>>31166
lol I did think about it.

>>31167

Pumping the rod or flicking the bean will release that.

I tried a little AI experiment. Mage a more realistic cartoon version of Barbie. Not too shabby!

>>31170

You did a great job with your picture. I like it. You seem to have talent, too. For the feast, you need this term: ((Golden brown dark roasted skin: 1.5)) — the number and the parentheses determine the priority within the text. I’ll share a few more thoughts on this later. Another little piggy needs to go to the wash station. Haha.

>>31168

Your opening sentence is very important; I feel the same way.

Weaving Barbie’s description and background story into the narrative was a great idea.

I once saw a pig being roasted on a spit at a Goth scene gathering.

As for seeing a human being roasted on a spit—well... the photorealistic AI-generated images are quite enough for me. I just hope I don't end up dreaming about it one night. Or, put it this way: who knows what role one might play in a dream like that?

I’m glad you like my images, and I’m even more pleased that you’re generating your own to bring your story to life even more vividly.

I’m really looking forward to the continuation.

>>31171

Yes testing it now. Remarkable browning.

I had I idea for a pic or story. All over tanning salons. Specialty tanning options.
Girls nude sitting, laying lounging covered with oils, glazed, and marinadeS.

The salon’s stone room tanning chamber is used as a sauna/smokehouse. Fiery stone openings around the room. Keeping the room comfortably warm-hot. The girls use it to work on their all over tan and enhanced their taste.

A nice social setting to explore the meat muffins hope and dreams about being cooked and eaten. Just an idea. ;)

>>31173

That sounds good. I hope you jot down your ideas. I’m looking forward to more stories from you.

The skin texture of the roasted woman or girls can be really fun to work with. However, it can also lead to issues if the art style of the female characters leans too heavily into a drawn look.

Chapter 29: Pork and Beans.


"Your soup smells delish!" Piglet called out as she trotted past the vats, her bare feet slapping tile still warm from the kitchen's heat —a low, bubbling sound that reminded Piglet of stock pots full of parted girls and other things.

The soup lady's wide face split into a grin. Her ladle paused mid-stir, dripping broth back into the simmering depths. "You come back and try some later, little piglet. I'll save you a bowl."

"On assignment!" Piglet threw the words over her shoulder like a shield, and the soup lady's laughter followed her down the corridor.

She rounded the corner into the wash station. Stopped—skidded on the wet tile.

A man stood beside the harness rig. Not a chef. Not a farmhand. He wore a long transparent raincoat, buttoned to his throat, the plastic gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Beneath it: a business suit. Charcoal grey. Impeccably pressed.

His trousers were tucked into plastic booties, and his hands—gloved in thin latex—held the harness open like a chauffeur holding a car door.

"Ah." His smile was warm, professional, utterly out of place. "You must be Piglet. I'm here to get you ready."

Piglet's heart kicked against her ribs. A stranger. A man in a suit and a raincoat, standing in the wash station, holding a bondage harness open and waiting for her to climb in.

Her pussy tightened. The tail plug shifted. She was no longer Chef Piglet—she'd shed the coat and hat the moment she crossed the threshold, leaving them in a crumpled heap by the door.

Just a pet now.
Just a piglet.

She moved toward him slowly, the cautious shuffle of an animal approaching an unfamiliar hand. Her collar caught the light. Her pig charm winked.

"Good girl." Mr. Smith's voice was caramel and tea. British, she thought. Definitely British. "Up you go."

She climbed into the harness like a saddle. The leather was cool against her inner thighs. He worked fast—waist strap first, cinched snug below her ribs. Then her wrists, guided into cuffs that dangled from the overhead frame. Her ankles, spread and locked into the lower stirrups. The harness cradled her suspended, immobile, a fly wrapped in silk.

"I'm Mr. Smith." He circled her slowly, inspecting his work. "An associate and business partner to Ms. Baker."

Piglet studied him through her piggy brain—the foggy, simplified lens that made everything easier.

Expensive watch. Clean fingernails. The kind of handsome that came from money and good dentistry. His accent rolled like a marble across velvet.

Warm water cascaded from the shower head. He worked a sponge into a lather, the suds foaming white and thick, and began at her shoulders. Slow circles. Methodical. The sponge traced her collarbone, her sternum, the soft swell of her breasts.

Grease from the kitchen dissolved. Gramps's dried cum—flaking on her belly, her chest, her chin—softened and slid away in thin, milky rivulets.

"Ms. Baker says you responded quite well to our farm therapy program." His gloved fingers parted her labia, the sponge dipping into her cleft with clinical precision.

"I see you also respond well to sexual stimulation. Nothing gets the chemicals in the brain to explore new ideas quite like orgasm."

Piglet's breath hitched. The sponge circled her clit—once, twice—and then traveled lower, cleansing the tender rim of her anus where the tail plug emerged.

He worked the suds around the base of the plug, rotating it gently, and Piglet moaned.
"Turn your head, please." He rinsed the sponge, refilled it with something that smelled of peppermint.

"This will tingle."

The mint soap was milder than the industrial scrub she'd endured before. It spread across her skin in cool, awakening waves.

Her nipples tightened. Her clit throbbed. The tingling settled into her pores like a whispered secret, and when the shower rinse came—cool water cascading down her suspended body—she gasped at the sensitivity of her own skin.

"I'd say you are one fine piglet." Mr. Smith stepped back, admiring her. "I'm glad you joined the program."

He disappeared into the equipment corridor. Piglet hung in the harness, dripping, and the shower head continued its lazy patter against the tile. A droplet hit her shoulder. Another.

She shifted her hips, trying to angle the spray toward her clit—that aching, tingling bud that the mint had awakened—but the wrist straps held firm. She couldn't reach. Couldn't touch. The water danced everywhere except where she needed it.

The torture.

Mr. Smith returned pushing a serving cart. The same kind Ms. Baker had used for Ducky. But this one bore a silver platter on top—oval, gleaming, restaurant-grade. Clamps lined its rim. Wrist clamps. Ankle clamps. Designed to hold something in place. Something that was meant to be displayed.

He unfastened her from the harness. Carried her—effortlessly, like she weighed nothing—and settled her onto the platter. Positioned her on knees and elbows.

Locked her wrists into the forward clamps. Her ankles into the rear. She was on all fours, silver beneath her, the platter's cool surface pressing into her kneecaps.

Piglet's mind raced. What kind of assignment was this? Who was this man?

"Mister S—"

"You can call me Mr. Smith." He was already pulling items from the cart's lower shelf. Jars. Brushes. A bottle of something amber.

"Mr. Smith, what kind of business man are you?"
He stepped behind her. His gloved fingers found her pussy lips, spreading an ointment that smelled of aloe and something floral. He worked it into her folds, around her clit, inside her—slow, soothing strokes that made her legs spread wider, offering herself without thought.

The soreness from Gramps's drilling began to fade.

"To answer your question, I'm a talent scout." He squeezed her pussy lips gently, then stretched them apart, examining her with the detached interest of a man appraising livestock.

"I also dabble in sauces and glazes as well."

His thumb traced her opening. "I see you have been tenderizing your vagina. It makes for a delicious filet."

He bent. His tongue—warm, wet, nothing like the clinical gloves—dragged up her slit in one long, slow stroke. Down to her clit.

He circled it with the tip of his tongue, and Piglet's arms strained against the clamps.

"Was that your duck sauce?" The words came out breathy, desperate. "I used on Ducky?"

Mr. Smith took his time answering. His mouth was busy. When he finally surfaced, his lips glistened.

"Why yes. That is one of our finest. Imported from England."

He went back to licking.

Piglet tried to say something about Ducky loving the glaze, but the orgasm was already building—a tight, hot pressure that started in her clit and radiated outward.

Her words dissolved into crying moans. The platter vibrated beneath her.

Mr. Smith stood. Composed himself.

Gripped the corkscrew curl of her tail plug and pulled.
The pop echoed off the tile.

The sudden emptiness—the release of pressure—sent her orgasm into overdrive. She convulsed on the platter, her cunt clenching around nothing, her thighs trembling.

"Ms. Baker has ordered an upgrade."
He held up the new plug. Same pink curl. Same metal gleam. But the girth—Piglet's piggy brain struggled with measurements, but the widest part had to be five inches across.

Maybe more.

Mr. Smith greased it thoroughly. The insertion was slow, inexorable, a stretch that bordered on pain before settling into something deeper. Fullness.

The soft rubber pigtail swung between her thighs as she tested it, swishing her hips side to side.

He lifted a fat basting brush. A jar of glaze that gleamed amber and gold.

The first stroke landed on her shoulder—sticky, fruity, cool.

"This is my pineapple cherry glaze. Especially made to bring out the flavor of pork."

"Like me?"

"Yes." The brush swept down her spine.

"Especially piglets."

The glaze spread across her skin in glossy layers. Sweetness filled the air—pineapple sharp as summer, cherry dark as sunset, a hint of brown sugar caramelizing in the warmth of her own body heat.

The brush found every curve. The dip of her waist. The swell of her hips. The tender crease beneath her buttocks.

Her skin gleamed, amber and gold, a sculpture of candied flesh arranged on silver.

"I don't know what my assignment is." Piglet cooed the words as the brush worked its magic.

"Ms. Baker wishes for you to be a—how did she call it? A showcase display at the dinner tonight."

He added garnishes around the silver platter. Sliced pineapple rings, overlapping down her spine like golden scales. Then carrots—thick, orange, freshly scrubbed.

He tested her vagina's elasticity with his fingers, then began inserting the carrots one by one. Four of them, bunched together, stretching her channel until she felt full to bursting.

Much more of this and she'd be able to ride Farmer Fred's cock without effort.

"Open wide."

Piglet tilted her head back. An apple pressed against her lips—red, polished, larger than Ducky's orange. It had a hole drilled through the core.

She opened her jaw until it ached, and the apple filled her mouth completely, the hole aligning with her throat. She could breathe.

She could not speak.

She was ready.
Piglet knelt on the silver platter, glazed and garnished, her upgraded tail curling between her thighs, her cunt packed with carrots, her mouth stoppered with apple.

She could see herself reflected in the stainless steel wall mirror—a glistening, golden creature, freckled and pink and utterly edible.

This had been the most excitement she had felt in her life.

She'd basted Ducky until the little duck screamed in ecstasy.

She'd saved Thirty-Six from a whipping that would have killed him.

She'd ridden Gramps until his old bones gave out.

She'd watched Barbie—that bitch—slide down a spit with an expression of rapture.

She'd seen the chickens, Chick-a-Dee and Chicken Little, in the rotisserie looking like a KFC family meal, golden and limp and ready to be eaten from head to toe.

And now she was the showcase.

The centerpiece. Kneeling on a platter while a British talent scout in a raincoat admired his handiwork.

The strangest thing it felt so natural. And that was saying something, considering others outside would think it wrong and immoral. If they only know how deliciously tasted she is. They would charge their minds

Mr. Smith adjusted a pineapple ring on her left shoulder blade.

"Perfection!”

“The guests will be so pleased."

Piglet breathed through the apple's core. The glaze was already warming to her body temperature, releasing waves of pineapple and cherry.

She wondered what Ducky would think.

She wondered where Thirty-Six was.

She wondered if Barbie was still turning over the coals, her perfect body lacquered with barbecue sauce.

She wondered what Ms. Baker had planned for her.
What ever it is she was willing.

The cart began to move.

>>31178

Another brilliant chapter. Your story is dangerous. As the plot unfolds, you show how a young girl is manipulated into viewing herself as a delicious dish. She wants to offer herself up as the ultimate sacrifice. I find myself empathizing with Piglet more than I’d like to admit. Not having to worry about the future anymore—and instead ending up as a delicious dish in the ultimate spotlight—is a very seductive prospect for bowing out of life while commanding maximum attention.


Your story appeals to me on several levels: the sexual and fetishistic, certainly, but also the intellectual.
You write the kind of story that leaves me deep in thought. I don’t know if you realize it, but there is also an undercurrent of social commentary running through your narrative.

Overall, I find your story highly entertaining. I have no trouble immersing myself in the atmosphere you’ve created—perhaps a bit too easily. I even find myself imagining lying there next to Piglet on a large silver serving platter. I’m looking forward to the next chapter.

>>31173

To return to the topic of AI images and the possibilities for rendering the skin tone of a roasted woman, take a look at my latest post here:

https://boards.guro.cx/ai/koko.php?res=22269#p13_22272


I hope that no objection is raised regarding the high degree of realism in the moderation of this website.

I fell behind by a few days but now I'm fully caught up! What a wonderful feast this is shaping up to be! Thank you so much for this story!

I think there will be perhaps two more chapters at most. And I think I know exactly how it ends. Piglet's big farewell. I won't give anything away. But I will mention something elsewhere.

Chapter 30 pt1: Banquet on a Silver Platter


The ceiling lights drifted past like slow, lazy fireflies.

Ken Doll—he was trying the name on, seeing how it fit—watched them scroll by as the cart bumped over the seam between hallway tile and dining room hardwood.

His back sang a low, throbbing hymn of pain, but the lettuce beneath him was cool and wet, and the contrast made him almost grateful. Almost.

He lifted his head. The motion cost him something—a twinge between his shoulder blades that reminded him of every lash—but the sight was worth it.

Fruit slices marched across his chest in neat overlapping rows. Kiwi coins. Strawberry medallions.

Cubes of pale melon that quivered with each bump of the cart. Vegetables fanned along his ribs—cucumber rounds, cherry tomatoes halved to show their inner chambers, bell pepper strips in green and red and yellow. Cheeses.

He counted three kinds at least: a pale cheddar cubed near his hip, something veined and crumbly arranged on his sternum, a soft white round nestled in the hollow of his throat.

The banana was a joke. It had to be. Someone with a sense of humor had laid it across his smooth crotch with the precision of a museum curator, and Ken Doll smirked despite everything.

A human charcuterie board. The board being him.
The cart stopped. Two wide doors swung open, and then he was rolling into the dining hall—a cavern of dark wood and candlelight, chandeliers dripping from the ceiling, long tables dressed in white linen.

Two servers in crisp black uniforms lifted his tray without ceremony and settled it onto a display table at the room's center.

A murmured voice. Piglet.
He tilted his head back, neck protesting, and there she was. On a silver platter of her own, knees and elbows locked in clamps, her glazed body gleaming under the chandeliers like a sculpture of amber and gold.

Pineapple rings overlapped down her spine. The apple gag stretched her jaw wide, and her eyes—those bright, beautiful eyes he'd come to know—were fixed on his face.

She was the most edible thing he'd ever seen.
"Hi, delicious." He smiled.
Piglet smiled around the apple. It was a complicated expression, involving crinkled eyes and a tilt of her head, but he understood it perfectly.

They were sharing a moment. Two pets on platters, displayed for the hungry and the curious, finding each other across the chasm of silver and glaze.

"I take it this is where the dinner celebration is going to happen."
Piglet nodded. The cored apple bobbed.

Ken Doll tried to sit up. His body refused. The paralysis was back—not pain, not restraint, but that strange, familiar stillness that had overtaken him in the barn.

He could turn his head. He could speak. He could feel every cool grape and wet lettuce leaf.

But his limbs were not his own. He looked left. Looked right. Two long tables flanked the display, set with culinary tools arranged with menacing carving instruments.

Stations for the pets who were to be carved up and served.

Deliciously roasted as they desired.

A commotion swelled at the doors.

The guests filed in—ordinary farmers and ranchers, the kind of people you'd pass at a feed store without a second glance.

They wore their Sunday best: pressed shirts, modest dresses, the occasional bolo tie. The Howdy Gang entered as a group, Gramps walking slow and steady, his gait troubled. Piglet's laugh was silent but unmistakable—her shoulders shook, her eyes crinkled. She may have broken his dick.

The old man found his seat with a grunt and a grimace, and Piglet filed the memory away for later.

Mr. Smith entered with a woman on his arm. Half his age. Possibly twenty. Jet-black hair spilling past her shoulders, a dress that promised everything, calves that flexed with each step.

Polynesian, Piglet guessed. Perky breasts. A short stature that made her look compact and lethal.

Piglet seen her scanned the room with measured hunger, knowing exactly what she wanted and expecting to get it. She wanted a life on a silver platter-she just may get her wish.

Ms. Baker would call her a trophy wives. Piglet perverse thoughts was running wild, imagining Mr Smiths wife’s head mounted on a plaque hanging over a fire place.

The diners settled into their seats, greeting each other with nods and handshakes, and Piglet felt the weight of their glances. Eyes tracked her from across the room. Hungry eyes.

The salt of the earth, these people, with their calloused hands and their weather-beaten faces—and yet the looks they gave her were anything but wholesome.

They looked at her the way a man looks at a prime cut of pork. Piglets pussy moisten the carrots, she wish it would vibrate of move to scratch that horny throbbing between her legs.

Farmer Fred entered with Dora on his arm and her sister trailing behind. All fancied up. Fred's hair had been combed, though it hadn't cooperated—a cowlick stood sentinel at his crown.

They took their seats near the carving station. Passing a young teen girl.

A country girl peeled away from one of the groups and drifted toward the display table. She had a pretty Southern hotness, the farmer's-daughter type from the movies, curves that came from whole milk and hard work.

Home-grown milking breasts.

She looked about Piglet's age. Her eyes lingered on Piglet's glazed body with something that might have been envy, then shifted to Ken Doll's spread.

She plucked a cube of cheddar from his hip. Popped it into her mouth. Walked back to her party without a word.

"You're welcome," Ken Doll said, just loud enough for Piglet to hear.

Piglet's shoulders shook again. The apple gag muffled her snort, but Ken Doll caught it. He grinned.

The had a center view of the whole room, watching it fill up with hungry guest.

Coach Bart walked in, beer in hand. A leash in the other. At the end of the leash crawled Milly Miller—head cheerleader of piglets middle school Muskrats, her perky body squeezed into the familiar blue-and-white uniform, bobby socks and sneakers pristine.

A ball gag stretched her mouth. A leather collar circled her throat. She crawled at Coach's heel with the placid obedience of a well-trained pet.

He gave Piglet a smirk as he passed the other sitting guest, then settled at Farmer Fred's table. Milly knelt at his feet, her eyes unfocused, her breathing slow.

The room hummed with casual conversation. Farming stuff. Weather. The price of feed.

Serving staff circulated with wine and notepads, taking drink orders, bending low to hear requests over the growing murmur.

Ken Doll watched the country girl who'd taken his cheese. She was laughing at something her an old rancher said, her cheeks flushed, her eyes flicking back to the display table every few seconds.

"Do you think Ms. Baker would let me call myself Ken Doll?" He pitched his voice low, for Piglet alone.

"It sounds much better than Thirty-Six."
Piglet nodded. Vigorously. The apple bobbed.

"Thirty-Six sounds like a menu item at a Chinese restaurant."
Another nod.
Another silent laugh.

The room fell quiet.
Ms. Baker had entered. She wore something elegant—a dress that held onto its country roots while reaching for something higher, something more commanding.

She moved through the tables, greeting guests by name, pausing to squeeze a shoulder or murmur a pleasantry. She nodded at Gramps, who looked exhausted but content, his earlier bluster settled into something almost peaceful.

She reached the center of the room. Stepped around the display table. Looked at her prized pet.

A simple smile.

A staffer handed her a glass of wine. She lifted it, and the room lifted with her—thirty faces turned toward the woman in the floral dress, the woman who had provided greatly to this strange and hungry world.

"Thank you all for joining me on this tremendous occasion." Her voice carried without effort, warm and maternal and utterly in control.

"The Farm Therapy Program has completed its trial phase. What began as a modest experiment in alternative treatment has exceeded every expectation."

She paused, letting the words settle.

"Our subjects arrived burdened with emotional issues—low self-esteem, identity confusion, a profound sense of disconnection from their own bodies and desires.

“Traditional therapy had failed them. Medication had failed them. They needed something more radical.”

“They needed to shed the weight of being human and discover the peace of being something simpler."

Piglet listened. The words washed over her like warm water.
A test subject.
A lab rat.

The phrases should have stung, but they didn't. They were true, weren't they?

She had arrived at the farm confused and desperate for anyone to tell her who she was. Ms. Baker had done exactly that.

"Through reinforce character development sessions as pets and farm animals, our tender subjects learned to surrender control. To trust.”

Ms Baker too a sip of wine to wet her lips.

“To find pleasure in obedience and purpose in service.

The integration of these children into the farm environment— thanks to you all for making this possible’ thanks to our volunteers, pantry providers, and our contributors—you have made this possible.

You opened your homes, your barns, your dinner tables.

You gave these young children a context in which to transform."

Ms Baker paused a moment.

“Without further ado let’s welcome our pets, our delicious volunteers who gave their all for our dinner.”

Carts entered the hall, mapping a path pass the diner for them to marvel, to have a good look at what is on the menu.

First were the chickens. Both girls faced each other on a large platter, they sat sitting in a delightful roasted chicken pose, legs spread, knees bent high up high, ankles skewers to their thighs.

Their little arms folded into themselves, looking like delicious chicken wings.

Their roasted body held upright and steady, a long spike up their anus straight reached up to their skulls, to keep the heads from tilting.

They looked absolutely stunning, the smell of roasted chicken made the diners salivate.

Chicken little and Chick-a-Dee, looked at peace, a fresh corncob stuffed in their mouths, no longer dizzy from the constant spinning, just delicious smelling chickens.

Piglet watched as they set the platter the end of the carving station to her right.

Between the chickens lap was bowls stuffing mix, retrieved from their wombs, hot and steaming.

They had been disemboweled earlier yet you couldn’t tell by the way they were displayed.
Their nipples were crispy. even their little clits stuck out, crispy as well, juices dripping.

Piglet’s Hunger awaken, Farmer Fred looked proud of his handy work.

The next cart to enter was Barbies, with baked on barbecue glaze making her look quite delicious.

Her face covered in charcoal soot and barbecue sauce, her beautiful hair scorched from the Howdy Boys lack of skill and careless roasting. She still managed to look beautiful.

$150 dollar hairdo wasted, Barbie would of been pissed if she was still alive. They did manage not to burn the cowboy hat, now prominently placed on her head.

She laid on her belly, prone, arms down her sides-still wearing the boots though slightly scorched.

The cart passes the Howdy Boys table, snickers, a “hey haw” country howdy ho!
One of them comments he wished he would of tapped that ass before the spit claimed her.

At least she has the dinner guest clapping and cheering, she would of love that. Receiving the attention she so desperately seemed and desires.

They set her serving tray on the carving station to piglets left, her lengthy prone body taking up most of the table.

Piglet looked at her, they were in the same situation they both were on display for a hungry and lustful crowd .

Yet unlike piglet, Barbie will be carved up and fed to the eager guest.

Piglet felt a hunger inside, looking at Barbie’s roasted ass, who wouldn’t.

smoke wafting off her glistening hot body, like ghost rising in a graceful dance.

She could smell Barbies mouthwatering aroma-the smell of pure delight.

The room burst into wholesome coos, mostly from the women diners. A final cart is wheeled in.

Ducky would had loved the attention she was receiving, having the guest selecting what part of her tender body to try, what part to carve and lovingly consume.

It was her greatest fantasy and she got to play it out. Even asking piglet be a part of her fantasy, to help prepare her for the Daisy’s Celebration Dinner, for Ms Baker, for the very hungry guest.

Ducky’s tray is set at the carving table next to her delicious chickens friends.

Ducky has smoke rising from her body, she had been laid on her back, posing similar to her famously delicious roast ducky pose. Her thighs spread wide, knees bent, which allow her legs to rest flouting with her feet facing outwards.

Most of the stuffing removed from her colon, along with her inners. The stuffing filled a bowl place under her upturned ass.

The egg, the ceramic one stuffed in ducky, lay on a plate, pipping hot, split open revealing the fluffy scrambled duck eggs cook to perfection.

Piglet could smelt her too, sweet citrus glaze browned and glassy. Her stomach gargles, her hunger taking over her mind, the blending of smells, who could resist a bite.

If she wasn’t on display as she was she would jump off the table to take a bit out of her. Ducky would probably of love that.

Ms Baker addresses the diner guest.

She gestured toward the carving stations, where the chickens sat in their roasted pose, where Barbie's glazed body still steamed, where Ducky's juicy form glowed under the chandeliers.

Ms Baker continue with her prepared speech.

"My Hypnosis technic assisted the transition. A bridge between the exhausted self and the obedient pet. The results have spoken for themselves.”

Motioning her hand across the bountiful feast before them.

“Our test subjects have awakened to their sexual drive, freed themselves from the prisons of low self-esteem, and discovered a better way of life—one defined not by anxiety but by appetite."

She turned. Her hand found Piglet's tail plug. Her fingers curled around the corkscrew curl.

"This fine morsel will do anything to please me. Isn't that right, my pet?"

Piglet nodded before she could think. The plug shifted. The carrots in her cunt pressed against the membrane, and the butt-plug pressed back, and the moan that escaped around the apple gag was soft and involuntary and utterly genuine.

Wetness spread between her thighs.

"Amazing, considering she has been with us for less than a week."

The room applauded. Piglet glowed. They were clapping for her. She wasn't entirely sure why, but the sound fell on her glazed skin like a benediction.

"With the test program complete, it is time to taste the fruits of our labor.”

Many stood with applause. The room was filled with lustful hunger, piglet felt a shiver down her spine, a pineapple shifted.

“This facility will become fully operational as a treatment center and exotic food catering service.

We will treat many young patients. As we speak we have a delivery of our first batch arriving this week. Place your orders for any special needs”

The smell of roasted meat hung in the air, sweet and savory, and Ken Doll's stomach tightened with hunger as well, being a Ken Doll shouldn’t have any restrictions eating meat, he’s no long considered himself a bull.

Ms Baker continue her monologue. One she practiced in the mirror dozens of time.

“We will help these young tender morsels discover themselves, learn their full potential as pets, as farm animals, and of course as delicious meals.”

“Tonight, we celebrate to the future of this program and our business arrangements.”

Piglet kind of zoned out. Adults say a lot, it was becoming background noise to her hunger, her horniness.

“The future of every lost child who needs a place to belong."

She raised her glass higher.

"To the farm. To the pets. To the hunger that brings us all together."

With that the carvers stood ready, gleaming carving knives.

More carts enter carrying all sorts of sides dishes,

“Line up at your leisure, if you wish our servers will prepare plate at you request. Cheers!”

The room drank. Glasses clinked. Ms. Baker set her wine aside and bent low, her mouth close to Piglet's ear, then to Ken Doll's.

"Piglet. Ken Doll." She used the name like a gift, and Ken Doll's chest swelled.

"Be a good boy and a good girl. Obey.
You are to forget my speech and enjoy Daisy's Celebration Dinner.

She had them in an hypnotic trigger.

“Look at all the happy guests. Look how happy Ducky is,roasted to perfection and all thanks to you piglet.”

Piglet felt ducky’s love, she wanted to repay that love by giving her was she wanted. Piglet will cherish the moment.

“Those sweet little chickens. Remember how they begged to be roasted like tender rotisserie chickens.

They too wished to be nothing more, become a benefit for the community.”

Planted firmly in their minds, the events matched up perfectly.
Even Barbie the barbecued girl looked content. In the end wanting it,

“Now you two love birds watch the feast and be happy.
Behave, I'll let you try a taste of them all."

Piglet's eyes found Ducky's. The duck-girl was radiant, her bountiful body lay still with a look of joy, her eyes closed, mouth open, orange removed, her mouth in a perfect oh shape.

The chickens were all still, their roasted pose perfect, the stuffing steaming in bowls between their thighs.

Barbie's scorched body still smoked faintly, her face a mask of soot and ecstasy, her cowboy hat somehow still perched on her head. She still looked hot, despite being roasted.

The diners rose from their seats. The feast has begun.

Piglet and Ken Doll watched. Forgetting all the words Ms Baker spoke earlier. What they do know is they were happy and they were apart of something special

They watched the guest forming a line as requested.

The chefs raised the steely carving knives ready to take orders.

Piglet hunger growing

The carving was about to commence.


NOTE:
“Chapter 30 is a two part chapter. Too big of a story to end with a one chapter finality

to be continued…

>>31196

You know that’s pretty mean. First, you make us wait longer than usual for the next chapter, and then we only get half the finale. I was wondering where you’d gone. I even thought Ms. Baker might have turned *you* into a pet, too. Haha.

Another gripping chapter. I have questions—questions you wouldn't answer anyway. I’ll just have to wait for the next chapter. Ms. Baker’s big speech really stands out. I hope she isn't biting off more than she can chew with her plan. Why couldn't Ken move all of a sudden? Sounds like sabotage to his body's motor functions. A chapter for Piglet and Ken... why were the two of them dolled up so exquisitely? Just for show? I’m skeptical. Haha. You’re really keeping the suspense high... I need a coffee...

>>31196

...One thing I noticed is that you’ve introduced—or hinted at—new characters. Ms. Baker has big plans. I’m afraid you’ve actually made me unsure about how things will end for Piglet and Ken. But there are only two possibilities...

I’ll just have to wait and see. The post-mortem on your story should be interesting. And I don’t think Ms. Baker is going to disappear from the scene anytime soon.

>>31197

Sorry for the two parter. It didn’t seem right to squeeze the ending into one chapter.

Yes new side character. New possibility. Holiday weekend lasted a few extra daze. I didn’t want to rush ending. I also wanted it to be revealing, driven by purpose. Not just some random cannibal gathering.

Ms Baker does have to be careful. Dipping her toes into dangerous waters. For now she is queen bee. Anything can happen in her world, dangers yes, yet Ms Baker is holding all the cards at the moment.

Big plans for the feast, Ken and piglet have been reset, all that Ms Baker had revealed at the dinner feast is lost to them. They will get to watch how ravenous these guest will get. Let’s hope it will be enough to satisfy them.

But like all stories this one must end. Time to close out these chapters out and put it to bed.

I plead to do a few short stories I got running around in my head be returning to the Farmhouse again.

Some shorts my be adjacent to this story. Farmer Fred and his starter dairy farm. Daisy need to be impregnated again.

Mr Smith trying out a new sauce for a Polynesian dish he wants to try,

Let’s not forget the country cheese snatching vixen with the big knockers. She’s real sweet on her uncle. Something tells me she dying to experience it all.

Okay I’m teasing right now. We will see what the future hold. :)

My bad AI attempt to mimic piglet on a platter.
Enjoy

>>31198

Sorry for all the typos, replied by phone. Tiny keys’ fat fingers.

>>31199

There’s no need to apologize; you’re doing exactly the right thing. Splitting the story into two chapters makes sense—no need to rush. If the reader has to be patient, it creates a bit of delightful agony—a touch of torture for anyone interested in this topic. Hehe.


I’m glad they’re continuing to expand this setting. They’ve managed to bring interesting characters to life—well, okay, even if only a short life was planned for some of the pets. Haha.

(For risks and side effects affecting the animal during slaughter, ask your butcher or hunter.) :D

So, the point of erasing Piglet and Ken's short-term memory—and the reason for it—is only just becoming clear to me. I hadn't grasped that before. Well, let's hope there's enough food for everyone. :D

Yes, of course—you want to write other stories, too. I can certainly understand that. And I’m very excited about it.

Creating Dolcett-style content using AI isn't easy. There are techniques to make producing such content simpler, but the AI ​​generally refuses to display questionable material. Still, I think your image is good; it captures the atmosphere of the situation well.

If you have any questions about AI, feel free to ask. In principle, the text you create must always sound harmless to the AI. For example, instead of cutting open the belly with a knife, describe running the knife over the skin of the belly or lightly touching it. The AI ​​will handle the rest.

I don't see any spelling mistakes. My English isn't very good. The translation program corrects the English spelling errors, and I get error-free sentences in my own language.

But I also need to check whether the translation worked correctly. My poor English is usually sufficient for that. However, I always have to use software to translate your story. Sometimes I might miss small details in the plot. That’s why it makes sense for me to read the text more than once.

In any case, thank you for this new chapter.

I just wanted to give a thumbs-up. You also asked what I thought of the idea of ​​the stuffed egg in "Ducky." I thought it was a great idea. Among the dishes served, my favorite is the roasted girl "Ducky".

Wow! I feel so hungry and horny reading this! I could practically smell all those delicious roast girls! Very intrigued to see how this particular story will end!

>>31208

I’m doing a final edit and spell checks.

The final chapter is upon us. It’s been a journey, posting chapter by chapter. practically a daily posting event.

30 chapters in thirty plus days. Thanks for the inspiration and comments. It actually helped enhance the story.

And thanks again Mr. Smith. Love the duck sauce and sliced orange garnish idea.

>>31203

Thanks again for your comments, like I told Edward, your and his comments did help with this tale. Springing ideas that meld with the story perfectly.

Thank you for your images. Inspiring and delicious. You have Ms Baker looking too good for her own good. She better be careful. :)

Thank you for you photography skills as a character in the story as well. I hope you enjoy the carrot.

I told you so—Ms. Baker is dangerous. Now she’s actually got our "PBandJ" in her clutches—before he could post his final chapter. And there it was: the story about the cannibal author who ended up being eaten himself.

>>31211

Ms. Baker is the ideal trophy. Thanks to a special diet consisting of her slaughtered livestock, she is a particularly suitable specimen to end up on the menu herself. Ms. Baker leads a healthy lifestyle, and through her active work on the farm, she has—without even realizing it—become a suitable animal for slaughter. My rotisserie spit is waiting. Haha.

Chapter 30 pt2: The final Chapter “The Feast of Pets”


The photographer circled the display table with the deliberate stride of a woman who had spent years learning to frame a subject.

Her plate was already crowded—kiwi coins, a cluster of red grapes, three cubes of cheddar stacked like dice, taken from Ken Doll’s body.

But her eyes kept snagging on Piglet's glazed flank, on the way the pineapple-cherry lacquer caught the chandelier light and threw it back in amber winks.

She stopped behind the platter. Piglet's neck craned, but the wrist clamps held her in place—all fours, spine arched, the new tail plug a heavy pink curl between her thighs.

A hand touched her hip. Fingertips, cool and clinical, traced the rim of her stuffed opening.
Then the carrot moved. A slow, wet drag that made Piglet's breath catch in her throat.

The photographer pulled it free with a sound like a boot sucking out of mud, and the sudden emptiness made Piglet's cunt clench around the remaining three carrots.

She felt the woman step back. Heard the soft clink of the carrot landing on a porcelain plate. Then footsteps, retreating, and the vegetarian who wouldn't taste Ducky's marinaded pussy was gone—carrying a cum-glazed root vegetable like a trophy.

Piglet's thighs trembled. Bitch, she thought, with something that was almost admiration.

---

Piglet watched from her advantage point, the feasters surged around the chickens.

At the carving station, Chicken Little's right leg was being requested by a burly man who held it up by her ankle like a drumstick, his tastebuds tracing the arch of the little leg with pornographic devotion.

The chef looks back at Ms Baker, it was such a large portion. Ms Baker gave a nod.

The chef sliced through her thighs, like butter, the leg detach from the hip with ease. The burly man held it over a plate capturing the dripping juices, off to enjoy the roasted wonder, not bothering to wait for stuffing.

A porky woman in a flowered dress bent low over Chick-a-Dee's plump roasted rear, her mouth salivating on the plump roasted cheek with an audible smack. The chef carves off a fatty chunk of chick/a-dee’s juicy rump.

He added stuffing to her plate, stuffing blended to compliment her young tender meat, seasoned perfectly-plating it next to the slick meaty cheek, the KFC aroma—that savory perfume of eleven herbs and spices, slow-roasted surrender—hung over the station like a benediction.

Heads of household were claiming honors. Farmer Fred shuffled over, leaning in for a big sniff, and pressed his weathered mouth to Chicken Little's glistening mound. Farmer Fred could taste it even before biting into to her tender pussy with her crispy clitoris, Dora requested Chick-a-Dee's folds with the same methodical patience she used basting her in the rotisserie.

The girls had squealed through corncob gags, their bound bodies spent hours roasting in the rotisserie, turning, twirling increasing their deliciousness as they roasted, enjoying orgasms, giving it their all.

If the five year old girls understood the concept of roasting would lead to this eventual fate.
No longer mattered, never mattered to Fred.

If it had his way they would of been just as easily skewed and roasted with the same recipe.

Dora was a little bit kinder, preferred a playful approach to roasting them.

Thanks to Ms Baker helped in hypnotic suggestions, she had the girls really thinking the were free range chickens-playing games like roast chicken and stuff the birdies.

They would seasoning and surrender themselves to play cooking game.

The rotisserie game at the cookout was no fluke, planned, staged, and initiated by Ms Bakers, her careful planning.

The benefits lay on plates as the chef carves their seasoned vaginas.

Piglet watched.
Horny would no longer describe watch she was feeling right now.

The look of Fred and Dora’s face holding a plate of the most personal and private part of the children-like proud parents seeing their child’s true talent-only much hungrier!

Piglet’s attention switched hearing Mr. Smith voice, he stood at Ducky's station. His Polynesian wife hung on his arm, her dark eyes scanning the lifeless duck-girl with measured appetite.

The British sauce-maker bent, his latex-gloved hands nowhere in sight—he lean down, a man who uses his heighten sense of smell to fathom it’s flavor, his tongue will taste Ducky's orange-glazed pussy lips with the same clinical precision as he studying the fine specimen between her legs

"A proper filet," he murmured, surfacing and ordering her delicious tender.

His wife hesitated, her gaze wandering across Ducky's glazed body.
The line behind grow increasingly longer.

Mr. Smith chose for her—a single glazed breast, the nipple pebbled and sweet.

The chef pinched ducky’s baked nipple, pulling up to carve at the base of her once budding breast, now a tender morsels being carved away from her chest. Another chef plated the fatty little breast, its glazed nipple stand upright-stuffing spooned beside it, followed by a spoonful of scrambled egg-treated like Caviar.

Mr Smith watch in delight as the chef carved around Ducky’s inner thigh, tracing the blade over her mound, with skillful grace carved her bake pride away-a perfect cut as she is relieved of her most cherished muffin.

The chef platted it adding the fixings as before. Ducky had a long line, all waiting for a piece of her.
The Smiths move on to the chickens line.

The Howdy Boys mobbed Barbie. They didn't queue. They surrounded her—six, seven, eight deep—the chef stepped back, each of the boys brought their own carving knives. Apparently traditional for butchers.

They knew what they wanted-Barbie’s barbecued meat.

Knives ready to descended on her barbecue-lacquered body like a horde.

The spit removed earlier, leaving a permanent roasted cavity between her pussy lips. Even her mouth forced open matching the fat spit rod that once filled throat.

One of the boys chose a meaty part, just below the asscheek. Best tasting steak come from that area he told the boys.

His sharp knife effortlessly slice into her meaty leg.

Barbie's eyes open, confused, numb! A full-throated raspy voice vibrated out her mouth.

She had passed away and obvious passed out, they just never bothered to check or even gut her after roasting.

She hadn’t been roasting long enough to be fully roasted. Medium rare, some areas of her body cook off more then other parts.

Worse part is most of her outer body and limbs are roasted, the muscle in her arms or legs were cooked. She could only lay as they position her on the platter.

None of this revelation deterred the carver from getting his steak cut. She felt him slicing into her meat, carving it-carving her, yet it wasn’t pain.

Her nerve ending roasted away over the fire. She is feeling the knives path. Feel where it sink in, carving off her meat to the bone. The blade withdrawing with a meaty of her.

They all joined in the carving, slicing pieces of her for themselves.

One of them sliced into the hollow of her knee, carved across like filleting a fish. He took her calve with that cut.

They all started carving they curve off strips of her back. Makes great tasting Back Bacon.

They took Many tender cuts, she had much to give—and the boys exploited it mercilessly.

She imagined zombies, like in old horror movies, moaning and hungry cannibals, pressing their mouths against their victims, biting, consuming every inch.

Finally she was a star. A no talking role, sadly their were no cameras for privacy reasons-or so the guest were told.

Piglet watched the butchering taking place, Barbies facial expressions said it all. She was felling every cut, every slice-at the hands of these ravenous butchers.
sides tables near the back wall fill with steamed dishes—roast potatoes glistening with butter, green beans casserole, topped with almonds, dinner rolls stacked in golden pyramids.

Enough to actually fill the guests while the grand feast continues.

The big-booby country girl approaches piglets display one more.

She smiled at Piglet—a sweet, toothed smile that made her look about ten, though she would argue she’s 13 and a half—she then turned to Ken Doll.

"Is she your girlfriend?" She selected a grape from his sternum, popping it between her lips with a wet, pink flash.

Ken Doll's head turned on its lettuce bed. His body remained paralyzed—that strange, floaty stillness that had settled over him in the barn—but his voice worked fine.

"She's a girl, and she's my friend." He didn’t want to presume their relationship. Uncharted territory.

"Oh." The country girl worked her way down his abdomen, plucking a cherry from his navel.

"I notice you look at her like my uncle looks at me."

Ken Doll waited. The girl chewed the cherry, swallowed, licked her lips.

"He likes to tie my breasts up and squeeze them real hard. Make them black and blue-Makes him happy."

She was dishing out information, maybe she just wanted to talk about herself? Who can tell what a 13 year old girl is thinking.

She picked up the banana from his crotch, examined it, returned it.

"Sometimes I prefer when he whips them. I cry but it makes me horny" She squeezed her own meaty breast.

Piglet's pussy dripped. Talk of whipping sparked memories—her own whipping at the hands of Farmer Fred’s chickens, Coach Bart relentless cat-o-nine slashing and Ms. Baker's paddle if that counted?—the ache between her thighs sharpened into something unbearable.

She murmured around the apple gag. Waited for a response-Nothing.

She murmured louder, jerking her head, rattling the platter's clamps.

The girl finally noticed. Realize she wanted the apple removed.

The country girl reached, finger slid through the hole in the apple's core, hooked her finger and the fruit came free with a wet pop.

"Thank you! Thank you!" Piglet replied, worked her jaw, testing the hinges.

Piglet was ten steps past horny.

"Please—fuck me with the carrot. The one in my pussy. Just grab it and—"

The girl's cheeks flushed. "I don't think I should-”

The girl was taken back by the request.

“Maybe Uncle Ben will do it. He likes sticking cucumbers up my snatch."

She ran off before Piglet could plead further.

"What's a tasty girl like you doing in a place like this?" Ken Doll's voice was warm, teasing.

Piglet laughed at the corny joke, despite the ache. "Just waiting for someone to gobble me up."

Table top pillow talk.

---

Uncle Ben was a man shaped like a refrigerator—broad, solid, with forearms thick as pork shoulders and a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

His niece, nicknamed Butter Cream, tugged him toward the display table with both hands, her big breasts bouncing under her country blouse.

"This one, Uncle Ben. The piglet. She needs help."

Ben looked Piglet over—glazed spine, stretched cunt, the three remaining carrots protruding like orange fingers.

"Well now." His voice was rough and gravel.

"That's a hole begging for attention."

Piglet pushed her ass higher. "Please sir, I need a good porking."

She didn't need to ask twice. His hand closed around a carrot, and he pulled it out slow—agonizingly slow—watching her cunt contract around the emptiness. Then he thrust it back in.

Not gentle.

Not cruel.

The motion of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

"Been stuffing holes with fruits and vegetables since before you were born, little piggy."

He worked the carrot in a sawing rhythm—in, out, in, out—and Piglet's arms strained against the clamps.

"Cucumbers, squash, eggplants. Once did a whole butternut. Now that was a stretch."

His other hand found Ken Doll's banana. Plucked it from the paralyzed boy's crotch. Piglet felt the blunt tip press against her opening—already occupied, already full—and she barely had time to gasp before he shoved it in alongside the carrot.

The stretch was magnificent. Her cunt yawned wide, wider than it had ever opened, the carrot and banana rubbing together inside her in a vegetable double-penetration that short-circuited her brain.

Uncle Ben pumped. One carrot in, banana out. Both together. A twist that made the tail plug shift against her rear wall.

Butter Cream watched with wide eyes, her hand drifting to her own breast, squeezing absently.

Piglet's orgasm built like a storm front. Pressure. Heat. The unbearable fullness of being stuffed with produce and still wanting more.

When she broke, she broke loud—a wail that cut through the dining hall's chatter and froze conversations mid-word.

Her cunt clamped so hard the a carrot shot free and rolled across the platter. The banana followed, slick and glistening. Her slick gushed down her thighs, pooling on the silver beneath her knees. Uncle was kind enough to stuff the carrot and new found banana in her dripping, wanting hole.

The room applauded.
Ms. Baker smiled from her post beside the display table. She has been silently watching it all.

Her pet was a marketing department unto herself. Her prized pet, her very edible piglet.

---

Farmer Fred's mouth savored the delicious pussy of Chicken Little's stuffing-smeared tender, slicing a corner, bring it to his lips. Extravagantly delicious, each bite better then the last.

Dora chewed gently at Chick-a-Dee's crispy clit, her eyes closed in culinary rapture. The seasoning—smoked paprika, garlic powder, the ghost of butter—coated their tongues, even better the KFC.

Piglet looked to her little friend.
Ducky had been carved up almost completely. She lay mostly bones, the chef had carved the more common cuts, a beatific smile plastered across her glazed face.

She may be an empty carcass now, yet her delicious dreams fulfilled.

A sweet little duck-prepped and baked for the hunger of strangers.

Barbie was exhausted, still nearly alive. In a way this was more satisfied than she'd admit. She felt her shoulder lift, the chef is slicing her fully roasted breast, first one, then the other. Going to a good family she hoped. She is delirious, loss of blood was taking its toll.

Her cowboy hat sat crooked on her head, her scorched body gleaming with barbecue sauce and saliva.

The Howdy Boys had mostly departed with their chunks of Barbie meat.

The chef is free to serve a proper line of guest formed. Still plenty of meat left on her- an older one of the older Howdy Boy return, Gramps wanted his prize and it was located between Barbie legs.

The chef offered to carve it but the man flashed his own steely knife.

“We boy cut our own meat”

She'd came as he carved, really came as he cut it away, hard to believe yet she did it, her throat had garbled every scream into a huffing laugh.

The guest feasted, piglet watched as her friends and Barbie got reduced down to bones and carcasses.

If it wasn’t for their head set aside you wouldn’t of know it was them.

---

Once the guest feasted. Ms Baker had more in store for her clients, partners, and guest.

Nothing says grand feast like desert.

A cart rolled in. On it: a chocolate fountain, three tiers of cascading brown silk. rising from the center, covered head to toe in liquid chocolate—the chubby little boy from Flora's salon station.

Bald now. Gleaming. His little erection jutted through the chocolate shell, a single recognizable feature in a landscape of flowing sweetness.

Ms. Baker hushed the chatter.

"If you've made room for dessert, Andy our sweet little chocolate boy would like to invite you to lick his body clean."

A pause.

"He doesn't mind a good dick-sucking, but please—no biting."

Laughter rippled through the room.

"And as a special treat, my pet Piglet is glazed with an imported recipe provided by our friend and partner, Mr. Smith."

Applauses.

She ran two fingers across Piglet's glazed rear, lifted them to her mouth, tasted.

"Perfect for a little piggy.

Piglet felt a sense of pride with Ms Bakers fawned opinion of her.

“You're all welcome to have a taste. Let me know what you think. Enjoy."

The lines formed.

Dora reached Andy first, still chewing the last of her chicken sample. She dropped to her knees without ceremony and took his chocolate-covered we-we into her mouth, sucking the sweetness from his shaft with the same enthusiasm she'd applied to Chick-a-Dee's pussy.

Her sister Flora joined her, licking chocolate from the backs of his knees, and

Farmer Fred stood back with his arms crossed, watching his wife suck on a toddler wiener.

Coach Bart shouldered through the crowd, Milly Miller crawling behind. He stopped at Piglet's platter, that cocky smirk plastered across his face.

“Well, well. Little ham-hock made it to the big leagues."

His hand closed around the pussy wedged banana—still slick, still warm—and he pushed it deep between Piglet's thighs. Pulling it back out partially.

Peeled it slowly, took a bite, chewed. He pulled it out and finished it off.

Dropped the peel onto Ken Doll's crotch, where it landed with a wet slap.

He took hold of a breast, squeezing between his fingers. She squealed in response to the pain, it was a welcoming pain.

He tasted his fingers, eyes widen, a nod of approval.
“Wow” his only response.

"Nice seeing you again, piggy." He moved on. Milly followed, her ball gag preventing words, but her eyes met Piglet's as she passed—a flicker of recognition, of possible solidarity.

She crawled after her master, and Piglet watched her go.

Farmer Fred and Dora stepped up to the display table, Dora wiping chocolate from her chin.

"Delicious chickens," Fred said, nodding toward the carving station. "Real good seasoning. You could taste the love."

His eyes dropped to Piglet's gaping cunt. The lips spread wide, still slick with her own release, the remaining carrots askew.

"Looks like you might be up for a challenge these days." He grinned. "My cock's a fair bit thicker than a carrot, but I reckon you'd manage."

Dora elbowed him.

They both tasted piglet, a simple shoulder for Dora, Fred went for the ass. Both pleased with the the sensational flavor.

They drifted toward the chocolate fountain again, where Krispy Cream was topless, already licking chocolate from Andy's inner thigh, breast getting covered in chocolate-prompting others to lick on her breast, still others join naked, turning it into a orgy of chocolate. One of the guests shoved his chocolate covered cock in Butter Cream’s mouth, she sucked gleefully, the chocolate boy grabbing hold of her breast and sucked it like a baby, her uncle Ben watching with paternal approval.

Guest after guest stepped up licking piglet and taking Ken’s diminishing items.

Mr. Smith appeared at Ms. Baker's side. His wife was picking candied nuts from Ken Doll's calf, her dark hair spilling over his paralyzed leg.

"Positive responses all around” Ms Baker said warmly

“You glazes has been a hit. The guest loved them, especially piglet glaze."
Mr Smith thanked her for such feedback.

“Best to test it on a live roaster, it could truly bring out a pigs fully flavorful potential.

Ms. Baker nodded, looking down at piglets expression. “

I believe you are right, we haven’t tasted it absorb into the flesh and roasted” her eyes tracking the crowd.

Mr. Smith turned to Piglet. "And you, little piglet.

How does it feel to showcase my product?"

Piglet blinked. The question caught her off guard—she was still floating in the aftermath of her orgasm, still glazed and stuffed and splayed on silver. Listening to Ms Baker talk about roasting a pig.

"I didn't know I was doing anything but being hot and tasty."

Smith's laugh was warm, genuine. He turned back to Ms. Baker. "I'll have a case delivered this week. Enough for this piglet and a dozen more when you choose to roast them."

Ms. Baker looked at Piglet. Her hand found the back of her pet's neck, thumb stroking the leather collar.

"I'm sure we'll put it to good use."

Piglet's brain buzzed—a champagne fizz of pleasure and anticipation that started at the base of her skull and spread downward.

A dozen more?
Case full of glazed, was this her future? A lost and found girl, a pets, a potential meal—It would be perfect.

Best news of all, Ken Doll can move his fingers and toes again!

What happens next? Well that’s entirely another story.

>>31235

What a brilliant story, what a delightful culinary adventure.

Every one of your chapters has swept me away, and as always, I need a moment to reflect on what I’ve read—to sort out my thoughts.

It’s a bit like lighting a cigarette after sex. And as I sit here with my coffee and a cigarette, thinking about your story, I try to formulate some questions.


How did you manage to enchant us so completely with your story? Your story is thrilling, delicious, sexy, and sinfully forbiddenly good......

>>31235

Your latest chapter is once again rich in detail. How I would love to step into the shoes of your characters and experience the action firsthand. I am glad to have been there from the very beginning as your story took shape. I can hardly believe that this story is your first project here.

One downside—though I mean it as a compliment—is that your characters are simply too likable (or were, at least). Once again, the pets have really won me over; they fulfilled their role of being delicious perfectly. And yet, I keep coming back to that mental coin—the two sides of the medal.

One side is about fully immersing myself in your story, surrendering to the pleasure you describe, and diving into the fantasy. The other side (symbolically speaking) is the fact that your story resonates with underlying truths that leave me deep in thought.

I can relate all too well to Piglet and her state of mind: leaving everything behind, shedding all responsibilities and worries, and exiting life as a delicious dish—a roasted version of oneself—amidst the utmost attention. But then, I’ve mentioned that before.

And I have to admit, for all the delicious meals one could make from a girl's flesh, I’m kind of glad our star, Piglet, made it through her first story unscathed. I hope there isn't a sequel anytime soon. Haha. Just kidding.

Of course, I’d look forward to a sequel. There is so much potential in your farm fantasy world.

But I’d also love to read other stories from you.

I really enjoyed creating the AI ​​images. I have a feeling those "thumbs-up" images are going to come back to haunt you and Edward.

I’m really excited to see what projects you come up with next.

I really enjoyed your story and I'd look forward to read the next installment.
I particularly love how piglet is constantly on the knife edge between getting cooked and possibly becoming a farmer herself, both her and Ms. Baker seeing her potential in both avenues.
I hope a next installment might maintain this ambiguity while maybe exploring her training as a farmer.

If I may offer a slight criticism, one thing that throws me off is how you keep drifting between present tense and past tense.
For example when you write this:
"One of the boys chose a meaty part, just below the asscheek. Best tasting steak come from that area he told the boys.
His sharp knife effortlessly slice into her meaty leg.
Barbie's eyes open, confused, numb! A full-throated raspy voice vibrated out her mouth."

Some parts are written like a story being narrated, while some others are written like you're doing roleplay, like the reader is a character in the story witnessing the scene.
It would make reading your story far more enjoyable if you kept it narrated like a story, since we wouldn't have to translate in our head.

Keep up the good work.

>>31240

I hear you regarding narrative. My next story will be straight storytelling.

>>31240

That is interesting. I didn't notice any errors in the automatic translation. The text is probably being over-corrected. Generally speaking, the narrative passages are written in the past tense, while the dialogue is in the present tense. That is how I understand the general rules.

>>31242

I believe his point was the quick flipping from narrative to character comments then back to narrative within the same paragraphs at times. It could get confusing.

>>31243

Ah, I see.

Now, really, only one thing is missing: the "thumbs up" picture. You took me on an adventurous culinary journey featuring a very seductive, sexy storyline. Thank you.

Ms. Baker now presents her photos—full of pride, as if they were trophies. And one day, Ms. Baker herself will become the trophy.

>>31245

Wow, fantastic visualization of the story, incredible imagery sets a mood. Ms Baker looks delicious as well, she may end up on a plate, maybe piglet will join her. Those framed pictures make me hungry and excited about the next story I’ve decided to write.

Thank you for joining me on this adventure. I write what excites me. Happy to see others share in my fetishes.

🐤🐤 ❤️
🐷 ❤️❤️
🦆 ❤️❤️❤️

Loved it 😍

My only, tiny, little, complaint is that we didn't get to see Piglet enjoying a bite of dear little Ducky.

I really hope you come back to this farm and tell us more about Ms Baker and her delicious pets and their friends. You've set up so many interesting opportunities for more characters to find their ultimate happy ending, you've left us all wanting more 👍

>>31248

Yes, yes I’ve been thinking about it all day for real. I’m going to add a short Epilogue.

It’s already written in my head.

No tiny issue goes unheard. Thank you for your comments. :)

>>31242
No, I don't mean switching between dialogue and narration. That's normal and I'm perfectly fine with it.

Here's a few more examples that may hopefully illustrate better what I mean, from chapter 10.

"School taught her that.
Yet they shielded her from life, finding her place.
The farm has shown her so much more, things hidden from her. Personal nature, sexual hunger-her role in life- as a tasty little piglet.
She turn back to the movie wall. Must be something to watch. She wiped her wet pussy-tasting it. She had to agree- she did taste good."

With bits like "The farm has shown her" or "She turn(s) back" being narrated in the present tense rather than the past, in the middle of a past tense narration part.
Then just afterwards

"Something she hadn’t notice last night. Her skin is so smooth, no peach fuzz anywhere.
Even the her arms are free of hairs. Her mound free as well- her light orange starter patch bare.
Her cute freckles prominently on full display.
“Movie”, she tried to refocus. Looking across. The rows- then she tilt her head up.
The top shelf, the dozen or so identical cases—matte black, no artwork.
Just a peek she told herself. Turning one last time to the door."

With "Her skin is so smooth", "her arms are free", "she tilt(s) her head up" being present tense in the middle of a paragraph that should (I think) entirely be past tense.
And the section continues with a mix of present and past tenses.

That's the parts that I find a bit jarring to read, because I end up having to rephrase it in my head, pulling my focus away from the story.
And that's a bit of a shame, because that's a wonderful story to read. :D

And I may have to reiterate, 'cause things sometimes come across harsher than intended, I really loved the story. So don't let the small criticism deter you from writing more.

>>31252

No problem, I do thank you for your comments. Even any criticism. It makes for a better writer.

No excuses I can do better. I’m slowing down on my writing. Thinking about word structure and grammar. Last story was a speed run.

Sorry for not commenting in between, but since my first post (>>30698) I limped always far behind. Now I caught up and finished reading the entire story more or less in a single run.
It is for sure one of the most erotic stories I've read in a long time. It's graphical and detailed and covers most of what I like.
I agree with Tanja Mars, but with words instead of pictures: Thumbs up!

Having this said I'd like to make some remarks and have some questions.

* It is mentioned that the animals are conditioned to be willing and compliant. But then they are asked to remember a safe word (>>30958). This implies a free will. But does one really have a free will with hypnotic triggers implanted?

* Miss Hog, was probably never scheduled to entertain and roast (>>31016), if she ever existed. Ms Baker manipulates the kids by playing the sorrowful host with fake Vaseline-tears (>>30958). She is not the kind Mom, she's a fierce businesswoman, a monster. Although I undestand that all this is essential for the story I don't like liers.

* The Howdy Boys came out of nowhere in the story (>>31016), completely casual like self-evidently. What are they ‒ a biker gang, the local Hillbillies?

* Fisting a seven/eight year old inserting the arm to the elbow sounds very unrealistic (>>31109). Even with taking into account that Piglet is way smaller than an adult it is surely a borderline thing. Though a woman's vagina is very flexible this doesn't apply to a preteen before puberty. Yes, actually a five year old can adapt to a smaller cock, but the magic word is "smaller". At seven a "normal" size may be possible. But a even a small wrist ‒ if buttered or not ‒ is bigger than "normal". And then the egg was larger than Piglets wrist ‒ about the same size as Farmer Fred’s dick. To have a reasoable amount of duck eggs inside the ceramic egg it has to be huge, which makes Fred's cock size unbelievable. Something doesn't fit together.

* "Piglet's piggy brain struggled with measurements" (>>31178) but has the widest part of Piglet's new plug really exaggerated five inches across or has it a girth of plausible five inches?

* Ms Baker's monologue proofs that to call the farm a treatment center is not only a euphemism but a big lie (>>31196). She states that "[t]his facility will become fully operational as a ... exotic food catering service" and that "these young tender morsels ... learn their full potential as ... delicious meals". One more reason that Ms Baker should ride the spit herself as soon as possible.
                              

While reading this fine text I randomly collected some information that partly needs clarification.
(The number in paranthesis is the count of occurrences I found in the text)
May be you can confirm, correct and/or fill in.

Ms. Baker; is it Clair(2), Claire(1) or Doris(1); full, firm and soft breasts; lost a younger sibling in the past when she was around 13 years old.
Ducky aka Mindy Chow; from China; is she 7(1) years or 8(1) years old (the estimation "perhaps half Jenny's age" points to the first); black hair; is she chubby? Why else can she at her age have: perky breasts, budding breasts, tiny breasts jiggling, small breasts jiggling, small breasts bouncing?
Chicken Little aka Lora (or Tracy); 5 years old.
Chick-a-Dee aka Tracy (or Lora); 5 years old.
Piglet aka Jenny; 13yo; budding breasts; has younger twin sisters (one of them named Amy (a future lamb?)); she remarkable often "acts and speaks before thinking".
Miss Goat, pre-teen fifth grader (may be 10 years old); small breasts.
Daisy Moo; teenager; blonde, blue eyes; heavy, full, ample breasts.
Farmer Fred aka Fredrick Arnold.
Dora (Arnold?); has a sister named Flora.
Coach Bart Wilson; is he gym coach(1) or soccer coach(1) or swim coach(1)?
Ken Doll aka Thirty-Six; maybe 13 or 14 years old; dickless.
Barbie; 19 years old; natural cherry blonde, blue eyes, pearly whites; breasts actively fighting the buttons of the blouse.
Mr. Smith; british associate and business partner to Ms. Baker; talent scout, manufacturer and seller of sauces and glazes; has a wive/girlfriend round about half his age, possibly twenty with jet-black hair, may be polynesian with perky breasts.
Gramps; patriarch of the Howdy Boys.
Butter Cream(3); or Krispy Cream(1); looks like 10 years old, probably is 13 (and a half) years old; big breasts.
                              

>>31146
And now for something completely different.
> I look back at what I had written and say “ah I should of wrote this or that, or add some pretext of a scene.”
I've heared of authors who today still write on oldfashioned typewriters. They argue that it keeps them "in the flow", because it removes the opportunity to change things on the fly, which may detain and/or confuse them.

@Tanja Mars

>>31144
Oh, is that a special trophy ‒ one that girls can sit on with an extra thumb for two holes or to tingle the clit?

>>31170
Though Barbie had a little devil in her she hadn't red eyes, she had blue ones!

And what do you think about a backside view of Piglet with her tails (small and bigger)?

Oh, before I forget: Thumbs up for your dedication too!

>>31278

Oh, just to clear up any misunderstanding: that image is by PBandJ. Considering the short time he has been working with AI image generation, this piece is a masterpiece. The red eyes were almost certainly carried over by the AI ​​because of the red hat.


Then again, it’s possible the barbecue skewer was already a bit rusty, making it hurt more than expected. That’s the sort of thing that turns a black eye into an eye that’s blood-red—haha.

A "thumbs-up" sculpture fuck—that makes the pussy happy; that sounds interesting. I have to use that as a topic for a story sometime. Haha. Thanks for the praise and the thumbs-up pictures.

I'm afraid the translation software is having a bad day today; it should say "blue eyes," not "black eyes."

And thanks for the praise—regarding the "thumbs-up" pictures, that is what I meant to say.

And two more points:

Point 1 – the truly final image.

Point 2 – the Celantan secret service is keeping this story under surveillance. *Wink*

>>31235
Sorry I'm a little late to the party but that was absolutely amazing! Loved the way the chickens were carved up and the revelation that Barbie was still alive and loving the attention as the rednecks helped themselves to her meat! Now, on a serious note, how might a gentleman like myself go about procuring Butter-Cream as his birthday roast?

>>31277

Thank you for that deep analysis of my truly fractured story. Yes two worlds exiting simultaneously. The pets very real understanding of their environment and Ms Bakers orchestrated world.

The pet’s living their best lives, experiencing love, kink and teen drama, finally fulfilling their roles as meat. Likewise Ms Baker plays a role, many roles at that. Hard balls to juggle in this community. Drop one and she may wind up on a platter along with her prized pet piglet.

Krispy Cream, yes her original name. I changed it to Butter Cream to coincide with her big milkers. Must of missed it in the edit. I also used KFC, so I thought enough with the product placements.

The diarrhea of comma’s. You should of seen it before the edits. Saved on a lot of periods.

Pig brain math. Ages, dimensions and measurements. Stupid math-Guilty.
I’m aware of a saying. The difference between fantasy and reality is that fantasy has to make sense.

I never took on a project like this. Right brain, left brain shifting back and forth, late night editing attempting to post a chapter a night.

It a beautiful mess. I’m glad you like the slow burning story.

I think I need to do a lot less typing with one hand. ;)

But that’s right, isn’t it? You type on the keyboard with one hand while the other holds the coffee.

>>31292

Yes, coffee in my other hand.

>>31293

Awesome—coffee and delicious views.

@Tanja Mars

>>31279
> that image is by PBandJ.
Ah, my mistake. This wouldn't have happened with glasses. ;)


>>31279
> The red eyes were almost certainly carried over by the AI ​​because of the red hat.
>>31280
> I'm afraid the translation software is having a bad day today;
And it insists on six fingers ‒ again and again.
That's why KI, the german abbreviation of AI, is somtimes not read as "Künstliche Intelligenz" but as "Komische Intelligenz" (Funny Intelligence).

​

@PBandJ

>>31291
I can assure you, it is much easier to read with one hand. ;D

>>31295

Thanks for your attention. Maybe I should wear glasses at the PC, too, and not just when driving. Or stop spending the night at the PC. Well, the AI ​​is pretty dumb. But I wasn't entirely happy with the image anyway; I had forgotten to crop it properly. I’ve now corrected the hands and extended the image.

So: thumbs up for the story.

Wow ... what a interesting and hot story. I was close to telling, I read it all in one go but that is not quite true, all in all I read it in over two days.
Quite some intense and interesting parts, especially the preparation of the chickens and ducky. I really like how detailed those parts were.
I'm since long a fan of Edwards Stories and I really think, this here is quite on a similar level.
Call it unrealistic, but those mostly consensual stories have their own charm and excite me.

>>31615

I have gotten a lot of inspiration from Edwards writings. Especially his Two Tasty tourist. He was able to turn a simple cannibal idea into an epic adventure.

This story was a speed run, 30 chapters, completed in (not quite) 30 days.
Thanks for commenting.