Chapter 8: The Oven Girls.


The cart lurched.

Lucy blinded by the cheesecloth wrap, had forced her to rely on her other senses-like motion.

She felt it in her bones—a tiny jolt transmitted through the steel pan, through the straps at her shoulders, through the cherry-topped toothpicks still quivering in her flesh.

The wheels squeaked. Somewhere above her—she thought it was above her, but directions had gone slippery—Victor was humming. Something catchy. She couldn't place the song through the honey-soaked cheesecloth.

The cart stopped.
Metal clanked on metal. Her roasting pan lifted, tilted for one nauseating heartbeat, then settled onto the oven rack with a solid thunk that reverberated through her bound body.

Lucy's breath caught behind the apple gag. The kiwi slices were cool against her closed eyes. The aluminum cap made her scalp feel strange—protected, sealed, like something being kept fresh.

The slide. Oh yes, the slide. The rack's wheels—were there wheels? she couldn't remember—rolled her forward into the waiting darkness of the oven.

The sound was a low rumble that traveled up through her sternum. Hot air from the oven new set to preheated, raising heat gathering around her. Her nipples tightened.

The candy-apple thermometer shifted inside her pussy, the three sugared spheres nestled deep where her body she squeezed to gripped them.

"You're doing beautifully." Victor's voice, muffled through the cheesecloth.

"I’ll keep the oven on low for a while. I'll check on you at the first basting."

Penny's shutter clicked somewhere to the left.

Lucy tried to turn toward the sound, but the straps held her head at its designated angle—tilted slightly downward, presenting the pineapple rings marching down her spine, the silver onion plug peeking between her netted cheeks.

The oven door closed.
Lucy heard the latch catch. Heard the click of the dial. Then—warmth. Not the blast of heat she'd braced for, but a gentle bloom that started at the small of her back and spread outward, slow as honey dripping from a spoon.

The oven's fan kicked on. Air began to cycle around her, a rolling current that pulled the warmth across her shoulders, down her flanks, over the raised curve of her ass.

I'm baking, she thought. I'm actually baking.
Her pussy clenched around the candy apples.

The thermometer's stem shifted—a tiny movement, but in the darkness of her blindfolded world it was seismic. She wondered what temperature she was.

Whether the dial was creeping toward that perfect golden number.

Whether Victor was watching through the oven window, checking her color.

The thought made her moan around the apple.

---

In the next oven, fifteen inches of insulated wall away, Cindy was discovering something about herself.

The butter was leaking.
She could feel it—warm rivulets tracing paths down her flour-caked inner thighs, pooling in the hollow of her hip, dripping onto the tilted roasting rack beneath her.

The corncob in her pussy shifted with every clench of her sutured lips. Six stitches on the left. Six on the right. She'd counted them as Bard pulled the needle through, each puncture a bright star of sensation that had somehow translated into pleasure before the pain even registered.

Now those sutures were the only thing keeping the cob inside her. And her body—traitorous, eager, insatiable—kept trying to push it out.

The corncob moved. A fraction of an inch. The sutures caught. Cindy's moan echoed inside her own head, trapped by the hollow-cored cob in her mouth and the butter-soaked cheesecloth wrapped around her face.
She couldn't see. The starfruit slices had grown warm against her eyelids. The darkness was absolute.
But she could smell.
That was the strange part—the part that was undoing her stitch by careful stitch. The thermal cap, the cheesecloth, the shower cap beneath it all, none of it could block the scent of herself cooking.

Butter and flour and something deeper, something that was her, toasting golden in the cycling heat.

She smelled like her grandmother's kitchen on Thanksgiving morning.

She smelled like every chicken she'd ever watched her uncle pull from the oven, skin crackling, juices running clear.

Uncle Don, she thought, and the memory swallowed her whole.
She was five again, standing barefoot on the kitchen linoleum, watching him baste the roasting bird with a bulb baster, the butter sizzling where it hit the hot skin.

"You love the smell of my roasted chicken?" he'd asked, and she'd nodded, and he'd said,

"That's what chicken smells like when done right."

She'd wanted to climb into the pan. She'd wanted to be the thing that smelled so delicious.

She could smell the same roasted chicken smell, yet now it was coming from her. Buttery savory, they way Uncle use to roasted em.

She has truly become a chicken, trussed, stuffed, and roasting her little heart away.

Cindy's hips rocked against the cob. The sutures pulled yet held. The potato in her anus held the butter cookie stuffing in place.

She was so full—pussy full, ass full, mouth full, every opening plugged or packed or sewn shut—and still she wanted more.

The heat climbed up, inching its way up by degree. The batter thick, holding in her body sweat. Trapping her juices, holding in her flavor.

She could feel it, the way the butter on her belly began to sizzle, tiny bubbles popping against her flour-crusted skin.

Her mind returning to her pussy.

She squeezed.

The corncob didn't budge. She squeezed harder. The stitches held. The frustration was exquisite—a denied orgasm stretched across minutes, across degrees, across the slow crawl of the oven thermometer toward whatever temperature Bard had set.

I'm his chicken, she thought. I'm his butterball. I'm his dish.

Her mind drifted. The heat made everything soft at the edges. The reality of roasting in a oven didn’t stop her from including her Uncle.

She pictured Uncle Don opening the oven, peering in at her sexy little niece roasting away, nodding with approval. "Almost done," he'd say.

Poking her with a fork to see her doneness "Just need a little more time my tasty bird. You’re starting to crisp out."

She imagine a tender moment. He's basting her with a long-handled brush, painting butter over her golden skin, and she'd be so grateful she'd cry.

She was crying now. Or maybe it was butter. She couldn't tell anymore.

---

Outside the ovens, Terri watched the delicious ham baking, Lucy being that ham.looking through the glass.
The honey had begun to caramelize in places dripping in others.

It was a slow process—Victor had explained the science while they waited: the sugars won’t start browning and glass over until temperatures reach 320 degrees, it’s a chemical reaction transforming her glaze from sticky-clear to deep amber.

But Terri wasn't thinking about science. She was watching Lucy's delicious 10 year old body through the oven window, watching the slight wiggle that the straps would permitted, watching the way her bound fingers opened and closed against her calves.

"There." Victor tapped the glass. "See the color?"
Lucy's skin had gone from parboiled pink to something richer.

The honey glaze was darkening in patches—shoulders first, then the upper curves of her back, the very crest of her juicy raised ass.

The pineapple rings had begun to brown at the edges. The cherries on their toothpicks glistened like dark jewels.

"She can't see herself," Penny murmured, her lens pressed against the oven window.

"She's will never see how beautiful and tasty she looks right now."

Victor smiled. "I gave her a little treat. Something to keep her company."

Terri looked at him. "What kind of treat?"

"The candy apple thermometer." He pointed through the glass. "There's a spring coil inside the stem. When the oven heat reaches a certain temperature, it begins to vibrate."

Terri's gaze dropped to the space between Lucy's thighs. The protruding end of the thermometer—just the white face, the orange-red-yellow arc, the few inches of steel stem that hadn't been swallowed—was quivering.

Not much.

A subtle tremor that might have been invisible if she wasn't looking for it.

Lucy's hips jerked.
The motion was small—the straps limited her range to almost nothing—but Terri saw it.

A spasm.

A buck.

Lucy's bound hands clenched into fists, then relaxed, then clenched again.

"She's—"
"Enjoying herself," Victor finished.

"The vibration increases as the temperature rises.

By the end of the next basting, she'll be quite thoroughly attended to."

Penny's shutter captured the moment Lucy's spine arched. The toothpicks in her back quivered.

The silver onion between her netted cheeks gleamed under the oven's interior light.

"I love to see the these tender children get the most out of their roasting," Victor said, his voice warm with professional pride.

"Keeps them cumming while they cook." He leaned closer to the glass, admiring his work.

“I tap on the glass from time to time. It lets them know someone is watching the cook. A real turn on for them according to surveys.”

"Look at her. A beautiful little girl, transformed into something scrumptious. Artistically pleasing. A culinary delight."

Terri's panties—was a lost cause—were already clinging to her folds again. She'd stopped counting how many times she had soaked them. Stopped caring.

The appeal of roasting little children was no longer abstract. It was right there in front of her: a sweet little girl who so completely surrendered to a sensation that she'd become something else entirely. Something delicious.

Terri could smell it, faintly yet it was there.

Not Lucy anymore. A dish. A work of culinary art. A delicious baked ham.
And As a honey bake ham, she was loving every second of it.

—

Penny swapped her memory card with that quick silver flick.

"I need more pictures of the soup girls?" She was already turning toward the copper pot station, her pigtails swinging.

"Before they boil to death?" Leaving Terri behind.

Terri pulled her gaze from the oven window.

Right. The Boilermakers.

She'd promised to get a few more statements before— they soup away.
Best to do it now, while the meat spend some time on the oven.

Terri wish to witness their first basting, for the magazine she told herself. Her panties told a different story.

They left Lucy and Cindy to slow roast, Victor informed her she had 20 minutes. Terri looked at her watch.

“Thank you!” Terri said, leaving the chefs to attend their oven babies.

---

The soup station was fragrant with herbs. Rosemary and thyme and something floral Terri couldn't name.

The copper pot dominated the corner of the kitchen, steam rising from its surface in lazy curls, and inside it, three females had become one simmering dish.
Bobbi, the baby daughter, was done for, floating on the surface and ready to be pulled. The cook used giant tongs—cartoonishly large, the kind you'd see at a lobster boil—and hooked them under her Bobbi’s little body, she came out of the soup limp as cooked pasta, she was set on a butcher's table to cool.

A butcher standing by proceeded to chop up the little girl. Chopping off her limbs, breaking then down by the joints. Sliced her open, saving the good edible parts, discarding the rest. He worked fast breaking little Bobbi down into chunks of parboiled meat.

He loaded the tray of what remain of a once lively little tot. Now meat being tossed back into the soup.

Penny's camera flashing, documented every angle.

Mrs boilermaker seem happy when her baby girl rejoined her in the soup.

Sue, the older sister, asked to be lifted, her muscles too relaxed to assist. her head lolling against the rim of the pot before falling forward. Her skin was bright pink from the shoulders down. Steam rose from her body in delicate wisps.

Twenty minutes in the soup and she was red as a lobster, satisfied, done.

She was still alive when the cook pulled her out.

She was laid on the same butcher block her little sister had laid. The butch wasted no time. Terri realize she is going to butcher her alive.

Sue could lift a muscle, she couldn’t talk as well.
He chopped off her arm, the one she uses for masturbating. Sues didn’t feel it, her arms partially cook, useless to her, yet beneficial for the soup.
"I never realized how stimulating it's been," sues mom spoke, her voice thick and slow.

"They even let us add flavor to the soup. Extra cum when I masturbated my little Bobbi with a carrot.

It's—" She shivered, not from cold. "It's like my body wants to stay forever."

Sue never protested as she was parted. He cut away her little breast, sliced open her belly. Sue moaning, wincing, as more of her is cut away.

When the butcher cut into some of her less cooked meat she felt it, the strange sensation of a blade cutting deep into her thigh, feeling her meaty thighs removed yet the blade is razor sharp, it wasn’t pain, it was something she could quantify with her little brain—pleasure? She couldn’t think, she just laid helpless are he removing her parboiled flesh.

He flipped her over, easily without her limbs.

Gripping a hand full of ass cheek he pulled up and carved it from her body.

Sue finally passed as the butcher finished her off removed her head, cut clean off her setting her head next to her little sisters smiling head.

The cook collected Sue’s chopped up parts and added back into the soup.

Mrs. Boilermaker smiled, her children had returned to her, floating bits mingle. She was golfing to them, telling them how delicious the smelt.

Terri watched her, probably not a good time to ask questions.out last.

The mother was a tad delirious—long-term heat exposure, Terri noted, making a professional observation to counter the very unprofessional ache between her thighs.

The steaming soup had taken on a rich, savory scent. She and her daughters had added their flavor to it. Those dining tonight would taste all three of them.

Mrs. Boilermaker was ready to come out, to be parted and rejoin her children into the soup. The pulled her out, settled on the butcher's table. Her hand found Bobbi's head setting next to her, the same protective gesture Terri had seen in the larder.

"We did it," she said, and her voice cracked on something like wonder.

"We actually did it."
Penny captured the family together—mother and daughters heads, pink and steaming, no closer bond than a pot of shared soup.

The cook spoke up as the butcher began his chopping. “The mother has some good fat content, I love stewing kids, but they lack the fat for a really good tasting girl soup!”

butchered chopped, cuts, and sliced away. The once proud mother felt herself being eviscerated, piece by piece of actual meat removed, feeling joyous as the cook collected them and return her to the pot, enriching the broth.

Terri's stomach growled.
The soup smelled delicious. She had to admit that. It smelled incredible delicious.

Penny took a final picture of the three head in a row. A wholesome moment for them. An ascetically pleasing money shot for Penny

---

Inside the oven, Lucy's mind had drifted far from the kitchen. The heat giving her feverish dreams. Her mind drift far from the scorching oven.

She was on a holiday themed table. A long, polished table set with the good china and the silver candlesticks her grandmother only brought out for Christmas.

She was the centerpiece—a glistening ham on a silver platter, her own body but also not her body, the way dreams worked, the way heat worked when it sank into your bones.

Cloves studded her skin in diamond patterns. Pineapple rings marched down her back. The thermometer—still vibrating, still humming its low heat-song—poked up from between her legs like a decoration.

The family was gathering. Faces she recognized and faces she didn't. They had knives and forks. They were smiling. Her mother was there, the one who'd warned her about skin damage and protective oils, and she now was saying something about how beautiful the ham looked this year, how perfectly glazed.

Carve it, someone said.
And they did.

The knife slid into her—not into her actual body, her actual body was baking in an oven at LeFem Delish, but into the ham-body, the dream-body, the meat that was and wasn't Lucy.

Slices fell away and were lifted onto plates. People ate. They made happy sounds.

They complimented the tenderness, the saltiness, counter balance with sugary sweetness, the way the honey had caramelized on the edges.

She was being consumed. She was a holiday ham, and she was being enjoyed, and it was the most peaceful thing she had ever felt.

She felt sleepy, the heat creeping back into her conscienceless.

Do hams get sleepy? The thought surfaced from somewhere deep, dream-logic and heat-logic tangled together. I think hams get sleepy. I think hams just lie here and bake and dream about being eaten until there's nothing left but a bone and a smile.

The vibration in her pussy changed pitch. Climbing. Heating.

Lucy fell back into dream-body as she shuddered on its silver platter.

The family kept eating. The knife kept carving. And Lucy—the real Lucy, the one with the kiwi slices on her eyes and the apple in her mouth—felt herself falling into a dark, warm, honey-scented sleep.

---

Cindy the brave roasting chicken didn't sleep.

Cindy was hyperaware of every square inch of her golden-brown body. The flour coating had begun to crack as she baked, creating a delicate crust that pulled at her skin with each breath.

The butter seeped through the cracks, glazing her from the inside out.

She could feel it happening, the culinary transformation—and she was burning with the need to come.

The corncob shifted. The sutures held. She sobbed around her gag.
Uncle Don, she thought,

I'm almost done. I'm almost ready. You're going to be so proud.

She couldn't see the golden tint spreading across her skin, but she could feel it. Could smell it.

Her own scent, toasting and buttery, filling the small dark chamber of the oven.

She smelled like the chickens she had fantasied about being.

Like Sunday dinner. Like everything she'd ever wanted to be.

The corncob shifted again. The sutures pulled taut. Cindy's world narrowed to the space between her legs and the slow, inexorable heat that was turning her into a dish worth waiting for.

---

Terri and Penny arrived back at the ovens just as Victor was pulling on his heatproof gloves.

"Perfect timing," he said. "We're just about to start the first basting."

Penny prepared her camera. Terri Tart didn’t bother with any questions, this was a moment of watching.

Her hunger and horniness demanded it.