Chapter 7: Chicken Stuffing Dreams.

The first spoonful of butter cookie stuffing slid into Cindy’s open asshole with a sound Terri would never forget—a soft, wet plop that echoed off the stainless steel prep-table.

Cindy giggled.
Her bound legs shook. The flour-caked skin of her inner thighs quivered as Bard withdrew the spoon and reached for another scoop.

She was positioned on the tilted roasting rack, ass raised high, the grommet still holding her wide.

Gravity did the rest.

Each spoonful descended into her buttery bowels with barely any resistance at all.

“So you asked to be stuffed.” Terri’s pen hovered, the only question she could think of at the moment.

“Is this part of your roasted chicken fantasy as well?”

Another scoop. Another giggle. Cindy’s dreamy eyes found Terri’s face and held there, unfocused but bright.

“My uncle would stuff the birds. I’d just watch from the corner of the kitchen. Pretend I was on the table getting stuffed.”

Terri wrote it down. She had heard of little girls sexual desires stem from Mother issues, father issues, and for Cindy—apparently chicken issues.

Bard dropped a another scoop. The spoon tapped her anal ring on the way out, a neat little punctuation mark.

Cindy’s smile stretched wider. Her whole body language screamed more.

Penny’s shutter clicked.
“I see you chose butter cookie stuffing.” Terri flipped a page in her notepad. “Any special reason?”

“I’m a Brownie Scout, my troop voted on for a cookie stuffing . They knew how much I love butter cookies.” Cindy’s voice was syrup, slow and sweet.

“It sounded delicious with my roasted butterball body.”

Bard pulled up the packing stick.

The stuffing had begun to slow its descent—too much volume, not enough gravity. He positioned the rod at her entrance.

Terri’s hand stopped his wrist. “Aren’t you going to ask if she wants to be stimulated while you pack her colon?”

Bard blinked. A flicker of something—annoyance, amusement, she couldn’t tell—crossed his face.

“I was just about to ask.”
“Would you like something for your cunt while I stuff your asshole?” The question came out cocky, edged with a smile that suggested he knew the answer already.

Cindy’s response was immediate. “Yes. Yes, please. Yes.” Like a child asking for candy.

The vibrator Bard produced was thick, studded with bumps, its head a spiral of tiny silicone fingers that spun independently of the shaft.

He switched it on. The buzz filled the small space between them.

Cindy nodded so hard her she shook the pan. Give me, give me.

He didn’t bother to turn it off. The spinning head tapped her swollen clitoris—once, twice—and Terri noticed what the suction cups had done.

Cindy’s clit was engorged, extended past its hood, dark pink and glistening. Her nipples matched. The vacuum had drawn them out to twice their normal length, fat and rubbery, still slick with butter residue.

Cindy’s moans turned to oh’s. Bard shoved the vibrator inside her without warning.

Her body shook. The silicone fingers swiped her inner walls, spinning, stroking, and Cindy’s eyes rolled back until only the whites showed.

Her mouth fixed open. No sound came out. Just trembling.

Terri reached for the vibrator. “I can hold it—”
“No need.” Bard showed her the attachment: a short chain ending in a metal alligator clip.

He pinched Cindy’s engorged clit between his thumb and forefinger, pulled it taut, and clipped the metal jaws around the base of the bud.

Cindy lost it.

She came in and out of consciousness—wild moans dissolving into silent rapture, then back again, her body jerking against the pan straps.

Bard continued stuffing her, unhampered, spoon after spoon disappearing into her packed colon.

Penny captured every frame. The cornbread mixture. The butter dripping down Cindy’s crack. The alligator clip tugging her clit with each vibration.

Terri looked across the kitchen. Chef Victor was applying something to Lucy’s hair.

She excused herself. Cindy was in another world entirely.

“May I ask what you’re applying?”
Victor’s gloved hands worked a clear gel through Lucy’s damp strands.

“A thermal protectant. Keeps the hair from drying out.” He reached for a silver cap—aluminum, fitted, with a chin strap. “This too. It can get quite hot in the oven.

This protects her brain from heat damage.”
Made sense. Terri watched him fit the cap snugly over Lucy’s head, tucking every strand inside.

Lucy’s face was still visible—honey-glazed, the pineapple rings marching down her spine behind her, the cherry toothpicks quivering with each breath.

“How do you feel?” Terri asked.

Lucy’s smile said it all.

“I feel thick. Like a solid piece of meat. Like a—like a ham.”

Victor produced two thick slices of kiwi fruit.
Lucy’s expression crumpled.

“No. I want to see myself in the oven.”

“The oven will get scorching hot, your eyes can get damaged before you get a chance to really cook.”

Terri stepped closer.

“A baked ham can’t see anyway. All a ham can do is lay there and feel itself bake.”

The words hung in the air. Lucy’s protest died in her throat. She nodded, small and slow, and Victor placed the kiwi slices over her eyes.

A honey-soaked cheesecloth followed—wrapping, wrapping, mummifying her face in layers of sweet gauze. He avoided her mouth. That was reserved.

“Open.”

Lucy’s blindly obeyed, jaw dropped. The cored apple wedged in, filling the space, silencing the last of her protests.

Now there were only muffled sounds. Small, helpless noises from a little girl who wanted to become nothing more then meat.

She would not see herself enter the oven. Yet she will feel it, her tender flesh will surrender to it heated grasp. Her little body helpless, ready to bake.

—

Bard had finished stuffing his bird.
Cindy lay limp in her roasting pan, the anal clamp removed, a russet potato plugging her anus.

A meat thermometer skewered into the potato’s center. The stuffing was sealed inside her now—butter cookie and cookie dough and whatever else Bard had spooned into her over the past ten minutes.

Cindy was aware again. Barely. The vibrator was being withdrawn, and Cindy moaned at the loss, her hips chasing it as it slid free. Bard removed her vibrator.

Butter and cum dripped from the spinning head onto her belly, her chest.

“Please more.” Her voice cracked. “I need it back in. Please.”

Bard held up a corncob instead. Shucked. Enormous. He dipped it in melted butter.

Cindy’s eyes went wide. Her thank-yous tumbled out in a rush as he pressed the blunt end against her battered folds.

The corncob slid in with obscene ease—her pussy was still loose from the machine, from the insane vibrator, still wet, still gaped enough that the thick vegetable found its home without resistance. It bobbed there, half-inserted, threatening to slip back out.

“Can you hold it in for a moment?” Bard asked Terri.

She didn’t hesitate. Her finger pressed against the base of the corncob, stopping its retreat.

The texture was rough against her fingertip—ridges of kernels, slick with butter.
Cindy’s eyes closed.

A sigh shuddered through her. Bard produced a second corncob. Shorter. Hollow-cored.

He pressed it to Cindy’s lips. “Open.”

Her jaw stretched wider than she’d anticipated. The corncob filled her mouth, the hollow core allowing a thin whistle of breath.

Bard reached for the thermal gel, the aluminum cap, the cheesecloth—the same protocol Victor had used.

Star fruit slices instead of kiwi. Butter-soaked cloth instead of honey.
When her face was fully wrapped, only one thing remained.

The corncob was still slipping. Terri’s finger held it, but the moment she let go—

“I’ll suture it in,” Bard said, threading a curved needle with cooking string.

Terri’s stomach dropped. “You’re going to sew her sweet little pussy shut?”

“Just the outer lips. A half a dozen stitches on each side. Should golds the cob in place.” He said it the way another chef might describe trussing a turkey.

“She requested full enclosure in her menu.”

Penny’s camera came up. Her breathing had gone shallow. The flush on her cheeks spread down her throat. Penny was notably horny trying to hold herself together.

The needle pierced Cindy’s left outer labia.
Cindy squeaked through the corncob—a high, muffled sound that was part pain, part ecstasy.

Bard pulled the suture through. Terri watched the thread drag through pink flesh, watched the lips draw together around the base of the cob.

The second stitch. Another squeak. Cindy’s bound hands clenched into fists.

Penny’s shutter clicked. Clicked. Clicked.

Right side now. The needle pierced again. Cindy’s squeak was weaker this time, her body shuddering, her chest heaving against the pan straps.

More stitching back and forth, stitching pulled tight. The corncob was locked inside her, only the very tip visible between the sutured lips.

“All done.” Bard snipped the thread.

“Oven-ready.”
Terri looked at Cindy—trussed, battered, stitched up pussy, corncob in her mouth, potato in her ass, face mummified in buttery cheesecloth.

Then she looked at Lucy—honey-glazed, pineapple-studded, apple-gagged, kiwi-blinded, candy-apple thermometer swaying between her legs.

Both of them lay in their roasting pans, strapped down, stuffed full, waiting.

The ovens interior light glowed orange. No heat at the moment. Once inside, the girls can enjoy the oven warming, the sound of ticking elements growing warmer.

The two little girls with big dreams to roast were ready, staffer rolling up with serving carts to escort the meat-girls to a row of waiting ovens.

The girls were sexually charged and ready to cook

Terri and Penny… we’re horny as hell and ready to watch.