement.

"Hey chat," she said, finding the lens with an expression of genuine bafflement. "I'm heading to a dipping seat. Whatever that is."

The assistant cut the recording.

Chef Markel extended his hand. Amy took it, letting him guide her off the prep table. Her legs wobbled.

The fullness inside her made movement strange, made her hyperaware of her own body, every step a negotiation with the solid packed presence in her gut.

Through the steam and the crimson light, she could see it now: a cauldron.

Large enough for a person. Steamy, shimmering at the surface, clear as amber. Steam curling upward in fragrant ribbons.

"Oh," Amy said softly.
Beside the cauldron was a wire basket hanging from a cable overhead.

"That's what a dipping seat looks like."