Chapter 7: Something delicious this way Cums.


The theme music faded, the last horn note dissolving into the studio's ambient hum.

The audience's applause swelled, then settled, leaving a charged silence thick with expectation and the mingled scents of three different cooking methods.

Betty Bovine rotated slowly on her spit. She is delirious, her mind lost in a spin. one final revolution before Gourmet Guru raise the temperature of the grill's heating elements.
Time for a deeper roasting.

Her skin had deepened to a reddish-brown, the bourbon barbecue sauce baked into a lacquer that would bring out her best flavor.

The scent—smoky, sweet, with a kick of cayenne—drifted from her station, carried by strategically placed fans into the seated audience.

She was still on the spit. Still impaled. But her eyes had gone heavy-lidded, her fingers slack against her belly. Sleepy from the heat.
She was ready to roast earnestly.

Guru turned the rotation to quarter-speed. Let her really cook. With most of her nerve ending gone she hardly felt a thing.

Pamela Pork-shire's spindle ejected from the rotisserie oven with a pneumatic hiss. She emerged on a cloud of honey-cherry steam, her skin glazed to a warm amber, the pineapple-cherry mixture clinging to every curve and hollow.

Her pigtails start to show through the aluminum cap, were dark with sweat, her freckles almost invisible beneath the sheen.
She too looked done for.
Savory brushed another layer of glaze over her as she turned, and she moaned—a soft, fading sound—when the bristles swept across her puffy, sensitive pussy. It leaked a syrupy liquid some half baked on her lip.

He sent her back into the rotisserie. Increase the heat. Let her cook away into la, la, land.

Farrah Fouler's oven door swung open. The wave of heat that rolled out carried Jamaican spices, onion, coconut oil, and something underneath that was simply her.

Flavor Wiz slid the roasting rack forward, and Farrah's strands cherry-blonde hair falling out of the cap stirred in the draft.

"Farrah. Farrah, you look absolutely scrumptious."
Her eyes were half-closed, a dreamy smile curving her lips.

Her skin had browned deliciously—not burned, not crispy, not yet—but the color of a perfectly roasted chicken. The onion piercings on her breasts had softened, their juices baked into the flesh around them. The clit skewer still held its cocktail onions, glistening with jerk glaze and her own arousal.

She was in a state. A happy place. The heat had wrapped around her like a blanket, and the cool air from the open door felt like paradise. He glazed her. It felt like cool suntan lotion on sun-warmed skin.

The glaze didn't sting on her piercings anymore.
Wiz dipped his brush into the remaining jerk glaze and swept it across her vagina. The bristles parted her swollen lips, and Farrah's hips twitched.

A soft moan escaped her, the sound raw from hours of screaming and moaning, her throat harsh.

"Do you want to come out, we can stop the process?"
She blinked. Focused on his face.

Her lips moved, and the word came out cracked and dry.

"More please." Short words was all she could mustered.

The Flavor Wiz's eyebrows lifted.

"More," she repeated. "More oven. More heat. More smells."

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he smiled.
"I never say no to a delicious meal."

He slid the rack back into the oven. The door closed. The warm orange light settled over her again, and Farrah's smile widened as the heat embraced her.
Wiz turned the heat up.

It would roast her for good, the way she wanted it. Just like the others. There was no turning back. The sweet innocent girls were merely meat for others to enjoy.

They still had a schedule to keep.

Dirk Bentley strode toward the judges' riser, his shoes clicking on the polished floor.

The judges leaned forward in their leather chairs, their expressions a mix of hunger and anticipation.

"Let's explain to the audience how the judging will go!" Dirk turned to the camera, his smile bright.

"Four categories. Ten points each category." He held up his fingers, counting them off.

“They are’
Cooking method.
Recipe.
Presentation.
And Taste."

He paused for dramatic effect.

"A total of forty points can be awarded. The chef with the highest score wins the championship!"
The audience clapped.

Dirk smiled and swung the microphone toward Anon Gurrow.

"How about those smells coming from the kitchen?"

Anon's grin spread wide, his practiced stage smile.

"I'm ready to run over there and take a bite!"
The audience laughed.
They were hungry too.

The scents had drifted into every corner of the studio, and more than a few audience members had shifted in their seats, hands wandering to laps.

Dirk moved the mic to Sir Weaselsnort. The portly man had a notebook open on his knee, filled with cramped handwriting. His waxed mustache twitched.

"I see you're already prepared to score." Dirk's tone was teasing.

"Anything you'd like to share?"

Sir Weaselsnort looked up, his expression flat. "Not at this time."

Dirk's grin didn't waver.

"How about you, Jane? Don't leave me hanging."
Jane Doe uncrossed her legs, the bruise-colored dress sliding against her thighs. "Well, I'd like to say—if you need me, I'll be DOA."
The audience howled.

The inside joke landed perfectly. Her last film's director had called cut and the crew broke for lunch. They'd forgotten about her hanging from the a noose in the scene. She had rope burns around her neck for weeks.

Dirk chuckled. "We'll keep that in mind."

He turned to face the kitchen, the camera following his gaze.

The chefs were moving with renewed energy—final glazes, prep tables cleared, silver platters set out. Garnishes arranged. Side dishes pulled from warmers.

Time slip by as the girls roasted away. A little unknown facts about roasting humans, especially children.

Their meat is less dense compared to most meat group. Which means shorter cooking time.

"These little munchkins are about done for the night!" Dirk announced, his voice carrying through the studio.

"Let's take this quick break while our chefs remove the lovely dishes from the cook and set them on silver platters!"

—-

The screen cut to black.
A commercial bloomed across the screen. A warehouse filled with leather and chrome. Two women bound in black straps twisted and turned cooking inside an oversized wok, steam rising around them, vegetables tumbling against their bound limbs.

A voiceover: "Bondage Emporium. All your S&M and culinary needs."

Words scrolled beneath the image: We even sell woks and other kitchen needs.

—-

In the Henderson living room, the commercial played to an empty couch.
The family had shifted. Jenna sat on Marcus's lap, her back against his chest, her thighs spread over his. His hands rested on her hips, fingers drumming absently.

"So do we do it?" Jenna asked. Her voice was quiet. Serious.

"Jenna, I—" Marcus started.

"I want to." She twisted to look at him. "I want to be on that show. I want to feel what they're feeling."

Kevin leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
"How about we set up the jacuzzi out back?
Turn the heat up a little. Get you two stewing with some vegetables and seasonings."

Jenna's eyes lit up.

"You can role-play in it like a cauldron," Kevin continued.

"See what it'll be like when you do it on live TV."

Denise's hand found Kevin's thigh. "I love that idea. The show has made me so hungry and horny."

Marcus considered it. The image formed in his mind—Jenna in warm water, vegetables floating around them, steam rising.

Fucking her in a soupy stew. His cock stirred against her ass.

"I'm not opposed," he said slowly.

"Can we do it now?" Jenna's nine year old voice had an edge of desperation.

Denise held up a hand. "We'll have to plan for that. Get it right." She nodded toward the screen. "Besides, the show's coming back."

Kevin sat back, pulling Denise with him. Jenna settled deeper into Marcus's lap, her hand finding his balls under the blanket.

—-

The screen brightened.
Dirk Bentley stood center stage, arms spread. Behind him, the chefs had finished their work.

The silver platters loaded with the three roasted girls gleamed under the studio lights.