Chapter 5: Roasting Babes and a Family Plan.


The music swelled, all brass and bass, and the studio lights swept across the set shimmer like liquid gold.

Dirk Bentley strode into frame, his suit a shade of charcoal that drank the light, his smile dialed to full broadcast brightness.

"Welcome back to Master Chef Competition Show!"
The cue cards flashed. The audience roared on command, then kept roaring because they meant it.

Cameras swept the judges' riser.

Anon Gurrow picked at his wrinkled blazer, already leaning forward.

Sir Weaselsnort stroked his waxed mustache with two fingers, expression unreadable.

Jane Doe crossed her long legs, the bruise-colored dress riding up her thigh.

The chefs stood at their stations.

Gourmet Guru wiped his hands on a towel, tattooed forearms flexing.

Chef Savory checked the oven temperature with the focus of a man who'd made love to a thousand meals.

The Flavor Wiz was talking to Farrah, his lips moving in words the mics didn't catch.

And the mouth watering assistants prepped, primed and ready.

The camera swung back to the host. Dirk spread his arms.

"This has been an exciting show so far. Are you ready for more?"
A thunderous response. No cue cards necessary.

The host pivoted, gliding toward the judges' riser with the fluid gait of a man who'd spent decades walking toward cameras.

"Judges—how do you think it's going so far? Any favorites yet?"

Anon Gurrow grabbed the armrest of his leather chair. "I'm partial to spit roasting. Watching the her little ass squirm and wiggle on a spit, waiting to go over the grill—" He paused, his practiced grin widening. "Gets me horny and hungry."

"Not surprising." Dirk tilted his head. "I believe spit roasting is the nation's favorite cooking method."

He shifted the microphone to Sir Weaselsnort.
The portly man didn't move. His mustache twitched. "Can't say I have a favorite, but a little red-haired piglet turning in the rotisserie sounds quite delicious."

They both glanced over at Chef Savory station.

His little porker secured tight inside the spindle device. She was gyrating against her bindings, testing her limits, finding them. The movement was hypnotic—a slow, helpless writhing—murmurs.

"It is amazing how malleable Pamela had been in Chef Savory's hands." Dirk responded.

Dirk turned to Jane Doe.
She didn't wait for the question.

"The interaction between Flavor Wiz and Farrah? So hot." Her fingers found her own breasts through the bruise-colored fabric, squeezing. "I wanted to hop on that table and have him do me. Stick me with onion toothpicks."
The audience laughed.

"You'll want to save those for your next movie," Dirk said allowing her an opportunity to plug her movie.

"Would you like to tell the audience about it?"

Jane leaned toward the mic. "It's called
'Stab And Slab.'
Out in June.” She smiled with a flip of her hair.

“It’s a rom/slash movie
About a mortician having fun while drumming up business."
The audience sound intrigued, as a wave of noise crested then broke.

"Sounds like a real kill-'em, chill-'em movie." Dirk's smile sharpened.

"I look forward to seeing a toe-tag on you."
He turned back to the wide shot, arms spreading again, encompassing the whole gleaming kitchen.


"Ladies and gentlemen—our chefs are about to put our tasty little volunteers on the cook."

At each station, the final preparations began. Aluminum caps went onto heads—heat-resistant, medical-grade, keeping the brain cool even as the body cooks.

An item of precaution so they can live cook longer that looked like a fashion accessory under the studio spots.

Gourmet Guru lifted Betty from the prep table. The spit came with her, of course—she was part of it now, impaled and suspended, and when he carried her to the electric grill, her body swayed gently.

The steel rod protruding from her mouth caught the light.

The grill had two posts. Slotted. Guru lowered the spit into place, and it seated with a click.

A rotary chain connected to the back end. Design to tirelessly turn the lucky spit roast.

He flicked a switch.
The chain engaged. The spit began to turn.

Betty rotated over the grill, the very grill beginning to glow red. She turned, her oily chest, belly and thighs passing through the heat, then away, then through again.

The audience exhaled—a collective sound, half moan, half sigh—as her body described slow circles above the grill.

The heart-shaped beauty mark on her left cheek appeared and disappeared and appeared again.

Guru turned on the heating elements up. Just enough.

When Betty's breasts passed over the warmth, her nipples tightened.

When her back swung into the heat, the muscles along her spine relaxed.

Her hands help protect her pussy as it rotated toward the glow, clear fluid gathered at her slit, catching it with her fingertips.

Torture of the body. Torture of the mind.
Bitter and sweet.

Yet she was loving every minute.

At the next station, Chef Savory lifted the rotisserie spindle. Pamela hung between the two rotor plates, bound and skewered, the stabilizer rod still buried in her ass, the butt-cheek skewers holding her in place. She was a cylinder of flesh and honey glaze.

The oversized rotisserie oven had side mounts. Horizontal loading.

Savory carried her to the open door and slid the spindle into place. The rotor plates clicked.
Without hesitation he pressed buttons—temperature, rotation speed, timer—and the mechanism hummed to life.

Pamela began to turn.
The heat radiated from all sides. No cool side to rotate toward

Just heat, constant and enveloping, and her bound body responded by gyrating, shifting, testing the limits of her restraints. The metal cuffs held. The binding m held.

Her movement was restricted to small, involuntary undulations that made the audience lean forward on the giant monitor showing a close view of the interaction.

Savory shut the glass door, a orange light played across her glazed skin. Through the glass, she looked like something painted by an old master—a study in amber and shadow, turning endlessly.


Flavor Wiz had Farrah's roasting pan extended on the oven grate. He crouched beside her, one hand smoothing her blonde hair back under the cap.

"I'm proud of you," he said. The mic caught it.

"You chose to explore your dreams."

Farrah's voice came soft. "Thank you for helping me."

He slid the grate into the oven. The door closed.
Low heat.

She was all smiles, her body settling into the warmth like someone stretching out on a beach towel.

Her lips moved, and the camera caught the shape of the words: I love you.

Wiz pressed his palm to the glass. Held it there.

Dirk's voice cut through the moment.

"It's time to put twenty more minutes on the timer!"

The digital display reset. 20:00. Red numbers, pulsing.

"Our chefs have twenty minutes to create a side dish and any special glaze for their scrumptious little meat-girls' and their first basting."

The audience cheered, a wall of sound that vibrated through the set.

"Are you ready?"

The timer buzzed.

All three chefs moved.
Gourmet Guru attacked his station, grabbing bowls, measuring spoons, ingredients appearing in his hands like sleight of hand.

He worked with the brutal efficiency of a man who'd done this ten thousand times.

"First we add." His voice carried, instructional, pitched for the audience and the viewers at home.

"One cup crushed tomatoes. Half cup apple cider vinegar. One-third cup brown sugar, packed." Each ingredient hit the mixing bowl with a small ceremony.

"Quarter cup molasses. Two tablespoons Worcestershire sauce. Two tablespoons yellow mustard."
The audience watched him build the sauce.
"And for an exotic taste—"

He paused, holding up a small jar. "One tablespoon smoked paprika. Two teaspoons crushed garlic. One teaspoon diced onion. One teaspoon ground black pepper. Half teaspoon cayenne pepper. Half teaspoon salt."

The spices bloomed in the bowl, red and brown and fragrant.

"One tablespoon honey for sweetness. One teaspoon chipotle powder for heat." Another pause. Dramatic. "And finally—two tablespoons of bourbon. For depth."

He whisked. The sauce came together in dark, glossy ribbons.

Five minutes elapsed. He transferred the bowl to the refrigerator—brief chilling, let the flavors marry—and grabbed fresh vegetables for his side dish, knife flashing under the lights.

Chef Savory worked a blender. Pineapples chunked and dropped into the pitcher. Cherries followed, pits already removed. A squeeze of honey spiraled down into the fruit.

The blender screamed.
When it stopped, the mixture was pink and smooth and thick. Savory poured it into a basting bowl, holding it up to the light to check the consistency. Perfect.

He will baste it onto Pamela, it will enhance her ham flavor—sweet and tart playing off her savory flesh.

He checked on her through the oven glass. Still turning. Still glistening. A quick nod of satisfaction, then he moved to his cutting board, reaching for potatoes and herbs.

Flavor Wiz uncapped the cum collection chamber.
The fluid inside was cloudy, viscous, still warm from Farrah's body. He poured the entire contents into a saucepan—nearly three ounces of collected orgasm—and added a cup of water.

The mixture went onto the burner, brought to a rolling boil.

"Okay, let's start the glaze." His voice was lighter than the other chefs, almost conversational.

"We add the collected cum to water, bring to a boil. Now—quarter cup brown sugar."
The sugar dissolved into the cloudy liquid.

"One teaspoon ground ginger. Half teaspoon ground nutmeg. Two onions, chopped. One and a half cups chopped green onions."

The saucepan filled with color—white onion, green stalks, brown sugar darkening as it heated.

"Two habanero peppers, chopped. Six cloves garlic, chopped."

The heat from the peppers hit the air. The audience members in the front row could smell it—sweet and dangerous.

"Let simmer while I create a side dish."

He covered the saucepan and reached for a mango, his other hand already grabbing a knife.

The monitor above the stage showed close-up of the girls roasting away.

A high angle camera watched Betty Bovine rotated slowly on her spit, the electric grill glowing beneath her, her oiled skin catching orange highlights.

The heat-shield cone at her neck looked almost fashionable under the studio lights.

The rotisserie oven had an actual camera inside.

Pamela Pork-shire's bound form turned in steady revolutions, honey glaze shimmering, body glowing pink against the chrome interior.

Same internal camera caught the little bird soaking it all in. Farrah Fouler lay in her roasting pan, the oven's heat making her delicious freckled body glisten, her chest rising and falling in slow, contented rhythm.

The timer hit ten minutes.
Dirk stepped forward.

"We'll return for the first basting. Stay tuned!"

The screen cut to black.

—-

A phone number appeared. A voiceover—warm, professional, inviting.

"If you are in the area and would like tickets for the show, call—" The number scrolled across the screen.

A second number also appeared. "If you would like to volunteer to be on the show, contact us at—" The digits flashed. The voice smiled through the speakers. "Live out your fantasies with us."

—-

In the Henderson living room, Jenna stirred. Her hand was between her thighs, fingers moving in lazy circles. Her voice came out dreamy

"Can we get on the show?"

Marcus noticed her hand.

"Do you want to be in show or in the audience?"

"I'd go and watch if you were on the menu." His grin spread wide.

"Maybe I would."
Jenna kept rubbing herself. Her fingers glistened.

Denise finally looked up from her place against Kevin's shoulder.

"Wait, what?"

"Jenna said she wants to volunteer for the show." Marcus licked his lips, theatrical and slow.

"I didn't say yes. I just—" Jenna stopped talking. Her hips lifted off the rug.

A tremor ran through her thighs. She came, right there, fingers still circling.

Kevin had his phone out. "No can do. Four hundred dollars for guest audience tickets." He scrolled.

"Wait. It says it'll reduce the cost by half for each volunteer in a group."
Denise sat up straight.

"What does that mean?" Jenna's voice was still thick.

"It means if you volunteer, it'll only cost us twelve hundred instead of sixteen hundred." Marcus did the math without hesitation.

Denise's eyes brightened. "Actually, if you both volunteer, it'll only cost your dad and me four hundred dollars to be in the audience."

Kevin smiled. "That sounds like a plan."

Marcus and Jenna looked at each other.

"Seriously?"

They said it together. One more enthused than the other.

"Hmm." Denise tapped her chin. "How about rabbit stew?"

"Nothing's definite. We haven't even finished watching." Kevin pointed at the screen.

The second commercial was ending. A cereal box filled the screen—Colon Blow Cereal, ten times the fiber of most cereals.

Then the blue background returned. Music. Clapping.
The show was back.

The family settled in. Jenna licked her fingers clean, one by one, her eyes fixed on the screen.

Marcus adjusted himself. Kevin's arm tightened around Denise's shoulders.

The first basting was about to begin.