MASTER CHEF COMPETITION
THE GAME SHOW

MMM/ggg consenting, cooking competition, prep, live cooking, loli, family incest, cannibalism

Chapter 1: Family Night Viewing.


The Henderson family settled into their living room, the leather sectional groaning under shifting weight.

Kevin Henderson, forty-eight and gray at the temples, pointed the remote at the wall-mounted screen like a conductor lifting a baton.

“Everyone ready?”

“Just turn it on already,” his wife Denise said, passing a bowl of popcorn to their son Marcus. At thirty-one, Denise still turned heads—curves that motherhood had deepened rather than diminished, silver threading through her black hair.
Marcus, thirteen, grabbed a handful of popcorn.

His sister Jenna, nine, tucked her feet under herself on the far cushion and pretended to scroll through her phone.

The screen flickered to life mid-commercial. A man in a charcoal suit stood beside what looked like a dignified mannequin wearing a cardigan and holding a pipe.

“I tell you, preserving my Grandad would have been expensive. Thanks to A.L.I., After Life Insurance, I was able to keep him around after passing.”
The camera widened. The mannequin was an elderly man. Preserved. Standing in the corner of a tastefully decorated living room.

“With A.L.I., you too can have your loved one with you forever.”

A legal disclaimer crossed the screen: “Does not cover taxidermy, wax dippings, or polyethylene coatings.”

—-

Marcus snorted. “Dad, would you want to be preserved? You know, after?”

Kevin didn’t look away from the screen. “I’d rather be buried under a fruit tree. So people can eat my banana.”

Denise’s hand connected with his arm. The slap echoed. “No one gets your banana but your daughter and I.” His wife laughed.

“What about me?” Marcus protested, grinning.
“You can eat my lunchbox,” Denise said, deadpan.

Jenna choked on her drink. Kevin’s laughter boomed through the room.

Then the screen exploded with light and sound, and they all went quiet.

---

Flashing strobes. A synthesized orchestra hit. The camera swept across a gleaming industrial kitchen—copper pans hanging from overhead racks, stainless steel counters reflecting colored spotlights, and in the center, three stations marked with illuminated podiums.

“Welcome to the Master Chef Challenge!”
The invisible announcer’s voice rattled the surround sound.

The studio audience, visible in a wide shot, rose to their feet in applause. The title graphic slammed onto the screen in chrome letters.

Rapid-fire close-ups.
Chef and assistant.

First: GOURMET GURU, a man in his early thirties with a shaved head and tattooed forearms, wearing a black chef’s coat unbuttoned to show his collarbone.

Beside him—BETTY BOVINE, 11. Blonde hair falling past her shoulders. Small breasts with pale pink nipples erect under the studio lights. Her hips curved wide, and when the camera circled her, the heart-shaped beauty mark on her left buttock caught the light.

She was smooth. She was smiling like she’d just won something.

Second: CHEF SAVORY, forty-seven, silver-streaked beard trimmed to a razor’s edge, eyes that had seen kitchens on three continents.

His assistant—PAMELA PORK-SHIRE, 9. A full 2 feet shorter than him. Ginger with pigtails. A constellation of freckles across her nose and shoulders.

Nearly flat chest, nipples small and dark. Her pussy, like Betty’s, was completely bare. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, pigtails swaying.

Third: THE FLAVOR WIZ, twenty-nine, youngest of the chefs, with nervous energy and a grin he couldn’t suppress.

His arm wrapped around FARRAH FOULER, 12. Cherry-blonde hair cropped short. Pleasantly plump—soft at the belly and thighs without being heavy.

Small breasts that sat wide on her chest. Freckles dusted across her nose. She leaned into her chef’s side.

“Which finalist will win the title of Master Chef?” The host strode onto the set, microphone in hand.

Dirk Bentley, fifty, silver hair swept back, suit cut sharp enough to draw blood.

“I’m your host, Dirk Bentley.”

Music blared. The chefs moved to their stations.

Dirk approached Gourmet Guru first. The chef was already palpating Betty’s flank, fingers pressing into her thigh, her hip, the curve of her waist.

She held still, chin lifted.
“What are you preparing for us tonight, Guru?”

“This little Philly,” he said, patting Betty on the head like a prized heifer, “is going to be spit-roasted over an electric grill.”
The audience clapped.

“Spit-roasting,” Dirk said, turning to the camera, “is very popular among consumers.” He shifted to Betty. The microphone hovered near her lips.

“How about you? Are you excited about being transformed into a tasty dish?”

Betty’s practiced pose held—shoulders back, weight on one hip. “It’s been my dream. To turn over a fire while riding a spit.”

“Ah, yes. It’s every girl’s dream to become a meal. Takes a special someone to ride the spit.”

“Thank you, sir. I hope I’m the best.” She twirled.

The audience whistled.

The camera caught the heart-shaped mark as she spun.

—-

“That’s one fine piece of ass,” Kevin muttered.
“Dad, gross. She’s close to my age.” Jenna’s voice had an edge.

“I’d do her,” Marcus said.
“Of course you wou—”
“Hush, both of you,” Denise snapped.

On screen, Dirk moved to the next station.

---

“Welcome back, Chef Savory.” Dirk said

“Glad to be back and ready to win.” Savory’s voice was gravel and confidence.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Chef Savory was last year’s contestant, coming in second to Milly Melons.”

Dirk let the audience murmur.

“What shall we expect from you tonight?”

Savory gestured toward Pamela. The redhead stood with her hands clasped in front of her, pigtails hanging limp.

“Well, I have this little piggy. I’m gonna put her in the rotisserie. Got a special recipe made especially for her.”

“Wow. Like being spit-roasted, yet in a hot box.” Dirk’s eyebrows rose.

He angled the mic toward Pamela. “And how about you, missy? You looking forward to becoming a revolving piggy in a rotisserie?”

Pamela’s voice came out small. “My chef thinks I would taste best this way.
For the Judges.”

“That’s right, folks.” Dirk pivoted to the camera.

“The contest will be judged on presentation, form, and taste. We have a three-panel judging team.”

Applause swelled.

Dirk crossed to the final station. “Flavor Wiz. I see this is your first live cooking show. How do you feel?”

The youngest chef pulled Farrah closer. “Confident, Dirk. I know I’m the youngest contestant, but I’m ready, willing, and able to compete.”

“And what will you be preparing?” Dirk asked checking out his tasty assistant.

“I’ve done some traveling. Created a flavor I call Jamaican Jerk Off Chicken.” He squeezed Farrah’s shoulder.

“I believe it’s going to win me the contest.”
“How about that, Miss Chicken—can I call you that?”

Dirk tilted his head. The audience tittered. “So, are you ready to be jerked off?”

The laugh rolled through the studio.

—-

“She can be my chicken dinner,” Marcus said, adjusting himself through his sweatpants.

On screen, Farrah’s face filled the frame. Her lips parted slightly. Her cheeks flushed.

“Dad, wouldn’t you eat her? Look how tasty she looks.”

Kevin glanced at Denise. She was waiting. Her hand was ready.

“Your momma is all the chicken I need.”

Denise’s expression softened. She leaned into him.

—-

Dirk’s voice continued. “Tell me, Farrah—what convinced you to volunteer?”

Farrah’s eyes flicked toward her chef, then back to the host. “I’ve had this recurring dream. That I’m a chicken.

My parents sent me to a child psychologist to work through my dreams, my therapist thinks living out the dream might settle my mind.”

A sympathetic murmur rippled through the audience.

“Quite a story. So you want to be a roasted chicken to end the dreams?”

“I hope so. Just acting like a chicken didn’t work.” She paused. “The dreams kept coming.”

—-

“Her story is so sad,” Jenna said.

“She’s going for the sympathy vote.” Marcus jabbed a finger at the screen.
“Sway the judges.”

“It could still be true. Right, Mom?”

Denise tilted her head. “I’m sure she couldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. Then again, it is TV.”

—-

“You’re in good hands,” Dirk said, giving Flavor Wiz a wink.

He stepped back, spreading his arms wide. The lights shifted to amber.

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, you’ve met our contestants. You’ve seen their delicious assistants.”

He paused. The silence stretched.

“Which chef has what it takes to turn these lovely little girls into mouth-watering dishes and become—” A drum roll thundered.

“Master Chef?”

The lights cut to black.

“We’ll be right back after this commercial break.”

---

Two women sat at a sunlit café table, delicate cups in hand. Soft piano music.
“So, you gag when sucking dick? Can’t seem to get a handle on it?” The first woman asked as she sipped.

“I’ve tried everything, honey. Lube, oil, even mayonnaise.” The second woman’s voice cracked. “Nothing works.”

“You haven’t tried everything.” The first woman produced a box with a flourish.
Cum Throat Laxatives
in elegant script.

“Does it work?”

“Sure does. I suck cock all day long. No problem since I started taking these.”

The ladies blur out as
The box filled the screen.
A small disclaimer appeared at the bottom: Not responsible for throat damage caused by multiple black cocks.

—-

“I hate commercials,” Marcus said.

“Why? So you can get back to watching naked girls get oiled and seasoned?” Jenna didn’t look up from her phone.

“That’s the point. The girls want to be meat. For the chefs to to use as dinner.”

“Besides, Why are you even watching?” Jenna set her phone down.

“Aren’t you a vegetarian now?” He questioned her motivation.

“I am. I just appreciate the artistry.”

“Sure you watch it for the artistry.” Markus said mockingly.

Jenna stretched her legs out on the floor, sliding off the couch cushion.

Marcus continued.
“I bet you wish you were one of those girls about to be cooked.”

“Come on you can tell me.” Marcus smirked.

Jenna didn’t answer. She settled onto the rug, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them.

One thing was true.

Her wet panties didn’t lie.

—-

The screen brightened. The show was back.