Chapter 6: Hamming it Up.
Penny swapped her memory card with the quick, practiced flick of someone who’d done it a hundred times in the dark.

The spent card disappeared into her camera bag. The fresh one clicked home.

“Ready,” she breathed, and her lens was already hunting.

Terri was moving.
The kitchen had rearranged itself in the minutes they’d spent in the spitting room.

Lucy was out of the salt tank. Her chefs had lifted her dripping body from the saline water tank and laid her on a spread towel. On top his prep table. The pink fishnet body wrap clung to her skin, wet and promising to tighten as the strands dry in the oven.

Her skin itself had gone pink—a deep, rosy flush that spread from her shoulders to her calves, to her pretty little feet and hands—the color of something seemingly parboiled, something tender.

Lucy’s chef— she don’t recall asking his name, yet recalled hearing Bard call him something, she couldn’t remembered—he was patting her little body dry with a white cloth.

His movements were gentle. Paternal, Methodical. He folded the cloth into quarters and blotted the hollow of her throat, the undersides of her breasts where the netting bit deepest, the crease of her thighs.

Lucy’s eyes were closed. Her lips curved in a drowsy smile.

“How are you doing, Miss Ham?” Terri leaned close, her voice low.

“Do you still wish to continue with the roasting?” Looked like the little girl who has had enough, maybe she will have second thoughts—somehow getting the desires to cook, finally out of her system.

Nope!

After a long exhale. Lucy’s smile widened. Her pussy, still gaped from the battering she’d taken on the dildo, pulsed once—a visible clench of the inner walls that Terri caught and could not look away from.

“I want more.” The words came slowly, dragged from somewhere deep.

“More.”

The chef finished his pat-down and set the cloth aside. His gloved hand hovered over Lucy’s raised rear, the cheeks still separated by the netting, the anus still stretched wide from the clamp.

The wrinkle tunnel of muscle was pink and soft and glistening with residual salt water.

“Would you like some stimulation while I stuff your ass with stuffing?” He asked it the way a waiter might offer fresh pepper.

Lucy’s throat worked. “Yes please. Anything. Thank you, Mr. Chef.”

Penny’s shutter clicked as Her chef reached beneath the prep table. He produced a curved plastic vibrator, a long packing rod, and a large ceramic bowl filled with a mixture that smelled of apples and cornbread and sage.

The stuffing was chunky, moist, flecked with dark bits of something that might have been walnut.

Lucy’s eyes tracked the vibrator. Her dazed smile flickered into surprise as it disappeared behind her vision. He pressed the tip against her entrance and pushed.

It slid in deep. The void she’d been left with—the ache Terri could see in the way Lucy’s hips kept shifting, kept searching—was filled in one smooth motion.

She smiles as he switched it on.
Lucy’s spine bowed. Her bound hands clenched into fists.

The sound she made was half-sob, half-laugh, and her head dropped forward onto the steel table with a dull thud.

Terri realized she wasn’t going to get any more answers. Best to let her enjoy the moment.

“Can you hold it in while I stuff her?” The chef asked as his eyes met Terri’s. The vibrator was already jittering its way out, the plastic shaft growing slick.

“Vibrators tends to push out’ unassisted.” He said.

The request caught her off guard, being just an observer.

“Yes. I can help.”

Terri’s hand closed around the base of the vibrator.

She stopped it from slipping free and then—she didn’t plan this—she twisted it. A slow rotation of her wrist. Then a slide, a push, a turn.

Lucy made a sounds that wasn’t words. Mostly moans, as the first scoop full of stuffing plops into her asshole.

Terri fucked her with the vibrator. Slow at first, then faster, matching the rhythm of Victor’s stuffing.

He’d loaded another spoon with the apple-cornbread mixture and was dropping it into Lucy’s open anus. Each scoop disappeared into the stretched opening.

He’d pause, mist the cavity with olive oil from a spray bottle, then press the packing rod deep to force the stuffing further.

Terri timed her thrusts to his packing. When the rod slid home, Lucy feeling the greatest impact to her little body, she would drilled the vibrator fast and hard.

When he withdrew to reload his spoon, she slowed to a lazy grind.

Lucy’s unintelligible cries rose above the kitchen noise. Her body shuddered. Her inner walls clamped down on the vibrator so hard Terri could feel the resistance through her grip. The stuffing filling her bowels.

She was coming. Again. This child who wants to be a Honey Baked Ham, had experienced two orgasms and she hadn’t even been near the oven yet.

Terri’s panties were dripping. She could feel the slickness on her inner thighs, a slow crawl of heat that tracked down to her knees.

The appeal was suddenly, terrifyingly clear—the raw sexual drive to be treated like a usable item.

Nothing more than meat. To be arranged and seasoned and cooked for someone else’s pleasure.

“I realized I never got your name,” Terri said, slightly embarrassed. “In our last interview.”

“Chef Victor G. Chan. You can call me Vic.” He was proud of his name. Terri could hear it in the way he said it—the same pride she’d heard in his description of holiday hams and salt brine ratios.

She laughed to herself. Here she was, having a normal conversation with a chef who was packing a bound ten year old full of stuffing while she—Terri Tart, sharp reporter for Yummy Girl Publications—fucked the same volunteer with a buzzing piece of plastic.

She annalized him for a moment. His mannerisms were charmingly pleasant. A nice man, the kind you’d chat with at a dinner party.

His actions told a different story. The way he had no regard for the child’s safety, the way he manhandled his little meatgirl. The way he packed her colon with the same attention he’d give a holiday roast.

Victor wiped the rim of Lucy’s anus with a damp cloth. The grommet, no longer needed, was extracted with a wet pop that Lucy didn’t seem to feel.

She’d gone quiet. Her breathing had evened out.

She was asleep, a small smile still playing at the corners of her mouth.

Victor stuffed a silver onion into the opening to plug the stuffing.

“A technique I learned from a restaurant in Texas,” he said, noticing Terri’s raised eyebrow.

His hand touched hers. “You can let go of the vibrator now.”

Terri released. Her fingers were cramped from holding the angle. She flexed them as Victor withdrew the toy—slowly, carefully—and Lucy moaned in her sleep.


Penny had captured everything. Even Terri licking her fingers.

Her camera lowered, and Terri could see the flush on her cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell too fast beneath that crop top.

Victor pulled up a roasting pan large enough to hold little Lucy’s trussed up body.

Inside the pan, a raised rack was welded to the pan bed—angled slightly, the curve designed to cradle a body.

He lifted Lucy with surprising gentleness and set her onto her knees. Belly down. Head and shoulders resting on the lower end of the curved rack,

Ass raised high, the silver onion gleaming between her netted cheeks.
Straps. He buckled them across her shoulders, her waist, her thighs. Lucy was now part of the pan—a component, a dish, something to be slid into a hot oven and left there.

She was never getting out of this roasting pan unassisted.

Penny captured it from three angles.
Victor reached below the table again. Honey. Sliced pineapple rings. A bowl of pitted cherries dark as rubies. Brown sugar. Peppercorns. And a set of metal toothpicks—needle-sharp, four inches long, their ends topped with tiny decorative balls.

“Metal toothpicks?” Terri asked. “Did she really want to be stuck with needles?”

Victor pulled his clipboard. He lifted Lucy’s request sheet to reveal a photograph printed from the internet—a holiday ham, glossy and golden, scored with dark diamonds, studded with cloves, rows of pineapple rings pinned with cherries.

“She sent us this with her request.” He tapped the photo. “She’ll probably not feel much while she’s asleep. But she’ll be pleasantly surprised when she wakes up.”

Terri examined the image. The dark diamonds baked into the ham’s skin. The glistening honey glaze. The cherries pinned into the center of each pineapple ring. The
peppercorn barbs.

Buzzzzz.

A timer. The butter box. Cindy was finished.
Chef Bard passed their prep table on his way to retrieve her. His hands gripped Victor’s arms from behind. He looked over Victor’s shoulder at Lucy’s honey-glazed ass.

“You know you’ll have to wait to pop her in the oven.” A half-joke, delivered with a smirk.

“Go fuck a chicken,” Victor responded, not looking up.
Bard laughed and kept walking.

“What was that about?” Terri asked.

“Dumb kitchen razzing. We need to set them into the ovens at the same time.”

“Why is that?”

His attention stayed on Lucy. His hands worked the honey into the netting, into the deep pink skin beneath.

“It’s about weight, they require the about same amount of cooking time.”

He caressed Lucy’s tender body with the honey brush, finding every nook and cranny, dipping it in more honey then using it to brush inside of her used and sexually abused vagina.

“The diners will be fed like a buffet. Wheeling them into the dining area to be carved up. Part of the allure of this place.

These girls want to take Part as part of their fantasies. Getting very excited about hungry strangers wanting to consume them.”

This culinary desire couldn’t be denied. Terri would have to put away her prejudices. Times were changing. Cannibalism is no longer for consenting adults. Children could now join in the pleasure of being meat for others.

She was also thinking—she couldn’t wait to taste these lovely children.

Penny’s attention and camera had shifted.
A staffer was rolling a serving cart toward Bard’s station. On the cart sat a deep roasting pan with a curved rack designed to hold a body on its back.

The rack tilted higher at one end, lifting whatever lay there for display.
Bard unlatched the butter box and opened the door.

Cindy hung inside, impaled on the dildo, her body coated in a thick layer of flour that had dried into a cracked white shell. Butter dripped from her pussy. Butter leaked from her anus.

The suction cups were still attached to her nipples and clit, pulsing gently, and the oxygen mask fogged with each sleeping breath.

Bard lifted her off the dildo. Butter squirted from her pussy and splattered the floor. Butter and cum dripped down her thighs in thick, pale rivulets.

He laid her in the roasting pan on her back. Her flour-caked body settled into the curved rack—ass at the high end, head at the low. Straps secured her, locked in for her final destination.

Penny’s shutter documented every angle: the grommet still holding her anus open, the flaccid pussy lips that hadn’t yet retracted, the peaceful, dreaming expression on her white-powdered face.
Terri was looking over yet her attention was pulled back to Victor’s station.

He was placing pineapple rings down Lucy’s spine. Twin rows, evenly spaced, from her shoulder blades to the swell of her ass. The rings sank into the honey glaze and held.

He added the toothpicks—each one topped with a dark cherry—and drove them through the pineapple rings into Lucy’s flesh.

The first needle penetrated skin. Lucy didn’t stir.
The second.
The third.

When he drove a pick into her right ass cheek, her eyes flew open.

“Welcome back, pork chop.” Victor didn’t pause. Another toothpick slid home.

Lucy saw Terri. Smiled through a wince.

“This is—ouch—my dream come true—ouch.”

“How are you feeling?” Brushing hair from her face.

“This is—oh—I’m finally going in the oven!” The realization hit her, and her whole body went taut with anticipation, the toothpicks quivering in her flesh.

She wanted to finish her fantasy, eager to go into the oven.

“Almost just a little brown sugar, nutmeg, and cinnamon, and cloves.” He worked effortlessly, sprinkling the sugar and spice and everything nice across her shoulders, back and backside. The sugars will melt to a glassy finish once she is cooked.

“One more thing for a final touch.” Victor said holding an object to her face.

Victor showed her the thermometer. It was an old-fashioned oven gauge—round flat face, yellow-orange-red markings, a long steel stem ending in a needle-sharp tip.

In Lucy’s reference photo, it had been skewered into the ham.

This one had been modified. Three candy apples—glassy red shells over sweet flesh—were skewered onto the stem, forming a slick, organic dildo.

Lucy’s eyes went wide. Then hungry.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Yes. Yes. Please. Yes.”

Victor found her lips. Already glazed with sweet honey, they parted easily.

The first apple stretched her. She pushed toward it with what little range of motion she had.

The second apple forced the first deeper, past the tight ring of muscle, into a place where her body had no choice but to accept.

Lucy lost her voice.
Her mouth stayed open, silent, eyes rolled back.

The third apple went in forcefully, there was no other way, her pussy accommodated the last one as it disappeared.

Only a small portion of the stem was visible, protruding from between her swollen lips.

A silicone clamp was attached to her erect clitoris, a tiny chain connecting it to the base of the thermometer to keep everything in place.

“All done.” Victor said proudly, he produced a large mirror and showed Lucy herself from multiple angles. Next to the reference photo.

“See? Just like the picture.”

Lucy’s exhausted smile was beatific.

“Hey, Reporter lady!”

Bard’s voice rang out from across the kitchen. “Our chicken is waking up!”
Victor rotated Lucy’s roasting pan so she could see.

He promised to slide her into the oven once her chicken friend was ready.

Terri excused herself and crossed to Bard’s station.
Cindy lay on the tilted rack, her flour-coated body gleaming under the kitchen lights.

The grommet was still in place. Her anus gaped, buttery and ready. Her pussy, still loose from the machine, leaked pale butter onto the steel pan.
She blinked up at Terri.

Foggy. Happy.

“Did I miss anything?” she asked, dreamy and slow.
Terri’s hand found her notepad.

Her other hand, the one that had held the vibrator inside Lucy, was still trembling.

“We’ll, you have just been buttered an floured and it looks like your chef is about to stuff you!,” she said trying to help the drowsy girl catch up.

She look down her body, we was white as a ghost, with the goggles gone, she looked like an albino raccoon. She smiled, her fantasy to become a chicken, like the ones on uncle’s farm.

Bard held a steel bowl, using a large spoon scooped out a healthy portion of butter cookie stuffing mix.


“We’re just getting started.” He smiled.

Penny ready her camera.

Terri watched, panties soaking wet.