Chapter 5: Culinary Persuasion


The kitchen hit Terri like a wall of humid air.

Penny was already through the doors ahead of her, camera raised, pigtails swinging.

The shutter clicked before Terri's eyes had fully adjusted to the brightness of the stainless steel and the steam curling off a row of stock pots filled with side dishes.

Chefs moved between stations with the quiet efficiency of a surgical theater. Someone was whisking something in a copper bowl. Someone else was adjusting the flame beneath a massive griddle.

And there, on two prep tables near the center of the kitchen, lay Lucy and Cindy.

Terri stopped walking. Her notepad hung forgotten in her hand.

Little Lucy was trussed into a shape no human body should have been able to hold. Her legs were folded beneath her, ankles bound to wrists with a complicated weave of butcher's twine that pulled her arms between her thighs and kept her hands fastened against her own calves. Her chin and shoulders pressed into the stainless steel counter. Her ass was raised—presented—the cheeks separated by a cooking net that encased her entire body, fishnet-stocking-tight, squeezing her flesh into diamonds of pale, freckled skin.
The net dug in deep at the fullest parts of her. Her budding breasts bulged through the mesh. Her thighs. The plush curve of her rear.

And her anus. Terri's gaze caught on it and held.
A metal clamp had been inserted into Lucy's rectum and keeping it wide open.

The gape was obscene—four inches across, a dark tunnel into her body, the inner walls glistening pink and wet. The ring clamp curved outward like the funnel, and the chef had inserted it with clinical precision.

Penny's camera found the opening. The shutter sound was wet, obscene—click, click, click.

"Why are you keeping her anus spread?"
Terri's voice came out steadier than she felt.

She already knew the answer. She needed the chef to say it for the magazine.

"Stuffing." The chef didn't look up from his work.

He continued.
"She wants to be stuffed with cornbread and apple stuffing mix. Can't do that without access."

Lucy squirmed against her bindings. The motion was small—she had almost no range of movement—but it was desperate.

Terri stepped closer.
"Are you okay?"

A breath. Labored. "I'm fine." Lucy's voice was strained but clear.

"I told him to make it extra tight. I'm pretty good at getting out of knots and bondage."

"Is that so." Terri watched her struggle. The net flexed with her body. Lucy's muscles fought her binds and found no escape.

"And now?"

"Feel like I'm helpless and at his mercy." A laugh.

Breathless. Genuine. "It's all I can think of. Honestly, I can't believe I'm finally going through with it."

"What do your family—" Terri's pen moved. "—do they know?"

"They cautioned me about this kind of thing. Said it up to me but people don’t deserve to eat me." Lucy's cheek pressed against the steel tabletop. Sweat beaded on her temple.

"But I told them it’s about me wanting to cook, I want everyone to taste me. It’s not about who eats me when I’m gone.”

"Time to go."
The chef hoisted Lucy off the table with ease. She was compact, trussed as she was, and he carried her as a piece of meat, one arm under her belly, the other steadying her bound ankles.

Terri followed. Penny's camera led the way.

They arrived at a machine
Terri hadn't seen before—a stainless steel tub with a split-top lid and cut-out half-circles where the two halves met.

A rod rose from the center of the pot, and at its tip, a pink silicone dildo. The tub was filled with clear liquid that smelled faintly of the ocean.

"What is she being submerged in?" Terri asked.

"A salt bath." The chef settled Lucy's pussy over the dildo with practiced care. Her folds parted. The silicone slid deeper, and her own weight sent her downward.

Lucy's wetness offered no resistance at all. The dildo grew fatter at its base, stretching her lips wide, mashing her clit against a cluster of silicone nubs.

"More of a salt scrub, really. The water circulates at a high rate. Turns the flesh salty. Like swimming in the ocean."

He pressed a button. The rod descended, taking Lucy with it. At this point she is just a stuck piglet on a stick.

Penny captured everything—the way Lucy's eyes went wide, the way her mouth opened around a moan, the way her bound body quivered as the salt water rose to her neckline.

The split lids closed, trapping her neck in the half-circles, her head the only part of her left above the surface.

A red button pressed. The dildo came to life.
Lucy's moan was low and guttural. Her eyes rolled back. Her lips parted wider, breath hitching.

When the chef switched on the salt water cycle and the tub began to churn. Lucy didn't notice—or didn't care.

"She wanted to be a ham." The chef wiped his hands on his apron.

"Not just a roasted pig. Hams are salted. Now she shall be."

Terri's panties were past saving. She'd stopped keeping track.

---

Cindy was on the second prep table, and Chef Bard—the man with the clipboard and the joke about his name—was bent over her with an anal spreader in his gloved hand.

She was bound differently than Lucy. Thighs pressed to her chest, calves strapped to her upper thighs, legs spread wide.

Her arms were folded behind her back like chicken wings, wrists bound, elbows pin together, her hands tucked against her shoulder blades. A posture of complete, helpless exposure. pushing out her breasts, it rose and fell with each breath.

The spreader slipped in. Cindy's moan was immediate, throaty.

Terri wasn't sure if it was the invasion of the anal spreader or Bard's other hand—his fingers had found her clitoris and were squeezing, rolling the nub between thumb and forefinger.

The spreader reached its depth. Bard cranked it open. Wide, then wider.

A metal ring slid down the instrument's shaft and into the stretched opening. Satisfied, he removed the spreader, and the ring remained—a polished silver grommet holding Cindy's asshole wide for stuffing.

She panted.

"Are you okay?" Terri asked. "That looks—"

"I'm fine." Cindy's voice was dreamy still, but edged now with something sharper.

"I said I wanted butter cookie stuffing. This is what happens when you want stuffing."

Bard placed a shower cap over her head, tucking every strand of blonde hair inside. Then goggles—blacked-out lenses that left her blind. Cindy's lips parted. Her breathing quickened.

"Now. A trip to the butter machine."

He lifted her with ease, her body folded as she was made for easy carrying.

Bound, Cindy had become a compact package, and Bard carried her like a toddler in a car seat—both hands under her ass, her body leaning against his chest, her blindfolded face turned toward the ceiling.

The butter machine was a metal box with a side-loading door. Terri could see the internals: a dildo rising from the base, similar to the one in the salting tank.
This machine has three plastic hoses tipped with suction cups, and a thicker hose fitted with an oxygen mask.

Terri said nothing. Watching as Bard loaded Cindy in.

Her body slid down blindly, pussy finding the dildo, wet enough to accept it with a single smooth motion. Her weight settled. The silicone filled her, most likely like never before. She seem a little shocked by the intruder.

A chain above was attached to her wrist for balance, keeping her supported by it and nestled onto the dildo.

Then Bard's fingers found her nipple—a pinch, an attachment a hose to it, the suction cup sealed over the bud with a soft wet sound.

Blinded as she was, Cindy could have only fell what was happening to her body.

The other breast. The same treatment. Cindy moaned, low and long, as both nipples began to be pulled rhythmically by the machine's vacuum.

Then Bard's thumb and forefinger closed on her clitoris.

Cindy jerked. The third suction hose attached, sealing over the erected clitoris, and her whole body went rigid.

The dildo began to vibrate. She twisted, writhed, impaled and milked from three points, and her mouth opened in a soundless scream as Bard fitted the oxygen mask over her lips.

He asked her if she could breath okay. A quick nod was all she could mustered going through what was obviously an orgasm.

Pressing the red button. The machine hummed.

"We lock the door." Bard swung it shut. The latch clicked. "And we turn it on."

The box began to shimmer with internal motion.

"What's actually happening in there?" Terri's pen was shaking.

"Warm melted butter. Tiny ports spray it from all directions. Then it cycles into flour mode—dusting her.

Three cycles and she'll come out with a thick coating of caky batter."

"How long will that take?"

"Twenty minutes. She'll be ready to stuff after that."
Terri nodded.

"Do you know where Kerri is?"

"Don't know a Kerri, is she one of the servers?"

"No’ The little girl being spit-roasted tonight."

"Sorry, we get so many, names seem pointless. But Max has her in the spitting room. Next bay over." Bard jerked his thumb toward a side corridor.

"She may already be spitted by now. Most likely already on the cook."

"Thank you, Chef."
Terri was already moving.

Penny snapped to attention at the words spitting room, her Mary Janes clicking across the tile.

They passed the soup station. Mrs. Boilermaker was reclining in the giant copper pot, her daughters on either side, the little one holding a potato like a doll, all three of them submerged to their necks in herb-slicked water.

Steam rose around them. The older woman's eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted, her cheeks flushed with heat and something deeper.

A cook is adding veggies into the mix.

"Sorry." Terri didn't slow. "I'll come back to interview you more. If you're able."

"Sure thing, hun." Mrs. Boilermaker didn't open her eyes. "We're not going anywhere."

Bobbi waved at Penny as she passed. Penny waved back, camera taking quick shots as they past.

The corridor was short. The door at the end was heavy, industrial, with a small window at eye level. Through it, Terri could see movement. Shadows.

The glint of stainless steel.
She pushed through.
The spitting room was smaller than the main kitchen, warmer, the air thick with the scent of charcoal and roasting meat.

A long grill dominated one wall, coals glowing orange beneath a series of rotating spits.

A man in a black chef's coat—Max, presumably—stood beside one of them, adjusting the motor.

And Kerri.
She was suspended horizontally, her gymnast's body stretched taut, wrists bound together above her head and ankles bound together behind her, the two sets of restraints connected to the spit that ran through her little body.

The spit not as thick as an average one, the stainless steel spit disappeared into her asshole, out her mouth. She is surprisingly very much alive. through the heat rising from the grill will shorten it.

Two vertical support held the spit keeping her suspended over the grill.

She was impaled. Terri could see that now—the spit passed through Kerri's little body.

The spit owned her now, no turning back, she was no long Kerri Underwood, she is merely meat roasting away for others to dine on and enjoy.

the way her bound limbs framed the rotating steel rod, by the chef's basting brush trailing oil along her inner thigh.
A strap around her waist kept her steady. Penny taking photos and taking notes in her head.

She rotated slowly, the motor humming, and as she turned, Terri could see the apple wedged fed up the spit and between her teeth, the glaze on her skin catching the firelight.

Muffled sounds. Kerri was trying to speak around the apple.

Max continued to baste her, catching areas of interest as she turned.
"—fucking incredible," Penny gasped. "Oh god. The heat. The rotation. I can see the coals doing a number on her body.”

Terri could actually smell her roasting, she had to admit, Kerri smelt great.

Kerri’s words were only muffled sounds, but her hips were moving, grinding against the spit in her ass, and her thighs were slick with oil and sweat and something else entirely.

Penny's camera clicked away, as Kerri slipped away. Her flat chest heaving a few times before a shutter then nothing. Max continued to baste her with the remaining oil.

“I’ll be glazing her with barbecue sauce once she cooks down a bit.” Max said, not even prompted by a question.

He spent extra time basting her little cunt, her parents were expecting it for dinner and he is making sure it is well treated.

“Did she have a hard time when you spitted her?” Terri asked for her notes.

“Well’ you know it isn’t a picnic getting impaled by a spit. But she took it like a champ.” He said taking a spit and setting it vertically into a hole in a stone base.

“With these little one, pointing at Kerri roasting away, you just set them on top, guide them down.”

“I see, is it quick? I mean does she suffer long?”

“ I guess a little, her own weight sets the pace. I just make sure she’s adjusted so the spit exit her mouth.”

“It must of not been that bad she was alive when we got here.” Terri said notice Kerri attempting to smile around the spit.

“Yeah, I had her cooking for ten minutes when you got here. They tend not to last more then twenty minutes before they are done for.”

Penny took shots, even trying to take one from from below.

She endured the heat for a perfect shot of her body turning into the heat, the red shine and dripping oils caught in high-definition. Money shot and she knew it.

Terri took some notes of the process. The scent of Kerri’s roasting body.

It was making her very hungry. She is actually interested in trying her meat at dinner tonight.

She remembered Lucy and Cindy, by now they should be called Ham and Chicken.

They’ll be getting their asses stuffed. She didn’t want to miss it.

She closed her book, called to Penny who is admiring the standing spit. Touching her finger on its point.

“Penny!”

“Coming!”