>>30695
Chapter 2: The Farmhouse Welcome

The afternoon passed in a blur. Jenny sat through her last two classes, but the lessons washed over her without sinking in. Every few minutes, the word piglet echoed through her mind, and each time it did, a warm pulse of pleasure spread through her body. She pressed her thighs together under her desk, trying to focus on the teacher’s voice, yet all she could think about was four o'clock.
By the time the final bell rang, her panties were soaked through. She practically ran to the clinic.
Ms. Baker was waiting. Her office door was already open, and she stood in the doorway with her arms crossed, watching Jenny approach with a knowing smile.
"Right on time," the nurse said, her voice warm with approval. "Good girl."
Jenny shuddered. The pleasure hit her instantly, making her knees weak. She grabbed the doorframe to steady herself.
"Come inside, dear. We need to talk about your treatment."
Jenny followed her into the office, and Ms. Baker closed the door behind them. The click of the lock made Jenny's heart rate spike, but she didn't know why. She trusted Ms. Baker. Ms. Baker was helping her.
"Sit." Ms. Baker gestured to the exam table, and Jenny hopped up automatically. The paper crinkled beneath her, familiar now. Comforting.
Ms. Baker pulled her chair over and sat directly in front of Jenny, close enough that their knees touched. She reached out and took both of Jenny's hands in her own.
"Tell me what's been troubling you, Jenny. And don't just say 'identity issues.' I want to understand your daily life. Your stressed mind."
Jenny swallowed. Where to even begin? "It's... everything. School work is relentless. I have two school projects due next week, and I haven't started any of them because I can't focus." Her voice cracked slightly. "My parents expect me to get all A’s, do choirs after school, watch my twin sisters when mom cooks dinner.
I'm exhausted all the time."
"Go on."
"Washing myself even feels like such a chore.” Showering, brushing my hair, helping with laundry—it's all so much. I skip school lunch because the cafeteria is overwhelming, and then I feel dizzy during class." Jenny's eyes were wet now. "Everyone expects so much of me, but I'm barely holding on. I don't know who I'm supposed to be or what I'm supposed to want. Thinking about it all makes me want to scream."
Ms. Baker squeezed her hands gently. "That sounds exhausting for such a little girl."
"It is." Jenny slumped slightly. "I just want a break. I want to stop thinking for a while."
"Then you've come to the right place." Ms. Baker released her hands and stood, moving behind Jenny to rest her palms on the girl's shoulders again. Her thumbs began working into the knots of tension. "You've been carrying such a heavy load. School. Parents expectations . Self-care. All of it piling up on your young shoulders. It's too much for anyone to handle—especially a sweet little thing like you."
Jenny melted under the touch. Her head dropped forward, her spine curving.
"The Animal Farm program will take all of that away," Ms. Baker murmured. Her breath was warm against Jenny's ear. "No more schedules. No more decisions. No more pressure to perform as a human when that's clearly not what you are."
"Not... what I am?"
"Hush." Ms. Baker's thumbs pressed deeper. "Don't think. Just listen. The farm is outside the city, away from all the noise and stress. Fresh air. Open spaces. A simple, uncomplicated life. You'll have a comfortable pen, good food, and all the rest you need. No expectations except to exist and be content."
"That sounds..." Jenny's voice was dreamy. "Perfect."
"Good girl." The pleasure washed through her, and Jenny moaned softly. Her body felt heavy and light at the same time. Floating.
Since you parents gave us permission we can start today. "Now, I'm going to drive you to the farm. During the trip, I want you to let go of the city. Let go of school. Let go of your stress. Each mile we travel will take you further from your old life and closer to your new one. Does that sound nice?"
"Yes, Ms. Baker."
"Oink."
The word hit Jenny like a physical force. Her mind blanked completely, and her body filled with an overwhelming need to obey. To please. To be good.
"Stand up, piglet. It's time to go."
Jenny rose from the exam table without hesitation. Her body moved on its own, guided by Ms. Baker's voice.
The nurse grabbed her car keys and purse, then placed a hand on the small of Jenny's back, steering her through the clinic's back exit. Coach Wilson greeted them behind the school. I see you took my advice. Good girl you are in good hands. Coach smiled. Ms. Baker gave him a pinch on the cheek. “See you at the cookout this weekend.” She gave him a wink as she guided Jenny onward. A silver sedan waited in the staff lot. Jenny climbed into the passenger seat, her movements slow and compliant.
Ms. Baker slid behind the wheel and started the engine. The car hummed to life, and they pulled out of the parking lot.
Jenny watched through the window as her school disappeared behind them. The brick buildings, the students walking to class, the whole world she'd been struggling in— all of it faded. Each block they drove felt like shedding a layer of skin. Her shoulders relaxed. Her jaw unclenched.
"That's it," Ms. Baker said, glancing over. "Let it all go. The city is behind you now."
They merged onto the highway, leaving the urban sprawl. Jenny watched the buildings give way to trees, then open fields. The afternoon sun painted everything gold. The countryside rolled past—green pastures, wooden fences, distant barns.
Something about the view felt right. Like coming home to a place she'd never been.
"It's beautiful," Jenny whispered.
"The farm is even better." Ms. Baker smiled. "You'll have your own space. Your own routine. Simple pleasures. No complicated thoughts required."
Jenny's thighs pressed together. The promise of simple pleasures made her body thrum with anticipation.
They drove for another twenty minutes before turning onto a gravel road. A farmhouse came into view—white clapboard, a wide front porch, red shutters. It looked old-fashioned, homey. The kind of place where time moved slower.
Ms. Baker parked in front of the porch and turned off the engine. She turned to face Jenny, her expression warm but commanding.
"Welcome to your new life, piglet."
Jenny shivered at the word. Her mind went soft and fuzzy.
"Come."
They climbed out of the car. The air smelled like grass and earth, clean and fresh. Ms. Baker led Jenny up the porch steps and unlocked the front door.
Inside, the farmhouse was cozy. Wooden floors, floral wallpaper, plush furniture. A fire crackled in the hearth even though it wasn't cold. Everything about the space felt designed for comfort.
Ms. Baker guided Jenny through a hallway and into a room at the back of the house. It was larger than Jenny expected, with soft pink walls and a thick foam mat covering the floor. A large cushion sat in one corner, and a low table held an assortment of bowls and supplies.
"This is where you'll stay during your treatment," Ms. Baker explained. "The mat is for sleeping. The cushion is for resting. Everything is designed to make you comfortable."
Jenny looked around the room. It should have felt strange, but instead, it felt safe. Contained. Like she belonged here.
"Before we begin, I need to prepare you." Ms. Baker stood in front of Jenny, her posture straight and authoritative. "The treatment works best when you fully embrace your role. No hesitation. No doubts. You need to let go of Jenny and become piglet. Do you understand?"
"I... I think so."
"Good. Now, let's get you into piggy mode." Ms. Baker's voice dropped into the rhythm Jenny recognized from before— soft, melodic, impossible to resist. "Close your eyes."
Jenny's eyelids fluttered shut.
"Breathe deeply. In and out. That's it. You're safe here. You're home. No more stress. No more decisions. Just peace and obedience."
Jenny's body swayed slightly, her mind drifting.
"When I snap my fingers, you will be fully in piglet mode. You will understand that this is your true self. You will feel content, happy, and eager to please. Nothing else will matter."
Jenny waited, her whole being focused on that single sound.
"Are you ready, piglet?"
"Yes," Jenny breathed.
Ms. Baker snapped her fingers.
The world shifted. Jenny's thoughts emptied completely, replaced by a warm, floating contentment. She was piglet. She was home. She was good.
Her eyes opened, and she looked up at Ms. Baker with adoration.
Ms. Baker smiled down at her, and her eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
"Welcome to Animal Farm, piglet. Let's begin."

Sounds promising ...
There will be more chapters, right?

Correct.
I failed to tag story (MF+/fff) mind control, consent, semi-consent, loli, spit roasting, prep/cooking, oven roasting.

Chapter 3: The Piglet's Inspection

Jenny stood in the center of the pink-walled room, her mind fuzzy and warm, floating in the comfortable blankness that came with being piglet. Ms. Baker circled her slowly, those reading glasses catching the soft light from the overhead fixture, her auburn hair still perfectly pinned back.
"Before we go any further," Ms. Baker said, her voice dropping into that melodic rhythm that made Jenny's thoughts turn to honey, "I need to add a few more triggers. Things that will help you settle into your new life."
Jenny nodded eagerly. She wanted to settle in. She wanted to be good.
"Good girl."
The pleasure washed through her, and Jenny whimpered softly, her thighs pressing together. Her panties were still damp from earlier, and the sensation only made her more aware of how wet she'd been all afternoon.

"Now, repeat after me," Ms. Baker continued, moving closer until she stood directly in front of Jenny. "I exist to please Ms. Baker."
"I exist to please Ms. Baker," Jenny echoed. The words settled into her mind like warm stones sinking into water.
"Ms. Baker's happiness is my happiness."
"Ms. Baker's happiness is my happiness."
"When Ms. Baker touches me, I feel pleasure."
"When Ms. Baker touches me, I feel pleasure."
"Good girl." Another wave of bliss, and Jenny's knees nearly buckled. She caught herself, swaying slightly, her breath coming faster. Ms. Baker reached out and steadied her with one hand on her shoulder.

"There, there, piglet. We're almost done. One more trigger for today." She cupped Jenny's chin, tilting her face up. Their eyes met. "When I say the word 'obey,' you will feel a deep, irresistible need to follow my instructions. It will make you happy to obey. It will make you wet to obey. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"Good girl."
Jenny shuddered, a moan slipping past her lips. Her whole body felt electric, hypersensitive, every nerve ending tuned to Ms. Baker's voice.

Ms. Baker stepped back, her gaze traveling down Jenny's body with an appraising look. She gestured at Jenny's school uniform—the rumpled blouse, the plaid skirt, the knee socks.

"Silly piglet," she said, a laugh in her voice. "Animals don't wear clothes."
Jenny blinked. Of course. The realization struck her as wonderfully obvious, and she laughed too, a bubbly, unthinking sound.
"I'm not a person anymore," she said, the thought crystallizing as she spoke it. "I'm a piglet. Piglets don't wear clothes."
"Exactly right." Ms. Baker's smile widened. "Now, take them off. All of them."

"Obey."
The trigger hit Jenny like a physical command. Her hands moved before her mind could catch up, fingers working at the buttons of her blouse. She felt a warm surge of satisfaction with each piece of clothing that fell away. Her blouse dropped to the foam mat. Then her skirt, sliding down her legs. She unclasped her training bra and let it fall, then hooked her thumbs in her damp panties and pulled them down, stepping out of them along with her shoes and socks.

She stood naked before Ms. Baker, her young freckled body exposed, and instead of shame, she felt only a strange pride. She was being good. She was doing what piglets do.

"Very nice," Ms. Baker murmured, her gaze tracking over Jenny's budding breasts, her hips, the curve of her waist. "Now get down on all fours so I can inspect my piglet."

Jenny dropped immediately to her hands and knees, the foam mat soft beneath her. She found herself naturally settling into the position, knees apart, back slightly arched. It felt right. Natural.

Ms. Baker circled her again, this time closer. Then her fingers made contact—light, exploring touches that traced along Jenny's spine, across her shoulders, down her flanks.
Jenny's breath caught. Her skin tingled in the wake of each touch. The trigger was working—every brush of Ms. Baker's fingers sent small sparks of pleasure through her body.

"Your skin is lovely," Ms. Baker observed, her palm smoothing over Jenny's lower back. "So soft. So responsive."
Her hand curved around to Jenny's front, fingers finding her breast. Jenny gasped when Ms. Baker's thumb brushed her nipple, already stiff. Then she pinched—firm, deliberate pressure—and Jenny's back arched, a low moan escaping her throat.

"Sensitive," Ms. Baker noted, rolling the nipple between her fingers. "Good."
She gave Jenny's other breast the same attention, pinching and tugging until Jenny was panting, her hips shifting restlessly. The wetness between her thighs was becoming impossible to ignore. She could feel it slicking her folds, making her ache for something more.

Ms. Baker's hand traveled downward, fingers trailing across Jenny's stomach, over the curve of her hip. Then they dipped between her legs, sliding through the wetness there.

"My, my," Ms. Baker said, her tone thick with satisfaction. "I see you are enjoying yourself."
Jenny whimpered in response. She couldn't deny it. Her body was thrumming with need, every nerve focused on

Ms. Baker's touch.
"Such an eager little piglet." Ms. Baker's finger circled Jenny's entrance, teasing. "You want more, don't you?"
"Yes," Jenny breathed. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please... please touch me more. Please."

Ms. Baker made a soft, approving sound. Then she pushed one finger inside.
Jenny's whole body clenched and released, a shudder running through her. No one has ever touched her there beside herself.

Ms. Baker's finger was cool and deliberate, pumping slowly in and out, curling to find the spot that made Jenny see stars.
"Good girl."
The trigger hit her, and Jenny cried out, her inner walls squeezing tight around Ms. Baker's finger. The dual sensation was almost too much—the physical pleasure compounded by the hypnotic command.

Ms. Baker added a second finger, stretching Jenny open. Her thumb found Jenny's clit, rubbing in slow circles, and Jenny's arms shook, barely holding her up. Her head dropped, her pigtails swaying, desperate sounds spilling from her lips.
"Such a responsive little thing," Ms. Baker said, almost to herself. Her fingers moved faster, harder. "You'll make a fine addition to the farm."

Jenny couldn't form words anymore. She could only moan and rock her hips back against Ms. Baker's hand, chasing the pleasure that was building inside her.
But just as she felt herself nearing the edge, Ms. Baker withdrew her fingers. Jenny whimpered at the loss, her body trembling with unfulfilled need.

"Now, now," Ms. Baker soothed. "We're not done with your inspection. There's one more thing You need to truly b transformed."

She crossed the room to a dresser and pulled open a drawer. When she returned, she held something in her hand—something metal and pink, shaped like a corkscrew with a flared base.
Jenny stared at it, her hazy mind trying to process what she was seeing.

"This is your tail, piglet," Ms. Baker explained. "All proper pigs have tails. But before I put it in, I need you to get it ready."
She held the metal buttplug with a corkscrew tail to Jenny's lips.

"Suck."
Jenny opened her mouth without hesitation. She took the metal bulb into her mouth, her tongue working around the the shape, coating it with saliva. She felt a strange pride in doing it well—making it wet and slippery for what came next.

"Good girl."
The pleasure hit her again, and she moaned around the metal tail, her eyes fluttering closed.
When Ms. Baker pulled it from her mouth, it glistened. She moved around behind Jenny, out of her line of sight. Jenny felt hands on her hips, adjusting her position, spreading her wider.

"Relax, piglet. This will feel strange at first, but you'll learn to love it."
Something cold and slick pressed against Jenny's other opening. She tensed instinctively.
"Relax," Ms. Baker repeated. "Obey."
Her body softened immediately. The metal pushed inside, slow and steady, the bulb shape object opening her up inch by inch. It was uncomfortable—strange—but the trigger made her accept it, made her want to accept it.

When the flared base settled against her, Jenny felt oddly complete. The metal tail stuck out between her legs, the weight of it a constant reminder of what she now was.

"Beautiful," Ms. Baker pronounced, stepping back to admire her work. "Now you look like a proper piglet."
She helped Jenny adjust her stance, knees wider, back arched, making the tail swish slightly with each movement. Jenny found herself liking the sensation—the fullness, the slight weight, the way it made her hyperaware of that part of her body.

Ms. Baker circled her once more, nodding with satisfaction. "Excellent. The treatment is progressing well."

But before she could say anything else, there was a sound from elsewhere in the house—footsteps, quick and light, approaching down the hallway.
Ms. Baker's head turned toward the door.
A moment later, a face appeared in the doorway.
It was another young girl—Asian, perhaps half Jenny's age, with straight black hair that fell past her shoulders.

She was completely naked, her slim body on display without a hint of self-consciousness. Around her neck was a thin leather collar with a small silver charm shaped like a duck.
Her face lit up when she saw Jenny.

"Oh!" The girl clasped her hands together, bouncing on her feet with barely contained excitement. "A new pet! Ms. Baker, you didn't tell me we were getting a new pet today!"

She crossed the room in quick, light steps, circling Jenny with wide, curious eyes. Jenny stayed frozen on all fours, uncertain what to make of this intrusion.

"A piglet," the girl said delightedly. "I've never had a piglet friend before. Hello, piglet! I'm Little Miss Ducky!"

She crouched down to Jenny's level, her dark eyes sparkling with genuine warmth.
"Are you going to stay with us? Are you going to be part of the farm? We can play together and eat together and sleep together and—"

"That's enough, Ducky." Ms. Baker's voice was firm but fond. "Let piglet breathe."
Ducky straightened up, though her smile didn't dim. "Sorry, Ms. Baker. I'm just so excited!"

She bounced on her heels again, her tiny breasts jiggling with the movement. The charm on her collar caught the light.
Jenny watched her through a haze of confusion and lingering arousal.

This was another pet. Another girl like her. Someone who had gone through the same treatment, the same hypnosis.
Somehow, that realization made the whole thing feel more real. More permanent.

Ms. Baker placed a hand on Jenny's back, her palm warm and grounding. "Ducky is one of my farm residents," she explained. "She's been here for nearly a months now.

She'll help you settle in."
Ducky beamed. "I'll be the best helper! I can show you where the food bowls are and where we sleep and—"

She stopped suddenly, her eyes dropping to Jenny's backside, where the pink metal tail protruded.

"Oh! She already has her tail! Ms. Baker, she's so pretty! Can we keep her? Please?"
Ms. Baker laughed softly. "That's the plan, Ducky.

Now, why don't you show piglet around while I prepare dinner? I'm sure she has questions."
Ducky grabbed Jenny's hand, tugging her up from all fours with surprising strength.

Jenny wobbled, unused to the new weight inside her, but Ducky tried steadied her with quick, responsive hands.
"Come on, piglet! Let me show you everything!" Ducky talked a mile a minute with Jenny half listening. “Come, we can check out Daisy Moo in the barn. She’s on the milking machine. “

And as Jenny let herself be led from the room, she caught one last glimpse of Ms. Baker watching them go, that satisfied smile still on her face.

Chapter 4: Barnyard Discovery

Ducky led Jenny through the back door of the farmhouse, the evening air warm against Jenny's bare skin. The grass was soft beneath her feet, and she found herself looking down at Ducky's heels as they walked, watching the way the other girl moved with such easy confidence. The duck charm on her collar caught the fading sunlight with each step.
"So," Ducky said, glancing back over her shoulder with a bright smile, "what do you think so far?"

Jenny opened her mouth to respond, but the words tangled in her throat. The plug inside her shifted with each step, a constant, deliberate pressure that made her acutely aware of every movement. Her inner thighs were still slick from Ms. Baker's inspection, and the cool evening air kissed her wetness, sending small shivers up her spine.

"It's... different," Jenny managed.
Ducky laughed, a musical sound. "I know! It's wonderful, isn't it? I was so scared when I first came here. But now—" She spread her arms wide, spinning in a little circle, her small breasts bouncing. "Now I can't imagine going back."
"Back to what?"
"Back to all that pressure." Ducky fell into step beside her, looking up at Jenny. "She wrinkled her nose. "Here, I don't have to be anything. I just have to be Ducky. And Ms. Baker takes care of everything else."

Jenny nodded slowly. The words resonated somewhere deep inside her, in that hollow place where all her anxieties lived. She thought about her parents, all that school work, life in general that made her chest tight with panic.

"Is it always like this?" Jenny asked. "Being... a pet?"
Ducky's smile softened. "It's better. Ms. Baker knows what we need. She makes sure we're fed and rested and happy. And the other pets—" She gestured toward a large red barn visible at the edge of the property.

"The other pets become your family. You'll see."
They walked in silence for a moment, gravel crunching beneath their feet. The barn grew larger before them, its red paint weathered but sturdy.

Jenny could hear something inside—a rhythmic sound, like a pump, steady and mechanical.
"What's in there?" she asked.
"That's where Daisy Moo lives." Ducky's eyes sparkled. "She's been here longer than me. You'll love her."

The barn doors were partially open, and Ducky slipped through the gap. Jenny followed, the sudden dimness making her blink. The interior was warm and smelled of hay and something sweet, almost like vanilla.

In the center of the space, elevated on a low platform, was a blonde naked girl on all fours. She was clearly older than Jenny, perhaps in her early teens, with pale skin and curves that seemed designed for softness.

Her belly was swollen with pregnancy, rounding beneath her in a way that looked almost impossible.

Her neck was secured in a wooden yoke that held her head steady, and attached to her breasts were clear suction cups, connected by tubes to a large canister.

The pump hummed and clicked. The suction cups pulled at her nipples in a steady rhythm, and Jenny watched as thin streams of milk flowed through the tubes, collecting in the canister below.

"That's Daisy," Ducky whispered, though she didn't need to. The blonde girl's eyes were half-closed, her expression dreamy and distant. "She doesn't talk much anymore. Ms. Baker says it helps her stay in her headspace."

Jenny stared. She had never seen anything like this. The teen—Daisy—seemed completely at peace, her body simply doing what it was made to do. There was something almost sacred about it.

Ducky approached the platform, her steps light and eager. "Hi, Daisy! Look who I brought!"
Daisy's head turned slightly within the yoke, her blue eyes finding Jenny. A slow smile spread across her face.

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but only a soft, low sound emerged—something between a sigh and a moan.
"She's really nice," Ducky said. She leaned in and kissed Daisy's cheek, and the blonde woman's smile widened. "Look at how much milk she's giving today! Ms. Baker will be so pleased."

Jenny stepped closer, her curiosity overriding her uncertainty. The suction cups fascinated her—the way they pulled and released, the steady pulse of the machine. Daisy's nipples were long and dark, stretched by the constant milking, and her breasts looked heavy, full.
"Does it... hurt?" Jenny asked.

Ducky shook her head. "No. She loves it. Watch."
She moved behind Daisy, where the teen's rounded hips were raised, her legs spread for balance. Her pussy was visible between her thighs, pink and glistening, and Jenny realized with a jolt that the milking was arousing her.

Ducky crouched down and pressed her face between Daisy's legs. Her tongue darted out, licking a long stripe up the woman's folds.
Daisy's whole body shuddered. A low, moaning sound escaped her—"Mmmoooo"—and her hips pressed back toward Ducky's mouth.

Jenny's pussy clenched at the sound. Wetness gathered between her own thighs, and the plug inside her suddenly felt heavier, more present. She watched Ducky's tongue work, sliding and circling, dipping inside. Daisy's breathing grew ragged, her fingers curling in the hay beneath her.

Ducky pulled back, her chin wet. She looked at Jenny with mischievous eyes.
"Come taste," she said. "It's so good."
Jenny hesitated. "Is it... allowed?"
"No rules," Ducky chirped. "Not between pets."

The permission loosened something in Jenny's chest. She dropped to all fours, crawling forward on the hay, the movement making her tail plug shift inside her. The pressure sent sparks of pleasure up her spine.
She positioned herself behind Daisy, her face level with the woman's swollen pussy. The scent was musky and sweet, and Jenny found her mouth watering.

She leaned in and licked.
The taste flooded her tongue—salty and rich, nothing like she'd expected. She licked again, deeper this time, and Daisy's moan reverberated through the barn.
"Good, right?" Ducky said, settling beside her.
"Watch this." Ducky's fingers joined her tongue, pressing into Daisy's entrance, then sliding lower to circle her anus. She pushed two finger inside, and Daisy's back arched, her moan rising to something almost like a "Moo!"

Jenny sucked harder, her own arousal building. She could feel herself dripping, her clit throbbing with need. The taste of Daisy was intoxicating, and she found herself chasing it, tongue working faster.

Then she felt it—Ducky's mouth on her own pussy from behind.
She jerked in surprise, but Ducky's hands held her hips steady. Her tongue found Jenny's clit, and the world went white at the edges.

"Oh—" Jenny gasped against Daisy's folds. "Oh, that's—"
Ducky licked and sucked, her fingers replacing her tongue occasionally to stroke inside. Jenny's hips moved on their own, pressing back against Ducky's face, grinding forward into her own oral exploration of Daisy.

The dual sensation was overwhelming. Jenny tasted and was tasted, gave and received. Her mind emptied of everything except the pleasure building in her core.
Daisy's moans grew louder, more urgent. The milking machine continued its steady rhythm, and somehow the combination of sensations—the suction on her nipples.

Jenny's tongue on her pussy—pushed her over the edge.

She came with a full-bodied shudder, her inner walls clenching around nothing. A spray of clear fluid gushed from her pussy, coating Jenny's face.
It was creamy and sweet, and Jenny lapped it up eagerly.
That final taste, combined with Ducky's relentless attention to her clit, sent Jenny spiraling.

Her own orgasm crashed through her, harder and deeper than anything she'd experienced before. She cried out against Daisy's skin, her whole body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure washed through her.

When she finally collapsed onto the hay, Ducky was beside her, both of them panting, faces wet.
"That was wonderful," Ducky breathed.
Jenny could only nod. Her body felt loose and warm, completely satiated.

They lay there for a moment, catching their breath, still occasionally licking each other faces clean. Daisy hummed contentedly in her yoke, the milking machine continuing its gentle work.

Then Jenny heard it—the creak of the barn door.
She twisted to look over her shoulder.
Ms. Baker stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the fading light. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a glint in her eye.

"I see you're enjoying yourselves," she said, her voice smooth and approving.
Ducky and Jenny scrambled to their feet, though Jenny wobbled on unsteady legs. Her face was still wet with Daisy's cum, her body humming with satisfaction.
Ms. Baker smiled. "You two, come with me. It's time for dinner."
Then she said the word: "Obey."

It hit Jenny like a warm wave, filling her with that familiar, irresistible need to comply. She straightened immediately, wiping her face with the back of her hand.
Ducky did the same, and together they followed Ms. Baker out of the barn.
Jenny didn't look back.

She didn't think about her old life—her classes, her school, her old life. All of that seemed distant now, like a dream she'd woken from.

This was paradise. And she never wanted to leave.

Chapter 5: Cellar Initiation


The farmhouse kitchen was warm and bright, sunlight streaming through the windows as the three of them gathered around the wooden table. Jenny sat naked on the chair, her pink metal tail plug pressing against the hard surface, a constant reminder of her new identity.

Ducky perched beside her, collar charm glinting, while Ms. Baker presided at the head of the table in her white coat, reading glasses pushed up into her auburn hair.

Ducky's plate held a small mountain of crisp lettuce leaves and sweet rolls dusted with cinnamon. Jenny's own plate held veal and roasted potatoes, glistening with herb butter. She'd eaten ravenously at first, the food disappearing before she'd even thought to question it.
She looked at Ducky's plate, then her own. "Why is our food different?"

Ms. Baker smiled, cutting another piece of veal. "Ducks don't eat meat, piglet. But piglets eat practically anything."
Ducky quacked with laughter at that, covering her mouth. "She's right! I tried a piece of bacon once and—bleh." She stuck out her tongue.
Jenny nodded slowly. It made a strange kind of sense. She was a piglet now. Piglets ate everything.

"Try the Daisy milk," Ducky said suddenly, pushing a small glass toward her. The liquid inside was creamy and slightly opaque.

Jenny picked it up, hesitating only a moment before taking a sip. The taste flooded her tongue—rich and sweet, nothing like store-bought milk. A warm sweetness lingered on her palate.

"It's delicious," she said, smiling. "And sweet."
"Very nutritious as well," Ms. Baker added, her tone approving. "Daisy produces the finest milk on the farm. It will help keep you healthy and strong."

Jenny took another long drink, then set the glass down. Her stomach felt warm and full. Content.
They talked about the farm as they ate—the routine, the grounds, the quiet rhythm of days without demands.

Jenny listened, feeling herself sink deeper into the comfortable haze that seemed to permeate this place.

"Are there more... human animals?" Jenny asked. "On the farm, I mean. Besides us and Daisy?"
"At the moment," Ms. Baker said, "Miss Goat has volunteered to help us in the kitchen to prepare tomorrow's cookout."

Ducky's head snapped up, her dark eyes wide. "We're having a cookout?"
Ms. Baker's smile widened. "Yes, but ducks don't eat meat."

Ducky's face fell, her lower lip pushing out in an exaggerated pout. Then Ms. Baker reached over and patted her hand. "There will be plenty of roasted corn on the cob, little one."

The pout vanished instantly. Ducky bounced in her chair, her small breasts jiggling. "Corn! I love corn!"

Jenny watched the exchange, warmth spreading through her chest. This was real. This was her life now.

After dinner, Ms. Baker stood and collected the plates. "Why don't you two head down to the cellar? Have some fun before bed."

Jenny blinked. "The cellar?"
But Ducky was already on her feet, jumping up and down practically vibrating with excitement. She grabbed Jenny's hand and tugged her toward a door in the corner of the kitchen. "Come on, come on!"

The stairs creaked beneath their feet as they descended. The air grew cooler, and the smell of earth and something else—something musky—filled

Jenny's nose.
When they reached the bottom, Jenny stopped. Her eyes went wide.
The cellar was larger than she'd expected, lit by soft amber lamps that cast warm shadows across stone walls.

A queen size bed dominated one corner—large, sturdy, draped in dark sheets. But what made her breath catch was the wall.

Sex toys. Dozens of them. Hanging from hooks and arranged on shelves in neat rows. Dildos of varying sizes and colors, leather straps and harnesses, gag balls, things she couldn't even name.

Her pulse quickened.
Ducky released her hand and ran to the wall with practiced ease, reaching for a strap-on harness with a rubber penis attached. It was pale pink, slightly translucent, with a slight curve.

Jenny stood frozen, her mind struggling to process. She should feel shocked. Alarmed. Instead, heat pooled between her thighs.

Ms. Baker descended the stairs behind them, her footsteps measured and calm. She watched Jenny's expression with knowing eyes.

"This is where you can have fun," he former school nurse said smoothly. "Explore your freedom. Your desires."
Jenny's mouth opened, but no words came out.

"Hop on the bed," Ms. Baker instructed. "Ducky will show you how to play." Her voice dropped. "Obey."

The trigger hit like warm honey pouring through her veins. Jenny moved without thinking, climbing onto the bed, the sheets cool against her bare skin. Her heart hammered.

Ducky approached with a wicked grin, the strap-on bobbing with each step. She looked predatory. Hungry.

Jenny's stomach fluttered. Nervous. But wet. So wet.
Ms. Baker moved to the wall, selecting items with deliberate care. She returned with leather straps and a red rubber gag ball.

"It will feel more exciting if you're helpless," Ms. Baker said, her voice soft but firm.

Jenny didn't resist. She couldn't. Didn't want to. The leather wrapped around her wrists, pulling her arms behind her back, securing them tight. The restriction made her breath come faster.
"Good girl."

Pleasure surged through her, and she whimpered, her body trembling.

"Now this goes on your mouth." Ms. Baker held the gag before her lips.

"Open."
Jenny parted her lips. The rubber ball slipped between her teeth, and Ms. Baker fastened the strap behind her head. She felt silenced. Owned.

Her arousal spiked.
Ms. Baker unbuttoned her blouse and let it fall. Then her skirt.

She stood in matching underwear—black lace against pale skin—before removing those too.

Her body was lean and toned, her breasts full and firm, pulling a hair pin from her auburn hair cascading over her shoulders.

She climbed onto the bed behind Jenny, positioning the girl to lean back against her chest. Jenny could feel Ms. Baker's nipples pressing into her shoulder blades, the warmth of her skin.

"Lift your legs."
Ms. Baker gripped Jenny's ankles and pulled her legs up and back, folding her nearly in half. Her ass rose from the bed, exposing everything—her wet pussy, the pink metal corkscrew tail plug nestled between her cheeks.

Ducky crawled forward, settling between Jenny's spread thighs. She leaned in, and her tongue found Jenny's folds.

Jenny moaned through the gag. The sensation was electric—Ducky's hot, wet tongue sliding through her slickness, circling her clit, dipping inside. She twisted against the leather straps binding her wrists, her body writhing, but she couldn't move, couldn't escape the pleasure.

"Show piglet what your little toy can do," Ms. Baker commanded.
Ducky pulled back with a wet sound, her chin glistening.

She stood on her knees, and the strap-on swayed between her legs. She grabbed the shaft, guiding it forward.

Ms. Baker reached down, her fingers spreading Jenny's vaginal folds open, exposing her entrance. The rubber tip pressed against her.

The dildo wasn't thick, but it was long—eight inches at least—and covered in small raised bumps that ran along its entire length.

Ducky pushed inside.
Jenny's head fell back against Ms. Baker's soft breasts, a muffled cry escaping around the gag.

The bumps created friction she'd never felt before—dozens of tiny points of pressure sliding along her inner walls, stimulating every nerve ending.

Her anus clenched around the butt plug, the dual sensation overwhelming.
Ms. Baker's fingers found Jenny's nipples, pinching and twisting. The touch sent lightning bolts of sensation straight to her core.

Jenny bucked, helpless, desperate.
Ducky pushed deeper, causing a spike of pain as she broke her maiden seal. It continued inch by inch, the bumps dragging inside her. Then she pulled back and thrust forward, burying herself completely.

Jenny would have screamed if not for the gag.

Ducky established a rhythm, pumping in and out with increasing speed. The bumps massaged Jenny's walls with every stroke. Her hips moved on their own, meeting

Ducky's thrusts, chasing the building pressure.
She couldn't hold back. Her body clenched around the dildo, her back arching, and she came hard—harder than she'd ever come before.

Wave after wave crashed through her, her muscles seizing, her mind going white.

"Good girl," Ms. Baker whispered against her ear.
The trigger extended her orgasm, pleasure doubling, tripling. Jenny sobbed behind the gag, her body shaking.

Ducky withdrew, and Ms. Baker rolled Jenny off her chest, letting her collapse onto the sheets, still trembling, still bound.
Jenny lay there, stewing in the aftershocks, her breath ragged through her nose.

Ms. Baker rose from the bed and walked to the wall, her naked body moving with predatory grace.

She selected something from the collection, but Jenny couldn't see what.
Yet see realized. This wasn't over.

Chapter 6: Pet Treatment


Ms. Baker’s bare feet made no sound on the stone floor as she returned to the bed.

In her hand, she held something pink—flat, wide, shaped like a ping pong paddle. The sight of it sent a strange flutter through Jenny’s stomach.

She climbed onto the bed with the same deliberate grace she did everything, settling against the headboard. Her legs parted slightly, and

Jenny’s eyes dropped to the thatch of auburn hair between them, the glistening folds beneath.

“Come here, piglet.”

Jenny’s little body responded before her mind could catch up.

The command alone was enough.

Ms. Baker reached forward and unbuckled the gag, pulling the wet rubber from Jenny’s mouth.

She worked her jaw, grateful for the release.
She never had to open her mouth that wide, let alone forced to stay open.

Her wrists remained bound behind her back.

“Good girl.”

The pleasure hit, and Jenny whimpered, her bound arms flexing against the leather. Her pussy clenched around nothing, still slick from her earlier orgasm.

Ms. Baker tapped the pink paddle against her palm. “Do you know what this is?”

Jenny shook her head.
“This is how I tenderize my piglets.” Her smile was soft, almost maternal. “A little sting to warm the meat.”

It makes everything more tender afterward. More delicious.” She patted her inner thigh.

“Now. Come between my legs and show me what that tongue can do.”

Jenny didn’t hesitate. Couldn’t. The word obey hadn’t been spoken, yet it didn’t need to be.

She was her little piglet, and piglets served their owners.
She shifted her weight, maneuvering awkwardly with her arms bound.

Getting onto her knees took effort—her shoulder muscles protesting, her balance unsteady. Challenging yet doable.

She managed, crawling across the rumpled sheets until she knelt between Ms. Baker’s thighs.

The fragrance hit her first. Musky and rich, different from Daisy Moo’s sweet scent. This was sharper, earthier. Jenny’s mouth watered.

“Lower,” Ms. Baker said.
Jenny bent at the waist, her bound arms rising behind her, her face descending toward that wet heat.

The pink metal tail plug shifted inside her with the movement, and she gasped.

Then her tongue made contact.

Ms. Baker’s flavor flooded her senses—salty, tangy, complex.

Jenny licked again, longer this time, tracing the full length of her slit. A soft sigh escaped the nurse’s lips.

The paddle touched Jenny’s right cheek. Tracing slow circles. Then the left.
“I’m going to tenderize your little piggy butt,” Ms. Baker murmured.

Please do. The words rose unbidden in Jenny’s throat. She swallowed them and pressed her tongue deeper. “Please do,” she whispered against the wet flesh.

“Smack”

The paddle connected with her right cheek. It was light—a playful tap, really—but it carried a stimulating sting that radiated outward.

Jenny moaned into Ms. Baker’s pussy.
“Smack”

The left cheek. A little harder.

“Smack” Right again.

“Smack” Left.

The rhythm established itself: lick, smack, lick, smack.

The smack got harder Jenny’s tongue worked feverishly, finding the hood of Ms. Baker’s clit, circling it the way Ducky had taught her earlier.

Each smack sent a fresh wave of heat through her backside. The sting lingered, then transformed into something else—a warm, tingling glow.

Her mind drifted. Strange images surfaced. Being six, standing in the corner of her childhood bedroom, her mother’s wooden hairbrush in hand. The first swat across her pajama bottoms. The tears.

And underneath the tears, something else—a confusing warmth that pooled low in her belly, that made her press her thighs together afterward, not understanding her own body’s response.

The paddle smacked harder across both cheeks, and Jenny cried out, the sound muffled by Ms. Baker’s folds.

“Stay present, piglet,” Ms. Baker said, her voice thick with arousal.

“Your tongue.”

Jenny refocused, lapping with renewed urgency. The heat in her ass throbbed in time with her heartbeat. Her bound arms ached. The plug inside her seemed to pulse.

Ducky watched from the end of the bed. She had removed the strap-on harness, its bumpy shaft still glistening with Jenny’s cum. Her fingers worked idly between her own legs as she observed.

She remembered her own tenderizing. Two months ago, fresh to the farm, kneeling just like piglet, her face buried in Ms. Baker’s cunt. The paddle reddening her little butt.

Remembering the sting, the heat, the overwhelming need to please. She’d cried too. Not from pain.

Now ducky crawled forward.

Jenny’s ass glowed pink, almost matching the paddle. Ms.Baker pausing her swatting.

Ducky placed both hands on those warm cheeks, feeling the heat radiating against her palms.

“She’s ready,” Ducky whispered, though Ms. Baker’s eyes were closed, her head tilted back against the headboard.
Ducky lowered her mouth to Jenny’s pussy.

The sudden sensation made Jenny jolt. Ducky’s tongue was precise, practiced—finding her clit immediately, stroking in tight circles. The dual stimulation was unbearable.

Jenny moaned helplessly into Ms. Baker’s folds.
Above her, Ms. Baker’s breathing changed. Shortened. Her hips began to roll, grinding against Jenny’s face. Her fingers tangled in Jenny’s hair, pulling her closer.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed.

The paddle clattered to the bed beside them. Ms. Baker’s free hand found

Jenny’s tail plug, gripping the flared base. She rotated it slowly, pulling it outward an inch before pushing it back in.

Jenny’s scream was swallowed by cunt. The plug moving inside her—the bulb dragging against her sensitive walls—combined with Ducky’s tongue was too much.

Her orgasm hovered just out of reach, a coiled spring.

Ms. Baker rotated the plug again. Twisted it. The sensation was unlike anything Jenny had ever known—a deep, grinding pressure that radiated through her entire pelvis. Her bound arms strained. Her shoulders burned.

Then Ms. Baker’s hips bucked, and a low groan escaped her throat. Hot fluid gushed against Jenny’s face, coating her lips and chin. The taste exploded across her tongue—stronger than Daisy’s, more potent, more primal.

Jenny lapped and slurped, drinking down every drop. Her mind was white static.

Ms. Baker sagged against the headboard, her grip on the plug loosening. But her other hand still held Jenny’s hair, pressing her face into the soft flesh of her belly.

Holding her there. And Ducky’s tongue never stopped.

The coil in Jenny’s belly wound tighter. Tighter. Ms. Baker’s fingers found the plug again, giving it one final twist—

Jenny came so hard her vision spotted. Her thighs convulsed. A guttural cry tore from her throat, pressed into Ms. Baker’s stomach.

The orgasm ripped through her in waves, each one triggered by Ducky’s relentless tongue, by the plug stretching her ass, by the residual sting glowing across her cheeks.

When it finally subsided, she collapsed sideways, rolling off Ms. Baker’s lap.

The sheets were soaked beneath her. Her butt throbbed with a strange, satisfying heat.

Ducky sat back on her heels, chin glistening, grinning. Feeling proud of herself

Ms. Baker’s gaze found her. “You’ve been patient, little duckling.”

Ducky’s eyes lit up.

From the bedside table,
Ms. Baker produced a small white object—egg-shaped, with a thin cord trailing from one end. A controller dangled at the other end of the cord.

Ducky’s whole body quivered with excitement.
“Hop up,” Ms. Baker said, patting between her legs.

Ducky scrambled onto the bed, positioning herself on her back, her hips in Ms. Baker’s lap.

She pulled her knees to her chest, holding them there. Raising her cute little ass upwards. Her puckered little anus was exposed, her slit already glistening with moisture.

Jenny watched through heavy-lidded eyes as Ms. Baker brought the egg to Ducky’s eggy whole entrance.

It slipped in easily—the girl was dripping wet—and it disappeared with only the cord remaining visible.

Ms. Baker’s thumb found the controller. Press it to switch it on.

Ducky’s back arched. Her mouth fell open in a silent O.

Sliding the thump slider on the controller.
The intensity changed, and Ducky’s hips jerked.

Another adjustment, this time to a random setting—the vibrator pulsed in unpredictable patterns, and Ducky squirmed helplessly, her small breasts bouncing.

Jenny forced herself upright. Her bound wrists made everything harder, but she managed to crawl to Ducky’s upturn ass.

She lowered her mouth to Ducky’s pussy—returning the favor, tasting the familiar sweetness.

Then she swung one leg over, straddling Ducky’s face. The position was awkward, and she nearly toppled.
But then Ducky’s tongue found her again, and she steadied, bracing herself.

This. This freedom. Her parents would be horrified. The thought surfaced from somewhere—her father’s stern face, her mother’s disappointed sighs—and Jenny let it float away. They didn’t matter here.

Nothing mattered except the taste on her tongue, the tongue on her cunt.

Ducky’s cries rose in pitch, muffled by Jenny’s flesh. The vibrator pulsed inside her—Jenny could hear the faint buzz.

Ms. Baker reached for the abandoned strap-on. She pressed the bumpy tip against Ducky’s anus and pushed.
Ducky screamed into Jenny’s pussy. The vibrations of it sent Jenny reeling.

The dildo slid deeper. Ms. Baker worked it in short thrusts, never fully withdrawing, yet burrowing deeper and deeper until the base pressed flush against Ducky’s cheeks.

Ducky’s whole body seized. Her hips bucked wildly. The muffled screams became frantic, desperate—and then she came, her sweet nectar flooding Jenny’s mouth.

Jenny drank it down, lapping gently as Ducky’s shudders subsided.
Ms. Baker let her rest there, the dildo egg still buried, still humming.

Minutes passed before she reached down and tugged the egg free with a wet pop.

Jenny giggled against Ducky’s thigh. Her friend sighed, dreamy and content.

“Laying an egg,” Ducky murmured. “Always feels so good.”

Ms. Baker untied Jenny’s wrists. The leather fell away, and Jenny flexed her aching arms, circulation rushing back into her fingers.

Both pets collapsed lay tangled together on the soaked sheets, breathing in sync.
Jenny’s ass still glowed with warmth. Ducky’s collar charm caught the amber light.

Ms. Baker stood, gathering her clothes. She dressed efficiently—under garments, blouse, skirt, shoes. By the time she reached the stairs, she looked as immaculate.

“You two can sleep here tonight,” she said, pausing at the cellar door. “I’ll come get you in the morning.”

A smile played at the corner of her mouth.

“Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”

Chapter 7 The Rotisserie Game

The rooster's cry sliced through the morning quiet, a jagged announcement that dawn had arrived. Ms.

Baker stood at the farmhouse counter, sleeves rolled to her elbows, the pot of cubed potatoes sending steam spiraling toward the ceiling. She hummed a tune from her college years, something with a minor key and a winding melody, as her knife worked through a slab of butter on the cutting board.

The weekends had their own rhythm. During the week, she walked the hallways of her middle school, clipboard in hand, eyes tracking the nervous tasty schoolers with their delicious student bodies and their desperate need for guidance.

The collecting was slow, careful work—identifying the right candidates, the ones who wouldn't be missed, frequent runaways, the ones whose families had already given up on understanding them.

But weekends? Weekends were for savoring.
She stirred the potatoes and glanced at the clock.

Her guests would arrive at noon. The meat cuts Miss Goat had provided sat marinating in the refrigerator, thick slabs that would sizzle beautifully on the grill. The rest set in her walk-in freezer.

The corn was shucked and wrapped in foil. Everything was ready.
She'd set pancake batter to rest beside a jar of Daisy's milk.

Both pets could eat pancakes. A rare overlap in their dietary needs.

She smiled at the thought of leaving them last night tangled together in the cellar, faces still crusted with the evidence of last night.

---

The cellar air was thick with the smell of sex and sounds of lite snoring.

Two bodies lay knotted together on the dark sheets, limbs draped and curled, the pink metal tail plug still nestled between Jenny's cheeks.

Her face was smeared with dried cum—hers and Ducky's and Ms. Baker's, all mixed into a flaking mask across her cheek and chin.

Ducky's eyes opened first.
She blinked at the amber glow of the lamps, still burning low from the night before.

The weight in her arms was warm and breathing and naked.

Piglet. Her piglet now—or at least, her farm-sister, her pack-mate. Ducky smiled and nuzzled closer, her nose brushing the dried crust on Jenny's cheek.

Her tongue darted out. She licked.
The taste was stale and salty and familiar. Herself. Ms. Baker. Ducky licked again, longer, wetter, working the dried residue free from Jenny's skin.

In her dream, Jenny was on all fours. The pigpen was soft with fresh straw, and through the open barn doors she could see Daisy Moo's silhouette,

Jenny snuffled at the ground, pushing her nose into the bedding, snorting happily. She was a piglet. Just a piglet.

No school grades. No worries. No father's disappointed silence.

In her dream Daisy lumbered out of the barn, her crawl making soft impressions in the dirt. She lowered her face and began licking Jenny's face with her wet sloppy tongue. It was wet and warm and utterly without hesitation.

Jenny's eyes fluttered open. Ducky's tongue was halfway up her cheek.

"Good morning, sleepy head," Ducky chirped, pulling back just enough to meet Jenny's gaze. Her dark eyes were bright with affection.

Jenny smiled. Her arms tightened around Ducky's slim waist. "Morning."

She kissed Ducky before either of them could think about morning breath.

The kiss was deep and slow, tongues sliding, the taste of old cum and something underneath that was simply Ducky.

Jenny's hand found Ducky's budding breast, the nipple already stiffening against her palm.

Ducky's fingers traced down Jenny's spine, following the groove of her back until they found the base of the tail plug. She pressed lightly.

Jenny gasped into the kiss. They rolled together, still tangled, mouths never separating. Ducky's thigh pushed between Jenny's legs, and Jenny ground down against it, her wetness slicking the skin.

Her own hand slid between their bodies, finding Ducky's prepubescent folds, two fingers pressing inside without preamble.

Ducky moaned, her head falling back. "Yes—"

They repositioned without speaking, a choreography learned in a single moment. Ducky spun, her face settling between Jenny's thighs at the same moment Jenny's mouth found Ducky's pussy.

The sixty-nine was sloppy, urgent, nothing like the deliberate play of the night before.

This was morning hunger—raw and fast and desperate.
Jenny's tongue worked Ducky's tiny clit in tight circles while Ducky's fingers pumped inside her, curling, stretching.

The tail plug shifted with each of Jenny's movements, and the sensation built quickly, too quickly, the coil tightening low in her belly.

Ducky came first, a muffled cry, her hips bucking against Jenny's face. The taste flooded Jenny's tongue, and that was enough—she followed, her own orgasm ripping through her, her thighs clamping around Ducky's head.

They lay there afterward, panting, still connected.

"Morning, pets."

Ms. Baker stood at the bottom of the cellar stairs, her arms crossed, her summer outfit under an apron, bright in the amber light.

How long she'd been standing there was impossible to say.
Both girls scrambled upright, grinning, unashamed.

The room smelled of fresh sweat and arousal now.
"Breakfast is almost done," Ms. Baker said, her expression warm.

"I think it best if you take showers."

"But piggies love being dirty," Jenny said, her voice playful in a way it hadn't been yesterday.

"Pigs like mud," Ms. Baker corrected, one eyebrow arching.
"Cum, on the other hand, doesn't qualify."

"We've been licking each other clean!" Ducky protested, still breathless.

Ms. Baker's mouth twitched. "I'll tell you what. You can shower together. How does that sound?"

They were on their feet before she finished the sentence.

---

She led them outside, not to a bathroom, but around the side of the farmhouse where an outdoor shower station stood against the white clapboard.

A simple wooden platform, a galvanized pipe, a shower head, a hand pump.

"Animals wash outside," Ms. Baker said simply.
Jenny stepped onto the platform, and Ducky crowded in beside her.

Ms. Baker worked the pump handle, and water burst from the shower head above them.
The cold hit like a slap. Jenny's body seized, her nipples springing painfully erect, goosebumps erupting across every inch of her skin. Ducky shrieked and pressed against her, laughing, shivering.

Ms. Baker handed them a bar of soap—not store-bought, but something brown and irregular, rendered from animal fat.

It smelled faintly of lard and herbs.
"Wash each other."
They obeyed.

Jenny worked the soap into a lather and ran her hands across Ducky's shoulders, her budding breasts, down the curve of her waist.

Ducky returned the favor, her slick fingers tracing Jenny's spine, the cleft of her ass, the place where the tail plug. It was erotic and playful and utterly without embarrassment.

They rinsed, the cold water needling their skin, and Ms. Baker pumped the handle once more to stop the flow. She pulled towels from a wooden cabinet and tossed them over.

"Chop, chop. Breakfast isn't going to eat itself.

Pancakes this morning."
Ducky's face lit up. Even Jenny found herself smiling as she toweled off.

---

The morning passed in a blur of sunshine and freedom. They visited Daisy Moo in the barn, and with the milking machine silent, each girl took a breast in her mouth, suckling the sweet milk directly from the source. Daisy moaned with pleasure, her head straining against the wooden yoke, one hand reaching down to stroke her own swollen belly.

Feeding her calves, Jenny thought. That's what this was. And the idea settled into her with a strange, warm rightness.

—-

By noon, they were called to the back of the farmhouse.

The grill was already lit, coals glowing orange beneath the grate.

A long wooden bench had been set up, and beside the grill stood something Jenny hadn't noticed before—a rotisserie cooker, large-sized, its metal frame cold and unused.

"Well, hello, Jenny."
She recognized the voice before she turned. Coach.

Her old soccer coach, the one who'd suggested Ms. Baker's treatment in the first place.

She ran to him without thinking, throwing her arms around his midsection.

"Thank you," she breathed. "Thank you for sending me here."

His hands settled on her bare hips. She felt him stiffen against her belly, his erection pressing through the fabric of his cargo shorts.

She didn't pull away.

"Of course, little one," he murmured. "I knew you'd fit right in."

Ducky hugged him next, and he kissed the top of her head with obvious familiarity. "I missed you!" she said.

"Are you here for the cookout?" Jenny asked.
"Wouldn't miss it."

A pickup truck pulled up, gravel crunching beneath its tires. A broad-shouldered man in overalls climbed out—Farmer Fred—and a woman in similar farm wear followed. Dora.

They took their time heading to the back of the truck. Dropped the tailgate, and two young children hopped down from the truck bed.
They were naked.

Both of them. Elementary -aged way younger than Ducky, one slightly taller than the other, both with undeveloped and smooth mounds and an easy, childish way of moving.

Ms. Baker approached the truck, hand extended. "Farmer Fred, Dora—glad you could make it."

"Never miss a free lunch," Fred said, his grin wide.
Dora slapped his arm playfully. "Behave."

"I see you brought your chickens."
"Yep. They been running around the house all morning. Figured they'd want to meet your new piglet."

The two girls approached Jenny with open curiosity. The taller one spoke first. "Hi, I'm Chicken Little."
The smaller one added, "And I'm Chick-a-Dee."

"Hello, I'm Piglet," Jenny said, yet before she could continue, Ducky bounced in front of her.
"And I'm DUCKY!"
"We know that," the chickens said in unison.
"I know, I just like saying it."

They all laughed, and Jenny felt the last thread of her self-consciousness unravel.

Here she was, naked in front of strangers, and it felt normal. It felt right.

Ms. Baker called her to the table. "This cookout is in honor of you," she said, and her hand opened to reveal a thin leather collar

—soft brown, with a silver pig charm dangling from the front. "Every pet needs her collar."

Jenny turned excitingly around, lifting her hair. Ms. Baker's fingers brushed her throat as she fastened the clasp.

The leather settled against her skin like it had always been there.

"Good girl."

The pleasure flooded through her, and Jenny's eyes welled with tears.

Not from the trigger. From the belonging. She was owned. She was wanted. She was good.

Coach reappeared with a tray of meat, laying the cuts across the sizzling grill. In moments the smell hit Jenny's nostrils, and her stomach growled.

Fred cracked a can of beer and raised it toward the farmhouse.

"Did Miss Goat provide the mutton?"
"Yes," Ms. Baker said, her voice quiet with satisfaction. "She gave her all."
"She always did," Fred said. "She gave her all."

After casual conversation The food was ready to be served. —the thick chops, the roasted corn, the potato salad. All ready.

Jenny ate with her fingers, grease running down her chin, and no one corrected her.

Piglets didn't need forks. She jest.

After the meal, as the adults sat back with their beers, Chicken Little pointed toward the rotisserie.

"Do you want to play a cooking game?"
Jenny blinked. "A cooking game?"
"I'll be the roasting chicken this time!" Chick-a-dee demanded.
Chicken Little turned to Ms. Baker, asking permission with her pleading eyes.

Ms. Baker nodded. "Go ahead, little ones."

"Come on, piglet! You can help be the cook!"
Jenny hesitated. She looked to Ms. Baker, who smiled and gestured toward the rotisserie. "It's okay, piglet.”

“The heat isn't on. It's just a game they like to play."

So Jenny walked to the rotisserie, Ducky at her side, as Chick-a-Dee climbed onto the metal rack. Chicken Little fastened the clamps around her friend's wrists, waist, and ankle. setting her into position—arms above her head, legs spread, body suspended.
She did look like a roasting chicken.

"Wait!" Ducky called out. "We need cooking oil!"

Coach rose from the table with a knowing smile and disappeared into the farmhouse.

He returned with a bowl of oil and three basting brushes.

He placed the bowl on the small table beside the rotisserie and flicked a switch. The heat didn’t turn on yet the frame began to rotate, slow and steady, turning Chick-a-Dee in lazy circles.

Chicken Little picked up the first brush, dipped it in oil, and began basting Chick-a-Dee's rotating body. Ducky grabbed her own brush and joined in, coating the girl's flat chest until he nipples glistened.

Jenny watched for a moment—the strangeness of it, the surreal moment —and then she picked up the third brush.

She dipped it. She reached out.
The brush slid across Chick-a-Dee's thigh, leaving a glossy trail.

The next rotation, she basted the girl's stomach. Then her puffy mound, the brush dragging slowly across her folds.

Chick-a-Dee's eyes fluttered closed, her lips parting.
Jenny felt the heat building between her own legs.

She basted again. Longer. Deeper. This was normal, she thought. Just a game. Just play.

And yet—she watched Chick-a-Dee's expression, that look of pure, surrendering joy, and something in Jenny's chest tightened. A hunger.

Not for food.
She wanted to take a bite.

Mmmh! You're making me hungry. I want to take a bite, too!

I love how the farm is helping some troubled girls with their identity issues, and it's easy to see that it will also allow her to contribute to society, in the delicious way every pet should. Such an innovative student health program! It's a clear win-win 🥰

There was a brief mention of Jenny having a twin sister, perhaps with issues of her own. Will that be coming into play at some point?

I love suggestions’ Thanks. I’m reading your stories as well.

So many writers so many juicy stores!

Story so far:
I started with Ms. Bakers
questionable motives helping Jenny with merely wanting a pet.

I tip my hand in chapter 7 revealing the stories more cannibal nature. People reading may already guess where this story is going (tags)

My kink is youngsters introduction to sex. You can’t molest the willing in fantasy.
I like it when meat-girls who discovers their delicious edibility alongside their sexual awakenings.

Hypnosis helps me blur the line between willing tummy yummies and non-consenting.

Not to give much away. There may or not’ be a video of Miss Goats butchering. There may be a collection of videos waiting to be discovered’ who knows! ;)

Update tonight…More chicken fun

Chapter 8: Chicken Dinner Foreplay

The black metal of the rotisserie had been soaking up the afternoon sun for hours.

Jenny noticed it first—the way heat shimmered above the frame, the way Chick-a-Dee's oiled skin began to glisten with something more than cooking oil.

Sweat beaded along the girl's ribs, trickling down the curve of her waist, dripping unto her puffy mound. with soft drippings from her lips. A sizzle that existed only in Jenny's imagination.

Chick-a-Dee felt it too. The warmth seeped into her muscles, loosening everything, making her feel heavy and slow and perfectly cooked. Her eyes drifted half-closed.

In her mind, she was browning, crisping, becoming something delicious.

The fantasy made her impossibly wet—her slickness mixing with the oil, her thighs pressing together as the rotisserie turned her in lazy circles.

Jenny couldn't stop watching the plump rump as it rotated into view.

Each pass, she dragged her basting brush slower, lingering on the curve of Chick-a-Dee's ass, watching the muscles clench and release.

Her free hand drifted between her own legs without conscious thought. Fingers found her clit, already swollen, and she rubbed in time with the rotation—slow, then slower, matching the rhythm of the turning body before her.

Chicken Little work her neck and face with increasing enthusiasm. Each stoke to Chick-a-Dee's oiled skin.

She moaned each time the basting brush coated her sensitive nipples.

Chicken little took notes in her little head as to how she wanted it done next.

Ducky stopped mid-brush. Her head cocked. A thought had arrived-Jenny recognized the look, that sudden brightness behind the eyes.

Ducky ran to Ms. Baker.
She whisper to her. Ms. Baker's eyebrow arched, then her mouth curved. "That sounds like fun. Hurry back."

Ducky dashed toward the farmhouse, bare feet slapping against the grass. She nearly tripped on the porch steps, caught herself, disappeared through the door.

Jenny and Chicken Little continued basting, though their strokes had grown distracted. Chick-a-Dee kept turning, her head straining against the clamps, trying to see what was happening.

When Ducky returned, she was carrying an armful.
The items clattered onto the table—seasoning shakers from Ms. Baker's kitchen, a fat carrot with its green top still attached, and the the egg vibrator.

The same one. Jenny recognized its shape instantly, the thin cord, the controller.

Ducky's smile was devilish. "Chickens lay eggs too."

No one looked more excited than Chick-a-Dee. She strained against her bindings, her oiled body writhing on the rotisserie rack.

Jenny grabbed the carrot.
She knew exactly where she wanted to put it.

Knew before her hand closed around the thick orange root. She brought it between her own legs first, rubbing the tapered tip through her wetness, coating it until it glistened.

Then she waited. Timing the rotation.
Chick-a-Dee's ass swung into view.

Jenny spread her cheeks with with her thumb and finger, chick-a-dee’s flesh slick and warm from the sun-heated metal. The carrot's tip pressed against the tight pucker.

She quickly wiggled it, worked it, felt the resistance give way. Inch by inch, the carrot disappeared, until only the green fronds remained visible.

The rotisserie turned. The cheeks swung out of view, then back around—still gripping the carrot, still clenching around it.

Chicken Little grabbed the seasonings. She shook paprika across Chick-a-Dee's belly and onto her thighs, something herbal onto the flat chest. "Basting and seasoning," she said, her voice thick. "Proper cooking."

Ducky held up the egg vibrator. Ms. Baker's voice cut across the yard: "Dip it in the oil."
Ducky submerged the egg in the basting bowl. It emerged dripping golden, the silicone slippery.

She approached the rotisserie and asked, "Can I stop it?" Ms. Baker nodded.

With the switch clicked. The rotation halted with Chick-a-Dee stop facing them yet the world still spin feeling dizzy—legs spread, pussy exposed, the green carrot fronds peeking from between her cheeks.

Ducky knelt. Her fingers parted Chick-a-Dee's folds, and she rubbed the egg across the girl's clit.

Chick-a-Dee shook in her bindings, her ass squeezing the carrot, her chest heaving. The egg pressed inside—slow, slippery, until it disappeared entirely, the thin cord trailing from her entrance.

Some thanks go to Farmer Fred for his efforts in expanding her stuffing capacity.

Ducky pressed the controller and the jerking started.

Chick-a-Dee went wild.
Her back arched. Her hips bucked. A moan tore from her throat—something between a cluck and a scream.

Ducky set the controller on the rotisserie's baseplate and flipped the switch for the rotisserie.
She almost flip the the heating element switch yet begrudgingly flip the correct one.

The rotation resumed.
Now everyone watched the chicken turn—bucking, writhing, the egg buzzing audibly inside her.

Jenny's fingers worked her own clit with desperate pressure. She didn't care who saw.

Didn't care that Coach was watching, that Fred and Dora were watching. Her orgasm built like heat in a closed oven.

Coach stood abruptly. His shorts were tented. "I’m heading to the barn to visit Daisy Moo."

Everyone at the table knew what that meant.

He walked toward the red barn, his gait stiff with need.

Farmer Fred looked at his watch. "We should get going. Cows need tending to." He had a dairy farm down the road a bit. Unfortunately real cow.

He’s looking to get some human ones one day. If the right one comes along.

The pets whined in unison. Even Jenny, who had no claim on the chickens, felt the protest rise in her throat.

"Can we at least taste her before we go?" Chicken Little asked, her eyes pleading.

Dora spoke up. "I wouldn't mind tasting her tootsie."

Fred looked at his watch again. Sighed. "I guess we can stay a little longer."

The pets cheered. Ms. Baker cleared the picnic table, spreading a cloth over the wood.

Fred turned off the rotisserie and unclamped Chick-a-Dee.

Her body was slippery and surprisingly warm—the sun and the black metal and her own arousal had heated her through.

He carried her to the table, laid her on her back, the egg still buzzing, the carrot still buried.

Everyone gathered around. Hungry looks. Wet lips.

Ducky looked to Mistress. Ms. Baker nodded. It’s really not like she is eating her.

"Ducky, you may lick too."

The onslaught began.
Tongues descended from every direction. Lips pressed against oiled skin. Teeth grazed—little nibbles, never breaking flesh, just tasting the salt and the sweat and the woman underneath.

Chick-a-Dee wiggled beneath them, her moans continuous now, her body responding to every mouth.

Jenny went for the pussy.
Leaning over the table- ass propped up. She felt her butt plug shift. She hardly notice it much.

She could feel the vibration against her tongue as she licked, the egg humming inside Chick-a-Dee's channel.

The taste was seasoning and oil. The arousal was mutual, she chased deeper.

"Flip her over!" Chicken Little demanded.

Fred effortlessly flipped her. Jenny's mouth lost its purchase, but she found new territory—the plump, seasoned buttocks.

Ducky fished out the carrot. It came free with a wet sound, and Ducky crunched into it with satisfaction. Chick-a-Dee's responding moan was guttural.

Chicken Little spread her sister's cheeks and buried her tongue in the tight pucker, tasting the residual carrot juice and oil.

Dora sucked on Chick-a-Dee's dainty foot, her tongue sliding between the toes. The toes wiggled in response.

Fred worked on her fingers sucking them into his mouth. Ms. Baker did the same with the other hand.

They sucked in tandem, tasting the salt, the oil, the faint residue of seasoning.

Someone bit into her butt—not hard, just a playful nip. Someone else lapped at the crease where thigh met hip.

Chick-a-Dee had entered la-la land. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing was deep and slow.

By the time they'd licked her clean, she'd fallen asleep.

Ms. Baker straightened. "I think she's had enough."

"One more thing!" Ducky grabbed the cord trailing from Chick-a-Dee's pussy and pulled.

The egg popped free with a wet, obscene sound. Chick-a-Dee moaned in her sleep.

Fred clapped his hands. "Time to go."

"Should we wash her up before you leave?"
Ms. Baker asked.
"Nah. We'll wash her when we get home."

They gathered their chickens—Chick-a-Dee limp in his arms and dreaming, Dora carried Chicken Little still licking oil from her lips—and loaded them into the pickup.
The truck rumbled to life and pulled down the gravel drive.

Jenny and Ducky waved until the dust settled.

Both pets were sticky messes—oil and sweat and each other's arousal smeared across their skin. Jenny's fingers were still pruned with wetness.

Ms. Baker watched Jenny with something new in her expression. Not just satisfaction.

Something deeper. Calculation, maybe.
Or primal lust.
"Such amazing progress," she said, almost to herself.

Amazing "In such a short time."

She touched Jenny's collar, her fingertip tracing the silver pig charm.

"I think it's time to show you the other kitchen."

Ducky's face lit up. "The other kitchen!" “It’s super amazing.”

"The one with the wash stations. The restaurant appliances." Ms. Baker's hand settled on the back of Jenny's neck, warm and commanding.

"Time to show you how to properly wash a little piglet“

Jenny finds her happiness.

Jenny learns her worth.

I want to scoop out Jenny's brain with my bare hands so badly 🫱🧠🫲
Just squish all her thoughts away

Jenny and ducky snuggle up on a couch and watch. Night of the living dead.

She really got turned on in the scene where zombies surround a topless goth chick in the graveyard and ate her brain. BRAAAAAINS!

I just finished reading this and WOW! I LOVE it! So, this farm... How does one secure an invitation to one of the cookouts? Asking for a friend...

>>30781
I think that was a reference to sisters, as in a pair of younger twin sisters that she gets stuck looking after a lot :)

>>30796
Are you on Pixiv or Dolcettish? It would be nice to be able to message/chat :)

Chapter 9: The Private Kitchen

The door to the private kitchen swung open on silent hinges, and Ducky released Jenny's shoulder mid-lick, her tongue leaving a cool stripe where oil and salt had been.

She hopped through the threshold first, her slim little body disappearing into the darkness beyond.

Motion sensors clicked. Banks of fluorescent lights flickered to life overhead, illuminating a space that smelled of stainless steel and bleach and something older—iron, maybe, worked deep into the grain of the butcher block table that dominated the far wall.

Jenny stood at the threshold. Her bare toes curled against the cold tile.

She observed Jenny hesitation, Ms. Baker may need to reinforce some additional triggers.

See For one thing she still refers to herself as Jenny whe introducing herself, she still hasn’t fully embraced her piglet self.

"Good girl,"

Ms. Baker murmured behind her, and the pleasure trigger unspooled through Jenny's limbs like warm ribbon. The hesitation in her chest loosened. She stepped inside.

Ms. Baker's smirk was barely perceptible. We will see if Jenny piglet self exits.

Jenny scooted across the tile to where Ducky was already bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"Umm Hello, earth to Ducky!"

"Look how big this oven is!" Jenny marveled

Ducky stood on her tiptoes, fingertips unable to gripping the handle of the massive oven door, her nose nearly pressed to the glass.

The interior was cavernous—racks large enough to hold a 10 chickens, heating elements dormant at the moment.

Ducky repeated what Ms. Baker explain in the past.

"Ms. Baker said it's that high so she can watch her delicious roasts,”

"Probably because it's easier on the back as well," Jenny said, practical even now.

Ms. Baker leaned against the butcher block, arms crossed, her summer dress whispering against her thighs. She gave them their moment.

A pet's personality emerged in these unguarded exchanges—

Ducky's boundless curiosity, Jenny's reflexive pragmatism. The girl still analyzed everything.

Every broken pet she encounters come with it own challenges, and reward.

She recall Mandy whom now is referred to as Daisy Moo.

She had been top in her class, cheer captain, head of the after school girls volleyball team—every moment of her life a sprint until her mind simply unspooled from exhaustion.

Coach had sent her to the clinic, and right into Ms. Bakers arms, she'd collapsed into the cow life like a body into water. Peaceful. No demands.

Her milk had come in Thanks to Coach and his practical insemination she was able to produce milk.

Daisy Moo’s belly was tight as a drum, the farm's first homegrown calf just days away. Veterinarian on call when it happens.

Ms. Baker has a special meal plan for that special occasion.

But Jenny?
Ms. Baker observed.

Jenny had basted Chick-a-Dee with something more than playful curiosity.

Ms. Baker had watched those fingers linger on the chick-a-dee’s oiled flesh, watched the brush slow, watched the jenny's free hand drift between her own legs.

A predator's hunger. Not prey at all.

Ms. Baker finds children so interesting, so resilient and of course delicious as well.

Ducky had another moment—Jenny could tell by the way she spun on her heel, eyes bright.

"Ms. Baker, can I play in the oven?"
Jenny laughed.

"Honey, that oven is used for cooking dinner for large gatherings." Ms. Baker dismissed the request. She mostly wanted to see ducky’s reaction.

She pouted but Ducky wasn't deterred. She grabbed Jenny's hand, her grip warm and insistent. "I had so much fun watching Chick-a-Dee on the rotisserie.

I want to try it. Would you not want to baste me?

The words hit Jenny's hindbrain like a struck match. Her pussy clenched. Moisture gathered, sudden and urgent, slicking her inner thighs.

She saw it in her mind—Ducky's body trussed up, oil glistening on her small eight year old little body, that look of surrendering and joy spreading across her features.

Ms. Baker caught the look.

There it is. That sexual hunger

"Okay," Jenny managed, her voice thicker than she intended.

Ms. Baker loved ducky’s progress, two months in and she already has a desire to be prey. She promises to discuss the idea later.

As for now... Ms. Baker paused.
Ducky’s pouty look of disappointed

"As for now, it's time to wash you two up."

Ducky ran ahead, as if forgetting her oven drama, her feet slapping against the tile as she disappeared through hanging semi translucent decider strips, a partition at the kitchen's far end.

Jenny followed slower, taking in the equipment she'd missed in her first dazed survey.

A rotisserie oven like the one outside yet larger, this one was restaurant-grade, its glass door gleaming.

Large enough to put chicken little and click-a-dee inside to play together.

Jenny laugh at the thought.

A giant stockpot hung over a cold burner.

Metal prep tables, a section with meat hooks and a bandsaw that Jenny's mind skittered away from.

Everything scrubbed to a surgical shine.
She pushed through the divider strips.

The shower room was just beyond the partition, all tile—white subway from floor to ceiling, sloping gently toward central drains.

Chains hung from the ceiling beams, four of them, evenly spaced dangling above individual wash stations.

At the end of each chain dangled a harness: leather cups for wrists and ankles, a narrow strip to support the back.

Ducky was already swinging gently from one, her fingers wrapped around the chains.

"Pick the one next to me!"

Jenny looked uncertain, Ms. Baker's hand settled on Jenny's lower back.

"Don’t let the harness frighten you. These harnesses suspend a pet for much needed deep cleaning. You two are a sticky mess and better then the cold shower out back of the farmhouse."

Jenny always felt at ease when her mistress ( a word she learn from ducky) talk to her. She has never felt freer if that make sense.
Jenny observed her mistress with an undesirable desire to please her.

Lifting Ducky was simple—the girl weighed nothing, and ducky giggled as Ms. Baker settled her wrists and ankles into the cups, the back strip taking her weight.

A spin of the chain, and Ducky rotated fast at first then slowly, her body fully accessible, her folds already glistening.

Jenny allowed herself to be lifted next. The leather cupped her wrists, then her ankles, spreading her arms up and wide as well as her legs.

The range of movement was generous—she could twist, arch, rotate—but she wasn't getting out this harness unassisted.

She looked up. Hoses hung from the ceiling, coiled like sleeping snakes. Each one ended in a dildo-shaped nozzle, pale silicone with a flared base.

Her pussy dampened further just looking at them.

Then she looked down between her legs. The pink metal tail plug was still there, nestled between her cheeks.

She'd stopped noticing it for the most part. Like the collar around her throat, it had become part of her. The only things she owned.

Ms. Baker excused herself, leaving them alone for the moment.

"Comfy?" Ducky swung her harness closer, the chains creaking yet sending her back to her normal position.

"Define comfy," Jenny said, gesturing at her bondage, her spread-eagled state.

"Safe," Ducky said simply. "Warm. Belonging."

Jenny considered this. Her anus clenched around the plug. "I must admit I’ve never been happier."

"Did you really mean it? Ducky asked “you know’ about basting me?"

The question hung between them. Jenny's tongue felt thick. "I... yeah. I think I did."

"Good." Ducky's smile was contagious.

"I want to be your roast." She said with a lite blush.

Those words made Jenny pussy moisten, she seen the seriousness in her eye.
She did look tasty.

Yet before Jenny could respond, Ms. Baker has returned.

She'd shed her summer dress and stood naked,
Jenny spread her legs out. It was like her vagina had a mind of its own. Wanting to be touched.

Ms. Baker is wearing only rubber gloves, her auburn hair loose around her shoulders, she carried two buckets swinging from each hand. Sponges. A bristled brush.

"Quiet now," she said, setting down her supplies.

The word she spoke next dropped into the tile room like a stone into still water.

"Obey."

The trigger seized Jenny's mind. The chatter in her skull fell silent. Ducky, too, went still in her harness, eyes glassy, waiting.

There would be no conversations, no questions. This was going to be a physical experience only.

Ms. Baker dipped a sponge into the first bucket. The water was warm, faintly green, smelling of spearmint and rose petals.

She began with Ducky, working the sponge across the girl's shoulders, her perky breasts, the curve of her waist.

Jenny watch intently, seeing ducky playfully twist, the sponge between her smooth slit. Jenny twist her head to watch. The stupid harness turn on its own.

Foam built in creamy peaks. She shampooed Ducky's short hair, working her fingers through the black strands until the girl's head was a cloud of suds.
Then she turnded to Jenny.

The sponge made first contact with Jenny's collarbone, and she gasped. Her freckle shoulder surrendering to the sponge.

The tingling was immediate—something in the soap, some botanical alchemy that made her skin hum.

Spearmint cooling, opening every pore her skin possesses. The smooth rose petals softening.

Ms. Baker worked downward, across her freckle breasts, her stomach, then her spread thighs.

The foam dripped from Jenny's body in lazy rivulets.

The harness swung as Ms. Baker control its movement, Jenny back gets soapy as her front.

Then Ms. Baker's fingers found the braids at Jenny's temples. She worked them loose, slowly untangling the strands, letting Jenny's hair fall around her shoulders. The intimacy of it made Jenny's throat tight. She let the suds do its magic.

Ms. Baker retuning her attention back to ducky.

She returned to Ducky with a different sponge, dipped in the second bucket. The smell was sharp, medicinal—disinfectant, the kind doctors used before injections.

When the sponge touched Ducky's skin, the girl hissed.

"Stings," she managed, her voice high. Trying to follow the command of not talking.

Ms. Baker worked methodically, covering every inch of Ducky's foam-coated body. The disinfectant found every micro-cut, every hair follicle, every sensitive fold. Ducky moaned—low, then louder, her hips twisting in the harness.

Her entire demeanor shifted, the playful duckling replaced by something rawer.

Then the sponge came for Jenny.

The sting arrived before the touch—her mind anticipating, her skin already prickling.

When the disinfectant-soaked sponge swiped her inner thigh, she cried out.

The sensation was like mouthwash on cut gums, like alcohol on a fresh scrape.
It bloomed across her nerves, and any movement made it worse, the harness chains rattling as she tried to hold still.
Then the stinging subsided.

Heat replaced it. A deep, radiating warmth that started in her chest and pooled between her legs.

Her pussy throbbed. She moaned, straining against the wrist cups, desperate to press her thighs together, to rub, to relieve the building pressure.

Impossible. She could only hang there, panting, while the heat built and built.

Suddenly the shower heads burst to life. Warm water cascaded from the ceiling, sluicing away the minty foam and the stinging disinfectant, swirling pink and green down the drains.

Jenny sagged in her harness, gasping.
Then Ms. Baker's hands were on her. Gentle rubbing, latex glove giving relief, soothing the scrubbed skin.

Her other hand traced Jenny's collarbone, her breasts, her stomach. Then lower to assist the finger assault, much needed assault.

Circling her pubic mound, brushing her clit with feather-light pressure.

One hand reached across to Ducky, giving her the same attention, and

Ducky's answering moan echoed off the piglet.
Jenny closed her eyes and leaned back into her harness, rolling her hips to meet Ms. Baker's strokes.

The pleasure built, approaching that familiar edge—

A tug at her anus. The tail plug rotated, then slid free.
Jenny whimpered at the loss. Emptiness where there should be fullness.

Yet what replaced it was the silicone nozzle of one of the hanging hoses. Ms. Baker pressed it against piglet’s loosened sphincter, and it slid inside almost without resistance—the plug had stretched her, prepared her.

Fullness again. Not her tail, but something.

Ms. Baker turned to Ducky, working a second hose between the girl's small cheeks.

It disappeared into ducky's anus with practiced ease, which surprised Jenny.

Ducky training consist of weekly massages, love and nurturing, and daily except for weekends something Ms. Baker called. (Cavity Capacity Training) apparently a it’s bird thing. Both her sweet holes have been systematically enlarged.

Ms. Baker stepped back. Her eyes traveled across her suspended pets—legs spread, hoses buried in their anuses, chests heaving.
She reached for a knob on the wall. "Water sports mean something different here," she said.

She turned the knob.
The water hit Jenny's insides like a fist. Her body jerked, the harness chains screaming. The cramp was immediate—a deep, visceral pressure as warm water flooded her bowels, traveling upward, filling her.

Her belly swelled visibly, and she thought of Daisy Moo in her yoke, that pregnant swell, that dreamy satisfaction.

Ducky was twisting in her harness, but she was smiling. A blissed-out, empty smile.

Her small frame was already distending, her stomach rounding with the volume of water she'd taken.

Jenny's legs shook. Involuntary. A moan tore from her throat, and she couldn't tell if it was pain or pleasure or both.

The flow stopped. Yet no real relief. The water sat inside her, heavy and cramping and painfully full.

Ms. Baker pulled Ducky's hose first. The nozzle slid free with a wet sound, and an explosive jet of brown foul water followed, arcing across the tile. Ms. Baker spun the harness with practiced efficiency, directing the stream toward the drain.

Finally she pulled Jenny's hose.

The release was violent. Jenny's body convulsed, expelling the enema water in a gushing flood. The sound it made was obscene. The smell hit a moment later—foul, embarrassing, making her cheeks burn even as the relief made her sag in her restraints.

The shower heads burst on again, washing the filth down the drains.
Ms. Baker returned to the minty soap bucket. She worked fresh suds across both pets' bodies, scrubbing away any residue. The brush came next—softer than Jenny expected, the bristles trailing over her soapy skin, scrubbing between her toes, around her ears, into the creases of her thighs.

When the brush passed over her clit, she bucked, a fresh wave of arousal cutting through the exhaustion.

Ms. Baker knelt before her. Pressed a kiss to Jenny's mouth. Then her hands found the pink metal tail plug, slicked it with something from a tube, and pressed it home.

Jenny sighed as the familiar weight settled into her.

"We're going to have to upgrade your tail," Ms. Baker murmured, testing the fit with a gentle tug. Looser than before. Jenny's body was adapting.

She didn't care about upgrades. She just wanted her tail back.

Ms. Baker released them from the harnesses. Both pets wobbled on unsteady feet, gripping each other for balance, still dripping. Fluffy towels were provided and they burrowed into the fabric.

Ms. Baker tower dried their hair. Piglets was a mess. Wild memes yet very attractive.

---

A light dinner followed—leftover goat meat and roasted vegetables, eaten with their fingers at the kitchen counter.

Jenny's stomach was hollow and clean, and the food tasted impossibly good.

"Since you two were good for the washing," Ms. Baker said, wiping her hands on a cloth,

"I'm going to give you a reward."

She led them through the farmhouse to a room Jenny hadn't seen before. Actually she really hadn’t pay to much attention to it at all. The cella, the barn, the enormous second kitchen. What other mysteries does this farm hold?

The door open to a theater room —plush seats arranged in rows, a massive screen on the wall, a refrigerator stocked with bottles of Daisy's milk. Fruit snacks.

Blankets were folded on a side table. The nice snuggle type.

"You can choose any movie on the shelf. Motioning of the row of movie selects.

No need to bother with the videos on the top shelf. They're more of an adult private collection."

Ms. Baker cupped Jenny's face and kissed her—deep, lingering, her tongue tracing Jenny's lower lip.

Their eyes locked when she pulled away. "Good night, my pets."

The door clicked shut.
Ducky pulled a cassette at random. "The Time Machine. Hmm… boring" she slid it back.

Jenny looked also, rattled off other titles, reading spines.
"The Hills Have Eyes, Wrong Turn,
Wrong Turn 2, 3, 4, 5... Night of the Living Dead. Ooh, that sounds good."

"It's about zombies that eat people's brains," Jenny read from the back of the box.

"Only the brain?" Ducky wrinkled her nose. "Sounds like a real waste of meat."

They laughed, and Jenny slid the cassette into the player.

They chose seats in the center of the front row, seats wide enough so they could sit together dragging a blanket over their laps.

The previews started.

Ducky's looked at Jenny’s uncombed hair, she felt it. “I like your messy hair.”

Jenny hated her hair, curly unmanageable. That Wes why she wore braided pigtails. Less washing. Though she liked it when her mistress did it.

Ducky liked it because it made her look like a wild animal. hand found Jenny's thigh, then lower, her fingers sliding through the wetness that hadn't diminished all evening.

Jenny returned the favor, her palm cupping Ducky's warm little mound.

Jenny thinking they might not make it through the movie.

Jenny glanced up at the top shelf. The cassette cases up there were identical—plain black spines, no titles.

Whatever was on them, Ms. Baker kept for herself.
Ducky's fingers slipped inside her. Two fingers, curling.

The opening credits flickered across the screen, and Jenny forgot about the top shelf entirely.

>>30799

Let me get back to you on that EH. It kind on chaotic my end at the moment.

Thanks for liking the story so far.

Not sorry for the slow tease. I’m sure readers want to see these little tarts cooked up and eaten. lol

>>30808
Loving the story so far! I for one am really enjoying the slow tease ;) Just one question - when you introduce the character, you say Ducky is about half Jenny's age which would make her 6 or 7, right? Yet your illustrations show them a very similar age. Is this a slight ret-con or just how the AI comes out? :)

I use some of my story elements to prompt AI Art. So it was AI.

When using the oven’s size and height’ compared to her height it really hit.

Help created a better representation of ducky.

Sweet and gullible yet feisty and fun. Of course potentially delicious.

@PBandJ

I’m really enjoying your story so far. Everything is described in detail, and I can practically feel the atmosphere and the essence of the situations you’re depicting.

By the way, that "children's game"—where kids pretend to be roasted, just as a form of roleplay—actually exists. However, it doesn't involve any props or anything like that; all it takes is nudity and imagination. Fortunately. "Props" could pose a danger. I don't think things would have ended well back then if one of the kids—during the games I played with my friends—had actually turned into a roast duck. But in our childhood imaginations, everyone got a turn at being the roast duck.

I find it engaging that you accompany your story with images. I know you can train your imagination to visualize things, but it’s nice to see how the author envisions their characters. Your visuals are well done.

I’m glad that, thanks to AI, we now have the opportunity to look at images of beautifully roasted suckling pigs—regardless of the artistic style used to depict them.

I’m really looking forward to the continuation of your story.

>>30815

Thanks for enjoying the story thus far. Attempting a chapter a night. Trying real hard to edit typos, grammar and story structure before releasing. Sadly I still miss some.

Story will start to heat up figuratively. Baby cafe on the way, a celebration dinner to plan, new pets to discover.

Any criticism or suggestions are always welcome

Additionally
Thanks your insight, especially dealing with AI. I’ve seen your work.

Any suggestions on a prompt of a girl inside a rotisserie?

My prompting skill is sub-par yet getting better… eventually.

Thanks again

>>30819

The problem with generating an image of a woman on a horizontal roasting spit is the sheer amount of time required. Even if the prompt is written to be physically accurate and sounds innocuous to the image generator, the error rate remains high.

It took two months to produce 500 images of women on horizontal roasting spits—featuring various ages, hair colors, and lengths, and backgrounds ranging from forests and beaches to schoolyards—to get the wording right, regenerate images, perform post-processing, and test different levels of realism.

I suspect you don't have that kind of time. Even with the correct prompt, the AI ​​might only render one out of 500 images reasonably well; this means post-processing is essential. For instance, the angle at which the spit enters the body is often incorrect and requires adjustment in a graphics program. I invest a great deal of time in this—effectively treating it as a full-time job, albeit an unpaid, voluntary one.

For a good presentation, I recommend a reclining pose on a serving platter; it takes less time to generate such images. To achieve the roasted skin texture, use this phrase element repeatedly: `((gold-brown-dark-roasted-Skin: 1.5))`. The parentheses and number indicate the element's weight within the prompt. Write a descriptive text of at least 40 sentences and repeat the bracketed phrase at least three times. Note that the more cartoonish your character is, the harder it is to achieve this skin texture.

Good luck. I look forward to the continuation of your story.

Chapter 10: The Dawn of Piglet

Jenny is dreaming at the moment- not Jenny, something else.

Something with long sharp teeth, a bristled hide and a hunger.

A hunger that moved her body before her mind could register the thing she wanted.

Sniffing the forest floor of leaf-rot and wet earth, persistent hunger driving her.

Her mind focus through the trees as she spots a Duck—a white-brown ducky, wings tucked, nestled in a soft depression of ferns.

Prey.

Zeroing in, her gut rumbling like a stone into still water.

She ready to pounced, her heavy body springs to life jumping, crashing down, ducky should have fled-should of flutter away but it didn’t. It rolled, exposing its soft underbelly, its throat, the tender drumsticks where thigh met body.

Submission.
Something a beast-brain understood: this is natures agreement older than teeth.

A predator takes its preys yields.

Her jaws closed around a drumstick. Tearing, consuming.

Feathers and warmth and something rich and dark flooded her mouth. The duck quivered but did not struggle.

She fed—on wings, on its breast, tearing into its beating heart.

Her belly grew heavy. Her snout wet with blood. She wanted more. Mindlessly devouring her prey.
———
She woke with a gasp, her mind registering the taste still on her tongue.

The theater is dark except the low glow of the theater guide lighting. The screen had gone black, the film long over.

Ducky lay pressed against her side, one hand holding Jenny right arm.
The same arm at her crotch- her hand felt pressure still buried between ducky’s thighs—actually her whole hand.

She realized, the knuckles squeezed tight inside the warm, silky grip of ducky’s inner walls.

She remembered, now. The movie had been background noise to their slow, sleepy play: ducky’s legs spreading wider, her whispers of encouragement.

Jenny’s fingers kept exploring, pushing deeper, until a wet pop and a muffled moan signaled that her whole fist had slipped inside.

The orgasm that followed left ducky limp and sighing, already spent and half-asleep.

Jenny finally coming to her senses.

Carefully, she withdrew. A soft, slick sound, and ducky stirred but did not wake.

How she could possibly sleep with a hand up her pussy was beyond her.

Her hand glistened in the faint light from the paused player.

The theater is silent.

Not the silence of a sleeping house, but something deeper—the hush of a world holding its breath before dawn.

She wiped her fingers absently on the blanket, attempts to slip from ducky and get up.

She slipped from the seat, moving slowly from ducky’s embrace, grabbing the blanket-tucking it back around her slim shoulders.

Jenny’s bare feet made no sound on the carpet as she walked to the door-opened it a crack. The front windows beyond was black. Still night.

A time when rural takes a breath, when farm’s rhythms paused.

She closed the door and padded back to the player. The cassette of Night of the Living Dead ejected with a mechanical whir.

She slid it into its case, returned it to the shelf.

Her eyes scanned the other titles, but nothing caught her interest. She bent over, hands on her upper knees, scowling at the spines of movies. She swayed her cute freckle ass back and forth as she read titles. Her piggy tail moving to the rhythm of her sway. Keeping her stimulated without realizing it.

She couldn’t decide.

Maybe she should just go back to sleep. Snuggle up with tasty ducky.

She thought about her dream- about ducky sleeping behind her.

She wanted to pounce, to taste ducky- her own slit moisten.

She thought about their kissing, How she wanted it, how ducky needed it-she like tasting ducky’s breath, her lips, her tongue.

Am I tasting her? She looked over at ducky.

Her thighs dripping her nectar down her legs.

A hunger for ducky. She smirked, ducky would probably welcome it

She recalls Ms Bakers passionate kisses, the ones that made her weak in the knees-was she tasting her? Would she do it? Would piglet want it?

She couldn’t answer that question.

She recalled In nature class- it’s eat or be eaten-predator and prey. Hierarchy of the food chain.

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.

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.

She pulls the first case down, its face cover had only a cryptic labels in neat white handwriting.

FFATHLG and a string of numbers. Should she watch it? She bit her thumbnail- She glance at ducky, still motionless under the blankets. Then at the door. Then back at the case in hand.

The plastic was cool and smooth. She cracked it open: inside, a cassette with the same letters and numbers on its label. She realize the numbers represent a date.

One week ago! She think trying to think how lone she has been here. It didn’t matter, it felt like forever.


FFATHLG. What did that mean? She looked around again, like a child stealing cookies, before sliding the cassette into the player.

She crossed back to the the seat- lifted the blanket, and settled in beside ducky’s sleeping warmth. ducky instantly shifted-her arm snaking across Jenny’s chest, her cheek nestling against Her shoulder.

Piglet considered fetching a bottle of Daisy’s milk, but ducky’s grip tightened, so she decided not to move.

She paused momentarily before pressing play-pressed play.

The screen flickered. A block of white text formed on a black background:

For Educational Purposes Only.

Jenny groaned inwardly. Another boring school training video? Her finger hovered over the stop button.

Then the title card faded in:

Farmer Fred and the Hairless Goat.

She froze. The scene that followed was immediately familiar—the butcher station, the stainless steel surfaces, the hanging meat hooks. Ms. Baker’s Private kitchen. piglet recognized the bandsaw in the corner, the precise arrangement of knives on the magnetic strip.

Old Farmer Fred entered the frame. Looking handsome for his age.

He wore a canvas apron, and around his waist was a leather tool belt slotted with shears, a boning knife, a skinning blade, a cleaver.

He faced the camera with a relaxed, almost fatherly smile.

“Today I’m going to show you a different technique for butchering a goat.”

“First off, we’ll need a goat for this demonstration.”

He looked off camera with a gentle nod

A cute girl stepped into the frame. She a pretty brunette with friendly eyes and an athletic body—pretty toned for a girl that age- trim shoulders, small breasts, a sweet looking mound.

She stood naked and comfortable, her posture easy, as though she’d stepped into a cooking show. Which, piglet realized with a jolt, is kind of what this was.

“Can you tell the viewers why you’re volunteering to be parted into yummy chops?” Fred asked.

His voice had a rehearsed quality, but the tasty girl smile was genuine.

She looked directly into the lens. “First I would like to thank my mom for the opportunity to serve.” She broke character briefly, waving. “Hi, Mommy.”

A woman’s voice from behind the camera reply: “You’re welcome, pet.”

Piglet’s hand flew to her mouth. The other hand pressed between her legs. That voice—warm and commanding, unmistakable.

Ms. Baker is filming this. She had called her Mommy, the reply pet had been spoken with the same casual authority she used on the farm.

Fred tried to get her refocused.
“And who are you’ my little treat?” Fred asked the fifth grader.

She look up at him with a funny face- as if he hadn’t he known her for months.

My name is —Miss Goat—she beamed.

Piglet Was rubbing a little too hard-stirring ducky.
A slow stretch, a sleepy murmur. Then her eyes focused on the screen.

“There she is,” ducky breathed, her voice still thick with sleep. “Miss Goat.”
“You know her?” Piglet whispered.

“She left the farm some time ago, ducky didn’t keep track of days so she didn’t know how many.
Before you arrived.

She was so happy to go.” ducky propped herself up on one elbow, her collar charm glinting in the screen’s glow.

“Is she a movie star now?”
Piglet had no answer.

Fred cleared his throat, smiling. “You didn’t really answer the question, Miss Goat.”

“Oh!” She laughed, fiddling with the goat charm on her collar.

“I’m doing it for piglet.”

Piglets eyes widened. Her chest tightened. On screen, a girl she didn’t know called out her name.

Miss Goat continued, her tone bright and matter-of-fact.
“She sad and needs help, mommy wants her to stay with us.”

piglet felt like she was a part of this video.

Fred dug deeper not getting a solid answer.

“Is that any reason to be butchered today?”

She smiled at the camera actually looking at Ms. Baker. I want to help!

“Help mommy with what?”Fred prompt some more.

Mommy wanted to have a cookout party for piglet, you know, a welcome party, but we were out of meat for piglet and the guests.

“I see, so that’s why you volunteered?”

“Pretty much!” Miss Goat said, as though being butchered, welcoming others to feast on her was the most natural thing in the world.

Ducky squeezed piglet’s arm. “She did it for you.”

Ducky fixated on the screen, piglet couldn’t look away ether looked alone speak.

On screen, the camera fade black then return with a close-up of miss goat.

She’s a cute little white girl with maybe a trace of Latin. She is lean-like girls in gymnastics and like goats,
She was lacking a pride chest yet carrying a nice solid ass. She spun as instructed revealing a butt plug of her own. She has an upturn goats tail. Kinder spirits, piglet thought touching her own.

Four young eyes what miss goat make cute poses point to delicious parts of her body.

Video fade once more returning back to:
Fred and miss goat stood at a butcher station. The camera followed, its focus steady and unhurried.

“Now that we have our volunteer,” Fred narrated, “it’s time to show an alternate method: first we secure the animal to the bench.”
He patted the thick wooden block. She climbed onto it without assistance, on all fours at first showing off her upturn goat tail.

“Good girl”

Ms Baker’s disembodied voice cause miss goat body to feel warm and fuzzy. Even piglet and ducky respond in like fashion to the trigger word.

Farmer Fred pulls out her plug. She moans like missing a friend- piglet understood deeply.

She is instructed to lay on her back, in which she did, her head resting in a shallow groove designed for necks.

She gazed up at the ceiling with the same serene expression piglet had glimpsed of
Chick-a-Dee’s face as the rotisserie turned.

“Normally,” Fred continued, shifting a peering knife on his belt,

“we’d hang these little goats upside down and slit their throat to drain the blood. A clean bleed improves the meat’s shelf life and color.

He straps his hairless goat down as he continued to talked.
This little goat had made some interesting request for butchering.

She is now spread eagle on the table limbs bound to each corner.

She tilt her head back to smile at the camera. Tugging on her restraints for fun.

Our little goat has requested—” He paused, glancing down at her. “Do you want to tell them?”

Miss goat lifted her head slightly. “I want to be butchered alive. It’s my deepest fantasy.”
Her voice was soft, almost reverent.

Fred nodded. “As you know we can always stop anytime if it gets too painful.”

She nodded yet seem determined to feel it all. She had watch a few butchering. So quick, too impersonal-never getting a chance to fully experience it

“The cleanest cut” he said to the camera. “You want a single, decisive stroke. Hesitation causes unnecessary—” He fumbled for the word.
“Unpleasantness,”

Miss Goat supplied cheerfully. “Right. Unpleasantness.”

Fade to black once more.

The camera angle shifted. Piglet saw it from an overhead perspective

Fred’s steady grip on a peering knife. Piglet held her breath with one hand still between her legs.
The other hand squeeze ducky’s leg.

The blade descended.
Tracing the little goats withering pre-teen body.

Not cutting yet more like a tease. Farmer Fred touch her slit, wet in anticipation.

Zoom in-a close-up of the butcher block, Her body lay stretched and trembling.
“Any request?” He asked playfully dancing the knife over her mound.

My titties please she replied. As small as they were, they would still would make tasty little appetizers.

Fred wet his fingers before pinching her right nipple a tug and a pulled.

He talked of recipes.
Knife focus on the base of her chest.
“Lightly Seasoned and sautéed in butter”

She lift her head to watch her right breast cut clean away. One smooth stroke. It didn’t hurt some much thank you the sharpness of the blade.

There was a stinging yet that came afterwards as air made contacts with the open wound.

He repeated the cut on the other breast. She heave up nearly ruining the cut, her head tilt bake towards the camera. She was having a moment almost ruining the cut.

He set the breast cuts on the tray by his side.

He stuck a finger straight up her tight pussy forcing her legs to get taunt. She wiggled her hips.

He pulled his finger running up her mound- over her belly and to her chest rib.

Preparing her for what comes next.
The blade again. Just below the chest cage. He looked in her eyes, she nodded yes.

Then it happen a straight slice down following cum trail down her midsection- down her belly and to her mound. She trembled, legs shake involuntary. Moaning in pleasure.

Piglet felt… actually she didn’t know what she was feeling. A goat being slaughtered didn’t bring Repulsiveness, this was different.

“As you can see her organs stay intact laid out as she is. Less initial blood loss”

Fred pulled open her cut.

“We can simply pull out what we need when you need to.”

He reached in-little goat grit her teeth. Fred stop momentarily until she cried out not to stop.

He reached in behind her little uterus, grabbing hold of her intestine track at its base- it attach to her anus.

On the outside he cut around her brown starfish asshole separating pucker from her body.

He belted his knife- began pulling her intestines out like pulling a rope. All the while miss goat head turn back and forth. Sounds emigrating from her mouth.

The intestines fed into a bucket, next came her stomach plopping out, attached to the lower esophagus. She felt a tug in her throat. Fred took the knife, cutting the esophagus attach to her stomach. That went into the bucket as well.

Farmer Fred been explaining each step, not for his little goat he is disemboweling-for the viewers whom watch.

He wanted to work fast now. She may ebb away not getting the full treatment. He went for her mound, her meaty filet. “So sweet- nothing tastier in the world.”

With one smooth pace he carved around her mound, slicing between her thighs around her Taint, back up and returning to its starting point. He lift it out still attach to her uterus. That went on a tray.

His little goat is panting hard. Yet still looking satisfied.

He applied a tourniquet straps to her upper arms and a set to her upper thighs. A strap to her neck as well.

“We can cut these limbs into delicious goat chops.”Fingers testing her lean arms.

“A heavy meat cleaver will do quick on those arms , yet the legs will have to be sawed off.”

Miss goat was panting now, deliriously crying yes.

“Thunk”
The loud thunk startled the girls. Like an unexpected jump scare.

Fred removed her arm in one strike. Right below the shoulder.

“Whack”
Another chop removes her hand.

Taking the severed limb to the meat hook over a sink. Fred let it drain as collect the other arm- she was shaking yet still alive.

“Thunk”
This time the whack didn’t startle piglet yet ducky still jumped.

“Whack”
Another arm is now hanging to drain.

Fred checked her eyes. Still alive?-Barely.

He retrieved his trusty hack saw-targeting high on her lean leg, just below the buttocks.

He saw in fast and deliberately. Flesh giving way, slicing quickly, bone offer more resistance yet summits to the blades teeth.

Piglet watched the goats foot roll back and forth. Her foot moving back and forth with the blade_ it moved with the butchers sawing.

Fred hoisted the tender limb to the meathook- hooking it through the ankle and heel. It hung draining with the arms.

Quickening he’s pace, saw he saw her last tender limb.

Faster then the last.
“Sorry folk, I’m speeding the task. She may not be with us much long. He remove the last leg-hooked up and draining.

Her tourniquet has held tight. Less lose of blood.

He once again held his Meat Cleaver

“I hope you enjoy your butchering” Fred said seeing her still alive.

“No need for this” Fred removes the straps as well as her goat collar.

The pet collar had made perfect tan line, a targeted cut line. With hand on her forehead, he pulled back her head back. It offer a clear shot.

“Whack”
It was over for this little goat yet not for Fred.

He need to quarter and break down the rest of her tender meat.

He spoke more casually now. No longer any time restrictions. “Not bad folks, she is going to be a big part at the cookout.”

Her head was place aside- neck ending in a neat but bloodily mess-section. Not too messy by butchers standards.

“Just an anatomical cross-section like a textbook illustration, the vertebrae a pale cameo of bone among dark muscle.”

The camera lingered on the clean presentation—the way a cooking show might display a carved roast.

“Now we portion,” Fred said, his voice warm and instructive.

Piglet leaned forward. She watched him quarter her carcass, became a series of recognizable cuts: shoulder, rack, loin, hind shank.

His blade moved with practiced precision, tracing the seams between muscle groups-peeling back the skin with the neutral efficiency of a man who had done this a hundred times.

The meat is pale and marbled, glistening under the kitchen lights. He stacked the cuts on metal trays—a neat row of chops, a pair of rolled roasts, a tenderloin. Surprisingly to piglet it made her mouth water even as her stomach clenched.

The video ended with a static shot of the displayed meat, glistening on its trays.

The screen went dark. Jenny didn’t move. Her hand had stopped between her legs, fingers resting motionless against her swollen folds.

She felt no arousal now—only a strange, suspended stillness.

Ducky hugged her arm and laid her cheek against piglets shoulder.

“Wasn’t she so nice? To help fill your belly.”

“I never met her,” Piglet said. Her voice came out a dry rasp.

“She sacrificed herself for me, and I never even knew her name.”

“You know it now.” ducky’s fingers traced the pig charm on Jenny’s collar.

“We ate her.” Piglet ponder the statement.

“I’m a ducky I don’t eat meat” sucking reminding her.

“How did she taste” ducky asked.

“she tasted really good”
Jenny closed her eyes. The mutton from the cookout. The delicious chops, the herb butter, the way she’d eaten with her fingers and licked the grease from her knuckles.

Yes. Miss Goat had been delicious.

Piglet rose on unsteady legs and ejected the cassette. The black plastic case clicked shut in her palm like a tiny coffin.

She slid it back onto the top shelf, her fingers trembling, and stared at the remaining cases. A dozen or more. She was too afraid to look at another.

“Are we going to watch more?” Ducky asked, sitting up. “Maybe they have one with an oven.”

Jenny shook her head. The thought of watching another tape made her stomach lurch and her pussy throb in a confused, shameful rhythm she didn’t want to examine at the moment.

Ms. Baker had been in the video. Her voice-She’d called her mommy, and Ms. Baker had called her pet, and the whole thing had seemed almost wholesome—a mother letting her daughter choose her final form, her final purpose.

Miss Goat had been happy. She’d waved at the camera. She’d said Hi, Mom, and her eyes had been bright with love.

A rooster crowed somewhere in the distance, the first thin blade of sound to cut the morning quiet.

Ducky pulled the blanket over her head. “Five more minutes,” she mumbled.

Jenny stood motionless before the shelf of black cassettes, her hand resting on her pig charm, the taste of Miss Goat still lingering somewhere in the pulp of her memory.

She had been a farm animal. She had freely chosen it. That was the a comfort Piglet could find—and she clung to it as the first gray light began to seep beneath the theater door.

Chapter 11: Daisy Moo Day

Piglet stirred again. Ducky's arms were still wrapped around her, the little ducky's face pressed into Piglet's thighs, breathing slow and even.

Piglet found herself straddling ducky, her face settled atop Ducky's cum crusted pussy-she could smell the faint scent of spearmint still clinging to her crotch.

She looked up at the shelf. They had fallen asleep in a sixty-nice position. A heat of passion after watching the video.

The black cases. A dozen of them. Maybe more.
Were they all that brutal?

Her young mind turned the question over like a stone in her palm. Miss Goat had given her life freely. Had begged for it, really—not just to die, but to experience the dying. To get off on it.

The image replayed: the athletic body climbing onto the butcher block, the serene expression, the cheerful display of youthfulness-then the cleaver.

Piglet's vagina responded before her mind could catch up. Wetness gathered, warm and insistent.

She thought about the chops she'd consumed. The herb butter. The grease on her fingers.

She'd eaten Miss Goat. Mouthwateringly delicious. How could something that tasted so good be wrong?

Everyone had enjoyed her meat—well, not the birds, obviously, but everyone else. Coach had gone back for seconds. Fred had licked his fingers.

Her hand drifted between her legs. She rubbed herself slowly, the motion sleepy and automatic. Her brain needed to shut down. Reboot. The last coherent thought before sleep dragged her under: I'm a piglet. Piglets eat everything.
---
Ms. Baker settled into her chair with a soft exhale of satisfaction. Her home office was arranged like a doctor's examination room—blood pressure cuff mounted on the wall, otoscope and ophthalmoscope charging in their cradle, a glass cabinet displaying stainless steel instruments in neat rows.

The examination table was upholstered in white vinyl, a fresh sheet of sanitary paper stretched across its surface.

Her chair, though, was her private indulgence: high-backed and ergonomic, upholstered in fine human leather that had once belonged to some very grateful pet.

She sipped her morning brew—black coffee, a single sugar—and watched the monitor.

The screen was split into four quadrants. The upper left showed the theater, where her two pets lay tangled under blankets.

The upper right cycled through the barn, the kitchen, the cellar. She tapped a key and brought up the recording from the hidden theater camera facing the pews.

It had captured everything: the zombie movie selection too sexually excited to watch, the moment piglet woke- eyes that found the top shelf.

Then movement-piglet, her curious piglet, reaching up.

Ms. Baker smiled. The bait had been taken. She could have grabbed any case—the cooking tutorials, the farm orientation videos, the tasteful erotica.

But she'd chosen FFATHLG. The most disturbing one. The one with the cleaver.
Ms. Baker zoomed in, studying her pets' reactions. Piglet's jaw going slack. Ducky's sleepy recognition.

The range of emotions that had flooded their faces—shock, horror, a strange and terrible arousal.

Then the big reveal:
Ms. Baker's own voice from behind the camera. The word had landed like a bell. “mommy”, “good girl”, pet.

Ms. Baker took notes on her legal pad. Trigger effects appear to function via recorded media. Interesting.
She can see a potential applications.

She could see the repulsion in Piglet's body language—the hand pressed to her mouth, the trembling fingers—and she could see the sexual charge beneath it.

The way those same fingers had drifted between her legs.
The way her breathing had changed.

Desired effect achieved.
She took another sip.

Let the my pet contemplate what she'd learned.

Let her wrestle with the delicious contradiction: that death could be a gift, that consumption could be an act of love, that the most horrifying thing she'd ever witnessed had also made her wetter than she'd ever been.

Time to schedule a private examination. Show how a veterinarian examines a pet, Add a few triggers if necessary.

—-

A red light flashed on her console.

Ms. Baker's eyes flicked to the barn camera. She remotely shift the camera- there, in the corner of the frame, Daisy Moo lay on her side in the straw, her pregnant belly contracting in visible waves, her mouth open in a soundless moan.

Ms. Baker looked back at the theater monitor. Her pets still slept.
She rose from the chair. Collecting her lab coat. She walked briskly down the hallway, her heels clicking on the hardwood.

The theater door swung open, and she clapped her hands twice.
"Wake up, my pets. We have exciting news."

Ducky stirred first, her dark eyes blinking open. "Ms. Baker?" Ducky responded sluggishly.

"Daisy Moo is in labor."

Ducky push on piglet to get off her- piglet let her escape her embrace, she was on her feet before the sentence mellow.

She didn't even grab a blanket. Her bare feet slapped against the theater floor.

Piglet was still struggling to her feet, her limbs were heavy with interrupted sleep, her mind still foggy with dreams of goats and cleavers and the taste of mutton on her tongue.

"Daisy's in labor," Ms. Baker repeated, her voice dropping into that melodic register. "She needs you, Piglet. She needs her farm family. You want to be a good girl, don't you?"
Piglet moved with better effort.

“Good girl”

The pleasure hit, and Piglet's knees nearly buckled. She caught herself on the armrest, her body responding to the command even as her brain lagged behind.

Yes. Yes, she wanted to be good. She wanted to be there for Daisy.

"Good girl” Ms Baker reinforced her trigger for good measures.

“Now hurry along pet." Is a softer yet still commanding.

Another wave of pleasure, and Piglet was moving, her feet carrying her through the farmhouse.
The morning sun was just cresting the treeline, painting the barn in shades of gold and rose.

She could hear Ducky's voice inside, soft and coaxing, and beneath it, Daisy's low, guttural moans.
---
Ms. Baker followed at a measured pace, her white coat billowing slightly in the breeze. She paused at the barn door, surveying the scene. Daisy on her side in the straw.

Ducky holding her hand. Piglet kneeling near Daisy's head, stroking her sweat-damp hair.

Daisy's low, rhythmic moaning, could smell the hay and the milk and something new—something primal and urgent.

She dropped to her knees in the straw beside the laboring cow. Daisy's blue eyes were wide and glassy, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. Her belly rippled, the muscles clenching and releasing.

Ducky took her hand and squeezed. "I'm here," Ducky breathed. "I'm here, Daisy. You're not alone."

---

"Her water hasn't broken yet," Ms. Baker observed, kneeling beside the laboring cow. She pressed two fingers to Daisy's belly, feeling the contractions.

"But it's close. Very close."
Daisy moaned, her head turning, her eyes finding Ms. Baker's face. For the first time in months, words formed on her lips. "Mama... it hurts."

"I know, sweet girl. I know." Ms. Baker's voice was gentler than Piglet had ever heard it.

"But you're doing beautifully. Your little calf will be here soon. And then we'll have fresh milk, and a new friend for the farm, and you'll be a mama yourself. Won't that be wonderful?"

Daisy's eyes filled with tears. She nodded, her lip trembling.

Piglet stroked her hair, murmuring nonsense comfort sounds. Ducky pressed kisses all over Daisy face as Ms. Baker knelt in the straw, her white coat pooling around her, her hands steady and sure on the laboring belly.

The contractions came faster now. Daisy's moans rose in pitch. The barn filled with the sounds of straining flesh and soft encouragement, the first true birth- first that piglet had ever witnessed.

This is death's opposite, she thought, her hand still moving through Daisy's hair. This is where it begins.

Ms. Baker caught her eye across Daisy's heaving body. That calculating look was back, but softer now. Almost maternal.

"Nature gives life and nature takes," she said, as though reading Piglet's mind.

"The farm is a cycle. You'll understand that soon enough."

Outside, the rooster crowed again. The sun climbed higher.
Wonderful thing are happening in the barn,

Daisy Moo pushed her calf toward the world.
Ms. Baker rose from the straw, brushing off her coat. Holding the new calf. A beautiful blond girl.
Daisy cried out again, was it possible? She wrapped the child and carefully handed the newborn cafe to piglet.

Piglet held her to her chest motherly instinct swelling. Something else as well. A slight hunger.

ducky hugged Daisy face, she wanted to see the baby yet Daisy needed her more.

Ms Baker reached back in. She questioned her ability- missing a second child. The heat beats has sound normal. Was it possible both cafe heartbeat beat in unison?

Needless to say she pulled another child. “A baby bull!” Ms Baker smiled.

Twins’ a boy and a girl. Bull and cow. After cutting the cord she wrap him up too.

Daisy was exhausted yet the pain ended. She laid in the straw her inflated belly now a shriveled empty sack.

Both pets were laid by their momma’s head. Daisy smiled, closing her eyes for a much needed rest.

Ducky and piglet surround the trio. Stroking the newcomers and congratulating Daisy.

Ms. Baker had set you a nursery for this event. She would have to adjust her plans add another bassinet. Bring them out to Daisy for feeding. Keep her milk flowing.

She had calls to make, a celebration dinner to plan. She looked down at her family-her pets.

She instructed the girls to carry the newborns to the farm house.

Ducky was careful, not too heavy for her little body

They walk on the fresh wet morning grass. Each with bundle in hand.

Ms Baker pull the wrap down, exposing the face of the newborn bull. The bonus pet. Piglet held him in a mothers embrace.

“What she we have for breakfast?” Ms Baker ask as she pinched the baby bulls cheek.

Piglet mouth open wide, she clenched the baby to herself in babies defense.

“Not them you silly piglet.”
Ducky hadn’t been paying attention yet felt piglet tense up.
“They are much too valuable.”

Ms Baker ran the numbers. A future milker and a valued bull-when willing and able’ can impregnated hundreds of cows.

“Does ducky want some hot buttery cornbread and peach cobbler?”

Ducky would of bounce had not been for the baby calf she held.

It broke the tension.

“How about you piglet’ some eggs and goat bacon?”

Piglet looked up at her, “Yes Please.”

Daisy Moo

>>30830
That was incredible! Thank you! 😁

The story is getting more and more interesting. The scenes described feel very erotic. You’ve also managed to make the duck and the piglet very likable. Unfortunately, I’ve grown quite fond of both characters—if one can say that about fictional figures. I’m curious to see how things unfold. Great story.

Chapter 12: Pet to the Vet


The farmhouse kitchen buzzed with the particular energy that only a birth could generate. Ducky bounced in her chair, a half-eaten cornbread stick clutched in her fingers, her dark eyes wide and sparkling.

"Twins! Can you believe it? Two perfect little critters a bull and a calves!" She took a triumphant bite, crumbs scattering across her bare chest.

"I'm going to be the best aunt ducky there is!"
Piglet laughed, the sound surprising her with its ease. A week ago, she would have analyzed the absurdity of it all—a naked girl with a duck charm calling herself an aunt to newborn cows.

Now she simply reached for her glass of Daisy's milk, the sweet cream coating her tongue. "I guess that makes me an auntie too."

"Yep it does because we are family!" Ducky's smile spread like sunrise, and Piglet felt it catch in her own chest.

"That makes me grandma," Ms. Baker said, collecting the breakfast plates. She moved behind Ducky and swatted her playfully with the drying cloth. Ducky quacked with delight.

"Of course it does." She set the plates in the sink and turned, her expression shifting to something more businesslike. "By the way, piglet. I've scheduled you for a vet appointment this morning."

Piglet stopped mid-sip. "Vet?"

"I wanna come!" Ducky was already half out of her chair.

Ms. Baker shook her head, her auburn hair swaying. "Pets need a little privacy when being examined."

The disappointment that flooded Ducky's face was immediate and genuine. She'd grown attached—Piglet could feel it in the way Ducky's hand found hers under the table, squeezing once.

Since Miss Goat had left, Ducky had latched onto her with a fierce, quacking devotion.

"Worry not, my pet. I've scheduled your vet appointment right after piglet's." Ms. Baker's voice carried something beneath the reassurance. Not appeasement. Anticipation, perhaps.

There was something she needed to discuss with Ducky—regarding the celebration dinner, something private.

The doorbell rang.
Ms. Baker set the kitchen towel on the counter. "We will most likely have visitors today. I want you two on your best behavior."

Ducky was already waddling toward the front door, her little hips swaying with exaggerated enthusiasm.

She answer the door delightfully screamed.

“Mr Farmer” she called out with excitement. Farmer Fred filled the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the morning sun. Behind him, Dora carried a white wicker bassinet, and flanking them both were Chicken Little and Chick-a-Dee, already naked, already giggling.

The trio of pets collided in a tangle of hugs and squawks, Chicken Little immediately bossing Ducky about where to set the bassinet, Chick-a-Dee peering around with her usual dreamy vacancy.

Dora embraced Ms. Baker. "Always a joyous occasion when a new member arrives. And twins at that."
The pets' chatter filled the kitchen,

Piglet realized, that chickens and ducky devolving into senseless bird-noises and flapping arms.

She stood apart, watching. These girls seemed to digress in their pet pet characters, playful as children will be, almost simple.

Ducky's quackery matched theirs. But Piglets are different. More intelligent. More aware.
A hand settled on her shoulder.

Farmer Fred stood beside her, his grip warm and heavy. The same hands that had portioned Miss Goat. The same steady, confident fingers that had guided the cleaver.

Piglet's knees went liquid.
"How are you enjoying your stay?" His voice was gravel and honey.

She tried to answer. Her mouth opened, closed. His hand moved to the back of her neck, squeezing gently, and the sensation traveled directly between her legs. Moisture gathered. Her thoughts scattered.

"Yes," she managed.
It wasn't an answer. She couldn't remember the question.

Ms. Baker's voice cut through the haze. "Fred darling—thanks for coming." She moved between them with practiced ease, her hand finding Piglet's elbow.

"Piglet dear, be a pet and see how Daisy is doing. We'll bring out the newborns for their first feeding."

Saved.

Piglet pulled away from Fred's grip, his smile following her—all perfect teeth and patient hunger.

She gathered the others with a gesture, and the gang headed toward the barn.
---
The barn was warm with the heat of bodies and fresh straw. Daisy Moo lay nested in a deep bed of it, her blonde hair fanned out, her expression soft with exhaustion.

Ducky was already on her knees in the straw, stroking Daisy's arm. "You did so good, Daisy.
So good."

Piglet hung back, watching. Seeing Farmer Fred again had her mind drifted to the video—Miss Goat on the butcher block, the cleaver descending.

Death on one side of the barn, life,birth on the other. The farm's cycle, spinning like the rotisserie.

She was part of it now. What would her end be? Would she volunteer like Miss Goat, or would she…

The barn door creaked. Ms. Baker entered with Dora, carrying the sweet little moo’s. Behind them,
Farmer Fred knelt beside Daisy, his hand gentle on her flank.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head," he murmured to the cow. "No one's gonna hurt you."

Daisy moo'ed softly, pressing into his palm. But Fred's eyes flicked to Piglet as he said it. Loud enough for her to hear.

She stepped back.
The feeding began. Both calves latched onto their their mothers ample breast with hungry urgency, and the pets gathered close to watch. Nourishers nurture. Nature feeding the young.

Two tiny forms nuzzled against her breast, making sucking noises.

"They're so small," Chick-a-Dee breathed, her voice."

Daisy's eyes were half-closed, as the sucklings gorged on her breast, her milk-scented body radiating contentment.

Ms. Baker rose, brushing straw from her dress.

"Good girl," she said, the words directed at Daisy but landing on all of them.

Piglet felt the trigger wash through her—warm, tingling, obedient bliss.

"Come, piglet. It is time for your vet visit."
The command threaded through the pleasure. She was already nodding, already moving.

"Now Ducky," Ms. Baker continued, "listen to Fred and Dora's orders and keep the chickens entertained."

Piglet hugged Daisy goodbye, then submitted to the crush of embraces from the other pets.

Ducky held on longest, her fingers digging into Piglet's shoulders. "Come back soon," she whispered.
---
Piglet followed Ms. Baker out of the barn, across the dew-wet grass, toward the farmhouse. But when they reached the silver sedan, Ms. Baker kept walking.

"We're not going to the vet?" Piglet asked.

"My pet, I’m a certified veterinarian." Ms. Baker smiled, her hand finding the small of her back, steering her through the front door and down a hallway Piglet hadn't noticed before.

"I have a cozy little office and examination room."
The door swung open. The office was neat, professionally furnished—a desk, a computer monitor, a glass cabinet displaying instruments.

Beyond the next open sliding door, Piglet could see the examination room beyond: white vinyl table, stirrups folded against the sides, a tray of gleaming tools.
"Wait on the examining table. I'll return in a minute."

Ms. Baker disappeared through another door.

Her eyes wandered the office. A notebook on the desk. And there—Miss Goat's collar, the leather still dark, the silver goat charm catching the light.

She reached for it. Her fingers unintentionally brushed the computer mouse instead.

The monitor woke.
A camera view of the barn filled the screen. Piglet leaned closer. There was Ducky, tied up in the straw, the chickens crouched over her, pecking at her squirming body with playful fingers.

Ducky's muffled quacks of laughter filtered through the speakers.

"Mom did tell her to keep the chickens entertained," Piglet murmured.

The word caught her. Mom. She'd just called Ms. Baker Mom.
Her fingers found the controls. She clicked through the feeds.

The cellar—the bed now empty, sheets rumpled.

The theater—the camera aimed at the pews, not the screen. Ms. Baker must know she'd watched the tape.

Hadn't seemed upset. Hadn't mentioned it at all.

Clicking rapidly-The private kitchen, the butcher station.

Piglet's stomach clenched. An overhead shot of the butcher table. She remembered the cleaver, the neat cross-section, the meat stacked on trays.
Click click click. Different angles of the kitchen. The wall oven. The rotisserie.
Click. The examination room. Then the office itself. She could see the top of her head on the screen, she turned to look up at the camera, trying to find her own face. An unreachable task.

Heels clicked in the hallway. Piglet scurried to the exam room, dropping to all fours on the table.

Behind her, the monitor captured her dash.

Ms. Baker entered wearing a crisp white coat, a stethoscope draped around her neck.
Professional. Clinical. Her eyes flicked briefly to the monitor—still on—but she said nothing.

"Let's begin with the basics my pet." She moved through the motions with practiced ease: hands squeezing her body, it could be misconstrued as a butcher testing her meat quality, glands palpated with cool fingers.

A blood pressure cuff squeezed Piglet's arm, then released. "All good. You're in excellent health, piglet."

Her hands lingered on Piglet's hips. She enjoyed the touch, craved every bit of it.

"Now for the more thorough examination."
Fingers traced the cleft of Piglet's ass, finding the base of her tail plug. Ms. Baker twisted it—a slow rotation that sent sparks up Piglet's spine—and pulled.

The plug slid free with a wet sound, leaving her pucker gaping and empty.
Piglet moaned at the loss.

"Let's check what's going on in here."
Ms. Baker produced a probing wand—smooth, metallic, no thicker than the tail plug but somehow more clinical, more invasive.

She looked over her pet. “We must do something about her hair.” It was true. Since piglet’s braids were removed, her hair began to resort back to its original curly state.

Piglet's muscles clenched upon hearing the word drop:

"Obey."

Her body softened instantly. Compliant. Waiting.

"Good girl."

The double trigger flooded her system—obedience and pleasure tangling together until she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

The wand pressed against her loosened entrance and slid inside.

Piglet's back arched. The wand was cool, its surface slick with lubricant, and it found depths the plug hadn't reached.

Ms. Baker worked it with short, precise thrusts, twisting occasionally, and each rotation scraped against nerves Piglet hadn't known existed.

Sparks of pain. Waves of pleasure. The two sensations blurred until she was rocking backward, fucking herself on the wand, her anus clenching rhythmically.

"Responsive," Ms. Baker murmured. She withdrew the wand almost completely, then drove it deep. Piglet squealed.

"Very responsive."
The pace quickened. Piglet's fingers curled against the sanitary paper, tearing it.

Her piggy tail was gone, but this—this was better, or worse, too much and not enough. A pressure built low in her gut, different from vaginal arousal, deeper and stranger.

Ms. Baker's free hand cupped Piglet's pussy. Then her tongue replaced her fingers, lapping at the wet folds from behind, and Piglet shattered.

The orgasm ripped through her, her anus spasming around the wand, her cunt gushing against Ms. Baker's chin.

When she came back to herself, the wand was gone. Her pucker gaped, open and loose.
Ms. Baker held up the new tail plug. The plug was larger—much larger—the pink metal corkscrew bulb thick as a small fist at its widest point.

"Your body has adapted. Time for an upgrade."
She pressed the tapered tip bulb against Piglet's open anus. Resistance. A little struggle. Then it slipped inside, the ridges dragging, stretching, filling her beyond what she'd thought possible.

Piglet moaned low and guttural, her body trembling around the intrusion.
Uncomfortable. And yet. She loved it.

Ms. Baker stroked her flank, soothing. "There's something I want you to understand, piglet.

About the life of a farm animal." Piglet listened, still panting, the new plug a heavy presence inside her.

"You have no decisions to make. No papers to write. No identity to perform. A piglet's only purpose is to eat, sleep, play, and be enjoyed.

That is freedom—not the freedom to choose, but the freedom from choice.

Miss Goat understood this. She gave herself willingly, and in doing so, she found the deepest peace a pet can know."

Piglet thought of the video. Miss Goat's serene smile. The way she'd climbed onto the butcher block without hesitation.

"Every pet on this farm will eventually serve her purpose," Ms. Baker continued.
"Some give milk. Some give entertainment. Some even give up there meat.

But all give joy. And when your time eventually comes, piglet, you will give joy too.”

Not because you must. Because you love. Because you belong."
The words settled into Piglet's chest like that all so familiar stones into still water.

True. All of it, true.

"Now." Ms. Baker's voice shifted, taking on that melodic quality that preceded hypnosis.

"I'm going to give you a new trigger. A word that will help you serve your purpose when the time arrives." She cupped Piglet's chin, tilting her face upward. "When I say the word 'perfect,' your hunger will awaken. You will eat with enthusiasm. You will consume with joy. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mother," Piglet whispered.

"Perfect."

The word landed like a bell. Hunger roared through her—not stomach hunger, but something deeper, something that lived in her bones.

She wanted to taste. To be tasted, to devour- to be consumed.

Ms. Baker smiled. "Perfect piglet."

The hunger doubled, then settled into a low, constant hum.

Ms. Baker helped her off the table. Her legs wobbled. The new tail plug shifted inside her with every step.

"Now," Ms. Baker said, opening the office door, "let's go see Ducky.”

She had something very special to ask of her, very important task in deed.

Big plans for the celebration dinner.

Chapter 13: Fox in the Henhouse


The scene that greeted piglet was exactly what the monitor had shown: Ducky pinned face-down in the straw, Chicken Little straddling her back, Chick-a-Dee sitting on her legs.

Both chickens were pecking—fingers darting in to pinch Ducky's ribs, her inner thighs, the soft curve of her ass. Ducky's muffled quacks of protest were half laughter, half genuine distress.

Weird bird play, Piglet thought. If you asked her.

Across the barn, Farmer Fred sat behind Daisy Moo, one hand rubbing slow circles against her pink, glistening folds while the twins nursed at her breasts. Dora was already lifting one milk-drunk calf into the crook of her arm, its tiny mouth still working at empty air.

The other bull calf was nearly finished.

Piglets attention focus back to the fouls.

"Mom wants you up to the house for your vet exam." Wow she said the mom thing again-she felt a stir.

Piglet stepped into the straw, addressing Ducky but loud enough to cut through the chaos.

"Go away, Jenny!" Chicken Little didn't even look up. Her fingers had found Ducky's armpit, and Ducky squirmed, giggle-cry.

"I'm not Jenny." Piglet planted her feet.

Piglet need to take charge,a plan to…-shes gots it!

She contorted her face into something monstrous—lips pulled back, eyes wide, fingers hooked into claws. "I'm a hungry fox and I eat chickens. ROARRRrr!"

She lunged at them.
The chickens scattered, shrieking with delight.

Chick-a-Dee tumbled off Ducky's legs, and Chicken Little lost her balance, sprawling sideways into the straw.

Ducky scrambled up. “Noooo!" Chicken Little lunged after her, but Piglet caught her around the waist, dragging her back. The smaller girl kicked and squirmed, laughing, her sweaty skin slippery against Piglet's grip.

Ducky check on Daisy, she moo’s- Farmer Fred still rubbing her with care. That’s what ducky like about him. He’s so sweet and loving-he is also best and only butcher she knows.

Her collar charm swinging wildly as she threw her arms around Farmer Fred's neck. She planted a wet kiss on his stubbled beard.

She looked back at piglet blocking the children attempt to get her.

“Bye, suckers’ smell you later!" Ducky bolted for the barn door, her bare feet kicking up straw.

——

Dora kissed Fred on the mouth—a quick, fond press of lips—and gathered the second calf.
“Behave yourself Fredrick Arnold, this isn’t home.”
He smiles she knows him so well.

She headed for the farmhouse without a backward glance, babies cradled in both arms.

Piglet now had both chickens. She wrestled them down into the straw, one under each arm, and began teasingly biting—her teeth grazing Chick-a-Dee's shoulder, then Chicken Little's ear. They squealed and thrashed, their bodies tangling with hers, skin against skin.

This felt different from the rotisserie game. Wilder. More real. The children were loving this game.

A shadow form the trio.

"Farmer Fred! Save us!" Chicken Little's cry was theatrical, her voice pitched high and desperate.

Piglet turned.
Fred had crept up silently. He stood over them, his broad frame blocking the barn's amber light, his shorts tented with the erection she had felt pressing against her hip at the cookout.

"I wanna play." His voice was gravel. “Those are my chickens!”

He grabbed her ankle and yanked.
Piglet's grip on the chickens broke as she slid through the straw, her new tail plug grinding against something deep inside her. Swiftly she was airborne—Fred's hand gripping one slender leg, hoisting her up until she dangled. Her other leg kicked uselessly. Her arms windmilled. The weight of her young form light compared to the heavy quarters he has hauled.

Suspended. Exposed. Her crotch was inches from his face. He loves young pussy, such a sweetness about them-delicious as well.

A vulnerability shot through her like an electric current. Unwanted. And yet. Her pussy clenched around nothing, and she felt herself grow wet.

The chickens danced below her. "We captured the fox!" Chicken Little declared, clapping her hands. The play had flipped. Piglet was no longer the scary predator.
“She now our prey.” Chicken Little declared.

Prey, Fred chuckle, seeing their excitement.

Fred played along.
Little hands grabbed her breasts—Chicken Little's fingers, pulling and twisting her nipples with a roughness that bordered on painful.

Piglet gasped, tried to swat them away. Fred's grip on her ankle was iron. Another hand smacked her ass. Then another. The chickens circled, taking turns.

"Take this, you fox!"
Chick-a-Dee pressed her crotch into Piglet's face. The smell was salt and oily sweat and something musky. Piglet couldn't breathe. She tried to turn her head, but chick-a-dee's tiny hands clamped her ears, and then she was grinding—fast, erratic, nothing like the slow rotation of the rotisserie. A frantic, desperate rubbing that mashed piglet's nose against her clit.

Another smack landed on Piglet's ass. Hard. The sting radiated outward, and her anus clenched around the thick plug. Chicken Little's fingers found the tail and twisted.
The sensation detonated.

A wave traveled from piglet's rectum straight to her brain, short-circuiting every thought. Her bladder let go.

Hot piss gushed from her, spraying her own thighs, splattering Chick-a-Dee's legs, darkening the straw beneath her. She couldn't stop it. The release was total, humiliating, and her pussy throbbed with an arousal so sharp it was almost pain.

Chick-a-Dee didn't notice. Her hips jackhammered against Piglet's face, and her wetness smeared across piglet's lips, her chin, her cheeks. Piglet tried to lick—tried to kiss—but the pace was too fast, too brutal. Just salt and heat and the suffocating press of flesh.

Then Chick-a-Dee's rhythm stuttered. Her thighs clenched. A high, gutted moan escaped her throat, and she came, hard, her slick flooding piglet's nose and mouth.

She slumped backward into the straw, chest heaving.

Fred keep the game going.

"Let's hear what the fox has to say." Fred's voice rumbled through the barn.

He still held her ankle, her body swaying gently. She felt like hanging meat ready to butcher, piglet couldn’t tell what kind of game this was, yet she liked it.

Fred was getting into this little game. Over the years he had played all kinds of games with his little chickens. Age appropriate games like wake Mr. Wormy with plenty of cooking themes.

"What do you have to say, fox?" piglet's tongue was lead. Her mind had become a white static, the taste of another girl's orgasm coating her teeth. She opened her mouth. Nothing.

Two thick fingers pushed inside her pussy.
She gasped. Fred's fingers. She knew them. Had seen them portion Miss Goat's body with surgical precision, had watched them grip the cleaver. Now they were inside her, curling, thrusting, finding that rough spot on her anterior wall with unerring accuracy.

Her hips bucked against his hand. "What is it, fox? Do you want down?"
Her pussy said no—squeezing around his fingers, pulling him deeper. But something else, some survival instinct buried beneath the arousal, screamed at her to flee.

She couldn't answer.
"Still not talking." Fred smiled. "You still must be punished."

The chickens cheered.
"You can't go eating other farmers' chickens!" Chicken Little's voice was pure, theatrical outrage, but her hands were already reaching for the rope coiled on a nearby hook.

Fred eyed the rafters. "Let's string her up. Hang her from the beams."

---

Rope bit into her wrists. The fibers were coarse—hay-baling twine, not the soft leather of Ms. Baker's harnesses—and they burned as Fred cinched the knots tight. He hoisted the rope over a low rafter and pulled.

Her arms rose above her head. Her feet left the straw.

She swayed, spinning slowly. The tail plug felt enormous now, gravity pressing it deeper, the pink metal plug dragging against her inner walls with every rotation.

Her pussy was still soaked, her thighs still sticky with cooling piss.

The chickens gathered long straw stems. They whispered together, giggling, their fingers stripping leaves from the stalks until they held a bundle of thin, flexible switches.

The children we experienced at gather switches for their owners-as often needed to whip their naughty butts.

Chicken Little swished one through the air. It whistled.

Fred dragged a milking stool into position and sat. Ready for a show. His shorts were unbuttoned now, his erection jutting upward against his belly. He stroked himself slowly, watching.

The first switch landed across Piglet's ass.
The sting was a line of fire. Her body jerked, the rope creaking, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. The second switch followed—higher, catching the sensitive crease where buttock met thigh. Her legs kicked involuntarily.

"Foxes get what they deserve," Chicken Little said, and her voice had changed. The playfulness was still there, but underneath it hummed something else. Something hungry.

They took turns. Chick-a-Dee's strokes were lighter, teasing, the switch trailing across Piglet's belly, her breasts, circling her nipples until they tightened into hard peaks.

Chicken Little aimed for the ass—each stroke a sharp, precise stripe that left pink welts rising on Piglet's skin.
Then the pinching began.
Fingers found her nipples and twisted. Hard. Piglet screamed—a short, sharp sound that echoed off the barn walls.

Another pinch on her inner thigh. Teeth grazed her hip—Chick-a-Dee, biting just hard enough to leave marks. A switch flicked between her legs, catching her swollen clit, and piglet's whole body convulsed.

Given that the five year olds were relatively weak, better at being whipped then whipping. The pain was minimal-yet present.

The pain and pleasure had merged into something more-something indistinguishable,

Every sting made her even wetter. Every twist of her nipples sent a spike of heat directly to her cunt.

She was dripping now, her arousal running down her inner thighs in thin rivulets.

Fred watched from his stool, his hand moving slowly on his cock.
"Play with her tail," Chicken Little commanded.

Chick-a-Dee's fingers found the corkscrew tail of the plug. She pressed inward, driving it deeper, and simultaneously twisted—a single, deliberate rotation that pushing the thickest ridge across piglet's expanding rectum.

Piglet came.
The orgasm ripped through her without warning. Her back arched. Her mouth opened in a soundless scream.

Her pussy spasmed around nothing, gushing clear fluid that splattered into the straw below. The rope creaked with her convulsions, her bound wrists white-knuckled above her head.

Piglet couldn't tell which was which. She hung limp, panting, her mind a white void.

Fred stood.
He reached up and loosened the rope, lowering her into the straw.

Piglet collapsed, her cheek pressing into the rough bedding. Her wrists burned. Her ass was a constellation of pink welts connecting freckles. Her pussy still throbbed with the aftershocks.she was a mess, her hair sticky and wild.

She had been the one tortured. Yet the chickens lay sprawled beside her, their chests heaving, their switches scattered. They looked as exhausted as she felt.

Chick-a-Dee reached out and patted piglet's belly. The touch was almost tender.

“Good fox,"
she murmured.

Piglet closed her eyes. The straw prickled against her raw skin. Above her, the rafter creaked in the silence.

Farmer Fred looked up at the hidden camera. Big smile across his face.

With some editing this video recording will sell like hotcakes at the next Community gathering at the end of summer.

He needs a catchy title. He’d have to think about it.

>>30853
I love how cute and playful these scenes are! So, this "community" of Farmer Fred's... How does one get invited to their gatherings?

>>30856

Funny you should ask. Next chapter is starting to heat up. Celebration plans finalized and invitations to send.

It will be a small gathering of a few farm/ranch owners, some with accompanying pets. Some being providers, others being contributor, all being consumers.

I haven’t seen the invitation list ;)- you may be on it. Look for the Special Courier mail drop.

Working on next chapter now. It is all fun & games until someone loses a wiener.

Chapter 14: What’s with penises?

The straw clung to everything. Piglet’s hair. The welts on her ass. The drying cum crusted across her cheeks and chin.

She pushed herself up on shaky arms, and the hay pricked at her raw skin like tiny needles. Scratchy. Itchy. A bath sounded like heaven.

She looked down at the chickens. Sprawled. Limp. Mouths open. Lightweights.

A low sound drew her attention. Farmer Fred still sat on his milking stool, his shorts puddled around his ankles, his hand wrapped around his cock. The thing was massive—thicker than the new tail plug

His cock so stiff, longer than anything she’d seen on screen watching secret porn from her mothers room.

Her throat tightened just looking at it. He slowly stroke his shaft, hand stopping at the head was a glossy, purpled knob.

“Still can’t talk to me?” The question finally came with a subtle response.
He smiled when she shook her head no.

At least it was a response.

“Are you afraid of me?” His voice dropped, gentler now. Almost kind.
She paused. Shook her head no again. The gesture wasn’t convincing.

She looked down at his cock. She could have looked anywhere—the rafters, the sleeping chickens, the straw beneath her knees.

Anywhere but his eyes. Those steel-blue eyes that seemed to see straight through her skull, past the piglet persona, past the triggers, into whatever scrap of Jenny still cowered in the dark.
Yet her focus was his cock.

“Maybe if you suck on it, it’ll clear that frog in your throat.” He watched her reaction, tracking the way her pupils dilated, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

“Come on. Don’t it look tasty?”
Her body moved closer before her mind caught up.

Knees sliding through the straw. The plug shifting inside her with each shuffle forward.
He presented it to her—a big, stiff offering that seemed to grow larger as she approached.

“Good girl.”

The trigger detonated. Warmth flooded her limbs, unspooling the tension in her shoulders, the knot in her chest. Her lips parted.

Her breath came shallow.
She grabbed his dick with both hands on a top the other and a good four inches remained, the head pulsing inches from her face. The heat of it radiated against her palms, and a clear bead of fluid welled at the tip.

She licked it away. Salt and skin and something musky. The trigger had her moving like she’d done this a hundred times—her tongue tracing the ridge of his crown, exploring the sensitive underside, lapping at the thick vein that ran the length of his shaft.

Her lips stretched wide around the head, and she sucked gently, her cheeks hollowing. Fred’s breath caught. His hand left his thigh and hovered near her hair, not touching yet, just hovering.

She tried to take more. Half his length, then two-thirds, her jaw aching with the stretch. The head bumped the back of her throat, and she gagged—involuntary, convulsive—pulling back with a wet, sputtering cough.

Tears streamed from her eyes. Spit bridged from her lower lip to his cock in a glistening thread.

She dove back down, determined, and the same thing happened—gag, retreat, tears. The third time, she held herself there, throat spasming around the intrusion, her nose pressed-yet getting nowhere near his pubic bone.

Couldn’t breathe. Didn’t care. The trigger had her chasing the pleasure of his approval, and the gagging only made her wetter.

Fred’s hand settled on the back of her head. Not pushing. Just resting there, heavy and warm.

He watched this strange girl—this creature who’d pissed herself while hanging upside down, who’d come screaming chasing the chickens’ enjoy every moment of the switches, who now choked herself on his cock with a fervor of a wild child.

He’d seen conditioned pets before. Ducky was eager. Daisy was dreamy. But this one—this one had a different vibe.

Ms Baker did tell him about the video, she had watched the butchery video-now she is sucking his dick with all her might. She had a hunger in her eyes that he couldn’t fully explain-children these days.

She wasn’t just trained. This was instinct, curiosity, smart and aggressive. In Fred’s experience, made the best pets and the possible most dangerous ones.

He shot his wad without warning. Hot salt flooded her mouth, and she choked—not on his cock this time, but on the sheer volume of it.

She pulled back, coughing, he continued another rope of cum lashing across her cheek, her nose, the bridge of her brow. It dripped from her eyelashes.

She swallowed what was in her mouth and went back to sucking.
“Clean it good, pet.” His hand guided her lips back down.

He leaned his head back against the stall post. Her mouth was relentless—soft tongue, gentle suction, the occasional scrape of teeth that made his thighs tense.

“Ms. Baker calls you her prize piglet.” He could see why.

She doubled her effort, treating his spent cock like her own personal lollipop, licking the last traces of salt from the slit, nuzzling against the sensitive crown.

Fred moaned. She sucked.

“Terrific… tongue—”
“FUCK!”

He shoved her off him, nearly toppled off the stool. “What the hell—you bit me!”

“I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out, small and shaky. “Something came over me.”

He checked his cock. A tiny bead of blood welled near the frenulum, but everything was intact. He exhaled.

Piglet tasted the blood on her lips. Coppery. Warm. Her stomach growled-a bone-deep longing.

Ms. Baker had implanted the trigger. Just simple, physical hunger.

She licked her lips again.

“At least you’re talking to me.” His voice was calmer now, almost amused.

“What was that?”
She had no answer. The bite had come from somewhere deeper than thought.

He stuffed his penis back into his shorts for safekeeping, and the barn door creaked open.

Dora entered. She took one look at Piglet and stopped. “Oh my, you’re a mess.” Her gaze swept across the sleeping chickens, the scattered switches, the wet patch in the straw.

Slightly distracted before continuing “Come on, Freddy. Let’s get home.”

Fred was already walking funny, one hand hovering protectively near his groin.

“I gotta come back for the next feeding.”

Dora addressed Piglet as she nudged the chickens awake.

“Claire—I mean, Ms. Baker—wants you to come back to her exam office.”

Piglet rose. Her orange curls were a rat’s nest of straw and dried cum and who knew what else.

The spunk Fred had painted across her face was starting to crust, pulling at her skin when she moved her eyebrows.

Welts striped her ass and thighs, pink and raised, a few still stinging. Her wrists were raw from the baling twine.

She smelled of piss and sweat and sex and hay, and between her legs, she was still wet—had been wet for what felt like hours now, a low-grade arousal that never quite faded.

Her tail plug was the only clean thing on her, pink metal gleaming corkscrew between her cheeks.

Her mind was a quiet pond. No anxiety. No identity crisis. Just the pleasant thrum of being used, of being dirty, of being owned. Bliss.

She dashed out of the barn. The groggy chickens shouted something behind her—bye, piglet, bye—and then she was crossing the yard, bare feet slapping against the cool evening grass.

A pickup truck sat in the gravel drive. Its bed held a cage, the door hanging open. Empty.

She entered the farmhouse. The kitchen was silent. The hallway stretched ahead, and from behind Ms. Baker’s office door, a man’s voice rumbled—not happy, clipped and impatient.

She crept closer, pushed the door, and peeked inside.

“Mistress, have you called for me?” She tried to sound obedient. A good pet, in front of guests.

Ms. Baker looked up. Her expression flickered—surprise, then amusement, then something that might have been pride. Less than two hours of free time, and Piglet had managed to coat herself in evidence.

“Stand here and be silent while I finish with Mr. Jenkins.”

Behind Mr. Jenkins stood a boy, maybe 13-14. Naked. Hands cupped protectively over his privates. His shoulders were broad, his chest defined without bulkiness, his stomach flat and ridged with muscle. A body built for function. His face, though—his face was a study in misery. Eyes fixed on the floor. Jaw tight.

“As I was saying.” Mr Jenkins’s voice was annoyed.

Mr. Jenkins launched into his explanation. His breeding bull had lost his penis in a potato peeling accident.

Piglet let out a tiny giggle, then controlled herself.

Ms. Baker, ever the professional, asked to see the damage.
“Remove your hands for the Doctor,” Mr. Jenkins commanded.
The boy complied slowly, revealing a burnt, cauterized stump where his penis should have been.

The wound was angry red, sealed shut.

“I had to cauterize it to stop the bleeding,” Mr. Jenkins said.

Ms. Baker examined the site with clinical detachment. “He’ll need a full penectomy revision—removal of the remaining necrotic tissue, reconstruction of the urethral opening to allow urination, and a course of antibiotics to prevent sepsis. If the scarring encroaches on the pelvic floor, a perineal urethrostomy may be necessary.”

Piglet understood none of it. It was big words for big people.

“I ain’t paying for no surgery. He’s no good to me as a breeding bull. No one’s gonna buy a dickless bull.”

“At least open his urinary tract for peeing,” Ms. Baker suggested.

“I don’t care for none of that” he replied to that as well.
Finally Ms. Baker plainly asked what is it he wants her to do.

“Just give him an examination for his meat quality and certificate stamp so I can sell him at the slaughterhouse.”

Ms. Baker’s eyes flickered—calculation, assessment.

“I will give you an alternate offer. I’ll buy him. At meat market value, minus the vet cost.”

“Deal.”

Piglet’s heart leaped. Saved. She’d just watched Ms. Baker save a life—a new family member, minus the member.

The young boy looked up for the first time, confusion breaking through the shame.

“Piglet, please take our new pet to the shower out back. I need to work out the details with Mr. Jenkins.”

She reached for his hand. He flinched, then let her take it—his palm soft, his grip uncertain. Up close, he was beautiful in the way a farm animal is beautiful: strong shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, thighs thick with muscle, the kind of body that came from farm living.

His face was handsome beneath the humiliation—a strong jaw, dark eyes that couldn’t quite meet hers, a mouth that had forgotten how to smile. He stood hunched, trying to make himself smaller, his empty hands twitching toward his groin as though they could hide what was no longer there.

“Get him cleaned up, as well as yourself,” Ms. Baker said before Piglet exited. She’s such a piggy, Ms. Baker mused to herself, watching the cum-crusted curls bounce down the hallway.

---

Outside, the noon air had heated up. Piglet led him to the shower station—the wooden platform, the galvanized pipe, the hand pump.

She worked the handle, and water burst from the shower head above them. Cold. Bracing.
He gasped. She laughed.
“You get used to it.” She grabbed the brown soap and worked it into a lather between her palms.

“What’s your name?”
“Thirty-Six.” His voice was flat. The number came out like a recitation.
“That’s not a name.”
“It’s what I am.”

She began washing him. Her soapy hands moved across his shoulders first—the knotted muscle, the tension that flinched beneath her touch.

Down his arms. Across his chest, where his heart hammered against his ribs. He stood rigid, unaccustomed to being touched without purpose.

“My name’s Piglet.” She worked the soap lower, across the ridges of his abdomen. “It’s not my real name either. But it’s better than a number.”

His jaw tightened. “I was a breeder. I worked out, I ate, I fucked.” The word came out harsh, a challenge.

“Now I’m—” He gestured downward and said nothing more.

Piglet’s hands stilled on his hip. “Now you’re safe.” She handed him the soap.

“Your turn. Wash me.”
He hesitated. Then his soft palms settled on her shoulders, and he worked the soap across her collarbone with clumsy, unpracticed strokes.

He washed the dried cum from her face, the straw from her hair, the sweat from the crease of her thighs. His touch was tentative—the touch of a boy who’d only ever touched bodies for breeding, never for care.

When he reached her back, his fingers traced the welts crisscrossing her ass. He paused.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m not.” She turned to face him. Water sluiced the suds down her freckle chest, her belly, between her legs.

“They’re from a game. It felt good.”
He didn’t understand. She could see it in his eyes—the way he’d been trained to perform tasks, separated from real from pleasure, to see his body only as a tool.

She kissed him.
Their lips met beneath the cold water, and for a long moment he didn’t move.

Then his mouth softened. Then it opened. His hands rose to cup her face, tentative, disbelieving, and he kissed her back like a boy who’d forgotten kissing was possible.

They broke apart, breathing hard.
“You’re free here,” she said, her voice fierce and low.

“Ms. Baker is kind. She takes care of us. There’s a cow named Daisy—she just had twins. A cow and a bull.

“Ducky’s a duck pet, she’s been here six months, she’s my best friend.”

“There are chickens who come to visit. Everyone has a purpose here, you can find your purpose to.”

He stared at her. Water dripped from his dark hair onto his cheeks.

“I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“You’ll learn.” She took his hand again, squeezing.

“We all do.”

They rinsed in silence. The pump squeaked, the water needled their skin, and by the time they were clean, his shoulders had dropped an inch.

His hands had stopped shaking. He still wouldn’t look at his own groin, but he looked at her—really looked—and something in his face had shifted from shame to something softer-hope, maybe. Or the memory of it.

Piglet grabbed a towel from the wooden cabinet and threw it at him.

She got a smile from him. She like the way he smiled.

“Let’s go meet the others.”

Come to think of it—where was Ducky?

>>30859
Aww super sweet! But now I'm a little confused about the world of these stories? I thought the farm and the cannibalism associated with it was part of an underground fetish circle operating secretively within the grey areas of the law but now there is talk of slaughter-houses and meat markets? Not a criticism, I just want to understand 😊

>>30861
PS - Pretty sure I know where Ducky is! Wonder if orange sauce will be involved?

>>30861

Understandable. Ms. Bakers farm is small compared to other farms and ranches. Most businesses cater to those in the know, it’s still a tight-nit community group.
Certification of meat quality is used to assure they don’t sell bad meat to their own community. It is not government regulations, just good business sense. You can freely eat your own.

I hope this explanation clarify story direction.


As far a ducky is concerned, her goose ain’t cooked yet. We’ll catch up with her next chapter, and boy does she have a story to tell.

>>30863
Ah okay so it IS still an underground subculture but a relatively widespread one! Can't wait to hear Ducky's story!

>>30864

Yes’ spread out with thousands of acres amongst them it creates a state within a state.
They have had this advantages going back to the civil war. This is Midwest America if it wasn’t apparent. Needless to say it works with this story.

Btw Mindy Chow aka ducky approves your choice of glaze. :)

>>30865
Very nice picture :D And thanks for the explantion - I love world-building and alternate history!

Chapter 15: The Hungry Look


The farmhouse settled into its Sunday hush as Piglet and Thirty-Six stepped through the back door, their bare feet leaving faint prints on the hardwood. Clean. Quiet. The kind of stillness that made the old house feel like it was holding its breath.

She checked Ms. Baker's office first. Empty. The same notepad laying in a different location, the computer monitor dark.

"One second," Piglet said, already moving toward the desk.

Smart piglet. She smirk.

Thirty-Six watched without a word, his hands still cupped protectively over his groin. It wasn't often he got to go into a house—clean and comfortable, smelling of lemon polish.

He'd spent most of his young life in the bulls' quarters. When not fucking cowgirls.

It wasn't always peaches and cream. Well, lots of cream. The older bulls used to pass him around. They didn't think it cruel—mostly to get out their pent-up frustrations, other times just for fun. They never asked consent. Yet neither did he when plowing the cowgirls. It was their way. His life.

The monitor flickered to life. Piglet clicked through the feeds. Only Daisy in the barn, asleep

. The cellar—empty, sheets fresh. The theater—nothing.

The office camera showed Thirty-Six staring at himself on the screen, and for a moment he forgot to breathe. He didn't get to see himself very often.

The medical room. Then the private kitchen. Lights were on, but she could see no one—only a faint ribbon of conversation bleeding through the speakers.

"There." Thirty-Six pointed, his soft finger hovering near the screen.

The baking section. Ms. Baker in her medical garb, talking to Ducky, who sat casually, bare-naked, on the edge of a prep table. Behind them, the oversized oven Ducky was so fascinated about.

Piglet turned up the volume.

"—are you sure about this." Ms. Baker's voice, not quite a question. "It is a big step and there is no coming back."

"I know what happens." Ducky's tone was light, almost cheerful. "At least I'll be inside all of you. Just like Miss Goat."

"Why don't we wait until Thanksgiving? Maybe fatten you up a little."

"You said it was my choice. My decision as a farm animal."

"True. I just want you to see all your options."

"I have." Ducky's voice dropped, dreamy and firm.

"I dream about it at night. Everyone eating my delicious duck body."
A pause.

"I like it when Piglet bites me. It makes me so wet. I want her to eat me, too."

Piglet watched the feed with a tear tracking down her cheek and a warmth spreading through her chest.

Thirty-Six probably would have had a hard-on, if he could.
"I like her mouth on me I can be with her forever-within her. I love her.

I love Daisy. I want to do it for her as well."

"Well, I'm not going to stop you if that is your wish." Ms. Baker's hand rested on Ducky's knee.

"But what about your request?
What if she says no?"

"Why would she say no? She loves me!"

"I know she loves you. But some people are not ready for cook another person. She's a new member, she only been with us a few days-remember?"

Ducky hopped off the table. She didn't count days. "She will."

The feed showed them heading toward the door. Piglet heard the locks click open down the hall.

"Here they come." She stepped away from the monitor and stood beside Thirty-Six, her shoulder brushing his arm.

"Ah, there you are—and shiny clean as well." Ms. Baker's voice preceded her into the office. Ducky flew past her, crashing into Piglet with both arms.

"I've missed you."

Piglet felt compelled to hug her back. Tight.

Whatever Ducky desired, she should get everything she has coming to her.

Ducky looked up at the naked boy holding his crotch.

"Why is he so shy?"
Piglet didn't answer.

Ducky was told that he was a new pet, she immediately jump, moving over to give him a big hug, pressing his arms against his body.

Thirty-Six's eyes went wide, but he didn't pull away.

"Why don't you pets head to the cellar?" Ms. Baker suggested, steering them out the office door. "I'm sure you two have lots to talk about.

I need to do minor surgery on our new pet—or else he will explode if he can't pee."

Ducky went to ask more questions but-they were pushed into the hallway.

Piglet pulled ducky along, she wanted to her what she has to say.

As they headed for the cellar, they ran into Dora, holding the twins for another feeding.

"I see you're no worse for the wear." Dora's eyes traveled over Piglet's clean skin.
"You clean up nice.” Dora looking a piglet hungrily.

“But that hair of yours. Im a pet groomer! Let’s see what Clair wants to do with that doo" She sniffed theatrically, laughing, then continued toward the barn.

“Strange lady” ducky quacked

The cellar door. The stairs. The big bed with its fresh sheets, past activities washed away.

"What's with the shy new pet?" Ducky asked, bouncing onto the mattress.

"Oh, Thirty-Six? He lost his banana."
Ducky's face crumpled. "What?"

Piglet laughed at her own joke. "Just kidding. It's a sad story." She wasn't laughing at him—only the absurdity of it all.

"He's a bull. His name is Thirty-Six, and he lost his penis in a potato-peeling accident."

The words swirled around Ducky's bird brain. She saw them from every angle. Seconds later:

"What a stupid name!"

They collapsed onto the bed, giggling. No toys. No games. Just piglet and ducky.

Ducky had something to say, and Piglet was all ears.

Ducky's fingers found Piglet's, squeezing. "You know the rotisserie game we played with Chick-a-Dee? The basting and the oil and how she looked so happy?" Her words came faster now, tumbling.

"I want that for real. I want you to be my chef. A real chef, with a big white hat and an apron, and I want to be your dish.
For Daisy’s celebration dinner.

Not on the rotisserie—in the oven. Just warmth and comfort. You can brush a glaze on me. A sticky, sweet glaze, all over my breasts and my tummy. Id like lots of season, stuff me up real good. Garnish me—maybe orange slices, and peach bundles tucked under my arms."

She was breathless now, her dark eyes shining.
But I want to be cook alive, I want to experience it-just like miss goat did when she was butchered-alive.

Piglet had seen the video feed. She knew Ducky's wanted to become dinner, but a live roasting?

Ms. Baker would be doing the real cooking, piglet would just be playing a role. Ducky’s motivation is simple, how could she take that away from her.

The only answer that felt right was yes.

She pulled Ducky into a hug. Ducky hugged tighter. “Yes I’ll cook you!” Piglet agreed.

“and eat me too!” Ducky added.

Piglet remember-grabbed Ducky's shoulders, pushing her back to see her face. "Where have you been all this time?"

"Oh, after my exam I told Ms. Baker about the video we watched."

"You did what? Was she mad?" Piglet's voice pitched higher.

"No, not really. She just said it's natural for pets to be curious." Ducky's fingers traced the pig charm on Piglet's collar.

"Even though I didn't eat her, I want to do something in Miss Goat's honor.

So I asked Ms. Baker and she agreed. She asked me to think about it—an oven can get pretty hot.

Piglet leaned closer.

Ms Baker wanted me to hop inside the metal long box-rectangle thingy. Think about what it would feel like to be cooked.

She put this cap on my head to cover my hair, and big goggles over my eyes and eyebrows. Then she lowered me into a metal tub half-filled with creamy yellow gel. The tub was shallow, but I couldn't see over the ledge when I lay down.

My hands and feet were stretched and clamped."

Ducky's voice had gone soft, recounting the memory like a dream.

"She showed me a strange device that went into my vagina. It looked like a football attached to a long rod. She inserted the football, then attached it to a box with a hole.

Ms. Baker said I could stay in the box and think about live cooking in an oven.

Ms Baker closed the lid and a low orange lights dimly lit the interior. I could feel it warming up—not hot, but like a sauna.

The gel bubbled. It felt so good. My thighs pressed together. Then the football came alive-began to vibrate.
Trust me, I lost control. Came right on the spot. My arms were clamped above me, my ankles clamped at the other end.

Turns out the gel substance was butter.
Real butter.

Next, tiny ports opens and spray butter from above, dousing my body with warm butter. The best part is—" She met Piglet's eyes. "I thought about you licking me."

Piglet's stomach growled. Loud. Way past lunch.
"Taste me," Ducky said, holding out her arm.

It took Piglet a second to respond. She leaned forward, her tongue dragging from Ducky's wrist to the crook of her elbow. Butter. Rich and creamy and faintly salted, still clinging to Ducky's skin from the butter box. "Mmmmm. Tastes so good."

"I'm buttery all over. Want a taste?" Ducky smiled, laying back and spreading her legs.

Piglet didn't answer with words. Her mouth found Ducky's inner thigh first, licking a long stripe from knee to groin, chasing the butter like a starved thing.

The flavor coated her tongue—sweet cream and warm skin and something muskier underneath.

Ducky's hips lifted, pressing her pussy toward Piglet's face, but Piglet wasn't ready. She took the other thigh. Same slow path. Same greedy tongue.

Her fingers spread Ducky's folds, and the butter was there too—slick and warm, mixing with Ducky's own wetness until

Piglet couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. She licked. A broad, flat stroke that made Ducky gasp and grip the sheets. Another, this time circling the clit with the tip of her tongue.

Ducky's thighs clamped around her ears, and Piglet ate—lapped and sucked and nuzzled, twisting Ducky's body as she went, flipping her onto her stomach to lick the butter from the backs of her knees, the curve of her ass, the dip of her spine.

"You taste like a feast," Piglet murmured against Ducky's skin. The hunger was real—Ms. Baker's trigger still humming in her bones, but also something older, something that had nothing to do with hypnosis.

She wanted to consume. To devour. To lick every last trace of butter from this girl who loved her enough to become her meal.

Ducky came with a quack-like cry, her body shuddering under Piglet's mouth, and Piglet held her through it, lapping gently until the trembling stopped.

Soon Ducky's breathing evened. Sleep dragged her under, her small body limp on the fresh sheets.

Piglet's stomach growled again. Real hunger. She was such a piggy.
She slipped off the bed, leaving Ducky curled in a butter-scented ball, and padded quietly upstairs to the kitchen.

The fridge light would be enough. Just a snack before dinner.
She pushed through the kitchen door.
Only to stop short.

Coach stood at the counter, pulling a beer from the fridge.
Her old swim coach. The one who'd sent her to Ms. Baker. The one who'd visited the farm before, who'd headed to the barn to visit Daisy Moo when the rotisserie game got too intense.

He must have had a few beers already. He was looking at her funny.
A hungry look.

Her pussy became wet.

>>30867
Really love this story! I know hypnosis is involved but it's been proven you can't hypnotise someone into doing something they were deeply unwilling to do, just unlock desires already there 😁 Ducky looks so delicious in that last picture!

>>30870

So true, I’m taking a sensible approach to mind control. Desire can lead anywhere. A little coaching, persuasion, and focused environment can cause people to even make the ultimate sacrifice.

That said Ms Baker farm is for healing scars and wounds, fixing what is broken and not to forget delicious pet.

>>30872
Oh yes! I just mean it's not cooercive or deeply manipulative. More a case of giving the girls (and boys) freedom to embrace their farm-animal selves with everything that goes along with that!

I'd be interested to know what Ms Baker thinks of Sidney and her campaign and whether she would consider her a threat to her business or a potential opportunity to grow?

>>30874

Good question. Ms Baker has seen many changes in her time. Just ten years ago most states fought tooth an nail against legalizing cannabis, now she’s allowed to grow it.

Since Texas is a focal point of a Sidney enterprise in the US. I can see the community have business dealing.

Ms Baker homestead is a clinic first and foremost. A refuge farm for pets. A side business selling entertainment and instructional videos. I don’t know if she would expand in such a way.

Speaking of instructional video. Ducky will gets to watch a playfully informative video titled “So you chose to become meat.”

>>30875

I still think your story is great. I’d be interested to know if there will be more stories about Mrs. Baker. After years of being active, she might find herself on the roasting spit. I’ve already seen it in images that might show her future—a guest appearance on my plate. By the way, it’s your fault that I always take a break from work whenever you release a new chapter. Your story really turns me on. Keep it up.

>>30875
Ooh I can't wait to hear about that! I love in-universe stuff like that :D

>>30876
It is a dog eat dog world. She may be wearing milk-bone panties. :)

>>30878
You mentioned this subculture extending back to at least the Civil War. I'd love to find out more about her family and her own childhood. Perhaps Piglet and her friends could find a family album and some old home movies that fill in a bit of her back-story?

>>30880
There is a reason Ms Baker is infatuated by piglet. Some unique similarity, past events that shaped Ms Baker as to who she is today.

If you listen to small town gossip Clair Baker lost a younger sibling in the past. Clair would of been around piglets age. Something about a family debt owed.

Working on the next chapter.

>>30886
That looks cute and fun!

Chapter 16: Porking the Piglet


The muffin was still warm when piglet bit into it, blueberries bursting across her tongue, and she let the crumbs fall where they may. Her bare freckled chest. The floor. She played didn't care.

Coach watched her girly sass, watched every morsel tumble, his beer forgotten on the counter, his shorts doing a poor job of hiding what was underneath.
"Good muffin," she said, licking purple from her thumb.

"You got a little something." He gestured vaguely at her chest.

"I know." She took another bite, chewed slowly, swallowed. Then she turned toward the fridge, extending her little ass in a slow, deliberate sway. The base of her tail plug caught the kitchen light, pink metal winkling. She felt the bulb shift inside her—a small, private pleasure—she could heard his breathing change.

The milk was cold. She poured a glass, took a sip, let a white mustache form on her upper lip.

His eyes tracked her tongue when she licked it away. When did thirteen year olds become so seductive?

"What do coaches do when when schools out for the summer?"

His grin was slow, spreading like a crack in ice. "You do know I'm not just a coach. I do other stuff."

"Like what?" She asked letting milk drip from her chin onto her freckle chest.

"Let's see…" He tries to form words as she smear the milk over her developing breast, he counted on his fingers.

"I work out. Drink brews." A pause. "And I Fuck horny little bitches."
The last two words came out amplified, and the grin that followed was all teeth.

Piglet opened her mouth to to make a witty respond.
He was on her before the words formed.

A pouncing tiger. That was the image that flashed through her mind as his hands clamped around her waist and he lifted, swung her up. His little prey to be taken and eaten.

He carried her out of the kitchen toward the staircase. Her legs dangled. Her tail plug pressed deeper from the angle, and she let out a small oof that turned into a laugh.

Second floor of the farmhouse. She'd never been up here. Guest bedrooms lined the hall, doors closed, country-style wallpaper glowing amber in the evening light.

He popped open of the doors.

"This is where we make the bacon." The joke landed. Her nipples tightened into hard peaks.

Her pussy, already wet, grew slicker. Last week she would have screamed, fought, clawed at his eyes. Now she was his to do with as he wanted, taken to who-knows-what for who-knows-why, not-knowing was the best part.

She already knew the answer. His tent had grown into a full pavilion.

He dropped her on the bed. Simple room. Quilt. Wooden headboard. Nightstand with a lamp. Homey.

She propped herself up on her hands, legs dangling off the mattress edge, and watched him strip.

Shorts first—his cock springing out, thick and hard, a bead of moisture already at the tip.

Then his T-shirt. He had the build of a man who worked out but by the girth of his belly, he loved his beer and country cooking, thick around the middle, solid through the shoulders. Towering over her.

Piglet tilted her head up, letting her voice go playful and small. "Am I going to be punished?"

"Well." He climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. "You are a naughty little piglet."

She spread her legs. Leaned back on both hands. "What are you going to do to me?"
Tremble in her voice. She manufactured it. She also meant it.

"First of all." He reached for the bedside dresser, pulled the drawer open.

"Piglet needs to be tied."
Straps. Leather. The sight of them sent a spike of heat straight to her cunt.

Ms. Baker had bound her wrists that first night in the cellar—had her way with her while she lay helpless—and Piglet had craved more of it ever since.

"Best way to truss a piglet is to hog-tie her." He grabbed her ankle and flipped her.
She landed on her belly, face pressing into the quilt, and let him work.

He pulled her arms behind her back. Elbows bent, forearms together, wrists and elbows strapped tight.

Her knees were next—bent backward, ankles crossed, leather biting into the delicate skin.

A short strap connected her wrists to her ankles, and when he cinched it, her body curved into a tight bow.

She tested the bondage. A twist of her shoulders. A bob of her hips. Nothing. She could barely move.
Her cunt dripped onto the quilt.

"I don't have an apple." His voice came from somewhere above her. "But this will do."
The gag ball pressed between her lips. Rubber. Tasting faintly of someone else's spit. He strapped it behind her neck, and her protests became muffled nonsense.

Then the hood.
Black fabric descended, soft and suffocating, stopping just above her nostrils. It was fitted that way—breathing possible, sight impossible.

The world became a void. She could hear her own heartbeat. The rustle of him moving around the bed.
A drawer opening. A small buzz—battery test. Then a whispering smack as something soft and many-tailed kissed the air.

The first stroke landed across her belly. Nine thin tongues of fire that made her arch as much as the bondage allowed.

In the dark she images she is a piglet roasting on a grill.

A mewling sound escaped around the gag. The second stroke caught the underside of her breasts, and the sting radiated outward, her nipples hardening further, almost painfully.

She images those stings are flames rising up to kiss her flesh.

The third—her inner thigh, that tender crease where leg met groin—and she jerked so hard the bed frame creaked.

Her mind feel the bit of the flame roasting her most intimate areas.

He worked in patterns. Horizontal stripes across her soft stomach. Vertical lines down her chest. Circles around her nipples until each breast was a constellation of pink welts, her skin hot and singing.

She feels the heat of the grill turning her flesh into cooked meat.

The whip kissed her thighs, her hip bones, the sensitive dip where her pubic mound began. Every stroke was a note, and her body learned the song.

She feels cooked ready to eat, ready to taste her delicious meat.

Then his mouth descended. Lips closing around her whipped nipple. Tongue lashing the abused peak.

The suction drew a long, guttural moan from somewhere behind her gag, and the pain bloomed into something else—something that traveled down her belly and settled between her legs like warm honey.

A vibrator pressed against her clit. Bumpy. Ridged. He twisted it in slow circles, and her hips bucked against the mattress, chasing friction.

The ridges caught on her swollen bud, dragged across it, let it snap back.

Her vision—sightless as it was—exploded in static.

His fingers found her tail plug. Twirled it. The pink metal rotated inside her, ridges bulb against sensitive walls, and her anus clenched around the intrusion.

He pulled it almost free, then pressed it back—a slow, deliberate fuck that made her spine bow and her toes curl and her useless bound hands clench into fists above her ankles.

The vibrator's speed increased. His mouth stayed on her breast, sucking, teeth grazing the whipped flesh. The tail plug twisted. The ridges rolled. The gagballvswallowed her screams as the orgasm crashed through her, a tidal wave of sensation that left her shuddering and limp.

Coach let her ride it out. When the trembling stopped, he removed the strap connecting her wrists to her ankles.

The ankle cuffs came next, then the hood slid upward, light flooding her eyes.

Her wrists remained bound. The gag stayed.
He stood before her, cock jutting, stroking himself slowly. Showing off.

Expecting a reaction.

She gave him one. Eyes wide. A manufactured terror that made her pupils blow huge as she stared at his menacing length.

He laughed, low and pleased. Then he grabbed pillows and stuffed them under her belly, forcing her ass high, her freckled cheeks spreading. Her shoulders and face pressed into the mattress.

Tail plug glinting. Pussy exposed and dripping.
He kicked her legs apart.
Something hard and buzzing pressed against her entrance. Not a simple vibrator—this was shaped like a dildo, attached to a stick, and he shoved it home in one wet stroke. The vibrations hit her anterior wall, and her whole body jolted.
His fingers found her tail. Fiddled with it. Moved the plug in circles, side to side, tracing the inner walls of her anus while the vibrator jackhammered her pussy.

She writhed. Danced her ass in the air, helpless and obscene, the piggy tail waggling like a real animal's.
He pulled the plug as her second orgasm hit her.

The sudden emptiness amplified everything—her asshole gaping open, her cunt spasming around the buzzing wand, her screams lost in the gag.
Then his hands spread her cheeks. His cock pressed against her loosened pucker.

Larger than the plug. Not as thick as Farmer Fred, but longer—much longer—and it could reach where the plug never did.

She'd never been ass-fucked before. Never had anything up there except Ms. Baker's toys and her own pink metal tail.

"This is what we call porking the piglet." He laughed at his own joke.

He pushed. Her asshole offered no resistance—just parted, welcomed, swallowed.

Her guts gave way to his unrelenting drive, straightening, accommodating.

She felt like a stick piglet.

The vibrator's buzz helped divide the pain from the pleasure, then blended pain with pleasure, and finally—finally—made pain and pleasure the same indistinguishable thing.
His pelvis reached her freckled cheeks. Pressed. Held. She moaned a lengthy, gurgling sound behind her gag.

He pulled back just enough. Bucked forward again. Drove in to the hilt.

The pounding began. Hard, rhythmic, relentless—his hips slapping against her upturned ass, his cock plumbing depths she hadn't known existed.

She squealed. Genuinely squealed, high-pitched and desperate, the sound escaping around the gag and reamed like a stuck pig.

Each thrust shoved the vibrator deeper into her pussy, the dual sensations turning her brain to white noise.

Her bound hands clawed at the air. Her toes curled and uncurled. Saliva dripped from the corners of her gag-stretched mouth.

He grunted. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto her back. The pig charm on her collar jingled with every impact. His rhythm grew erratic—faster, shallower, a jackhammer descent into animal need.

She felt him swell inside her, and then he roared and emptied himself, hot pulses flooding her bowels as he ground his pelvis against her cheeks.

He pulled out. Her asshole stayed open, a puckered star gaping at the ceiling, his cum trickling from the loose ring of muscle.

She lay face-down in her own sweat and arousal and spunk, twitching with aftershocks.

He shifted to her head. Removed her gag.
His soiled cock hung in front of her face.

Did he expect her to lick it? Apparently so.

"Suck it. Suck it clean." His voice left no room for argument.

"Be a good girl."
The trigger landed. Warmth flooded her limbs.

"Your a piglet. Pigs eat everything."
She couldn't argue. She'd declared herself a piglet. Pigs ate shit.

She opened her mouth. He hesitated.
"Hold up now. Don't get any crazy ideas and bite it." His eyes narrowed.

"Yes, I know what you did to Ol' Fred. He went easy on you. I'm not him."

Piglet gave a wicked smile at the corner of her mouth. Coach wasn't Farmer Fred. Fred had a bigger cock.

She opened her mouth again. He inserted slowly. They watched each other, her eyes tracking his face, his eyes tracking her teeth. Bitter. Blood. A faint reminder of the enema from the night before—thank for small mercies.

She licked the shaft clean, gagging a few times as the head bumped the back of her throat. After a while, the taste improved.

He began sawing back and forth, fucking her mouth with lazy strokes.

He shifted off the bed. Scooted her to the edge. Her head hung off the mattress, throat aligned, a direct passage.

The vibrator staff still buzzed inside her pussy, and her wrists were still strapped.

He dove in. Her throat accepted him—resistance, then surrender, then a tight, wet seal. Her eyes widened as his pelvis closed in. Light sawing, inch by inch deeper.

Then he jammed it home, pressing her face against his groin, holding there until her eyes bulged. He pulled out completely.
She gasped. Coughed. Breathed. After a minute or two, "Do it again," she rasped.

He did. Throat-fucked her rough and fast, one hand gripping her hair, the other on the vibrator wand, twisting it inside her pussy with each plunge. She gagged, swallowed, gagged again.

Tears streamed from her eyes. Her third orgasm built from somewhere impossibly deep—her throat, her cunt, her gaping ass—and when he came, hot salt flooding her esophagus.

She swallowed most of it and came around the buzzing wand with a convulsive shudder that rattled the bed frame.

He untied her wrists. Pulled the vibrating stick from her pussy with a wet, obscene sound.

Dressed without ceremony.

"Bathroom's through there. Toothbrush, paste. Clean yourself up. Relieve yourself as well before you reinsert that." He pointed at the pig-tail plug on the nightstand—smeared, sticky, in need of washing.

He was gone when she emerged from the bathroom, plug clean and back in place, her body still humming.

The bed was a crime scene. She wondered if Ms. Baker had maid service.
—-
Downstairs, light noise from the kitchen. She followed it.

"Glad that you could join up." Ms. Baker dropped a corn fritter onto Ducky's plate.

"Where were you?" Ducky's voice was all duck.
With her throat soar and raspy "Ummm. Getting a muffin." Technically true.
Ducky looked at her fresh whip marks.

"That's who left a mess on the table." Ms. Baker's eyes sparkled. She seemed in a good mood.

Thirty-Six stood at the table, quietly eating a fritter. He wore a diaper over his surgical site, white cotton thick around his groin.

Piglet slipped into a chair painfully as a hot fritter landed on her plate.

Ms Baker set a plate for herself. The girls look at the plate “what is that?”

Ms Baker had two fried oysters on her plate-actually 36’s useless balls. They would of shrivel away to nothing.

“36 has offered me his balls since he had not further use for them.”

She cut into one, lifting a fork to smell its buttery goodness. Tasting exquisite! Cutting a piece and offer a piece to piglet, she took it rolling it her mouth before swallowing the whole chunk. Delicious!

36 said nothing, just look at what he was eating.

"I have some news for you all." Ms. Baker paused.

"Big news first.

Daisy has been moved to Farmer Fred's cow farm."
"Whaaat—" Ducky's protest was cut short.

"Hush a minute. Obey."

Both pets stiffened, mouths closing.

"Daisy will be better suited there. Her calves will have full access to her.
Farmer Fred and Dora have made a special offer for the dinner celebration.

Daisy will be happy, and we can visit when we like.”

“We will have Thirty-Six move into the barn."

"Can we sleep in the barn with him tonight?" Ducky's question came out in a rush, the moment the trigger loosened.

Piglet nodded. "We can keep him company. First night and all."

"Fine. But I want you two to get some sleep.

Tomorrow's a big day."
"Big day for us?" Ducky's eyes went wide.

"Both of you. We have Groomer. Photoshoot for the invitations. And most importantly—an intro to becoming meat."

"A what?"

"An informational video telling you facts about cooking. Food preparation, and what’s it like to cook-for no surprises"

She waved them toward the door. "Please show Thirty-Six to his barn. I'll clean up."

Ducky grabbed Thirty-Six's hand, pulling him along. Piglet snagged another corn fritter on the way out, the taste of butter and fried dough and Coach's cum still lingering on the back of her tongue.

They head to the barn.
Tomorrow looked promising

Make-up, a photoshoot, and a movie.

>>30909
Oh my, that's one frisky little piglet! I did get a little confused with logistics at one point but that's a very minor quibble! Lol. May I make a suggestion? I understand SAGEing comments and conversation but when you post a new chapter you should let it bump to the top so us fans notice it easily 😊

>>30911
lol I’m not wise in the ways of this forum. Honestly I don’t even know what Sage means. There was a button and I pressed it.
Please advise.

>>30913
Ah okay! Normally when you make a new comment on a post it bumps the thread back to the top but when you click Sage it allows you to comment without bumping. I would definitely not tick it for your new chapters 😊

>>30913

I love it; you and Edward are my favorite authors when it comes to playful, delicious cannibalism. I’m repeating myself, but I’m looking forward to the next chapter and giving this one a thumbs-up. I’m new here too, so I’ve just learned something new. Just pressing buttons—I like that.

Chapter 17: Groomed for the Feast


The hay rustled against his back. Not uncomfortable—just different from the straw pallet he'd slept on for 14 years. Thirty-Six lay still.

Piglet's curly mass pressed against his right shoulder, Ducky's smaller frame tucked under his left arm. Both breathing slow. Both… snuggling.

The word felt foreign even as it formed in his mind. No one had ever snuggled against him. Cowgirls were mounted, not held.

The older bulls had taken what they wanted and left him sore and silent.

Affection was not part of the vocabulary of a breeding slave.

Yet here they were. Two strange, naked girls with animal charms and one with a tail plug, curled against him like he was something warm.

Something safe.
They'd fallen asleep that way—mid-sentence, Ducky's question about the potato peeler trailing into a soft snore. He'd waited for the demand.

The expectation. Just their breathing, his breathing.

Ms. Baker had said she could help him. Surgery would fix him up sound. Maybe not make him whole—nothing could do that—but make him a whole new person. Give him time. Time to find a purpose. His purpose.

Even here, surrounded by hay and warmth and the unfamiliar weight of sleeping bodies, he felt out of place.
He just never felt—

---

The rooster crowed. Not dawn—still dark through the barn window—but the bird didn't seem to care.

Piglet stirred first, sitting up and shaking hay from her orange frizzy curls with a vigorous head-waggle. A yawn cracked her jaw. A stretch pulled her arms high, the pig charm on her collar catching the faint gray light.

She looked down.
Thirty-Six was awake. Just lying there, dark eyes open, watching her without expectation.

Ducky remained balled under his arm, a small, breathing mound.

"Good morning." His voice was quiet, almost surprised at itself.

Piglet blinked. He'd initiated. "Good morning to you." A genuine smile spread across her freckled face. "Sleep well?"

"I slept some. Heard an owl last night." He said it like it mattered—like the owl's call was the first thing he'd ever noticed that wasn't a command.

Piglet laughed, the sound right for a barn.

"I dreamt about eating someone."
His eyes shifted to his right shoulder. She followed his gaze. Little bite marks. Faint scratches.

"I know. You had been biting and licking my shoulder last night."

"Oh—so sorry!" Heat flooded her cheeks.

"Don't be." His mouth curved. An actual smile, small but real. "I thought it was amusing, I… kind of liked it."

He gestured at her back. "You had fresh whip marks last night. They're fading to light pink now."

"Yeah." Piglet rolled her shoulder, feeling the ghost of the flogger's kiss.

"It's sort of my thing. Not like I ask for it—people seem to want to whip me."

"Does it hurt? I mean, to get whipped?"

"A little." She considered the question. "I just fantasize while it's happening. I pretend I'm roasting like a pig on a spit.

The whip strikes are like flames licking my body—kissing my flesh. Feel like I'm being cooked for dinner."

"Yummy fantasy." His smile widened. "I'm sure you would taste great."

She smiled back. He was easy to talk to. He listened.

"I'm a piglet. Pigs on a regular farm are raised for one purpose. Slaughter. Here on this farm we are free—I can eat whatever I want. I can even eat other animals."

"I can tell." He shifted his bitten shoulder, and they both laughed.

"So you're going to be groomed today?"

"Yeah. Big day."

For what?

Where to start?
She questions-she would brings him up to date the only way a 13 year old girl can.

Piglet took a breath and launched into it—the words tumbling out in a rush, one event bleeding into the next. "Okay so

Daisy Moo had twins—she's the cow pet, you'll meet her, she's at Farmer Fred's now—and Ms. Baker is planning this whole celebration dinner, and there was a cookout with chickens and a rotisserie and we watched this video, and now Ducky wants to be cooked—not on the rotisserie, in the wall oven—" She paused, gasping dramatically.

"And the video was about Miss Goat, who sacrificed herself for a welcome feast for me, except I didn't even know her, and I used to be Jenny by the way, but now I'm Piglet, and that's a whole thing, and today we're doing photos for the invitations, hence the grooming, and—"

Thirty-Six found it hard to keep up. He didn't try. He just liked the sound of her voice.

"Still dark," Piglet said, glancing out the window.
"Yeah. Roosters don't really get it right. They crow when they want to."

She snuggled closer, her shoulder pressing against his. The contact was deliberate. Warm. "I think I owe you a taste," she whispered into his ear.
He turned his head.

"What?"

"Have you ever licked a cowgirl's pussy?"

"No. We weren't allowed."

"You're allowed here."

She rose, swinging one leg over his chest, then the other, until she straddled his face, her knees bracketing his ears.

The pigtail plug shifted inside her with the movement, a heavy, pleasant presence.
Thirty-Six inhaled.

Salt and musk and something sweet, like the Daisy milk she'd drunk the night before. His hands rose, uncertain, then settled on her thighs.

She lowered herself, and his tongue met her folds—tentative at first, a single experimental stroke that made her breath catch.

"You don't have to be gentle," she murmured, gripping the hay on either side of his head.
He wasn't. His mouth opened wider, tongue plunging, lapping at her wetness with the eagerness of a man who'd been denied taste his entire life.

Piglet's hips began to roll, a slow gyration that dragged her clit across his lips, his nose, the faint stubble on his chin. M

Her tail plug rolled with each circle, bulb pressing against sensitive inner walls. His hands slid upward, grabbing her ass cheeks, squeezing. The sensation of being gripped, held, devoured—she ground down harder, her thighs trembling.

"Came—" she gasped, and the orgasm hit, her pussy flooding his mouth with warmth and slick. He drank it down. Every drop.

His tongue kept moving through the aftershocks, gentler now, savoring.

Piglet pitched forward over his head, her palms slapping the straw, her body shuddering. Thirty-Six held her legs steady.
"Not fair." Ducky's sleepy voice cut through the barn.

"Morning, Ducky!" Piglet managed, still breathless.

Ducky scrambled toward Thirty-Six's face, where he was still licking the glistening evidence from his lips.

Piglet interrupted "Come on ducky. Ms. Baker told us we have a busy day."

Piglet flipped her messy curls out of her eyes and stood.

Ducky planted both hands on the sides of his face. Looked directly into his eyes.

"You owe me a lick."

She hopped up, stepped over to Piglet.

"Coming to breakfast?" Ducky asked.

Thirty-Six started to rise. His arms worked. His chest lifted. But below the waist—nothing. No sensation. No movement. His legs lay dead in the straw, two slabs of unresponsive meat. No pain. Just… absence.

His face must have shown something. Panic, maybe.
"Don't panic. We'll get Ms. Baker." The girls bolted for the farmhouse.
---
The front door swung open. Sausage and pancakes and fresh coffee hit their nostrils. The kitchen table sagged with food—eggs, goat sausage, a center platter stacked high with flapjacks.

"Slow down. Plenty of time for breakfast." Ms. Baker stood at the stove, spatula in hand.

"Thirty-Six can't get up!" The words tumbled from both pets at once.

Ms. Baker set down the spatula. "It's okay. I slipped in last night and gave him a shot of succinylcholine. I didn't want him moving too much while the stitching heals." She had slipped in, she explained

It was true she had seen her three pets huddled together in the straw, keeping each other warm.

As she poked him-Thirty-Six had stirred, drowsy from the drug. "He asked if anyone was there," she hooted. 'WHO' before slipping back out the barn.

"I'm going to bring food and check on him. He'll need time to heal." She assured them he would be fine.

"As for you two, eat up. I'll check on Thirty-Six and then we'll head to the private kitchen.

There's a grooming station in a side room."
Ducky perked up at the mention of the private kitchen. The wall oven.

The oven she'd be roasted in. She gobbled pancakes with renewed urgency.
Piglet went for it all—eggs, sausage, a second pancake dripping with syrup.

"How dare you!" Ducky jabbed a finger at Piglet's plate. "Those are my babies!" She played at outrage, her lower lip trembling theatrically.

"You should have kept them safe!" Piglet shoved a fried egg into her mouth whole. They laughed m, cheeks puffed with food.

Ms. Baker disappeared through the door, a plate balanced in one hand.

The girls finished breakfast, their chatter circling the celebration.

Ducky leaned forward, syrup-sticky fingers drumming the table. "When I'm in the oven, the heat will be so nice—just warm, like a summer afternoon. And you'll brush the glaze on me, right? All over." Her voice went dreamy.

"My little titties first, then my tummy, then my legs. I’ve dreamt the brush will tickle. The butter will drip.

I'll be trussed up so tight I can't move, and everyone will watch me turn golden brown."

Piglet's breathing shallowed. "I'll be the best chef you've ever had."

"You will. You'll season me perfectly." Ducky's hand drifted between her legs, rubbing slow circles against her clit.

"Then when I’m all cooked they'll carry me out on a platter. People will carve me up, each tasting my glaze. One after another will eat me!"

Piglet's hunger stirred—not her stomach, but the deeper thing Ms. Baker had planted. The desire to taste. To consume.

"I'll be first in line."

Ducky's eyes met hers.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

A pat of butter sailed across the table and splatted against Piglet's cheek. Ducky squealed.

€€€€€€£€£

Piglet scraped it off with one finger and sucked it clean, never breaking eye contact.

The front door opened. Ms. Baker returned, peeling off her medical gloves and dropping them into the kitchen bin.

"I see you were hungry." The table was a war zone of empty plates and crumpled napkins.

"How's Thirty-Six? Is he okay?"

"Resting. We're going to move him into the house, to a room upstairs. He may feel awkward staying in an actual home, but it'll be best for him to heal."

"We'll keep him company!"
Ducky cheered.

"Are you two pets ready?" Ms. Baker's eyes swept the mess.

"Don't worry. The housekeepers will be arriving shortly."

So she does have servants. Piglet recalled the upstairs bedroom—the lube-smeared sheets, the wet spot on the quilt. Someone else's problem now.

---

The private kitchen hummed with activity. Two men in white cook's uniforms milled near the prep station, adjusting lights and checking camera angles. Ducky's eyes locked onto the wall oven—that massive stainless door she'd dreamed about—and her feet slowed.

Ms. Baker caught her arm. "Plenty of time for that later."

They moved past the wash stations, around a corner, into a wide corridor. The grooming room opened before them: four hairstylist chairs, mirrors ringed with bulbs, counters glittering with brushes and bottles and palettes.

Dora stood beside one chair. Beside her, a second woman—same kind eyes, same capable hands.

"Hop up, pets." Dora patted the vinyl seat. Ducky ran to her, a familiar face in an unfamiliar room.

"I'll leave you two in good hands," Ms. Baker said, and was gone.

Dora introduced the other hairstylist as Flora, her sister. Piglet approached without being asked, climbing into the second chair and settling back against the headrest.

Warm water. Flora's hands worked shampoo into Piglet's curls, scrubbing the scalp with firm circles that sent tingles down her spine.

The scent of coconut and shea butter filled her nostrils. Rinse. Condition. Rinse again. Then the straightening iron—slow passes that pulled her orange mane into smooth, glossy sheets. Snip. Snip.

Flora's scissors shaped the ends, layered the front, then gathered two sections above her ears and pulled them into high pigtails. The bands were pink, matching her tail plug.

Across the room, Ducky's dark hair was getting its own treatment. Dora scrubbed, rinsed, then attacked the lengths with thinning shears—feathering the tips until they wisped like real plumage.

Gel came next, worked through the roots, then a comb lifting the center strip into a stiff, spiky Mohawk that curved back from her forehead like a duck's crest.

Facials followed. Cool cucumber paste spread across Piglet's cheeks, her nose, her chin. The mask tightened as it dried, pulling at her pores, and when Flora peeled it away, her skin felt new—pink and tingling and impossibly smooth.

Ducky got the same treatment, both of them lying back with cucumber slices over their eyes, the silence punctuated only by the sisters' quiet murmurs.
They're such tasty little pets.

Makeup came next. Light touches. Neutral tones. A sweep of mascara that made Piglet's lashes feathery, a dusting of blush that highlighted her cheekbones, a lipstick in petal-pink that tasted faintly of vanilla.

Then the manicure table—fingernails filed, buffed, polished. Toenails shaped and glossed. Flora worked between Piglet's toes while she wiggled them, giggling.

When the chairs swiveled toward the mirrors, both pets stared.

The girl in Piglet's reflection was adorable—cute pigtails, glossy lips, skin luminous and dusted with glitter at the collarbones.

Ducky's Mohawk made her cheekbones sharper, her dark eyes larger, her whole face somehow fiercer and more birdlike.

Ms. Baker appeared in the doorway, a hanger draped over one arm. "You two look delicious."

She held up the garment. A kids chef's coat, but skimpy—cropped short in the back, no buttons in the front, designed to be worn open. No bottoms pants came with it.

Piglet slipped into it. The fabric hugged her shoulders, the abbreviated back exposing her freckled bottom, the pink tail plug winking beneath. She turned, staring at her reflection. Like Porky Pig.

She snorted, and the image completed itself.

Ducky jumped out of her chair when Ms. Baker set a chef's hat on Piglet's head.

The pigtails popped out the sides, orange curls framing her face beneath the white puff of the toque.

"Hop back in the chair, Ducky. I have something for you." Ms. Baker produced orange booties—soft, fleece-lined, with non-slip soles.

Dora rewash Ducky's feet, wiped them clean, and slid the booties on. Snug. Comfortable.

"We'll be taking shots of you on the prep table. No dirty feet in the photos."

---

The cooking section had been rearranged. The prep table stood front and center, the wall oven gleaming behind it. The two men in white uniforms adjusted light stands.

Piglet took her place, chef's hat tilted just so, coat hanging open, tail exposed. Ducky stepped beside her, nude except for the orange booties, and someone pressed a hand-lettered sign into her grip: Celebration Dinner—You're Invited!

The camera clicked. Ducky raised the sign higher, grinning. Click. Piglet adopted a stern chef's expression, one hand on her hip. Click.

The seven year old really ducked down, squatting low, flapping her bent elbows like wings while still holding the sign aloft. Click click click.

"Well done, pets. We got some great shots."

One of the workers approached with a flexible tape measure, the kind tailors use.

"Ducky, be a pet and let this man take some measurements."

Ducky stood still, arms at her sides, as the tape stretched from her crown to the curve of her buttocks. The man called out a number.

His partner jotted it on a clipboard. He measured the span of her shoulders next.

"P42," he called.

Piglet glanced at Ms. Baker. "Pan size," Ms. Baker murmured.

The tape measure moved to sections now.
Shoulder to ass.
Thigh to knee.
Knee to ankle.
Shoulder to elbow,
elbow to wrist.
Each measurement recited, recorded.

"R30p."

"Rack dimensions," Ms. Baker said, answering the question in Piglet's eyes. "Type and size of rack used to truss up our ducky.
Rack is set and locked inside the roasting pan."


"Are we done?" Ducky's voice held a whine.
"I'm getting bored."

"One second." Ms. Baker motioned to the workers.

"Bring back the prep table."

Ducky climbed onto the island's surface, the stainless steel cool beneath her orange booties. She lay on her back, then lifted her legs—knees bending, ankles hooking behind her neck. Her body folded with a gymnast's flexibility, her ass rising from the metal, her pussy exposed and pink and already glistening.

She smiled big for the camera, upside down, her Mohawk crushed against the table.

Click. Click.

"Piglet, get in there."
Piglet stepped into the frame, her chef's hat towering, her coat gaping. She laid one hand on Ducky's upturned rump, chef-like, proprietary.

Ducky's grin widened.
The camera clicked one last time.

——

By noon they ate a light lunch then visited 36 in his new room, he was feeling better and he could walk somewhat.

They told him about the salon, the makeover, the photoshoot, ducky reliving everything.

Again girls talking in circles. One thing stuck out in the visit. He was liking piglets new hair style.

We have to watch a informational video. It’s supposed to inform pets of the real consequences of become meat. I guess to make sure a pet is making the right decision.

We’re heading to the theater room do you want to come? Ducky asked.

36 thought for a moment.

“Sure, why not?”

He’s been laying around for hours, he wanted to move, besides he’s never been in a theater.

>>30919
Thanks. This may be the last of these lengthy stories, at least for a while.

I do plan on writing a few short stories heavy focus on “prepping and cooking”

Speaking of prepping and cooking.
It’s about time we get my little ducky in the oven. :)

>>30923
I hope we'll get to see some of those photographs? :D

>>30925
Looks like you received a special invite.

>>30940
I'm getting hungry already! Look at those innocent faces! Like butter wouldn't melt...

I'm getting hungry too—bring on the duck. :D

>>30941
Ms. Baker had ordered some imported duck sauce. Should be delivered soon.

At this moment, piglet and ducky are watching a very unusual video meant to inform future dishes.

Upcoming chapter will get the butterball rolling.
Much has happen since piglet arrival.
Anything can happen, a few surprises ahead.

Stay tune!

>>30947

I thinks she’s as eager to be roasted as those who want to eat her.

The Invites are sent, a date is set, and a menu been chosen.

>>30949
I've booked my flight! :D

And I smuggled myself into Edward's luggage.

>>30951
If anyone asks I'll tell them you're my onboard snack :P

This is basically the only story I'm taking time to keep up with right now.

I'm loving everything about these delicious little pets you've dreamt up 😘🤤

>>30952

As long as you don't get hungry, everything is fine. Why am I so impatient for the story to continue? After all, I know perfectly well that good stories take time.

>>30955
the reason might be, that cravings are not easily controlled by logic 😈😇

Chapter 18: How the sausage is made.


The theater smelled of buttered popcorn and worn velvet. Piglet pushed through the double doors, Ducky's orange booties squeaking on the hardwood behind her, and stopped.

Chicken Little and Chick-a-Dee were there. Naked. Giggling. Sitting side by side in the front pew, their oiled shoulders pressed together, quacking—actually quacking—at some private joke.

Piglet's welts from yesterday's switching gave a phantom throb. These two had pecked and pinched and switched her until she'd pissed herself and come screaming-now they looked up, spotted the us, and their faces split into identical grins.

Five year olds popped off the pew and charged.
Arms wrapped Piglet from both sides, warm skin squashing against her, oily hands patting her back. "Piglet! We missed you!" Chicken Little's voice trilled against her ear. Chick-a-Dee jump up into her arms just to nuzzled her neck and made a soft clucking sound.

No apology. No acknowledgment of the welts. Piglet's mind flicked to payback—tan those plump little chicken asses, since she see how they liked the switch—but her arms were already hugging back.

Ducky bounced beside them, quacking her own hello.
The chickens loved ducky’s spiked hair-in walks 36 the chickens pulled away and their eyes slid past ducky.

Piglet greet the figure lingering in the aisle. Thirty-Six. Diapered. Hands hang by his side.

The white cotton bulged over his surgical site, and he stood frozen under the sudden attention of two golden-haired children.

"Hi." His voice came out shy, one hand lifting in an awkward wave.

Chick-a-Dee's mouth formed a perfect O. "He's hot."

Chicken Little tilted her head, taking in the diaper, the muscled chest, the uncertain stance.

She'd seen a lot of crazy things as a five year old pet chicken—a boy in a diaper barely registered to her. Just another fetish. Her lips curled into a smile.

"What are you doing here?" Ducky asked, still bouncing.

Chicken Little grabbed Chick-a-Dee's hand, their fingers interlacing. "Our farmer said we could roast with you at the Celebration Dinner!"

Ducky's quack of excitement echoed off the theater walls. "What! That's great!"

"We saw Ms. Baker's rotisserie machine in her private kitchen," Chick-a-Dee breathed, her voice dreamy. Her free hand drifted to her own belly, tracing a slow circle around her navel.

"It's so big. A rotisserie oven big enough we can both spin together. At the same time. Turning and turning." Her thighs pressed together.

"We want to roast together as rotisserie chickens."

"They're going to video it," Chicken Little added, her eyes bright. "So people who don’t get to eat us can enjoy us cooking."

Chick-a-Dee turned her dreamy gaze on Piglet. "Are you going to cook too?"

"No, I'm just here to watch the video with Ducky."
"That's not true," Ducky corrected, grabbing Piglet's arm. "She's going to be my chef and cook me up. She's going to brush the butter on my skin and everything."

Both chickens looked impressed. Then their attention swung back to Thirty-Six, who was lowering himself into a seat near the back.

"What about him?"

He glanced up. "I'm just an observer. And an emotional support animal."

The chickens laughed. He'd made a funny joke.

And something in his posture had shifted—shoulders looser, the hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. This place, this farm, Ms. Baker and her ridiculous naked pets.

The first time in his life he'd been part of something more than breeding stock.

——

The theater door swung open. Ms. Baker strode in, a black cassette case in one hand. "I see we have a guest." Her eyes found Thirty-Six.

"I'm their emotional support bull," he said, using the same joke as before-and the girls giggled.

Ms. Baker's lips twitched—amused, perhaps—before she continued toward the VCR player.

The chickens bolted for the front pew. Ducky followed, dragging Piglet by the wrist. Thirty-Six settled into the seat beside her, his bare thigh warm against hers.

"You three a going to be cooked in a real kitchen," Ms. Baker addressed them, the cassette held between two fingers like a scalpel.

"Real dangers. Like unnecessary burns. Touching jnives that cut. Many unforeseen things can happen."

Her gaze swept the row of naked bodies.

"Though I want this to be an enjoyable experience, simple kitchen rules apply.

This video may come off as boring, but it will instruct you on proper kitchen procedures."

She paused, letting the weight of it settle. Her voice softened into something more intimate.

"Being bound inside an oven while roasting can get stressful. This sort of pf live cooking is next level.

This video will address possible issues. Are you ready to watch?"

It wasn't really a question.

She inserted the cassette, pressed play, and slipped out through the side door.

Moments later the screen flickered. A spiral of color—pink bleeding into violet bleeding into amber.

The lights dimmed automatically.

The girls hushed.
Words flashed across the screen. Too fast to read consciously. Piglet stared, unblinking, the same way Ducky stared, the same way both chickens stared with their lips parted and their pupils fixed.

A cascade of triggers, embedded in the strobing light. Good girl. Obey. Sacrifice. It's your choice. Each pet's personal programming, reinforced in the dark.
They didn't notice the show had already started.
—
A cheerful jingle burst from the speakers. Bright, cartoonish text bloomed across the screen: So you decided to become meat. What now?

A silly costume tiger bounded into the frame, waving oversized paws.
"Hello there! I'm Bart, your friendly guide to a delicious end!"

The chickens squealed with delight. Ducky laughed and clapped.

Piglet found the production childish, almost insulting, until—
That voice. She knew that growl.

Coach. The hungry tiger who had carried her upstairs, hog-tied her on the guest bed, striped her belly and breasts with a nine-tailed flogger, fucked her ass raw, and throat-fucked her until she swallowed his cum.

The man who had looked at her like she was meat. Now he was bouncing around in a tiger costume, narrating kitchen safety.

She smiled to herself. Her pussy moistened.

Bart mimed slipping on a wet floor, his furry legs windmilling. "Always watch out for wet kitchen floors! Could ruin your cooking experience."

He popped back up, waggling a finger.

"Best plan of action: follow instructions from your staff and chef.

They're experienced and know what they're doing."

He sidled up to a gleaming vat of soup. "Don't jump into these soup machines. It may look like a mini Jacuzzi, but unless you want to be a lobster—watch out.”

“Watch out for Momma Sumi, if she catches you she’ll surely drop you in her pot, sorry we won’t be able to help you.

Surely your goose is cooked." He rubbed his belly. "Yummmmy."

The chickens erupted in giggles. Not just any giggle—something deeper sparked behind their eyes at the phrase goose is cooked.

Their laughter pitched higher, breathier. Chicken Little's hand found Chick-a-Dee's thigh.

Farmer Fred's trigger. A simple shared thought, so willing to please, so ready to be consumed.

The tiger bounded toward the wall oven. Ducky's fingers clamped around Piglet's wrist.

He opened the steel door, peered inside. "Wow, that looks cozy!

This baby can reach five hundred degrees." He mimed fanning himself. Ducky's breathing quickened.

Her grip tightened.
"Let's talk about pans."

The tiger slid to a prep table with an exaggerated boing-bonk sound effect.

"Problem with pans, they get real hot, even at low temps. But not to worry—because we use these!"

Triumphant music played. He held up a rack with raised footings that locked into a roasting pan, elevating the rack flush with the rim, the metal curving into a perch for the body.

"This rack won't burn you when you're bound to it. Special alloy. Resists heat."

Ducky moved Piglet's hand between her legs. The warmth there, the slickness soaking through her fingers. Piglet pressed two fingers against her folds, and Ducky's hips rolled forward.

On the other side of the pew, Chick-a-Dee had already leaned back, legs spread, fingers circling her own clit. Chicken Little watched the screen with one hand between her thighs.

“Something new in the kitchen. Our very own duel rotisserie cooker. Imagine strapped into its spindle.”
A drip catcher to collect all the dripping and pumps it up to drizzle back over our roasters.

A new location. A fenced-in yard, lounge chairs arranged around an enormous roasting pit. Assorted spits hung on holding racks.

A stepladder stood beside what looked like a drain hole set in the concrete.

"For those who want something hard and stiff shoved up your ass, you’re in luck-we have spits!
A motorized crank will have you turning brown in no time."

Bart picked up a long metal pole and slid it vertically into the shaft below. "Look what we have here."

Piglet's breath stopped. The spit. The ladder. The image of being impaled on that thick metal staff—mounted, sliding, helpless, slipping down.

Hands guiding her, sliding further, head held back, slipping. The point emerges, she is owned, the spit own her now—slammed into her with the force of a body blow.

Her cunt clenched around nothing. She grabbed Thirty-Six's hand and pressed it between her own legs, grinding her slick folds against his rough palm.

He startled but didn't pull away. She rocked there, eyes glued to the screen, while the tiger prattled on about chains and hooks
and butcher stations

“Don’t want to roast all day in an oven? Get a load of these.”
Chains with meat hook dangle next to a metal butcher table.

“You can hang from one of these sharp shiny hook. Upside down is a classic for slicing those cute little throats of yours… Or he pause for dramatic effect. “A mini guillotine to chop off those pretty little trophy heads. It’s your choice”

“Don’t forget to kiss the butcher’ he’ll butcher all your best part,

“

Bart growled, waving a farewell paw.

"Remember a safe word if you’re having second thoughts".

"Just make sure your safe word isn't more butter please.

Eat you later!"
Fade to black.

—

The lights rose. The screen went gray. Four naked girls sat stunned in the afterglow.

Chick-a-Dee exhaled a long, shuddering breath, her fingers still slick between her thighs. "I want to spin. Both of us inside that big machine, turning and turning, basted in glaze until we're golden all over."
Her oiled skin gleamed under the theater lights.

"We can cooked forever."

"Chicken Stars," Chicken Little agreed, her voice husky. Her nipples stood hard and pink, her flat chest flushed.

"We'll be the most delicious chickens anyone's ever tasted. Farmer Fred said so.

“He said he had a secret recipe to make us taste finger licking good, we'd be perfect."

Ducky hugged herself, rocking slightly back, her Mohawk crushed flat from the seat back. She folds herself legs over her head. "The rack. The warm pan. Imagining Piglet brushing her with butter."
She turned a delicious brown before Piglet eyes.

"I'm going to be the best duck you've ever eaten.

I dreamed about it, remember?

I came in the butter box thinking about you eating me."

Piglet didn't answer right away. Her fingers were still wrapped around Thirty-Six's wrist, his hand wet with her.

"I liked the BBQ pit," she murmured. "The spit. The ladder. The idea of being... mounted on that pole. Impaled."

The word left her mouth soft and reverent. "I don't know why. It scares me." Her voice dropped. "I think I want it."

Thirty-Six said nothing. He just sat there, his hand damp against her thigh, his dark eyes fixed on the blank screen.

He'd heard about roasting pets, eating them—food he could never eat.

But the four girls beside him, each one shivering with want, each one speaking about being consumed like it was a gift.

He didn't understand. And yet, listening to Piglet's breathing, the way her voice caught on want, he thought maybe understanding wasn't the point.


—
The underbelly of life’s choices.

Upstairs, Ms. Baker leaned back from her monitor. Her fingers unscrewed a small jar of Vaseline. She dabbed the gel onto her fingertips and smeared it carefully beneath each lower lid—not in her eyes, just along the waterline. Enough to make them glisten. Enough to make her look as though she'd been weeping.

Her pets were primed. The motivational video had done its work. Soon eager pets will soon willingly be cooked, filmed and edited, cassettes packaged, distributed through a network of four local farms she'd invited to the Celebration Dinner—all her closest clients and collaborators.

A dinner that was never just a dinner. A dinner that showcased her services, her hypnotic expertise, her ability to transform willing young girls and boys into pliable, eager product.

This was a different world than what her pets saw. A world of profit margins and territory disputes, of smaller farms like hers being gobbled up by larger operations.

If not for her family name, her veterinary license, and her unique hypnotic skills, this estate would have been absorbed years ago. Along with her.

The Celebration Dinner was her chance to remind the community why they needed Claire Baker. And for that, she needed something—someone—very special for the main course.

She blinked. The Vaseline shimmered. She had an urgent request to make, and she needed to look heartbroken when she made it.

The tears would convince them. They always did.

This is where the sausage is made.

>>30958
This story is so much fun! Love the eager little chickens and Ducky getting excited for their big day! Love the humour in the video too! :D

>>30958

@ PBandJ

I really like this story. It turns me on a lot. However, Mrs. Baker is likely being watched and could eventually attract the attention of law enforcement. You are the third author—alongside Edward—whose stories I’d love to reference.

Your storytelling is so detailed and playful, yet sexy. Why haven't I come across any of your other stories before? Did you use a different pen name at some point? I really like your AI images, too; they perfectly capture the atmosphere of the situations you describe. I’m looking forward to seeing what comes next.

>>30959

Thanks, I’m gonna wrap up all the drama and foreplay with chapter 19, get those birds prepped & cooking, starting with chapter 20.

I have a few surprises in store. Enjoy

>>30961

Haven’t written in quite awhile. In this capacity that is. I’ve done ghost writing for fetish sites. Some script and dialogue writing for fetish porn videos. Nothing notable. Semi-retired. Looking to play and expand my fantasies.

>>30963

Then let your imagination run wild. I’m glad you’re sharing this with us. I’m looking forward to the end of this story and to more stories from you. Keep it up.

I’m getting a late start on my draft. I had a busy day. Luckily I’ve been running the draft on loop, restructuring it in my head.
It still may be morning when I
post next chapter.

Chapter 19 Teaser: Cum on Barbie lets go party.

>>30968
Are you a fan of "American Dad" by any chance?

>>31002
yes. sorry to chime in. u r not alone (if you like that show)
https://boards.guro.cx/ai/koko.php?res=4860&page=1#p13_12944

>>31003
Nice! I was thinking of the time Francine pitched her muffin kiosk idea to Dexy's Midnight Runners and accidentally inspired their biggest hit ;)

Chapter 19: Spitting Decisions.

Ms. Baker’s fountain pen scratched against the notebook page, her neat cursive filling the margins with observations.

On the monitor, the theater had descended into a delightful chaos of naked limbs and hungry mouths.

The chickens had abandoned their pew and sprawled across the carpet in a sixty-nine tangle, Chicken Little perched on top as always, her plump little ass bobbing as she ground her cunt against her sister's eager mouth.

Chick-a-Dee's oiled thighs wrapped around her sister's ears, both of them making those breathy clucking sounds that meant they'd be at it for a while.

Piglet stood over Ducky, who had folded herself into that ridiculous roast-me pose—legs hooked behind her head, ass upturned, Mohawk crushed against the theater seat.

Thirty-Six stood near her, his diapered groin level with Ducky's presented rear, and even through the grainy feed, Ms. Baker could see the confusion warring with curiosity on his handsome face.

She set down her pen. Removed her white coat. The summer dress hung on a hook behind the door—floral print, soft cotton, the one that softened her shoulders and made her look like someone's favorite aunt.

She slipped it over her head, smoothed the fabric across her hips. The kitchen would be the best place to ask.

Coffee brewing. Something cinnamon sweet in the air. The trappings of maternal concern.

On the screen, Piglet's lips moved.

---

"She's not going to stop pestering you until you do it." Piglet's voice carried a note of amusement, her hand resting on Thirty-Six's shoulder.

"Do what?" But his tone said he already knew.

"She wants you to lick her pussy and make her come."

Thirty-Six looked down at the little Asian-duck, her sweet ass aimed at his face like an offering.

There was something delicious about the pose—the small body folded in supplication, the glistening slit visible between her thighs, the way her orange booties bobbed with impatience.

She was not taking no for an answer. He glanced at Piglet. "Does she usually gets what she wants?"

"Always." Piglet said gesturing for him to go for it.

Ducky's hips wiggled. A demanding little shimmy that made her duck charm swing.

Thirty-Six exhaled—not a sigh, but a surrender—and bent lower.

His tongue met her folds with the same tentative reverence he'd shown Piglet in the barn. A single stroke. Then another.

Ducky's flavor bloomed across his palate—salt and butter and something floral, like the perfume of warmed honey.

His hands found her ass cheeks, gripping the firm muscle, squeezing, spreading her open. The cleft of her ass was pale and smooth, the tight pucker winking at him as she squirmed.

He licked a long stripe from tailbone to clit.

Ducky gasped—a quack-like sound that caught in her throat. His tongue circled her asshole, tracing the delicate ridges, and she pushed back against his face, demanding more.

A finger slid inside her pussy while his mouth worked her other entrance—licking, sucking, nibbling at the sensitive rim until her thighs began to tremble.

He added a second finger, curling them upward, finding that rough patch on her anterior wall.

Ducky's little body shook. Not the gentle tremble of approaching climax but something violent, a full-body convulsion that started in her core and radiated outward.

Her piss came without warning—a warm, clear stream that splashed his chin and dripped onto the theater seat. He didn't pull away.

His tongue pressed deeper, lapping up everything she gave him, drinking from her like a boy who'd been dying of thirst.

She came with a wail that echoed off the theater walls, her ass bucking against his face, her pussy spasming around his fingers.

He held her thighs tight, anchoring her through the aftershocks. Even after she went limp, he continued licking—gentler now, savoring.

He had never tasted something so sweet. He could lick all day.

He'd always liked Asian birds, back on the ranch he would see them brought in. Not for breeding.

The rancher would take them to the fire pit, play with them before a cookouts.

Nothing for them to take a few to the chopping stump-with axe, they would lob off their pretty little heads.

Gut their carcass, then run skewers through their little bodies.

Roasting those petite little birds would make him hungry. He just wanted to eat them up.

He’d watched them from across the yard, watching their bodies turning, roasting over an open flame, the delicious smell, making him drooling yet sadly knowing he could look but never taste.

When finished with ducky he composed himself.
As he stood up-Piglet's mouth was on his.

Not a kiss—a feast. Her tongue slid across his chin, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, licking Ducky's cum from his skin with greedy strokes.

Maybe she was tasting him with a Ducky-cum glaze.

Thirty-Six didn't care. He was drowning in all this love—unexpected, undeserved, freely given.

His hands found Piglet's ass. Grabbed tight. Pulled her up against him with a sudden, possessive urgency that surprised them both.

No cock. No sack.

Yet his mind sprang erect, thoughts rising like a standing ovation.

He felt rescued. By Ms. Baker, by Piglet, by this ridiculous duck-girl now unfolding herself from her roast-me pose.

Ducky rose on wobbly legs, her Mohawk askew, her face flushed.

"You are invited to dinner!" she announced, her voice carrying a note of genuine admiration.

"That was so good! Hey!Super tongue’ do you hear me?." Ducky attempt to get his attention.

Piglet and Thirty-Six kept kissing. They weren’t stopping.

Ducky watched for a moment, then reached down and tugged at his diaper.

"How much longer do you have to wear this?"

Their lip-lock broke. Piglet and Thirty-Six had been breathing in unison—a shared rhythm, a connection—and now the moment unplugged. Ruined.

Ducky tugged again.

"Well?"

"I don't know. Ms. Baker didn't say. I wear it mainly to protect the bandage."

The truth was more complicated. He felt comfortable in it. Less focus on his crotch. Less shame.

He hadn't seen the results of Ms. Baker's surgery—he'd been out for most of it, swimming through sedation, surfacing only briefly to see her applying a caky spread across his wound.

She'd called it a military crustacean patch. Worked like a bandage but healed ten times faster.

Piglet pulled the front of his diaper and peered inside. Something covered his crotch—pinkish brown, textured like coral, smelling faintly of fish.

Her finger reached to touch it.

"Privacy!"

He pulled her finger away, and the diaper snapped back against his belly.

The word came out light, joking, undercut by the fact that he was addressing a completely naked 13 year old girl.

"I'm getting hungry," Ducky quacked.

Piglet agree, her stomach growling, hungry and perpetually horny.

She step over to the chickens devouring each other’s pussy.

“Smack”

Piglet's palm across Chicken Little's upturned ass cracked through the theater's velvet hush.

Both chickens jolted, their sixty-nine collapsing into a tangle of oiled limbs and indignant squawks.

"Come on, chicken-butts." Piglet's stomach roared—audible, insistent.

"We're getting something to eat."

Ducky was already bouncing toward the doors, orange booties squeaking. Thirty-Six rose more slowly, one hand adjusting his diaper, his dark eyes tracking Piglet's freckled shoulders as she herded the chickens into the aisle.

They moved as a flock—naked, collared, still flushed from the safety video's lingering heat, the hypnotic affects at work on them.

They slipped through the corridor, finally into the farmhouse kitchen.

—-

Ms. Baker sat at the table. The floral dress softened her shoulders, but her face was wrong. Worry had carved lines around her mouth that Piglet had never seen before.

No coffee. No clipboard. Just her hands folded on the oak, knuckles white.

Ducky flew to her first. Arms wrapped around Ms. Baker's neck, Mohawk brushing her chin. "What's wrong?"

"Don't worry your pretty little heads, my pets. It's a big farm issue."

Piglet stepped closer. The word felt wrong in her mouth, but she said it anyway. "What's wrong, Mother?"

Ms. Baker's smile was a thin, frayed thing. She spun her story like a spiderweb—each strand glistening, tensile.

Miss Hog, was scheduled to entertain and roast for our Celebration Dinner, guests are expecting an exclusive spit-roast party, sadly she has been reassigned to the communities butcher shop.

We won’t have a pet to roast when guests arrive.

The Howdy Boy expected a main course. A body bound and spitted through, a pet roasting over an open fire pit.

Piglet's pussy clenched. The BBQ pit from the safety video. The ladder. The spit. Her heartbeat filled her ears.

"I can do it."

"Oh no my pet, the Howdy Boys tend to be a little rough with the pet before roasting," Whipping. Double-teaming. Gang-banging. Welt marks that bleed.”

Ms. Baker said, and her voice carried a tremor.

"Not like roasting in an oven. Ducky will receive gentle basting and enjoy the sweet glaze."

“But I think I want to, for Daisy, for you mother.”

The words left her mouth before her intelligent pig-mind could catch up. Stupid. Dangerous. Deadly.

The welts Coach had left were still fading, sexual feelings remain.

Yet the thought of being mounted on a sharp spit, lowered on that pole, sliding down helpless, feeling the unyielding point rising upwards-even though it is she who’s descending.

Would she cough as the spit enters her throat? Questions running through her head.

Roasting, turning above flames licking her flesh, glistening-while strangers baste her roasting body!

Piglet was deep in thought, almost not hearing as Ms Baker Spoke—

"No, my pet." Her voice cut through the fantasy. "These boys are not here for the pleasure of pets. They’re a rowdy bunch far too painfu—"

"I'll do it."

Thirty-Six stepped forward. His hand found Piglet's shoulder—warm, steady, solid.

"I'm used to this type of abuse. I can take the gang-bangers, the double spit roastings, the whipping. My body is fit."
His thumb traced the curve of her deltoid, slow and deliberate.

"Piglet’s flesh is so soft. If she wants to roast it should be by Ms Baker, not by strangers who want to hurt her."

“I’ll do it for her, for you all” 36 was genuine in his little statement.

Piglet melted. Her knees went loose and strange.

The room erupted. Ducky threw herself at Thirty-Six, quacking approval.

The chickens clapped and bounced.

Ms. Baker's face transformed—the worry dissolving into something radiant, something almost surprised.

She'd intended Piglet to be spit-roasted. Even if meant her suffering at the hands of the Howdy Boy.

But watching her young piglet over these past days, she'd found a strange, inconvenient attachment.

A memory of her childhood, of her sister, of the choices made.

And now this broken boy, whom had fallen into her lap, was volunteering himself for the spit and fire.

"Piglet, my pet." Ms. Baker rose, all business now.

"You and Thirty-Six grab something from the fridge. It will be a few hours before we start."

"Start what?" Piglet was already in the fridge, chewing a slice of meat from a cold-cut tray.

"The Celebration Dinner, silly, it’s tonight!”

Ms. Baker shooed
Ducky and the chickens toward the private kitchen.

"It starts tonight at midnight."

Ducky and the chickens erupted into fresh excitement.

“We gotta get you birds cleaned up and dropped in the vats.” Ms Baker chimed lining up the eager birdies.

“Vat?” Piglet questioned with a mouth full of food being chewed.

“To marinade them!” Ms. Baker herded them away like a mother bird with her chicks.

Ms Baker informed the someone would retrieve the soon, leaving Piglet and Thirty-Six alone in the kitchen's amber light.

Piglet look at him, her hero-he would die for her.

He was studying the freckles on her face. Counting them.

A look, a notion, a common thought-joint smiles.

They grabbed hands and ran.

---

He lead her to his room.
His bedroom door didn't close. Didn't matter.

Piglet flew onto the mattress, bouncing once, and Thirty-Six was on her—his mouth finding hers, his hands cradling her jaw. The kiss deepened.

Broke.

She sat up as he stood before her, and she watched him hook his thumbs into the waistband of his diaper and pull.

The crustacean patch covered his crotch in a V-shaped shell—pinkish brown, textured like coral, gleaming faintly. She tapped it with one fingernail. A ceramic clink.

"It’s like crotch armor," she laughed. “Does it hurt?”

"Chafing a little." He winced. "But no. Doesn't hurt."

Her palm flattened against the patch. Rough. Warm from his skin. Her hand rose—stomach tight as drum leather, chest broad and rising with quickened breath.

She climbed onto her knees on the mattress, bringing her face level with his, and kissed him again with salt and ham and hunger.

His hands found her hips. Turned her. Bent her forward over the quilt so her ass rose and her pigtails spilled across the pillows.

The pink metal plug glinted between her cheeks, and his fingers closed around its base. He twisted—one slow, deliberate rotation that scraped every ridge across her inner walls.

Her gasp buried itself in the bedding. He pulled. The widest bulb stretched her, held, then popped free with a wet, obscene sound that left her pucker gaping at the air.

She felt open. Empty. Waiting.
His tongue found her.

A broad, flat stroke from perineum to tailbone that made her spine curl. He licked her like she was the last sweet thing on earth—circling the loosened ring, tracing each delicate fold, then pressing inside with the pointed tip.

Her hands fisted in the sheets. Her thighs spread wider, knees sliding on the mattress, offering more. He speared her with his tongue, withdrew, speared again, and she made a sound that was not quite human.

His thumb found her clit. Circled it in counterpoint to the rhythm of his mouth. The dual sensations—wet pressure in her ass, rough friction on her bud—built something behind her navel that had no name.

Just heat.

Just inevitability. When his teeth grazed the sensitive rim where plug had been, she came apart with a cry that shook her shoulders and left her slick dripping down both thighs.

He guided her onto her back. Kissed the inside of her knee. Then her other knee. Then he was climbing up the bed, positioning himself above her, and she understood.

"More," she breathed.
She scrambled upright, pushing him onto his back against the headboard.

Swung one leg over his chest, then the other, until her knees bracketed his ears and her cunt hovered inches above his mouth.

His hands settled on her ass—no hesitation now, just the grip of a boy who knew what he wanted. He pulled her down.

His tongue plunged inside her pussy. No preamble. No gentle strokes. Just deep, hungry, relentless—lapping at her walls, drinking the arousal that had been building since the spit appeared on the safety video screen.

She ground down, rolling her hips, smearing slick across his lips and chin. His nose bumped her clit on every rotation.

Her tail plug was gone, but something else filled her—his tongue, his need, the knowledge that this boy who had never been allowed to taste was devouring her like a feast.

She leaned forward, bracing her palms on his chest. Her teeth found the curve of his shoulder—not the playful nips she'd given the chickens, but something harder.

Something that broke skin. A bead of copper bloomed on her tongue, and a growl vibrated in her throat, possessive and wild.

She bit him again, lower, at the junction of neck and trapezius, and his hips bucked beneath her—a reflexive thrust from a body that still remembered desire even if it had lost its instrument.

Thirty-Six moaned into her cunt. The vibration traveled through her clit, her belly, her spine, and her fourth orgasm of the day detonated without warning.

She screamed around a mouthful of his flesh, her thighs clamping his ears, her pussy gushing against his lips.

He swallowed. Sucked. Milked every aftershock until she collapsed forward, forehead pressed to his sternum, her breath coming in wet, ragged gasps.

She kissed the bite marks. Licked the blood away. Tasted salt and iron and something that was just him. His hands slid up her back, tracing the fading whip marks, the dimples above her ass, the curve of her ribs.

Gentle now. Reverent.
She shifted, tucking herself against his side, one leg thrown across his hips.

The crustacean patch pressed cool against her inner thigh. His arm wrapped around her shoulders, and her curls spilled across his chest like orange water.

"Love," she murmured, the word slipping out before she could catch it.

His breathing hitched. Then his lips pressed to the top of her head.
Outside the window, the farm lay still and dark.

Midnight was hours away. The spit was waiting. But in this room, in this bed, two broken things had found something neither had ever been allowed to keep.

They fell asleep still tangled, still tasting each other on their tongues.

—-

A country girl in a cowgirl outfit stood at the open door.

She gave a soft hello attempting not to startle to two tangled bodies asleep on the bed.

“Helloooo! Pardon me.” She spoke a little louder, in a southern drawls.

Piglet woke shifted, as did 36 when he felt piglet sudden moment.

She finally got their attention.

“It’s six o’ clock, they sent me to fetch you for the kitchen.”

>>31016
I suddenly find myself in the mood for some chicken nuggets!

Chapter 20 is coming up yet it’s not the end all. Story will require a few chapters to fully describe the prep and cooking of these tasty yummies. Anything less would be a failure on my part.

Thanks all for reading and hopefully enjoying my story.

>>31022

I’m thrilled. You’re developing your story in great detail, so it’s clear you need more chapters. I’m looking forward to seeing what comes next.

An open question for readers. No wrong answers

Cooking is not the joyride these pets, especially the younger one think it is.

It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye or something worse.

In a realistic story setting, consenting or not, high temperatures can be excruciatingly painful, it also does a number on brain, heart and lungs.

I guess what I’m trying to ask. Playful as the story has been, should there be a moment (say ducky’s oven) that her fantasies had not truly prepared her for the reality of the cooking process?
—-
I love getting into the heads of these delicious characters. Distinct personalities, emotional needs and desires. Who knew Jenny would turn out to be a Nympho? I don’t think Hypnosis had nothing to do with it. ;)

Answer to question no one asked.

No’ I’m not into ass play. Fingers sure, fist’ ouch!
I felt it fit pet 36 life experiences. Plus it is under represented in cannibalism. lol