With deep breaths the meatgirl suddenly woke up. Odalia looked around: stoves, pans, ovens. She was in a kitchen. And even worse, she quickly realised she was naked, her large breasts bounced heavily with each inhalations. From the corner of her eye she saw that a few noticed her waking up. She wanted to run, but metal bars weighted on her chest and legs. They had put her in a cage specially for food.

Odalia had no ways to lift the bars, but through sheer fear of death she managed to squeeze herself between those. Of course the cooks prepared for this eventuality. Quickly all of the catering staff gathered in this part of the kitchen, and the one who saw her wake up snatched the back of her head and yanked her on the counter. “She’s awake now! We can’t delay her cooking any longer, the ones scheduled to prepare her with me stop what you’re doing and help me, the rest you can go back to your station.” He explained.

Odalia’s face was covered in tears. “Please! Spare me!” The chef pushed her deeper into the metal of the table. “Everyone suffered from what you did before your exile. Do not expect mercy or compassion from anyone ever again.” Three more cooks held her limbs and locked her on a stray of vegetables. They pinned her down while rubbing her body with oil and spices. The meatgirl trashed around, or at least tried to. They especially secured her when stuffing her ass and pussy with ground meat. They gaged her screams and pleads with a bright red apple.

Once they plugged her holes with Radishes, the chef grabbed a fork and used it to poke four holes into her boob. The pain made the adrenaline surged into her body and she managed to push the cooks away barely enough to slide her oiled body between their grips. The meat had no ideas what to do, she spotted a door and bet it all on hoping for a way out. She ran with all her strengths, she couldn’t waste time by removing the apple or the fork, so she just ran through the tears, pain, and extreme discomfort. “The roast is getting away!” she heard behind her.

All of the staff members come running at her, they weren’t trained figthers like her daughter and future daughter-in-law, but they had the numbers. Odalia on the other hand, had nothing. She was fat, not too fat, just enough to give her a perfect marbling and a hard time running. The oil on her feet made is horrendously difficult to run. The stuffing in her holes weighted her down and made each step a torment. And her huge boobs flopped with each of those steps, the mouvement in itself was hindering, and painful, they flapped against her chest, hurting it and themselves, they shifted her weight constantly and blocked her line of sight, and that is without the fork sunk into the right one.

The cooks had the advantage to know the place. One hurled a frying pan into the meat’s path, and she received it into the corner of her forehead. The impact not only hurt like hell but caused the fleeing food to last her balance. She mixed-up her feet and had to fight to stand right. Forced into half skating with the oil on her feet and making random steps to not fall, her large body did not help her to balance herself. She eventually completely fell forward and slide to the door, or into the door face first to be exact.

In a semi-relieved panic she attempted to reach for the door nobs, but the door was lock. She never had a way to escape to begin with. A fraction of a second later, the chef grab the meat and wrap his hand around her throat. “Not a chance! Roasts roast. You won’t escape your fate, you deserve this.” The rest of the cook immediately bent her limbs, folded her boobs and ass to limit every inch of moments she could do.

They brought the roast back on its, this time with twice as many cooks to hold her down. The chef resumed, he plucked his fork out of her boob and moved it slightly forward, he lightly pressed the points against her skin and gave one strong tap with his weight to pierce Odalia’s flesh. She screamed through her apple, trashed around, but didn’t move in the slightest. She was doomed.

The chef made a few more holes into her other boob and rubbed them both with a spices blend. He gleefully ignored her pleading teary eyes. With cooking string, all the cooks coordinated to tied the roast’s writs and ankles together. She could move but not enough to escape. That’s when they put her in the scalding oven.

The heat dried her eyes, it would have dried her skin is she wasn’t oiled, but she felt the burns sweep into her the holes in her boobs. She writhed in pain as they closed the oven door.

She slow cooked for hours while screaming her lungs out, she pleaded, begged, ordered, cried, but all in vain. The cooks barely heard her muffled by the apple and the door, and those who did hear her, enjoyed it.

It only took her a few minutes to untie herself, the strings were made to not damage her meat. She drummed on the door but it was locked, she couldn’t open it from the inside. She begged, her tears drenched her face but nobody came, they gave her a few glances but no one was concerned about her fate. Each second into this hell of an oven was twice as painful as the last. Her eyeballs dried, so did the air around her. Her lungs were scoring with each breath. Her breasts were pressing against the burning oven door as she struck over and over again with all her might with a thin hope. She felt her the stuffing inside her cook, then her own organs, muscles and skin. Fat rendered through the holes in her boobs. Her pain became unbearable but she couldn’t do anything. She writhed and did everything she could inside the oven, but it didn’t do anything. It took her seven long hours or tormenting agony to finally die