Chef Markel appeared beside her, holding a spray bottle. He misted a thick golden liquid across her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach. Butter. Warm, oily, fragrant.

Cat woman leaned close, her mask's whiskers nearly brushing Amy's cheek.

"Bunnies really do love to be turned into stew," she purred.

"Look how wet she is." Not fair, she knows there is an eight inch metal cock vibrating in her cunt.


The potato was pulled from Amy's mouth dropping it into the soup.

Before she could speak, a bottle pressed to her lips. White liquid. Sweet, like runny yogurt, coating her throat as she swallowed.

Chef Markel's thumb stroked her chin.

"Drink, Bunny."
She drank.

The liquid settled warm in her stomach, and something in her lower gut responded with a soft, distant churn.

"Back in the stew," the Chef announced.
Before Amy could protest—hadn't she stewed enough? hadn't she flavored the soup already?

She was afraid to ask, on chance of getting another potato in her mouth—the basket lowered again.

Her ass hit the water first. The vibrator buzzed back to life. Her nipples, already hard, stung as the heat bit into them, and the rich scent of seasoned Mixture filled her nose, and that scent was her. She was the ingredient. She was the dish.

Her stomach clenched.
A cramp. Low in her abdomen, urgent and wrong and entirely expected by the Chef who'd fed her that sweet white liquid.

She felt the onion inside her soften, felt the laxative do its insistent work.
The basket lifted. Amy's eyes flew open.
"Oh no—chat, I think—I'm going to—"

She squeezed. The cipollini onion slid out of her, followed by the parade of pearl onions, the Yukon Gold potato, the carrot, the parsnip—each one releasing with a wet, messy pop that echoed in the theater as they splashed into the rich broth below.

Relief flooded her, then mortification, then something else entirely as the audience rose to their feet.

Standing ovation.

Amy hung there, vegetables gone, rectum empty, body trembling, and a smile cracked her face wide open.

She'd just shat produce in front of two dozen strangers and they were clapping like she'd won an Oscar.

Chef Markel's fox mask leaned close. "Ready for you final dunk? Become a stew our members, for your subscribers?"

He gestured toward the assistant. The phone. The lens that never stopped recording.

Amy's voice came out hoarse and wrecked and absolutely glowing.

"I'll do anything for my followers."

Music swelled. The basket lowered. The boiling brew embraced her once more, and this time she sank into it like a bath drawn just for her, like a home she didn't know she'd been looking for.

"Oooooh, the heat feels so—"

Her eyes fluttered shut. The vibrator hummed a lullaby. The audience's applause faded into a warm, distant roar, and Amy drifted somewhere soft, somewhere safe, somewhere she'd never been.

Epilogue

The performers took a bow, as Amy boiled away into the delicious stew. Her head bobbing, surrendered meat. Soon to be removed and parted, to return to the stews embrace.

The video recording somehow leaked to her feed. Her followers watched, amazed, shocked, yet many became aroused, most gave thumbs up, for positive support. Her body her choice! Flooded her feed.

Many had wish they attended the dinner—Topsexychef was definitely at the dinner. She can contest Amy was truly delicious, even more so then a stolen kiss.