Chapter 6: Getting to First Baste.


The theme music hit like a thunderclap, horns blaring through the surround sound as the studio lights swept in a choreographed arc. Copper pans shimmered. Chrome surfaces blazed.

The timer on the wall-mounted screen pulsed red: 5:00.

Dirk Bentley strode into frame, silver hair gleaming, suit immaculate.

"Welcome back, folks! Our chefs are in the final stretch—five minutes to finish their side dishes before the first basting!"

Gourmet Guru's hands moved with surgical precision. Tomato wedges fell onto a bed of crisp cucumber slices, feta crumbling between his fingers like snow. A corn casserole sat warming beside him, its golden surface studded with peppers. He tasted. Adjusted. Nodded once.

At the adjacent station, Chef Savory worked a sauté pan, Brussels sprouts crackling in butter until their edges charred.

Asparagus spears lay across a grill grate, striped with black marks, glistening with olive oil.

The savory scent drifted across the studio, and the audience murmured approval.

Flavor Wiz pulled sweet potatoes from an open flame, their skins blackened and splitting, revealing orange flesh that steamed in the studio air. Beside them, coconut rice rested in a clay pot, creamy and fragrant, flecked with scallions.

"All three chefs bringing their A-game tonight," Dirk said, crossing to the judges' riser.

His microphone caught the whisper of his shoes on polished floor.

"This is going to be a tough one."

Anon Gurrow leaned forward, wrinkled blazer straining at the shoulders.

"I believe it will come down to taste." His tongue touched his lower lip.

"And I'm looking forward to tasting every inch of those little morsels."

"Any particular part you're eager to sample?"

"That little heart-shaped beauty mark is driving me nuts." Anon's voice dropped, almost reverent.

"I want to bite it right off the spit-roast beauty’s butt cheek. Bite on some of those cute little toes of the rotisserie piglet. As far as the blond chicken, those onion-buttered breasts with Jamaican spice sound delicious."

Jane Doe uncrossed her legs, the dress riding higher. "That'll be a mouthful."
The audience laughed.

Dirk swung the mic toward Sir Weaselsnort. The portly man's waxed mustache twitched as he considered the question.

"Each chef seems to understand their main course. Choosing sides that complement. Chef Savory, for instance—pairing savory asparagus with the sweetness of his little honey-glazed piggy. That shows strategic thinking."

"Still anyone's game, wouldn't you say, Jane?"

Jane Doe smiled, fingers tracing her collarbone. "I'm quite impressed with all of them. I'd let any of those chefs roast my plump as. I’d even do a threesome with them."

"Too many chefs can ruin a soup!" Dirk pivoted toward the camera, grin calibrated to full broadcast brightness. The audience roared.

"Two minutes on the clock!"

Cameras swept the cooking stations.

Betty Bovine rotated continuously over the electric grill, her body bronzed to a tan most women would kill for.

Sweat beaded across her oiled skin, catching the orange glow from below.

Her fingers worked between her legs—three knuckles deep, curling, stroking.

She moaned around the rod still protruding from her mouth, and clear fluid ran down her inner thighs, sizzling when drops hit the heating elements.

Meanwhile in the rotisserie oven, Pamela Pork-shire had found a rhythm.

The stabilizer rod buried deep in her ass gave her just enough purchase, and she rocked against it—short, desperate thrusts that made the chains on her cuffs jingle. The butt-cheek skewers pressed firmly against her pierced flesh with each movement, and that pressure, that edge of sensation, pushed her higher.

Farrah’s oven felt sauna-like, the heat swiping her as the hot air circulated, wave by wave of heat wrapped around her—consuming her.

Her bound body convulsed suddenly, a climax rippling through her in the cramped chrome box.

Farrah Fouler, though drained of cum, still burned with need. The cocktail onions pierced through her breasts had burst from the heat, their juices baking into her skin, and the scent—onion, butter, her own arousal—filled the oven.

She lay trussed in her roasting pan, chest heaving, clitoris still swollen around its steel skewer.

"One minute!" Dirk called.

Chefs hustled. Warmers clattered open. Side dishes slid inside.

The buzzer screamed.

"Time!" Dirk spread his arms.

"Chefs—tend to your meals. It's basting time."

Gourmet Guru stood over Betty, and she smiled up at him despite the rod through her mouth. Her skin had tanned beautifully, sweat making her glisten like glazed ceramic.

He adjusted her rotation speed—half now, a slow, lazy turn that gave him time to work.

The basting brush dripped with bourbon barbecue sauce. Cool against her heated flesh.

Betty gasped as the bristles swept across her back. The sauce spread in dark, glossy ribbons over her shoulder blades, down her spine, pooling momentarily in the dip above her tailbone before he brushed it into her skin.

She rotated. Her breasts came into view—nipples tight, areolas puckered from the heat—and he coated them with the same patient attention, circling each mound until the sauce gleamed.
Her backside faced the grill now. The heat intensified, spending more time in the rising heat. Betty's moans deepened.

Guru lifted her palms aside and brushed sauce over her pussy—swollen lips, exposed clit, the slick folds parting under the bristles. She shuddered.

The rotation continued, and he caught her feet as they passed, sauce sloshing between her toes, making her wiggle them.

Pamela had been extended from the rotisserie oven on her spindle assembly.

She stopped humping when Chef Savory approached, breathing hard, her face pooling with sweat, redden by the heat.

The pineapple-cherry glaze hit her skin cool and sticky. Her mind following every pleasant stroke.

Chef Savory worked methodically—across her bound arms, her flat chest, the dark nipples standing at attention. She moan through it all.

When the brush reached her pussy, she came apart. The bristles slid between her folds, spreading honey and cherry and her own clear fluid, and Pamela's body jerked against the restraints.

A wail escaped the breather pipe in her throat. The brush kept moving—inside, outside, painting her mound with the sweet mixture—and she shuddered through a second peak before the first had fully subsided. She was coming hard and Chef Savory just brushed her discharge onto her inner thighs.


Farrah's roasting pan slid to the edge of the open oven. The Jamaican jerk glaze steamed against her skin on contact, and she hissed—a burn, a sting, then a tingling that spread outward until it felt almost pleasant.

Flavor Wiz circled her onion-pierced clitoris with the brush.

Farrah screamed.
The sound tore through the studio, raw and high, and then it bent—curving into a moan that vibrated through every microphone on set.

Her body convulsed. The audience watched, transfixed, as she came with the brush still circling, the burn transforming into something that looked like ecstasy.

Wiz kept glazing. Her underside. Her back where it pressed against the rack.

The curve of her plump thighs. Every inch of her received the same attention.

When she could speak again, her voice came out hoarse.

"I remembered a dream."
The mic caught it. Wiz paused, brush hovering over her throat.

"What dream?"

"The one from the oven." Farrah's eyes were glassy but focused.

"In my dream, I was in an oven much like this one-I woke sweaty and scared. But it's not scary at all." She swallowed
"It's warm and cozy in there."

"Maybe you had a premonition you were truly meant to be a roasted chicken in your dreams," Wiz said, and brushed glaze over her breasts.

The onion piercings detonated with sensation—onion juice and jerk spice hitting the punctures simultaneously—and

Farrah's body arched off the rack. A tear slid from the corner of her eye. Wiz froze, searching her face.
She nodded. Yes. “Keep going. I’m nothing more then a roasting chicken!” She said soaking up the pain and turning it into something else—pleasure.

Dirk's voice filled the studio. "If chefs are satisfied. It's time to return our little meat babes to their ovens!"
The host wish the move the show along.

Betty's spit resumed its normal speed. She rotated steadily, barbecue sauce forming a thin shell against the heat, and her fingers found their rhythm again. The glaze cooled her briefly—a shield—before the warmth seeped through, before it real purpose is to enhance and bring out her true flavors.

Pamela slid back into the rotisserie oven with ease, a chrome box that had become her world.

She twirled in the amber light, bound and skewered and glazed, and her mind drifted.

She thought about volunteering. About strong hands tying her down. About the humiliation of being mounted like meat and discovering she loved it. She was just a little piggy roasting away, she wondered how she would taste. She could smell herself and it made her hungry—hungry for herself.

Farrah soaked in the dry heat, and the scent of her own cooking flesh filled the oven—Jamaican spices, onion, coconut oil, and something underneath that was simply her.

It smelt delicious, she smelt delicious. She would recommend roasting like this to anyone.

The audience watched the overhead monitors. Betty rubbing herself on the spit.

Pamela drifting in and out, in her hot box.

Farrah breathing in her own aroma, dozing off in a dream.

XxxxxxxX

Backstage, the interviews began.
"How are you doing tonight, Gourmet Guru? How do you feel about your chances?"
The older chef wiped his hands on a towel. "I'm doing great. I've got as good a chance as anyone."

"Where did you come up with your barbecue recipe?"

"My grandmother's. Added the bourbon myself." A rare smile.
"She'd approve."

"Was your assistant cooperative?"

"Betty's a dream. Took the spit like she was born for it."

"What do you think of the other chefs?"

"Solid. But I didn't come here for second place."
Gourmet Guru was short with his answers, not much for interviews. His focus was on cooking.

The voice moved on. Chef Savory answered with clinical precision—his glaze recipe was a childhood memory of grilled pineapple.

Pamela was remarkably flexible both physically and in spirit, I could of twisted her in knots and she would of been fine with it.

The other chefs are worthy competitors but I’ve come to win.”

Flavor Wiz, still flushed from the basting, spoke while checking his station.

"My glaze came from a trip to Montego Bay. Met a woman named Marcia who cooked children for the locals. She taught me a thing or two about Island cooking." He paused.

"Farrah exceeded every expectation. I think we connected on a deeper level.”

“The other chefs? They know what they're doing. But I've got something they don't."

"What's that?"
He smiled.

"Hunger." Flavor Wiz smiled into the camera. You could hear it in his voice.

Dirk appeared on screen, stepping into the wide shot with arms spread.

"This has been a fantastic show so far, folks.” In the back of Dirks mind thinking the ratings are going to be through the roof. He knew when a show exceeded expectation and this one has.

“We'll break for our sponsor while our lovely girls soak up the heat and roast away like good little morsels." His smile sharpened.

"Fun times ahead when the judges taste the chefs creations."

—-

A commercial bloomed across the screen. A woman in a sundress walked through a meadow, hair blowing in slow motion. "Tired of razors? Waxing? Chemical burns?" She stopped beside a bubbling spring.

"Try NaturElle. The all-natural hair removal system that leaves you smooth for weeks." She dipped a hand into the water. "Because you deserve to feel like nature intended."

The phone number appeared. A disclaimer scrolled. May cause a desire to seek and embrace heat source.

—-

In the Henderson living room, no one saw the commercial.

Denise had Jenna pinned beneath her, mouths fused, hips grinding in slow, deliberate undulations.

Silver-streaked hair mingled with her daughter's on the rug.

Kevin knelt behind his wife, cock buried inside her, one hand gripping her hip while the other reached forward to cup Jenna's breast.

His thumb circled her nipple—still hard, still sensitive.

Marcus watched for a moment, stroking himself. Then he moved behind Kevin, fingers finding the older man's ass, pressing inward. Kevin groaned.

Marcus's tongue traced down his spine.

They shifted.

A scramble of limbs and slick skin.

Jenna ended up on all fours, Marcus behind her, Her dad in front.

She took Her dad cock into her mouth while Marcus thrust into her from behind, and the sound she made vibrated around her father's cock.

Mom positioned herself beneath her daughter, tongue finding her clit from below while Marcus's rhythm drove Jenna's hips down against her mother's mouth.

Positions blurred. Mom stayed in a Sixty-nine position with Jenna.

Dad mounted Marcus, giving his 14 year old son an ass reaming. I see Jack rabbits love a good ass fucking, Marcus getting hard being humiliated.

Then a tangle—three bodies, four, impossible to tell where one ended and another began.

Marcus played the submissive, wrists pinned above his head by his mother's side, her hand jerking him off.

Jenna was bouncing up and down on her daddy lap, this time with his hard cock up his nine year olds asshole—he shot hard in her colon, cum flooding her bowels, she was held down by Kevin as he finished draining his balls while Her mother's mouth worked between her thighs.

The show's theme music returned.

Four bodies slowed. Stopped. Untangled with breathless laughs and sticky skin.

"Commercial's over," Husband said, reaching for His wife. Jenna collapsed against Marcus's chest.

They looked at their children. Two tasty bunnies, laid out naked. Dad check his phone again. “Looks like we can register on line if we want to do it!” The kids ears perked up.

—-

"Best. Show. Ever."
Dirk Bentley's smile filled the frame.