Chapter 4: The Spits, Skewer’s and toothpicks, oh my!


The timer hit 10:00, and Gourmet Guru moved with practiced economy.

Betty Bovine remained on all fours, the hollow steel tubes still seated in her throat and rectum, her breath whistling faintly through the mouth pipe.

She didn't flinch when the chef's tattooed hands gripped her hips.

"Mount time, little Philly."
The device waiting at the station's center looked more like a massage table than a spit-roasting rig.

Steel frame, surgical-grade, three padded rests spaced along its length. Betty's chest settled onto the first pad. A strap ratcheted across her shoulder blades. Her midsection found the second pad, her belly the third. Each strap cinched tight.

Beneath the pads, pistons hummed—micro-adjustments raising or lowering until her spine formed a perfect horizontal line.

A smaller pad cradled her chin. Her head locked forward.

Her arms hung down, wrists strapped to clamps below. Her knees rested on padded supports, calves dangling, ankles secured.

"That’s one solid piece of equipment." Dirk said, checking his own monitor.

Guru calibrated the frame. The hollow pipe in Betty's asshole and the one in her throat aligned with micrometer precision—a straight shot from rear to front.

The spit itself was laughably thin. Half-inch diameter. Square rather than round. Polished to a mirror finish.

"Let's check in on Gourmet Guru."

Dirk crossed the studio floor, microphone extended. The camera followed.

"That's a unique type of spitting device you have there. Can you explain what we're looking at?"

Guru loaded the thin rod into the rear mechanism. A control box with a single switch.

"One of a kind. I wanted to showcase it here tonight."
He checked Betty's alignment one final time—traced the line from her rectum to her mouth with two fingers.
"Non-lethal spitting device. The issue with spitting children is the spit does too much damage and they expire befor they get to feel themselves cook."

His palm rested on the small of her back.
"Makes for quick penetration and the survival rate is 97%."
The switch lit up, ready to click. Pop.

The sound was short and sharp—compressed air, a piston firing. The rod shot through Betty's body so fast the eye couldn't track it. One moment she was empty. The next, a square shaft of polished steel protruded from her mouth.
Betty blinked.

Her tongue touched the metal. A gurgle that might have been surprise. Then her eyes crinkled—smiling around the obstruction, as much as anyone could smile while impaled.

The studio audience erupted.

"Wow, amazing!"

Dirk leaned in, studying the rod where it emerged from her lips.

"She barely noticed it happen."

"She's a trooper," Guru said.

He withdrew the hollow pipes—first from her mouth, then from her rectum—tossing them onto a sterile tray. From his kit, he produced two long thicker rods.

Each was hollow along its center, the cavity shaped to match the square cross-section of the thin spit.

The rear rod slid over the protruding steel. Guru fed it forward, into her rectum, working it with the same patient pressure he'd used with the dildo earlier.

Eight inches deep of thickness replacing what the pipe had left behind.

Betty's moan vibrated around the front rod still jutting from her mouth.

He locked the rear rod in place. Moved to the front.

"You're doing beautifully," he murmured, and Betty opened wide.
The front rod slid past her lips, over her tongue, down her gullet. She gagged once—a reflexive spasm—then steadied. Guru locked it.

The visual was striking. What had been a thin metal rod now appeared to be a proper spit, thick and substantial, entering her ass and exiting her mouth. The spitting was complete.

"Look at that," Jane Doe said from the judges' riser, leaning forward. "You'd never know m’ looks like that thick spit goes all the way through."

"Sure but can it hold her weight rotating over the grill?" Anon questioned out loud.

Guru released the straps. The support pads dropped away on their pistons. Betty's body stayed perfectly horizontal, suspended by the spit alone—the thin inner rod taking her weight, the thicker outer rods providing the support.

He unstrapped her legs. Bent her knees back over a crossbar attached to the rear rod-positioned and her inner knees, then tied her ankles to her calves. Her arms came free next—wrists bound together, brought to her belly, fingers positioned over her mound.

"This will protect her pussy as she rotates over the heat,"

Guru explained for the cameras.

A heat-shield cone went around her neck. Third-generation polymer, translucent, capable of deflecting temperatures up to four hundred degrees without transferring heat.

Guru turned her on the support post. Olive oil drizzled from a bottle, spreading over her skin in golden rivulets. The heart-shaped beauty mark on her left cheek glossy red as she rotated.

"Five minutes, chefs!" Dirk called.

He crossed to Chef Savory's station.

Pamela Pork-shire sat on the prep table, pigtails dangling, working lubricant over an eight-inch stabilizer rod with a tapered tip. Her small hands moved in methodical strokes. At the rod's base, two skewers branched outward—two inches long, wickedly sharp.

Behind her, the rotisserie oven stood open. A cavern of chrome and heating elements.

"So what are the advantages of using a rotisserie oven to make your meal?" Dirk asked.

Chef Savory checked the spindle mount inside the oven.

"One major benefit is enhanced flavor." His voice carried the authority of someone who'd explained this a hundred times.

"As the food rotates, she'll self-baste in her own juices. Ensures the meat remains moist.” He paused

“In a word Flavorsome."

He closed the oven door. Checked the timer.

"This method also promotes an even distribution of seasoning and marinades across her body."

Four minutes.

"It's time to get her on the skewer mount."

Savory lifted little Pamela. She weighed nothing in his hands—nine years old, petite, trembling slightly.

He positioned her over the stabilizer rod, her star-shaped pucker centered above the tapered tip.
Then he lowered her.
The rod entered her asshole.

Pamela squealed—a high-pitched, porcine shriek that earned her nickname.

Her descent stopped momentarily as her buttocks met the skewers. Savory pressed down.

The two-inch spikes pierced through her cheeks, and Pamela's squeal became something else entirely—a sound that started as pain and curved, unexpectedly, into a moan.

Her body shuddered. The pain rippled outward, transmuting into something hot and liquid that pooled between her legs.

"Wow," Anon Gurrow said, voice carrying from the judges' riser.

"Stabilizer up her butthole, skewers in her butt cheeks. She's not coming off that without assistance."

"Look at the spindle cap he's connecting," Weaselsnort added, mustache twitching.

Savory installed the top half of the rotator device. The spindle cap clicked into place, completing the cage like rods.

He tilted Pamela's head back. A breather pipe slid into her mouth, past her gag reflex, seating in her throat.

Her eyes widened—then softened as air flowed freely.
She was completely contained. Arms and legs pressed into her flexible body, thin bindings keeping them there.

A living cylinder, ready for the rotisserie oven.

Honey drizzled from a squeeze bottle. Savory worked it over her bound form in slow spirals, the glaze catching on her nipples, pooling in the hollow of her throat.

One minute remaining.

Dirk hurried to the Flavor Wiz's station.

Farrah Fouler lay trussed on her roasting rack, vibrator still humming inside her, collection chamber now two-thirds full. The Flavor Wiz was finishing her breasts—little cocktail onions on steel toothpicks, arranged in perfect circles around the base of each small mound.

The timer ticked down.

Thirty seconds.

He grabbed the final toothpick. Positioned it at Farrah's clitoris—swollen, exposed, twitching with each pulse of the vibrator.

The steel slid through its side as if adding a piercing.

Cocktail onions on pressed both sides.

Farrah's orgasm detonated. Her body convulsed against the trussing, a scream tearing from her throat that was equal parts agony and ecstasy.

The vibrator slipped free in Wiz's hand, the chamber sloshing with collected fluid.

He raised both hands in the air just as the buzzer sounded.

"There you have it, folks!" Dirk spread his arms wide.

"Hopefully all three chefs have completed their tasks."

He turned to the camera, smile calibrated to maximum wattage.

"I hope you lovely girls are ready—because it's time to cook get you three cooking!"

The audience clapped. Music swelled.

"Stay tuned. We'll be right back after this commercial break."

---

Buzzzzz.
A house party filled the screen. College kids, red cups, pot smoke curling through strobe lights. Music thumping. Bodies grinding.

The camera flicked through the chaos—flashes of skin, a girl's breasts bouncing as she danced, a guy's cock springing free from unzipped jeans.

College Girls Gone Wild: BBQ Edition. Volume 4.
The scene shifted. Outdoors. Two naked girls turned slowly over a bed of hot coals, their skin glazed and glistening, their mouths open in expressions of theatrical ecstasy.

---

In the Henderson living room, no one was watching the commercial.
Denise was on all fours on the rug, silver-streaked hair falling forward, Kevin pounding into her from behind with the steady rhythm of thirty years of marriage.

Her moans vibrated through the floorboards.
Beside them, Jenna mirrored her mother's position. Marcus gripped her hips, thrusting rabbit-quick, the way that always made her come apart.

His cock drove deep into her little body, and Jenna's knuckles whitened against the rug fibers, a wail building in her throat that she couldn't have stopped if she'd wanted to.

The wail broke.

Jenna's pussy clenched around him, rhythmic spasms that milked his shaft, and she collapsed forward onto her elbows, face pressed into the carpet.

Denise followed moments later—a guttural cry, her entire body seizing, Kevin buried to the hilt inside her.

In the aftermath, they shifted. A scramble of limbs.

Jenna's mouth found Marcus's cock, still slick with her own juices. Her tongue worked the shaft while her finger found his asshole, pressing in to the first knuckle. Marcus groaned. Thrust into her throat.

Across the rug, Denise had Kevin's cock in her mouth. The taste of her daughter's sweetness mingled with her husband's salt. She sucked him deep, one hand cupping his balls, the other gripping his thigh.

"Dan, Denise—"
Kevin's hips bucked. His cum flooded her mouth in hot pulses, and Denise swallowed, throat working, not spilling a drop.

Marcus followed seconds later. His release painted Jenna's tongue, her lips, her chin.

She lapped it up, eyes locked on his, a smile curling at the corners of her cum-slick mouth.
They collapsed. Tangled. Breathing ragged.
The theme music returned.

Four bodies untangled slowly. Found their places on the couch. Kevin's arm around Denise. Jenna's head on Marcus's shoulder.

The screen brightened.

"The family that plays together," Kevin murmured, "stays together."

The cooking show returned, the cooking phase was about to start.