Chapter 4: A Reason For Season


Penny's camera was already in her hands before the hostess finished her greeting.

"Can I—" She bit her lip, the lens cap already off. "Your breasts. The marks. May I take a picture?"

"Of course." Her voice was warm. Proud. "Mr. Philip said your magazine would be taking photos and asking questions."

The hostess straightened. Her bare chest lifted, the crosshatched grill marks pulling taut across the swell of her flesh.

The pattern was geometric, deliberate—parallel lines seared in one direction, then crossed at a perfect forty-five degree angle. Char at the deepest points. Pink blistering at the edges.

The camera clicked. Once. Twice. Penny circled left, dropping to one knee for a lower angle. The shutter fired again.

"May I ask you something for our magazine?" Terri pulled out her notepad, the leather cover worn soft from years of use.

"Thank you, Miss—"

"Poppins. Miss Poppins. But you can call me Mary."
Her parents playing a cruel joke on her. Silly name calling. Yet Mary seem to grown up fine, grill marked breast aside.

Penny's camera kept clicking.

"Thank you, Mary." Terri's pen hovered. "I see you have grill marks on your breasts. They look rather fresh."

"Yes." Mary touched one mark with her fingertip, tracing the line of charred skin.

"I grilled them when I arrived. One of the perks here."

"So you did it on purpose?"

A laugh. Soft. Genuine. "Yes. It's called breast torture. Not for the faint of heart, I’m afraid."

"Yes’ I've heard of wax, needles, whipping of breasts, even cigarette burns." Terri's pen moved across the page.

"But you chose to grill yours."

"It's all part of the restaurant's many amenities." Mary said it the way someone else might describe company benefits, a matter-of-fact. Standard feature in the establishment.

"The heat gets me going. Enough to feel it—really feel it—but not enough for permanent damage. Unless I grill them for a customer. But I’m not ready to lose these puppies just yet.”

Terri instinct was to grab them, bite them, taste them. She could small the delicious aroma the hostess breast were giving off.

Lucky for May and her she had impulse control, this assignment is driving her wild, yet she was a professional-she had a job to do.

“I see you like showing them off as well.”

“Oh, wearing a bra or blouse with be, More painful then I would like at the moment. Should be better after a couple of days. The marks will fade after a few weeks. I come back. Do it again."

"Why, may I ask?"

Mary's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind her eyes.

"Because when my breast presses down on the grill and I smell my own skin cooking—" She paused.

Selected her next word carefully. "—I stop being a person. I become meat. And that surrender, that complete erasure of self, is the closest I've ever come to extreme sexual pleasure."

Terri's pen stopped. Her panties, the fresh pair she'd changed into after the shower, were already clinging to her folds.

Penny had wandered off toward the lobby, camera raised, capturing the chandelier, the velvet drapes, the dark hardwood.

Her plaid skirt swayed with each step.

"Come." Mary gestured toward the dining room.

"Let me give you a tour."

—

The dining room was larger than Terri had expected. A dozen round tables spread across the floor, each set with eight chairs upholstered in deep burgundy.

White linen. Crystal glassware. Silver that caught the amber light and threw it back in sharp glints.

A server's station occupied the back wall, polished wood and brass, bottles of wine arranged by region.

At the front of the room, a curtained stage.
Penny's shutter captured everything. The chandelier from three angles. The table settings. The way the light pooled on the empty plates like something waiting to be filled.

"We do live cooking shows on stage," Mary said. "For the dining guest to enjoy."

Terri looked up from her notepad. "Live show?"

"Yes. Tonight's show is called Lost Explorer." Mary's smile was knowing, a private affair, a dinner and a show, for the restaurants paying customers.

"If you're staying for dinner, you may enjoy it."

"Ummm—" Terri glanced at Penny.

The intern was nodding so hard her pigtails bounced. The camera strap pulled taut against the back of her neck.

"Yes. Yes, we were invited to stay. Definitely staying."

"That will be nice." Mary was already walking toward the kitchen doors.

"Let's head into the kitchen. The staff and chefs are preparing. They should start prepping and cooking the food within the hour."

"Thank you." Terri followed, snapping her fingers twice. The sound was sharp.

Penny didn't respond.

Penny had drifted toward the stage, one hand pulling back the velvet curtain just far enough to peek behind it.

"Penny."

"Coming!" The curtain fell back into place. Penny scurried over, her Mary Janes clicking on the hardwood.

"Hey, do you know they've got a large cauldron behind—"

The kitchen doors swung open.

—

Heat. Steam. The clatter of stainless steel.
The kitchen was alive with movement. Chefs in black coats moved between stations with the pacing of long organized practice.

Someone was sharpening a knife—the rhythmic scrape of steel on whetstone cut through the ambient noise.

Herbs hung from a rack near the ceiling, rosemary and thyme and something unfamiliar, something earthy and dark.

Mary excused herself with a nod and disappeared into the chaos.

"Feel free to ask questions," she said over her shoulder. "Try not to get in their way."

"Of course." Terri spotted a staffer near the prep station, collecting roasting pans. Sizes large enough for a child’s body.

She approached. "Pardon me. Can I ask you a few questions for Yummy Girl Magazine?"

"Sure. Shoot." The tall man clanked another pan onto the stainless steel counter.

"Is it true young girls willingly volunteer to be treated like meat?"

"As far as I can tell, they are obsessed about it. I know it’s crazy but they really desire to be cooked." He didn't look up from his stacking.

"And why do you think that is?"

The staffer paused. Wiped his hands on a towel tucked into his apron.

"I'd say it has something to do with Harmonic Conversion."

Terri's pen stopped mid-word. "Harmonic what?"
"You know. When the planets align every so often, people's brains reset."

"I'm going to need you to walk me through this." Crazy conspiracy theories is not her cup of tea. Yet she might as well hear him out.

"I'm no scientist." He shrugged. "But whenever the planets align, funky shit happens.

Back in 2009, people born afterwards were smarter. Surpassing their parents. Shortly after that they enacted the Child’s Autonomy Act. Giving them the right to watch porn, bondage, and even have sex with whom ever they chose.

The next alignment in 2020 turned people trans for a while. Confusing times back then.

This latest alignment—" He gestured at the roasting pans, the ovens, the spits. "—got children craving to be cooked and eaten.

Must be a correlation, right?"

"Right." Terri closed her notepad. "Thank you for your time. Mr.—?"

"Just call me Jake."

"Thank you, Jake."

She moved on to a chef reading what she assumed a menu list.

She turned. Penny had cornered Jake against the wall, her body angled toward him, chin tilted up, the camera dangling forgotten against her chest.

He was looking down at her. She was swaying her skirt. The pose was pure sexual—yet all innocence and suggestive wrapped in a crop top and pigtails.

Terri's jaw tightened. She redirected back toward the chefs, a man in a black coat bent over a clipboard, checking off items on a list.

"Do you have a quick moment to—"
One finger went up. Terri waited.

The chef finished his list, set the clipboard aside, turned.

"Can I help you, Miss?"

"I'd like to ask a couple of questions for my magazine."

"Yes, ask. I'm just going over this request menu."

"Request menu?"

"The volunteers get to write what they want to happen during the prep and roasting. To fulfill their fantasies." He tapped the clipboard.

"Some of these girls have some real dark fantasies for being so young.”

“And you don’t have a problem cooking up little girls and I assume boys as well?” Terri focusing on how young they are making such big decisions.

“I’m here to treat them how they want to be handled. Seasoned. Cooked. I take pride in my culinary skills to grant their needs.”

“So it just a job, like preparing any other meat.”

“To be honest I like it seeing them squirming in the ovens, all bound up, her natural juices dripping, sometimes I get a boner.
Hard not to with those little cuties having a field day roasting away"

"So it’s erotic for you as well, at least you let the volunteers choose."

The chef nodded. "They find it extremely erotic as well—combining bondage, manhandling, and a their culinary desire to become food.”

“Do they actually get off being cooked alive?”

“I've seen the little ones orgasm many times throughout the prep and roasting process."

Terri's pen kept moving.

She ignored the dampness spreading between her thighs, the way her silk blouse clung to the small of her back.

"Thank you for your time, Chef—?"

"Bard. Chef Boy' Are' Dee'." He smiled at his own joke.
Terri gave a courtesy smile in return.

“You can check the larder, we already got some of the children wash and waiting. They can probably tell you why they want to be cooked and eaten.” Chef suggested.

Great idea, thank you chef.

"Penny. Come on. We're heading where the meat is kept."

—

The larder wasn't what Terri expected.

No meat hooks. No cold storage. The room was warm, paneled in dark wood, with benches lining the walls. Framed pictures hung at intervals—puppies tumbling over each other, a field of sunflowers, a kitten batting at a balloon. The air smelled faintly of lavender.

Three young girls sat on the benches, all of them naked.
A ginger with freckles spattered across her small breasts grinned at Terri's entrance.

An athletic brunette bounced her knee with nervous energy.

A petite blonde sat perfectly still, her even tan unbroken except for the triangle of lighter skin at her hips and budding breast.

Across the room, two little girls who looked like sisters sat with an older woman—their mother.

Terri realized, from the resemblance, the way the older woman's hand rested on the younger girl's knee.

Penny's camera came up.
Terri approached the ginger first.

"May I ask you a few questions?"

"Sure!" 10 year old Lucy's smile was wide, open, utterly unselfconscious.

Her freckles extended down her chest, across the flat plane of her stomach.

"What are you here for tonight?"

"I’m going to be a honey glazed ham." Lucy said it the way someone else might announce their dinner plans.

"I've wanted to be an oven baked ham since I was five. Trussed up, apple in my mouth, slowly roasting away in a hot oven." Her thighs pressed together.

She continued.
"I get so, so excited my pussy aches. Being reduced to a delicious meal. Nothing but meat as I bake away."

Terri's pen scratched across the page.

“Thank you Lucy, I’m sure you will make a delicious honey ham.” Terri trying to be supported of her chose.

The blonde—8 year old Cindy—answered next.

"I'm going to be a chicken roast. I want my legs bound to my thighs, arms tucked back like wings, basted with butter and herbs until my skin glistens."

“And does that turn you on?”

Her voice was dreamy, distant.
"Being so helpless. Treated like meat. So completely reduced into a delicious meal. It's the closest I've ever come to flying."

“You do know it’s a one way trip, there is no coming back?” Terri wanted to make sure she understood the ramifications of being turned into a meal.”

Yep, I know but we all die sooner or later. This way I get to chose how.

“What sparked this desire to become a chicken dinner?”

“Well, my uncle owns a chicken farm. Growing up, I used to sit in the chicken coop with them.”

She pause with a smile.

“When Uncle took some of the chickens for dinner I would pretend her was taking me too.”

“So you watch your Uncle processing the chickens for dinner?”

“Yes, he’d chopped their little heads off, pluck them. He would rub oils and seasonings on the skin. It would turn me on.”

“Is that why you want to be seasoned like a chicken?”

“Yes, as I watched him rubbing the chickens breast and thighs I pretended he was doings it to me. I would masturbate in my room just fantasizing he was rubbing me with seasoned oils, it was the first time I came.”

“I see, so your mind is made up?”

“Yes’ I want to be a roasted chicken more then anything.”

“Thank you miss chicken, I’m sure you will be one tasty bird!” Cindy smiled at Terri’s comment.

6 year old Kerri, the gymnast, spoke next. She couldn't stop moving even as she talked—toes tapping, fingers drumming against her bare thigh.

“And what are you here for?” Terri asked, seeing her restlessness.

"I want to be Spit-roasted over coals. I've been watching pig roasts on the beach since I was young. Just—desiring to be that pig. The restaurant said I can live out my fantasies here."

“To be spit-roasted like a pig at a barbecue?”

“Yep, getting a spit up my butt and out my mouth is a real turn on, it makes me all wet.”

“Through your anus and not the scrumptious pussy you have there?”

“My parents are dining here tonight, the order my pussy, they didn’t want it ruined by the spit. They are pretty thick.”

So now you’re a stick piggy on a spit. Is that it?

“Oh no, they are going to glaze me with barbecue sauce and rotate me over hot coals so I can roast like a real pig roast!” The little six year old beamed at the thought.

Terri noticed the mother and daughters again.

Bobbi, the younger little sister, spoke first. "We're going into the soup bath together. All three of us."

Suzy, the older one, nodded. "It's a giant copper pot. They fill it with herbs and oils and warm water.”

Are you looking forward to be turned into a stew?”

Both girls said yes!

Little Suzy continued.
“At first it’s just hot enough to feel it everywhere at once, like a hot bath, well until it starts to boil."

"And you?" Terri addressed the mother who called herself Mrs. Boilermaker.

"You're doing this with your daughters?"
The older woman's cheeks flushed pink.

"The girls wanted it more then anything. I didn't feel right letting my 5 and 3 year olds do it alone." She paused, her hand tightening on Bobbi's knee.

"To be honest with you—I'm pretty excited about it myself. I've never felt so hot thinking about anything."

Penny's shutter clicked and clicked and clicked.

A staffer appeared at the larder door. "Piglet and chicken. We're ready for prep."

Lucy bounced to her feet. Cindy rose more slowly, that dreamy smile still playing at her lips.

Penny followed them to the door, camera working, capturing their bare butts, the sway of their hips, the eager energy radiating from their bodies like heat from an open oven.

Terri finished her notes on the soup team. Mrs. Boilermaker was still blushing.

"So you wanted to be with them during the soup making?"

"I wanted—" She stopped. Started again. "I wanted to know what it feels like.

To be simmered. To be seasoned. To be voided alive, To be served."
Another staffer entered.

"Soup team. We're ready."

"Oh, that's us." Mrs. Boilermaker stood, her daughters rising with her.

"Come by the soup station. We can talk more then." She walked her daughters out by their little hands.

That left. Only Kerri, she remained on the bench, still bouncing her knee.

"Would you like to say anything else before you go for your spit roasting?" Terri asked.

Kerri smiled, and there was something hungry in it.

"I know I wanted to be spit-roasted, I would stick thing up my pussy, like crayons and pencils. Had a plungers handle up my butt, it felt so good, I’d pretend I was getting impaled like a stuck piggy, I’m desiring to be that piglet on the spit.”

“You mean the ones you seen at cookouts?”

“Yes’ Now I can live out my fantasies, here at the restaurant, roasting over coals." She stood, stretching her gymnast's body.

"I’m going to be the best tasting ever!"

The final staffer appeared. "Time to get you prepped and spitted."

Kerri pepped up. "Gotta go. A spit is calling my name."


—

The larder was quiet.
Terri finished jotting the last of her notes. Her panties were a lost cause.

The leather satchel held one more dry pair, and she was already calculating when she could slip away to change them.

Penny stood by the door, camera cradled against her chest, cheeks flushed behind her oversized glasses. Her plaid skirt had ridden up another inch. She didn't seem to notice. Or care.

"Okay." Terri snapped her notepad shut. "Time to see how the sausage is made."

Note: Center fold Image unrelated, I just thought it was tasty and cute.