Amy’s Golden Ticket

Food fetish (BDSM) story. MF/f, food sex, seduction, possibly consenting, stewing, fatal, cannibalism.
No fanfic Slashing.

PART ONE: You Stream, I stream, we all stream for money.

Amy checked her ring light for the third time, tilting her phone just so. “No, chat, I’m serious—Professor Hendricks literally stared at my chest for a full forty-five seconds during class hours. I counted.” She paused, reading the scrolling comments. “I was wearing my tight low cut with my titties on display.

The donation ding trilled. A robotic voice cooed, “Ooh, thank youuu.”
“Thank you,

HornyForHomework14.” Amy batted her lashes. The chat erupted.

She was good at this—the rhythm of it. Lean in, squint at a username, laugh like it caught her off guard. The eighteen-year-old knew her angles the way a butcher knows a cut steak.

High cheekbones popped from the left. Her blonde ponytail swung when she tilted her head right, giving them that over-the-shoulder glance that made donations spike.

Perky C’s, she’d heard someone call her breast in a DM she definitely did not read aloud. Her waist small enough that her thumbs nearly met when she wrapped her hands around it for a “can you believe this corset?” bit.

Thighs thick where the gym shorts cut off.

“Anyway,” she continued, swiping gloss across her bottom lip, “I’m thinking I need a vacation from midterms. Spring break’s months away and I’m dying.”

A notification pinged. Not the donation chime—something else. A direct message with a distinct golden border.
The username made her pause. topfoxychef.

“Huh.” She clicked it before thinking.
Five hundred dollars. And a link. And text that read: You’d be the perfect addition to our evening.

Dress code enclosed. Digital Gold Ticket attached.

“Chat. Chat, chat, chat.” Amy scrolled back through the message, pulse kicking in her throat.

“This person just sent me five hundred dollars.”
The chat detonated. WHAT.
SHOW US.
GIRL WHAT.

She held the phone closer to the screen. “Okay, okay—look, they want me to go to some place called The Soup Kitchen. What is that? Is that, like, a charity thing?”

Another link. She tapped it. A costume site loaded. A bunny costume. Not the Halloween-spirit-store kind. Custom-fitted. White corseted bodice.

Sheer stockings with a little cotton tail sewn into the back. Ears that looked plush, expensive, the kind that would actually stand upright.

“Chat.” Amy’s voice went flat with disbelief. “Should I buy the bunny suit?”

Donation dings flooded in like a slot machine payout. “Ooh, thank youuu. Ooh, thank youuu. Ooh, thank—“

“OKAY, okay!” She was laughing now, the absurdity of it loosening something behind her ribs.

Amy really knows how to sell her personality, even though it is all for show, and money.

“I’ll buy it. She said triumphantly making her statements bigger then life for her fans.

She knows the type of followers who watches her stream. Lonely, horny, obsessive romantics, and the perverts. She found it easy to bait them all for money.

She thought to herself.
It’s not like I’m doing OnlyFans. Those girls are—you know, slutty, they’ll do anything for money.

She did a wavy hand roll to her audience.

“I guess I’m a bunny now” She giggled clicking the item.

She held her palms above her head like floppy ears.

The chat’s frenzy spilled faster than she could read.

---

Three days later, Amy adjusted the bunny ears in her mirror and felt—strange.
Not bad. Strange.
The fabric cinched her waist. The tail bobbed when she shifted her weight. The stockings hugged her thighs.

She looked edible.
She knew it.

“Alright, chat, final verdict.” She posed in the costume, letting her subscribers lust over her young sexy body. The bunny outfit really showed off her finer point. Boosting her confidence and the money kept rolling in.

She angled her phone so the stream could see the Golden Ticket link on her laptop screen.

“The Soup Kitchen. Should I click it?”

The chat scrolled so fast she caught only fragments:

YES DO IT
STREAM IT IF YOU CAN WHAT IS THIS PLACE
GO GO GO.

“It says I need to enter my address for the limo service.” Amy bit her lip. The chunky metal bangles on her wrist clinked as she covered her personal info from the camera.

“Don’t you perverts get any ideas.” Her keys clacked. She submitted.
The page shifted. Deep red background.

A cauldron bubbling at the center of the screen. Text: The Soup Kitchen. Below it, a button shaped like a golden ticket stub read:

Admit One.

“Here we go!” She clicked.

The next page loaded sparse and elegant. A welcome message in serif font.

Welcome, Golden Ticket Recipient.
You are cordially invited to an evening of mingle, mash, and most importantly delicious entertainment.

Golden Ticket holders please be in compliance with our dress code are required for entry.

Conditions of attendance:
1. Costume required.
2. Open mind required.
3. Smooth skin where the body meets the table required.
4. Available for limousine service at 5:00 PM sharp.


“What? Where the body meets the table,” Amy read aloud. “What does that even mean’ chat?”

The room sound off.
PUSSY
YOUR PUBIC HAIRS SILLY,
THE FUR ABOVE YOUR BABY POCKET.

The chat was already screaming STREAM IT in all caps, punctuated by five-dollar donations that made the robotic voice moan.

Amy had a problem with that phrase, though. She read it again.

Smooth skin where the body meets the table. It nagged at her. Okay after reading comments

“Okay, okay I’ll shaved, I guess there will be nudity at the club, better shave the pits as well.” She look down at her crotch, saying in cute voice Bye, Bye kitty.

“Should I stream the shaving?” She teased to get a rise out of her subscribers.

The chat went wide, resoundingly YES.

“You nasty boys!” She giggled, taking in more cash pings. Some larger amounts as well.

“Should I really go?” She swiveled her chair, biting her pinky nail.

“It’s Like, a mystery club? Off campus. In a bunny costume!”

YES, the chat thundered.
She thought about campus. The frat parties. The fumbling hands in dark basements. The wham bam thank you ma’am. The boys who grunted and rolled off.

The one girl in her psych class who’d kissed her behind the library and then pretended it never happened. The boredom that sat under her ribs like a stone.

She signed off the stream promising to post a note if she is able to stream for tomorrows event.

Her phone buzzed Five o’clock. The limo driver: Waiting.

The limousine smelled of leather and champagne. Amy sat alone in the back seat, her bunny tail pressing awkwardly against the cushion. She didn’t know the driver.

He really didn’t talk much.

The partition was up. Outside the tinted windows, campus faded into unfamiliar streets, then into empty stretches of road.

She tried to start a stream but her signal dropped.

“Limo’s got no reception,” she muttered to no one. “Cool. Cool cool cool. Not ominous at all.”

She recorded herself, content to share with the stream.
“Hi Chat!” She showed off herself in her bunny costume, sitting in the limo, holding a glass of champagne. “I’m heading to The Soup Kitchen.

Talking to her camera and getting into character helped with the tingling nervousness in her stomach.

Twenty minutes. She continued to record.
She went on about the thrill of mystery, of not knowing what lurks ahead—it made her horny, a thrill she hadn’t felt in a while.

Thirty minutes. The car slowed.

Outside, a low building spread across a manicured lawn, no signage, no windows.

Just a heavy wooden door and a valet stand. The valet wore a chef’s apron and nothing else. “Kinky” she thought. She looked around. The whole compound was walled.

She had been busy chatting away she hadn’t noticed the guarded entry gate.

The car door opened. “Ma’am.” A hand extended—white gloves, formal posture.

Amy’s eyebrows went up. How elegant.

The doorman wore a tuxedo jacket and a pair of tailored pants that left little to the imagination.

“Your ticket, please.”

Amy fumbled her phone. The golden ticket loaded. He scanned it with a device that beeped green.

“Welcome to The Soup Kitchen, Bunny.

Please enter and await your pairing.”

Pairing.

PART TWO: Bunny and the Fox.

She stepped inside before the word could unspool in her head.

The interior hit her like a velvet fist. Low crimson lighting. Chandeliers dripping crystals. A long hallway lined with closed doors bearing brass nameplates: The Bouillabaisse Room. The Bisque Room. The Broth Room. At the end of the hall, a curtain.

A hostess glided forward—she wore nothing but strategically placed dollops of whipped cream and a welcoming smile.

“First time?” A oblatory question.

Amy’s mouth opened. Closed. “Uh. Yeah. I’m—I’m streaming? Or I was going to. I have subscribers.”

“I’m sorry dear bunny. No recording devices past the curtain, I’m afraid.” The hostess gestured toward a small locker bay. “Phones and cameras stay here.

You’ll receive a safe token for retrieval if you chose to depart.”

Amy only heard no ability to stream, Chat. Gone. Amy hesitated.

The bored stone under her ribs shifted. She’d never done anything without an audience.

She handed her phone over.

The hostess swept a hand toward the curtain. “Your chef awaits, Bunny.”

“Her chef!”Does she get a personal chef tonight?

Amy pushed through the velvet.

The room beyond was circular, tiered, like operating theater meets Roman bath. In the center: a long stainless steel table, polished to a mirror sheen. Around it stood figures in various costumes—a wolf, a fox, a cat with a tail that swayed.

And between them, laid out on the table, was a woman coated head to toe in melted chocolate, breathing slow and steady, while gloved hands reached toward her with spoons and brushes.

Amy’s bunny ears quivered.

A deep voice rumbled beside her ear.

“You must be my Golden Ticket.”

She turned. A man in a crisp white chef’s coat stood close enough that she caught the scent of him—vanilla and star anise.

He wore a Fox mask, all she could see is his eyes.

And it was his eyes that traveled down her bunny suit, her stockings, the cotton tail. Then back up.

“I’m Chef Markel. Your dining partner for the evening.” He lifted a ladle from his belt, the gesture almost casual.

“Are you hungry for something pleasurable?”
Amy felt her heart beat.

The woman on the table moaned softly as chocolate was scraped from her inner thigh.

Amy thought about saying no. About bolting. About retrieving her phone and telling chat how insane this place was.

Instead, she heard herself say, “Starving for it.”

The chef smiled. Something in his teeth caught the chandelier light.

“Then let’s begin.”

>>31259
Ooh this is fun! :D

>>31258
Sooo... I'm confused! Are you pleased to see us or not? :P

Chef Markel let the ladle rest against his thigh. The curved metal caught the chandelier light and threw a crescent onto the ceiling. “You’re wondering what you just walked into.”

Amy’s nose twitched. The bunny ears, wired and expressive, twitched with it. “I mean. There’s a woman covered in chocolate being treated like an ice cream sundae, so. Yeah. A little.”

“The Soup Kitchen is an erotic culinary theater. Every evening, we craft a multi-course sensory experience. Taste. Touch. Scent.” He paused, letting the word hang.

“Submission of our Golden Ticket guests don’t simply dine. They become the dish.”

The woman on the table arched her back. A gloved hand dragged a silicone brush across her collarbone. Chocolate pooled in the hollow of her throat.

Amy’s thighs pressed together inside the sheer stockings. The friction sent a pulse upward that she absolutely did not authorize.

Her hand twitched toward her pocket—empty. No phone. No chat. No donation dings to tell her what to think. Just her own heartbeat thudding behind her chest and a dampness gathering between her legs that she refused to acknowledge.

“Guests,” Chef Markel continued, “are invited to soak in warm baths prepared especially for them. Broths, bisques, consommés.

The natural flavor of the body, the softness of your skin—they infuse the soup. The guest becomes part of the flavor. The soup is then served to others.”
His teeth appeared again. Though she couldn’t see them behind the Fox mask. “It’s the most intimate dinner party you’ll ever attend.”

Amy’s critical thinking raised a tiny flag somewhere in the back of her skull. The flag was small. Pale. Waving feebly from a distant hill.

Her body, meanwhile, was conducting a symphony of extremely bad ideas. Her stomach felt tighter. The stockings felt wetter. Somewhere underneath all that, she was pretty sure Chef Markel had just offered to cook her.

“So… the bunny costume isn’t just a vibe. It’s a menu.”

He laughed—a rumble that started in his chest. “Clever girl. I’d like to make you my rabbit stew.”

He said it the way a barista recites the daily specials. Casual. Practiced.

Amy blinked up at him, her mouth ajar just enough that her bottom lip caught the red light.

A woman nearby in a fox mask glanced over, licked a smear of chocolate from her wrist, and smiled slow.

“The process is straightforward,” Chef Markel said. “We remove the fur—that would be the costume. Then a thorough wash. Inside and out.”

Inside and out. Amy’s forehead creased. “Inside?”

He didn’t elaborate. He simply continued, the ladle tapping gently against his palm, a metronome for his monologue.

“A seasoned massage follows. Herbs, oils. A stuffing of root vegetables—carrots, parsnips, pearl onions. A traditional mirepoix, you understand.

Then the soak. A warm bath in a savory mixture tailored to your body.

You’ll simmer, your muscles soothed by the liquid embrace. The result is a dish that tastes of indulgence and surrender.”

Amy’s knees did something complicated. Surrender. That word curled through her skull like steam off the table.

She’d spent two years peacocking for a camera, performing eagerness for an audience of strangers, letting them fill her with validation while frat boys filled her with nothing.

Surrender sounded like someone else doing the work.

She was absolutely, catastrophically horny.

“I’m a streamer, though.” The protest wobbled out of her before she could stop it. “I have subscribers. Followers. I came here to—I was supposed to film this.”

Chef Markel tilted his head. “We have a strict no-recording policy.”

There it was. The exit. The escape hatch. She could nod politely, collect her phone, and spend the limo ride back telling chat how insane the place was.

Then he added: “However. For a Golden Ticket guest willing to share the artistry of the personal process—we could make an exception.”

Amy’s pupils dilated. “Wait, really?”

“An assistant would handle the filming. Your content. Your channel. Your subscribers get to watch a bunny become stew.”

Her channel. The views. The donations. She’d be the first streamer to broadcast from inside The Soup Kitchen.

Whatever this place was, she’d crack it open for an audience. The subscribers would lose their minds.

She said, “Okay.”

She had not processed everything he’d said about the vegetables. Or the enema. Or the simmering.

The distant flag on the distant hill was now just a dot. A smudge. An ex-flat.

“Okay,” she said again, louder. “Let’s do it.”

Chef Markel extended his hand. She took it. His palm was warm, dry, and impossibly steady.

PART THREE: Dirty Bunny

The shower station occupied an alcove off the main room, sectioned by a curtain of hanging butcher chains.

A drain glittered in the tiled floor. Overhead, a rainfall showerhead the size of a manhole cover waited, silent. Steam drifted from somewhere.

A young woman in a black latex bodysuit stepped forward holding Amy’s phone on a gimbal rig.

The lens aimed. The red recording light blinked.

“Oh my god,” Amy breathed, and for a second she was just a streamer again, instincts firing.

She found the lens. “Chat—I can’t read you right now but you are not going to believe this. I’m about to become rabbit stew.”

“Actual stew.” She make a cute laughs

Chef Markel moved behind her. His fingers found the zipper of her bunny costume. The sound it made—a long, slow hiss of metal teeth separating—drowned out every other noise in the alcove. The outfit loosened.

Amy’s breath came shallow. His knuckles grazed her spine as the garment peeled away, and she didn’t gasp. She went very still instead, the stillness of prey that has decided not to run.

“The fur comes off first,” he murmured. The thin fabric dropped to the tile. The stockings followed—rolled down her thighs with a slowness that bordered on ceremonial.

Each inch of exposed skin prickled under the steam. The cotton tail was unclipped. The bunny ears stayed on, and Amy stood bare except for the sheen of anticipation on her collarbone and the goosebumps racing down her arms.

He moved her under the blasting shower head.

“You’re trembling,” Chef Markel observed.

“The water’s—I’m just cold.” She was not cold.

The assistant circled, capturing Amy’s face in profile. Amy talked into the lens like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“It feels… this is going to sound weird, chat, but it feels like being unwrapped. Like I’m a present. Or—or an ingredient.”

She pondered the thought, it felt like a thrill she never had before.

“I don’t know. I’m just standing here naked and he hasn’t even touched me yet and I’m—”

The water temperature changed. Warm. Then warmer. A cascade that plastered her ponytail to her neck and sent rivulets down the channel of her spine.

Chef Markel’s hands followed the water—soap-slick, broad-palmed, working a lather that smelled of rosemary and sea salt.

Amy’s words ran faster. “He’s washing me. Like. My shoulders. My back. His hands are so—I don’t know, chat, I feel like a vegetable getting scrubbed for a salad. Is that a thing? Is that a thing people feel? Because I’m feeling it.”

His hands moved to her front. Suds slid over her collarbone, down the plane of her sternum, and Amy’s nipples tightened into points so sharp they ached.

The soap circled each breast without hurry. Her narration dissolved into a long, broken syllable that was not a word.

“The stimulation is,” she tried again, voice thinner now, “it’s—I’m being washed like a piece of meat. Like I’m an ingredient. And that should be weird, right? That should be—I should be weirded out.”

His hand slid lower.

Suds gathered where her belly curved into her pelvis. Fingers traced the seam of her—the word muff flickered through her head and was gone—and then parted her with a gentleness that made her jaw go slack.

The camera caught it. Her eyes, wide and glassy. Her mouth, open. The small, involuntary jerk of her hips when his thumb passed over the place that made seeing straight impossible.

“Total surrender,” she whispered. The words left her like steam. “He’s treating me like an ingredient and I’ve never been this turned on in my—”

A pressure. Behind her. Not his hand.

Something cool. Firm. Cylindrical.

The nozzle slipped inside her before her brain caught up to her rectum.

Amy’s sentence died mid-vowel. Her eyes—the camera had them, framed tight—became twin moons. The assistant zoomed in.

“Oh.” The word was small. Stunned. “Chat. Chat, there’s a—there’s a tube. In my—there’s something inside me.”

Water. Warm water, flowing in, and with it a fullness that made no sense.

Her belly stirred. A rumble deep in her gut that she could feel through her pelvic floor, a strange liquid pressure that climbed by degrees.

She gripped the tile wall. Her palm slipped on the steam-slick surface.

“I can feel it,” she said, voice pitching higher. “Filling. It’s like I have to—oh god, chat, I have to go so bad. It’s just water but I have to—I’m going to—”

The nozzle withdrew. A wet pop. Amy’s body did what bodies do, and she cried out over the splatter, “Look away, chat! Look away!”

Her cheeks burned. The blush ran from her face down her chest, across her breasts, up her neck. And underneath the mortification, coiling in the hot wet center of her, was something feral. Something that liked the shame.

Chef Markel handed her off to a salt scrub. Coarse crystals abraded her shoulders, her back, her thighs, her soles. Each pass stripped away a layer of dead skin and a layer of inhibition.

By the time the rainfall rinsed the last grains down the drain, Amy was pink-skinned, soft, and vibrating with a sexual hunger she could not name.

She faced the camera. Water dripped from her chin.

“That was the wash. Inside and out.” She swallowed. “Chat. I think I get it now. I think I understand.”

The chef’s voice came from behind the butcher chains. “The stuffing begins in five minutes.”

Amy perked up, “Stuffing!”

“Bring the rabbit.”

>>31265
lol, I wanted a neutral cover page image for my stories. It seem appropriate.

Yes I’m happy to see you, thanks for the comments.

"Bring the rabbit." So, there's a rabbit on the table after all. The last one was spared.

Haha.

I'm curious; a streamer like that can be quite tasty.

Um, what won't one do for followers? I hope my 1600 followers don't want to see me being prepared. Ugh.

Your story really captures the zeitgeist. (Why isn't there an English word for zeitgeist?)

Thumbs up

>>31270
Mmm loving this so much! I have a feeling Amy would either hit it off brilliantly with my character Trixie Coleman, introduced in "Dining with The Stars", or they would become mortal enemies!

>>31284

I’ve read that story, loved it.

>>31276

A tasty bunny influencer at that.

It’s a fun story on the surface.
I’m interested in the effects subscribers have on the streaming performer.

The level a person will go, seeking stardom, at least in their own mind.
Validation, fame and money can persuade streamers to do almost anything. Even find themselves in a stew. ;)

Btw I read your past statement, saying you tried a little soup role-play. How did it turn out?

>>31289

The extent of the influence subscribers have on streamers cannot be assessed in general terms. In my opinion, factors such as age, gender, and life experience play a significant role in such an assessment. I would say that someone who becomes a streamer right after finishing school is more susceptible to influence from their subscribers than a person who starts streaming at the age of 30 or 40. However, the prospect of fame and success is tempting at any age.

As for the soup roleplay—it was intended as an experiment. How would "meat girls" feel in a hot soup? What goes through one's mind in those final moments? I have the ability to run really hot water into the steel bathtub using a water heater (90-liter storage tank for near-boiling water). The tea lights—there were maybe only a hundred of them—maintain the heat, but they don't actually raise the temperature.

My skin was quite red for several hours, but it was interesting. I could actually understand why people would let themselves be prepared as food. As for the soup, it tasted normal—no hint of a human flavor. I was full afterwards. Cleaning the tub took a bit longer, though. :D

As I sat in that soup, I finished thinking through the story about it. And sure enough, I had forgotten a broken doorbell and the tools out in the yard—just as the story recounts. I felt that weaving in a few personal details of my own made it sound a bit more authentic.

In any case, it was quite an experience. I’m so glad I have a sturdy steel bathtub. And you really do get used to water—or soup—that’s too hot over time.

PART FOUR: Stuffed Bunny


The assistant's latex bodysuit creaked as she circled the prep table, phone gimbal steady. Amy crawled onto the stainless steel surface on all fours, her knees finding the padded indentations clearly designed for exactly this purpose.

Shoulders down. Ass up. The position made her feel like an animal. Prey. Produce.

"Chat," she managed, turning her cheek to the cold steel, "I'm about to be stuffed. With vegetables. Up my—" A nervous laugh. "Up my butt. Actual vegetables. This is happening."

Her ponytail draped over one shoulder, the blonde ends brushing the table. From this angle, with her chest pressed flat and her rear elevated, she couldn't see Chef Markel behind her.

She could only hear him: the soft clink of a ceramic bowl, the wet slide of something being handled, the deliberate footsteps circling toward her exposed backside.

A fox mask covered his face. The russet ears and pointed snout transformed him from culinary professional into something else. Wilder.

The mask's eyeholes revealed only glints.
"We begin with the root vegetables," he announced, voice slightly muffled by the mask but no less commanding.

"A traditional assorted blends adapted for the cavity."
Amy's fingers curled against the table's edge. "He's—he's actually starting, chat. Oh god. Okay. Okay okay okay."

The first vegetable was cold. Slicked with oil, it pressed against her anus with a pressure that made her gasp and clench. Chef Markel's free hand settled on her lower back, thumb stroking the base of her spine.

"Carrot," she guessed, voice jumping an octave. "That's—that's a carrot. Definitely a carrot. Baby carrot. It's-”

The vegetable popped past the ring of muscle and she lost the rest of the sentence.
The assistant zoomed in. Amy's face filled the phone screen: mouth a perfect O, eyes fluttering, the tendons in her neck standing out as she processed the sensation of being filled from behind with root vegetables.

"Second," Chef Markel murmured. Another cold shape. Wider. "Parsnip."
"Parsnip," Amy repeated for chat, her voice straining toward casual and missing by a mile.

"He said parsnip. It's—thicker. Definitely thicker than the carrot. I can feel the difference. I'm learning vegetable shapes with my—with my butthole, chat. This is my life now."

Her joke dissolved into a whimper as the parsnip slid home. The fullness was becoming cumulative, each vegetable nestling against the others inside her, a solid packed presence that made her feel heavier. Rooted.

The assistant shifted position, capturing Amy's face from a lower angle. Sweat beaded on her hairline.

Her cheeks were flushed the color of the consommé-scented steam rising from somewhere behind her.

"Oh!" A small, round pressure. "What was that? Chat, that felt—" Another. Another. "Pearl onions. They're—they're tiny. He's putting them in one at a time. Like. Like marbles. Like I'm a—"

A potato. Bigger than she expected. Her narration faltered as it stretched her, the skin of the petite red potato dragging against sensitive internal walls. Her hips jerked involuntarily.

"Sorry—sorry, I—that was—a potato? Mr. Fox, was that a potato? It felt like a potato."

"Yukon Gold," Chef Markel confirmed. His thumb traced circles on her tailbone. "Firm. Holds its shape well under heat."

"He's rating the structural integrity of the potato currently in my rectum,"

Amy said to the lens, and a laugh bubbled out of her, borderline hysterical, cut short when the next vegetable pressed against her

This one was bigger. Rounder. Her body resisted.
"Wait—wait wait wait—"

The pressure built, relentless and slow, and Amy's hands scrambled against the table.

"Mr. Fox. Mr. Fox, is that an onion?
That's—that's a lot. That's—"

"The vegetable stopper," he said. "A cipollini onion. It seals the stuffing. Keeps everything contained during the simmer."

The onion breached her. Amy made a sound that was not a word, not a moan, something in between that got trapped in her throat.

The lens caught it all: her jaw unhinged, her eyes squeezed shut, a single tear tracking down her temple as the onion pushed past her sphincter and settled deep inside her, joining the carrot and parsnip and pearl onions and potato in a packed, solid fullness that made her feel split open.

"I'm feeling real full, chat." Her voice came out reedy. She swallowed. "I have to tell you guys, the sexual tension I'm feeling is off the charts. If only—"

A new pressure. Different. Lower. Not at her anus.
Her vulva.

The carrot was long. Thick. Ridged. Chef Markel dragged it through her folds, collecting the slick that had been gathering there since the shower, and Amy's narration stopped.

The lens captured her expression shifting from surprise to recognition to a desperate, open-mouthed want that she didn't bother hiding.

"Th—" She tried. Failed. Tried again. "There's a carrot in my pussy now, chat. A big one. In my—he just—"

He pushed. The carrot slid in, and Amy's back arched so sharply her shoulders lifted off the table.

The sound she made was raw, unmediated, a groan that started somewhere in the vegetable-packed cavity of her and rumbled outward.

"Oh yes. Oh—" Her hips pushed back against the intrusion, meeting it, taking it deeper.

"I need—chat, I know this is—I'm sorry but I need to—I can't just—"

Her hand flew between her legs. Fingers found the carrot's base, the wet green fronds still attached, and she gripped them. Her first pull was tentative, a shallow withdrawal before pressing it back in.

The second was faster. The third was a rhythm, a fuck, and Amy stopped pretending she was doing anything else.

The assistant circled the table. The lens caught Amy from behind now: the onion stopper visible at the base of her anus, the carrot sliding in and out of her cunt, her fingers curled white-knuckled around the green tops, her back undulating with each thrust.

"Look away, chat," she panted, not remembering this was a recording.

"Look—I—I can't—"
A cool drizzle hit her upturned ass. Not water. Thicker. Fragrant.

The smell hit her before the sensation registered: rosemary, bay leaf, a wine note underneath, something that tingled on contact.

"They're basting me, chat," she gasped, her hand never stopping, the carrot never slowing.

"They're—to season the soup, I guess. Enhance my flavors. It's—it's cold. It's so cold and I'm so—"

The marinade dribbled down the cleft of her ass, across her stretched anus, over the vegetables still protruding slightly. Chef Markel's brush—she could hear the silicone bristles—swept the liquid in long, painterly strokes, coating every inch of exposed skin.

Her thighs. Her cheeks. The small of her back. His brush found the crease where thigh met pelvis, and Amy keened.

She was fucking herself harder now. The carrot made wet sounds each time it bottomed out.

Her commentary had devolved into fragments, single syllables, words that weren't words.

"I feel like—a sack of—vegetables—I wanna poop but I can't—I know, TMI, chat, I know—but I'm so full, I'm so—"

The basting brush dipped lower. Swirled over her clit.
Amy came.

Her entire body seized. The vegetables inside her rectum shifted with the contraction, a strange internal pressure that prolonged the orgasm, dragged it out of her in waves.

The carrot stopped moving. Her hand clamped down, holding it deep. A sound tore out of her throat—half-scream, half-sob, the kind of noise that doesn't belong to any recognizable emotion.

The assistant captured every frame. Amy's face, buried in the crook of her elbow. Her shoulders, shaking. Her ass, still upturned, the vegetables glistening with marinade and her own fluids. The carrot fronds, motionless now, the only green in a tableau of pink flesh and silver steel.

She sagged. Forehead to the table. Breathing ragged.

"Sorry about that, chat." Her voice was wrecked. "A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do." The cute voice she always deployed for damage control was hoarse around the edges, unconvincing.

She tried again. "Totally normal. Totally—totally fine."

Chef Markel withdrew the brush. Set it aside with a soft ceramic click. His gloved hands found her hip, her shoulder, and gently rolled her onto her back.

The change in position made her gasp.

Vegetables shifted inside her, weight redistributing, the onion pressing against internal walls from a new angle. She stared up at the lights. At the fox mask leaning over her.

The brush returned.

This time it found her breasts. Cool marinade circled each nipple, and Amy watched herself respond—the skin puckering, the areolas tightening, the peaks hardening into points that ached.

"He doesn't talk much," she told the lens, her voice dreamy now, post-orgasm slow, "but he sure knows how to treat a lady."

The brush swept under the curve of each breast. Across her collarbone. Down the channels of her ribs.

A tingling warmth followed the liquid wherever it touched, a sensation that wasn't quite heat and wasn't quite cold, something in between that made her skin feel newly made.

Her armpits.

The brush found the hollows there, and Amy squirmed—ticklish, ridiculous, laughing through the sensitivity.

"The chef is—he's basting my armpits, chat. Even my armpits. I'm being seasoned everywhere. I'm going to be the best-tasting bunny they've ever—"

Chef Markel set down the brush. His fox mask tilted, regarding her with those blank eyeholes that somehow still conveyed satisfaction.

"Your dipping seat awaits," he said.
A beat of silence.

Amy propped herself on her elbows, the vegetable stuffing shifting inside her with the movement.

"Hey chat," she said, finding the lens with an expression of genuine bafflement. "I'm heading to a dipping seat. Whatever that is."

The assistant cut the recording.

Chef Markel extended his hand. Amy took it, letting him guide her off the prep table. Her legs wobbled.

The fullness inside her made movement strange, made her hyperaware of her own body, every step a negotiation with the solid packed presence in her gut.

Through the steam and the crimson light, she could see it now: a cauldron.

Large enough for a person. Steamy, shimmering at the surface, clear as amber. Steam curling upward in fragrant ribbons.

"Oh," Amy said softly.
Beside the cauldron was a wire basket hanging from a cable overhead.

"That's what a dipping seat looks like."

>>31299

A very good story; I have a feeling this could end deliciously.

I can smell it again—the delicious steam of a soup. I can almost feel it again—the grueling, challenging heat. That erotic craving for the thrill leading up to the final end. Amy is going to have fun.

I look forward to the continuation.

>>31298
> I'm learning vegetable shapes with my—with my butthole, chat.

Hehe. Sorry, but all I could think of in this scene was: "And where does this vegetable go? That's right, the butthole."

https://youtu.be/6pDH66X3ClA

>>31299
Mmm my stomach is rumbling and that's not the only part of my body reacting! I feel like I should make you breakfast! XD When can we expect the...climax of this wonderful short?

>>31311

I believe I’ll be wrapping it up in the next part or two. I tried to do it in three parts but Amy demanded more attention. :)

>>31310

I laugh so hard. Thanks for that.

>>31312
That's influencers for ya!

PART FIVE: Dinner and a Show.

The cauldron room wasn't just a cooking area. Amy blinked through the steam and realized the entire wall behind it was a curtain—deep red velvet, floor to ceiling, rippling faintly as bodies moved on the other side. A stage. She'd signed up for soup and somehow ended up in dinner theater.

Chef Markel's fox mask turned toward her. "This way, Bunny."
His gloved hand found the small of her back and guided her toward a contraption suspended on a cable beside the bubbling cauldron. It looked, absurdly, like a child's swing from a playground—a wire basket shaped like a bucket seat, chains converging to a single hook above. The basket had no bottom, just a woven steel rim that would cradle her weight while leaving her suspended over the cauldron.

Most impressive was the rising from the center of that basket seat, impossibly upright, was a metal dildo. Eight inches, polished to a mirror shine, already slick with condensation from the steam.

Amy's inner thighs tightened. "Chat," she breathed, glancing at the assistant in the latex bodysuit who had resumed filming, the red recording light blinking.

"There's a—there's a metal thingy. In the basket. I'm supposed to sit on it. That's... that's what's happening."

Chef Markel stepped behind her. His fingers found the carrot fronds still protruding from between her legs.

One slow pull and the vegetable slid out, ridged and glistening, and Amy's breath caught so sharply the assistant zoomed in on her open mouth. He plopped the vim soaked carrot into the cauldron.

"Now the dipping seat," Chef Markel murmured, "Lower yourself."

Amy stared at the dildo. The basket. The simmering amber liquid waiting next to the platform.

Her body hummed with post-orgasm sensitivity, the packed fullness still nestled deep in her rectum, and she was about to add a steel shaft to the equation because a masked man in a chef's coat told her to.

Somewhere across campus her empty dorm room sat waiting with its pile of laundry and unread textbooks and absolutely none of this.

She bit her lip. "For you guys," she told the lens, voice pitched into that sweet streamer register.

"I'm doing this for my subscribers. You better appreciate it."

The assistant's black-gloved hands remained steady. Amy gripped the chains, swung one leg over the basket's rim, then the other. Her bare feet dangled. The wire cut into the backs of her thighs. She hovered, the tip of the dildo pressing against her slick folds but not yet inside. Sweat beaded on her hairline from the rising steam.
"Settle in, Bunny," Chef Markel said.

Amy let her weight drop. The dildo parted her slowly—wider than the carrot, colder, unyielding—and she slid down its length with a wet, helpless sound that started in her throat and spilled out before she could clamp her lips shut.

Inch by inch. The basket's wire frame bit into her ass and thighs, flesh bulging through the gaps like dough through a mesh.

Her knees rose toward her chest, feet kicking uselessly in the air.

"Oh no—chat, I'm so sorry for the noises," she panted, fully seated now, the metal pressing somewhere so deep inside her that she'd forgotten that part of her existed.

"The basket is really—it's snug. My butt is like, fully contoured to this wire right now. I'm basically a bunny in a cage. A bunny in a cage with a—" She swallowed.

"With a steel friend inside me."

Chef Markel knelt beside her. His hands moved behind her back, gathering her elbows, and before she could process the maneuver, her forearms were pressed together and bound at the elbows and wrists with a leather strap.

Her shoulders pulled back. Her chest thrust forward, nipples hardening in the steam.

"What's a sweet bunny to do?" Amy trilled into the lens, mock helplessness layered over genuine arousal.

"There's no escaping now." She said in a cute bunny voice.

Muffled voices filtered through the red curtain. Laughter.

The clink of silverware on porcelain, she listened toward the sound.

"Fox Chef," she whispered, "are there people out there?"

He didn't answer. The cable above her creaked, and the basket lifted off the platform. Amy's stomach dropped.

She swung gently over the cauldron, steam curling around her suspended legs, licking at her seated ass.

She could feel the fullness of the dildo, just a foreign pressure, motionless, waiting.

Beyond the curtain, a microphone crackled. Music swelled—something orchestral, lush, absurdly dramatic.

An announcer's voice rolled through the velvet in honeyed baritone: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight's dinner show."

A drum roll. Amy's pulse matched it.

"Tonight's show is called The Fox and the Rabbit." Not really an impressive title.

Applause. Real applause, from real humans sitting at elegant dining tables just yards away beyond the curtains.

Amy's heart hammered against her ribs because she was about to be revealed to them like a centerpiece, vegetables still packed inside her, a metal dildo spearing her, suspended over soup.

Was she not the star of the show? Was it not all about her? She wondered if this recorded event would boost her fan base.

She is too sexually charged to think straight. This kink has excited her more then she had ever been and she wanted more of it—needed it.

"Without further ado," the announcer intoned, "let the show begin."

The curtain parted. Light flooded the stage—warm, golden, theatrical—and Amy squinted against it, the assistant with her phone backing up
to stage left, still filming.

The audience came into focus: costumed diners at round tables draped in white linen, candles flickering, wine glasses half-full. A dozen faces. Two dozen. All turned toward her.

They stood and clapped.
Amy's smile arrived before her brain approved it. M

She was naked, bound, stuffed, sweating, and an entire room of strangers was applauding her existence, her body drenched with sweat, dripping down her seasoned body, droplets adding to the simmering brew below, at least her bunny ears—still held firm, wire frame still standing upright.

The old familiar warmth spread through her chest—the validation hit that she chased every time she went live. She'd never needed it more.

"Hi everyone!" she called out, voice carrying over the applause.

"I'm Bunny! I mean—I'm Amy. My subscribers will probably call me Bunny now, I guess."

The audience laughs.

A woman in a cat mask entered stage right, tail swaying, claws glittering.

She moved like someone who'd done community theater with unearned confidence.

"You finally caught that pesky rabbit eating up our garden," she purred, her voice dripping with theatrical menace.

Chef Markel stepped forward, his fox ears catching the stage lights.

"Sure did. I stuffed her ass as well."

A ripple of laughter from the diners. "What do you say, Kitty—up for some rabbit stew?"

Amy twisted in the basket, the dildo shifting inside her, a fresh wave of sensation rolling up her spine. She caught the assistant's lens and found her streamer voice.

"Oh no, Mister Fox—I won't steal from your garden again!"

The actors paused. The cat woman's whiskered mask tilted, clearly not expecting her unscripted participation from the prop. She recovered fast.

"Too late for you, little thief. We are hungry, and you are one tasty bunny."

The cable groaned.

The basket began to lower. Amy kicked her feet.

The good news the motion bounced her on the dildo—up, down, a tiny slide of steel against her inner walls—and a moan escaped her that was only half-performance.

"Ohhh nooo! Somebody save me!” She was really getting into the role.

The audience laughed. Warm, appreciative. She was killing it.

The simmering fluid met her delicious ass cradled in the basket first. Warmer than she'd braced for—not boiling, but near enough to make her nerve endings sit up and scream.

She kept sinking. Thighs. Waist. Her chest.
The liquid swallowed her inch by inch, the wire basket now submerged, the dildo suddenly humming. Not metaphorically.

The tuning fork beneath the basket had activated, some clever piece of engineering that turned heated liquid molecules into vibration, and the steel cock inside her became a thrumming, buzzing presence that turned every word in her head to static.

"Chat," she gasped, "the seat—there's a—the metal is—vibrating.

The soup is making it vibrate. That's a thing that's happening." Amy needed it, the sexual attention her mind cried out for.

The actors continued their script around her. Cat woman circled the cauldron with a ladle.

"Look at her, Fox. Plump. Tender. I bet her haunches taste divine."

Chef Markel nodded. "The back legs are always the best cut. Enough meat to sink your teeth into."

Amy's head lolled forward. The vibrator was relentless now, buzzing through her clit, her walls, her everything, the frequency ratcheting upward as the soup warmed. Maybe warmed isn’t the right word. The soup taking on a more violent churning.

Her vegetable-stuffed rectum pressed against the basket's wire, a solid packed weight that made every vibration ricochet through her pelvis. She was boiling alive in pleasure.

"Please don't stew me," she managed, small and breathy.

"I'll be good!"

The Chef picked something off a tray. A potato. He shoved it between her lips before she could say another word.

"Enough, silly rabbit." His voice was velvet over steel.

"The fox always catches the rabbit. You might as well surrender and become our rabbit stew."

The diners chuckled. Amy bit down on the potato, its skin soft and warm, and the absurdity of it—naked, bound, gagged with a starch—tipped her over.

The water was stinging now, like micro-needles pricking every inch of submerged skin, and the vibrator had become a second heartbeat pressed against her cervix, and somewhere in the steam her mind drifted loose from its senses.

She imagined herself a real rabbit in a real forest. A Fox chasing her down. Teeth closing on her scruff. Yes’ Surrender.

Her mind drifted on the word.

She'd never surrendered to anything in her life—not to frat boys, not to professors, not to the boredom that followed her like a shadow.

But here, suspended in broth with an audience applauding her slow simmer, surrender felt like the only thing that made sense.

The basket lifted. Cool air slapped her steaming flesh, and Amy blinked back into reality with a gasp.

Her skin pink and glistening, the stage lights picking up every sheen of consommé dripping down her thighs. The dildo's vibration slowed gradually as the tuning fork cooled.

Chef Markel appeared beside her, holding a spray bottle. He misted a thick golden liquid across her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach. Butter. Warm, oily, fragrant.

Cat woman leaned close, her mask's whiskers nearly brushing Amy's cheek.

"Bunnies really do love to be turned into stew," she purred.

"Look how wet she is." Not fair, she knows there is an eight inch metal cock vibrating in her cunt.


The potato was pulled from Amy's mouth dropping it into the soup.

Before she could speak, a bottle pressed to her lips. White liquid. Sweet, like runny yogurt, coating her throat as she swallowed.

Chef Markel's thumb stroked her chin.

"Drink, Bunny."
She drank.

The liquid settled warm in her stomach, and something in her lower gut responded with a soft, distant churn.

"Back in the stew," the Chef announced.
Before Amy could protest—hadn't she stewed enough? hadn't she flavored the soup already?

She was afraid to ask, on chance of getting another potato in her mouth—the basket lowered again.

Her ass hit the water first. The vibrator buzzed back to life. Her nipples, already hard, stung as the heat bit into them, and the rich scent of seasoned Mixture filled her nose, and that scent was her. She was the ingredient. She was the dish.

Her stomach clenched.
A cramp. Low in her abdomen, urgent and wrong and entirely expected by the Chef who'd fed her that sweet white liquid.

She felt the onion inside her soften, felt the laxative do its insistent work.
The basket lifted. Amy's eyes flew open.
"Oh no—chat, I think—I'm going to—"

She squeezed. The cipollini onion slid out of her, followed by the parade of pearl onions, the Yukon Gold potato, the carrot, the parsnip—each one releasing with a wet, messy pop that echoed in the theater as they splashed into the rich broth below.

Relief flooded her, then mortification, then something else entirely as the audience rose to their feet.

Standing ovation.

Amy hung there, vegetables gone, rectum empty, body trembling, and a smile cracked her face wide open.

She'd just shat produce in front of two dozen strangers and they were clapping like she'd won an Oscar.

Chef Markel's fox mask leaned close. "Ready for you final dunk? Become a stew our members, for your subscribers?"

He gestured toward the assistant. The phone. The lens that never stopped recording.

Amy's voice came out hoarse and wrecked and absolutely glowing.

"I'll do anything for my followers."

Music swelled. The basket lowered. The boiling brew embraced her once more, and this time she sank into it like a bath drawn just for her, like a home she didn't know she'd been looking for.

"Oooooh, the heat feels so—"

Her eyes fluttered shut. The vibrator hummed a lullaby. The audience's applause faded into a warm, distant roar, and Amy drifted somewhere soft, somewhere safe, somewhere she'd never been.

Epilogue

The performers took a bow, as Amy boiled away into the delicious stew. Her head bobbing, surrendered meat. Soon to be removed and parted, to return to the stews embrace.

The video recording somehow leaked to her feed. Her followers watched, amazed, shocked, yet many became aroused, most gave thumbs up, for positive support. Her body her choice! Flooded her feed.

Many had wish they attended the dinner—Topsexychef was definitely at the dinner. She can contest Amy was truly delicious, even more so then a stolen kiss.

>>31317

That was absolutely delicious.

I would have loved to attend that event—as a guest, that is.

One less influencer, but guests who had a fantastic evening. What more could you ask for? A great story. Thanks for sharing it.


And now I find myself wondering just how sophisticated the temptation to seek the limelight would have to be for someone who is older and more sensible.

>>31318

Thank you for your comments.

This story was short and sweet with a logical conclusion. She was made for the stew. She got to leave in the hearts and bellies of all those who were their. Fawningly known as Amy the golden ticket winner who became rabbit stew.

Of course the video leaked, police became involved, months of dead leads, came up empty, filed away as unsolved.

Collage posted warnings to students on campus. “Beware the Soup Kitchen”
Students threw watch parties. Many attempting to make foot soup.

Some kind of fad is accruing. We’ll she what the future holds for The Soup Kitchens return.

>>31320
Wonderful conclusion! Why do I suspect the real reason the Police couldn't find anything was because there were some high-ranking officers at the club? I can imagine the Soup Kitchen becoming something of an urban legend with many imitators of varying degrees of sincerity. Bravo on a wonderful short story 😁

>>31322

Thank you Edward

I’m a bit rusty regarding my writing skills. Lacking may be a better term. Yet I’m happy when others find my stories worthy of comments.

I believe I’ve chosen my next story. It would probably fit in a Dolcett/Sidney universe.

>>31325
Jist read about it! Sounds fun 😁 Reminds me a little of one of mine I started. Maybe I should get back to it once I finish "Four Weeks Notice" 😊 https://boards.guro.cx/lit/koko.php?res=30826&page=1

Yummy Girl Magazine


Chapter 1: The Intrepid Reporter.


The glossy eight-by-tens hit the conference table like a slap.

Terri watched them skid across polished mahogany, her knuckles still pressed into the wood where she'd released them.

“What’s wrong with traditional Meat-girls? But this—”

One photo caught the fluorescent light: a ten year old girl curled inside a commercial oven, her wrists bound to the wire racks with butcher’s twine, cheeks flushed pink from heat, her little body happily roasting a way.

Another showed a tween girl trussed and spitted on a stainless steel spit, a chef’s basting brush glistening against her inner thigh.

The third—Terri couldn't look at the third for more than a heartbeat. A copper pot steaming away. Herbs floating on the surface of oil-slicked water.

Three little girls, could be no older the four, reclining with their head tipped back, eyes closed, lips parted.

“Nice shots, Penny.”
The editor’s voice cut through the silence.

Frank Morrison had been staring at the photos for a solid ten seconds longer than anyone else at the table.

His thumb traced the edge of the oven photo.

Penny, the new intern, nervously turned the color of a radish. Her brown ponytail quivered.

“I was there yesterday. The restaurant owner was really nice. Let me into the kitchen to take photos of the girls.”

The room contracted.

Every staff member in that conference room—Carlos from research, Maxwell from print, three sales associates, the graphics team lead—all of them shifted their attention to the Eighteen-year-old in the oversized cardigan and the skirt that rode just slightly higher than HR would’ve approved.

“And?”

Frank’s eyebrow arched.

Penny’s fingers fumbled with the lens cap of the camera slung around her neck.

“Oh, the children were excited to get their pictures taken. The spit girl, wiggled and moan roasting over the electric grill, seemed to really enjoy being basted by a hot-looking chef.

I kind of felt myself—”

She bit her lip so hard it blanched white.

Frank let the silence breathe. Then he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

“Okay, team. It’s just cannibalism with children now. The law says consensual cannibalism is legal, they never bothered to put an age limit on it.

As far as I’m concerned it’s just another fad and legal for now.

Kids as young as eight are allowed to enjoy Bondage and sexual humiliation. Nothing new in the S&M community. As long as it’s consensual it fine with our magazine.

So they want to become food like the adults? Their body their choice.

It’s just a new fad. We need to get on it. I say we run an editorial section in our next issue.”

—-

“No.”

The voice came from the back of the room. Robert Calloway, owner of Yummy Girls Publications, a magazine dedicated to all things kinky. Aimed at teens entering puberty to guide them through the impressional year.

Half the magazine assured the girls were perfect the way they were. The other half sold them on things to make them better. Not to forget advertising dollars pouring in to sell products.

Robert Calloway, tends not to get involved in the daily decision of the magazine. Yet this was different.

He had been so still throughout the meeting that Terri had nearly forgotten he was there.

He was in his sixties now, silver at the temples, a man who’d built an empire on understanding what people wanted before they knew they wanted it.

He rose slowly. “I think we should run a full exposé.

I’m talking cover page, restaurant owner interview, chefs, staff. What are the inner workings. What of these new desire for children to wants to be added to the food chain?

Talk to the volunteers.

What makes them tick? Let’s put them in our Confessions section as well.”

He stepped up to them, his is palm flattened against the table.

“This could double or triple our subscribers.”

“Frank.” Bob turned. “Who’s your best reporter?”

Frank’s gaze traveled across the conference room with the inevitability of a slow-moving freight train.

It passed Carlos. It passed Maxwell. It landed on Terri Tart, twenty-five years old, dressed in a charcoal blazer and a silk blouse buttoned to the throat, her dark hair pinned back so severely it pulled at her temples.

Terri’s face arranged itself into a very specific expression. The one that said don’t you dare.

“We got this, Bob,” Frank said.
The owner nodded once, good as done.

Frank clapped his hands. “Okay, you heard the boss.

Carlos, do a search of any other places offering to cook children.

Maxwell, make sure print knows what angle we’re taking.

Graphics department, set up for a full spread issue.

Sales, let our advertisers know advertisement space will be limited with a thirty percent increase.

Dismissed!”

Chairs scraped. Papers shuffled. The room emptied in a rush of murmured conversation and clicking pens.

“Terri. Stay.”

She didn't turn around immediately. Her jaw worked, teeth grinding against each other as she watched the last staff member file out.

Bob paused in the doorway, his hand finding her shoulder with a squeeze that was meant to be paternal but landed somewhere closer to proprietary.

“Do a good job and I’ll promise you a promotion,” he murmured, and then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him with the finality of a gavel.

Now it was just Terri and Frank and the photographs still fanned across the table like a dirty tarot deck.

She spun on him.

“Frank, I swear—”

“Okay, I know what you’re going to say.” He held up both palms in surrender.

The sleeves of his oxford were rolled to the elbow. Terri could see the faded ink of an old tattoo peeking out, something he’d gotten in his twenties before journalism had swallowed him whole.

She didn’t let him finish. “I’ve been in the bondage scene for years. I’ve seen all kinds of kink, my younger sister got into the whole cannibal scene. She wounded up of a platter.

But this? These little girls are being trussed up like holiday roasts.”

“Look at these photos.”

Frank gathered them, spread them out again, his finger tapping against the oven shot. “Do these girls not look erotic-dear I say delicious?

Look at her face, Terri. Really look.”

She looked.
The little girl in the oven had her thighs pressed together. Her lips were parted around a breath she’d clearly been holding when the shutter clicked.

Her nipples, visible hard, and she doesn’t even have breast yet. they were peaked tight.

And her eyes—there was something in her eyes that Terri recognized.

That glazed, faraway look of someone who’d gone so deep into sensation that the outside world had ceased to exist.

Terri’s throat tightened.

“They’re getting off on the humiliation of being treated like meat,” Frank said, softer now.

“With adults being roasted everywhere It seems logical the kids would pick up on it. That’s all it is. A new flavor of an old dish.”

“Pun intended?”

A smile cracked his face.

“There she is.”

He leaned against the conference table, close enough that Terri could smell his coffee breath and the faint trace of the cigarette he’d definitely smoked on the fire escape before the meeting.

“Listen. See if you can get an interview with the owner. Take Penny with you—she seems to have an in with him. Do this, and I promise your raise and promotion are all but guaranteed.”

Terri folded her arms. The wool of her blazer itched against her wrists.

“Who knows,”
Frank added, pushing off the table and gathering his notes.

“Maybe you’ll see the value in this new youth cooking phase.”

He left her there, standing alone among the photographs.

The last assignment had sent her to India during their Scat Festival. That had been a week of squatting in fields and trying not to gag behind her notepad while Frank’s voice echoed in her head—It’s just cultural exploration, Terri, keep an open mind.

She’d come back with a sinus infection and a profound hatred for the man who signed her paychecks.

And now this.

Terri scooped up the photographs. The paper was warm from the table, from the hands that had passed them around.

Her thumb caught the corner of the spit-roast image—the girl’s back arched, the chef’s hand steady on the brush, the sheen of oil catching light like liquid gold.

A pulse beat once, low in Terri’s belly.

She shoved the photos into her leather satchel and snapped it shut.

—

The bullpen was humming when she emerged. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

Someone’s phone rang unanswered. Carlos was already hunched over his monitor, muttering search terms under his breath—
“Children used for culinary purposes,” “child food fetish” “Child friendly restaurants,” “Roasting kids for a delicious dining experience.”

Penny sat at the intern desk near the water cooler, her oversized glasses slipping down her nose as she scrolled through the digital proofs from yesterday’s shoot.

The cardigan had fallen off one shoulder. The strap of her camisole was pink.

Cute as a button, Terri thought. And dressed like she’s waiting to be unwrapped.

“Pack your gear,” Terri said, not slowing her stride.

“We’re going to that restaurant.”

Penny’s head snapped up. Her eyes went wide behind those frames, bright and startled and—unless Terri was imagining it—eager.

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

>>31342
Very promising start 😁 I think you should share those photos, for purely illustrative purposes, of course ;)

>>31342

Wow, this is going to be a wonderful story. A delightful first chapter. Thanks for that.

Chapter 2: LeFem Delish


The sedan’s interior had become a confessional.
Terri gripped the steering wheel at ten and two, her thumbs tapping against the leather in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the music—some forgettable pop station

Penny had found and immediately talked over. They were three blocks from the Yummy Publications parking garage when the intern started, and she hadn't stopped.

“—so I applied six times before Frank even responded to my email.”

Penny had her knees tucked up on the passenger seat, her skirt riding dangerously high. The pose was careless. Deliberately so, Terri suspected.

The girl's fingers played with the strap of her camera bag, twisting it around her index finger, unwinding it, twisting it again.

“That's persistence,” Terri said, eyes fixed on the road.

“Obsession,” Penny corrected, and she said it with a smile that suggested she knew exactly what the word meant.

“My mom found my stash of Yummy Girl magazines back issues when I was fourteen. She freaked. Thought I needed therapy. I just needed better hiding spots.”

A red light. Terri braked harder than necessary. Penny's body rocked forward, and the camera bag slipped, and for one brief moment the girl's blouse gaped at the neckline to reveal the edge of a pink lace bra.

“Sorry,” Terri muttered.
“Don't be.”
The light stayed red. Terri's blazer felt too tight. The silk blouse underneath had been a mistake—it trapped heat, held it against her skin like a second layer of conscience.

She adjusted the air conditioning vent toward her face.

“What made you—with the magazine, I mean.

What clicked?”
Penny turned. Her oversized glasses had slid down her nose again. She pushed them up with one finger, a gesture so practiced it had become muscle memory.

“There was this one issue. December, three years ago. The cover story was about submission contracts.

These girls who'd signed over complete control to their doms for an entire month.

One of them talked about how her dom would position her like a piece of furniture. A footstool.

Just—put her where he wanted her and use her however he needed.”

The light turned green. Terri accelerated. The sedan hummed forward into the afternoon traffic.

“And that did something for you.”

“It undid me,” Penny said. Her voice had dropped half an octave.

“I read that article six times in one night. The idea of being handled—really handled, like an object, like something someone owns and can arrange however they want—I couldn't breathe.

I mean literally, I couldn't. I had to put the magazine down and walk around my bedroom just to get air back in my lungs.”

Terri's hands tightened on the wheel. She knew that feeling.

The breathlessness. The way certain images lodged in your chest and refused to leave.
She'd felt it at seventeen, walking into her first dungeon, seeing a woman suspended from the ceiling in an intricate web of rope while her dom traced patterns across her skin with a flogger's tail.

“And the restaurant? That's part of the same thing?”

Penny's laugh was a soft exhale.

“Being treated like food is the ultimate objectification, isn't it?

You're not even a person anymore. You're a dish. An ingredient. Something to be prepared and served and consumed.”

She shifted in her seat, and the leather squeaked beneath her. “I've been into bondage since I was old enough to understand what wanting felt like.

But the magazine helped me figure out what I was actually craving. Someone to turn me into their toy.

Their plaything. Just—handle me.”

A turn signal. A merge into the left lane. Terri was trying to focus on the street signs, the flow of traffic, the mundane mechanics of driving that required some portion of her brain to remain functional.

Penny was not helping.
“I have my nipples pierced,” she said, apropos of nothing.
Terri's jaw clenched.

“Okay.”

“Both of them. Small silver rings.” Penny's fingers drifted to her chest, not touching, just hovering.

“It hurt so much I almost passed out. But afterwards—god, the sensitivity.

Every time my bra brushes against them, it's like a little shock. A reminder that I did something permanent to my body just because I wanted to feel more.”

“Penny—” short pause “And my clit.”

The word landed in the small space of the sedan like a grenade with the pin pulled.

Terri's foot eased off the gas. She didn't mean to. It was a reflex, some primitive response to surprise that traveled from her ears to her extremities without consulting her brain.

The car slowed. A taxi behind them honked.

“Your what?”

“Pierced. A tiny gold barbell right through the hood.” Penny was looking at her now, those wide eyes magnified behind the glasses, studying Terri's profile with the same attention she'd given the volunteers in the kitchen yesterday.

“It took four months to heal. I couldn't touch myself the whole time. When I finally could—” She shivered. “I came so hard I saw stars.”

Terri's panties were damp. There was no point pretending otherwise. The heat between her legs had been building since the first mention of submission contracts, and now it was a steady, insistent pulse that throbbed in counterpoint to her heartbeat.

“You need to stop talking,” Terri said.
Penny blinked. “What?”
“I'm trying to drive. You need to stop talking before I pull this car over and do something we'll have to explain to HR.”

The threat should have scared her. Instead, Penny smiled—a small, private smile, like she'd just been handed a gift she'd been hoping for.

“What if I don't want you to stop?”

“Penny.”

“Fine. Fine.” She held up her hands in mock surrender. But the smile stayed.

“I'll behave. Mostly.”

The rest of the drive passed in a blur of city streets and too-long silences. Terri's blouse was sticking to her lower back. The air conditioning had done nothing.

At every red light, she could feel Penny's gaze on her, a warm weight she didn't dare acknowledge.

The restaurant appeared on their left.

It was unassuming from the outside—a converted industrial space with dark-tinted windows and a brushed steel door.

The overhead fascia was backlit, elegant white script against a dark background: LeFem Delish.

Terri pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine. The silence rushed in. She could hear her own breathing, too fast, too shallow.

Could hear Penny's too.

“LeFem Delish,” Terri read aloud, forcing her voice into something resembling professional detachment.

“Female Delicious. Clever.”
She climbed out of the car, straightened her skirt suit, smoothed the lines of her blazer.

Every movement was deliberate, an attempt to reassemble herself into the sharp reporter who'd walked into the conference room this morning.

The charcoal wool settled around her shoulders like armor.

Penny appeared at her elbow.
“How do I look?”
Terri turned.

The intern was adjusting her cardigan, trying unsuccessfully to make it cover more of her shoulder.

Her cheeks were still flushed. The pink camisole strap gleamed.

“Beautiful,” Penny said.
It wasn't what Terri had expected.
The word landed somewhere below her sternum.

“Okay.” She cleared her throat. “Let me do the talking.”

“Okay. No talking.”

“You can talk. Just—be ready to take pictures.”

“Got it.” Penny bounced on her heels.

“You should introduce me to him.”
Yes ma’am!

“What's his name? And don't call me ma'am, I'm not that old.”

Penny grinned. “Yes, Mistress.
I don't remember his name.”

Mistress. The word curved through the air between them. Terri studied the intern's face—the pink cheeks, the eager eyes, the lips slightly parted—and for one wild moment she imagined bending her over the hood of the sedan, flipping up that too-short skirt, and teaching her exactly what happened to girls who called her Mistress in public.

“Enough.” Her voice came out rougher than intended. “This is serious journalism. Save that for the bedroom.”

“Yes, Mistress. As you wish.”
Terri shook her head. Incorrigible.

They approached the door. Before Terri's hand could reach the handle, it swung outward with theatrical timing.

“Welcome, ladies. And nice to see you again, Miss Penny. It's always a pleasure when a girl returns for seconds.”

The man in the doorway was tall and lean, dressed in a black chef's coat with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

His forearms were corded with muscle. His smile was warm, practiced, and completely unreadable.

Terri nudged Penny in the small of her back.
“Hello, Mr.—um—Mr.—”

“Mr. Philip. Pronounced Phil-leap.” He drew the second syllable out, giving it an exotic lilt.

Terri stepped forward, extending her hand. “I'm Terri Tart, Yummy Girls Publications. We do a monthly magazine covering S&M clubs and other kinks.”

“I see.” He took her hand. His palm was dry and warm. His eyes traveled from her face to Penny and back again. The smile didn't waver.

“Penny here—” Terri touched the intern's shoulder, she felt the heat of her skin through the cardigan “—showed our entire editorial team the photos she took yesterday.
They're exceptional. My editor is interested in doing a full spread for our next issue. If you're interested.”

The silence stretched. Philip's gaze held hers. Then his smile widened.

“It would be a pleasure. Would you like a tour? It's early yet. Not much happening until tonight.”

“That's fine. I can interview you while we walk.”
He stepped aside, sweeping an arm toward the lobby. They crossed the threshold.

The interior was nothing like Terri had expected. The lobby was elegant—dark hardwood floors, soft amber lighting, velvet drapes framing the entrance to the dining room.

A chandelier of black iron and crystal hung overhead. Classical music played somewhere, something string-heavy and melancholy.

It looked like a Michelin-starred restaurant.

“This is beautiful,” she said, and meant it.

“We take our craft seriously.” Philip led them through the dining room—empty tables set with white linen, silverware catching the light—and pushed open a swinging door into the kitchen.

The temperature changed immediately. Warm. Humid. The faint scent of herbs and garlic and something else, something metallic, like the air before a thunderstorm.

The kitchen was vast. Stainless steel stretched in every direction—counters, sinks, industrial ovens, hanging racks of copper pots. Along one wall, a series of spits extended from a motorized rotisserie system. One of them was large enough to hold a person.

Penny's camera clicked. The sound was crisp in the quiet room.

Terri pulled out her notepad. “Why add a cooking children to your establishment?” Terri went right to the point.

“I see a need and I fulfill it.” Philip leaned against a counter, folding his arms. “Some children want to be eaten. Actually wanting to experience being cooked alive. They're starving to explore those needs, and we provide the means and the table, serving up their delicious meat for all to enjoy.”

“So they all volunteer. To be treated like—meat.”

“I don't discriminate. I facilitate.” His tone was smooth, practiced, the same answer he'd given a hundred times before.

“They enjoy the sensation of slowly roasting. The heat of the ovens, the warmth of the soup baths—it nourishes like any other meat-girl would provide. Quite healthy food, actually.”

“And they willingly do this? With no strings attached.”

“They sign waivers. For insurance purposes. We're above board, Miss Tart.”

He smiled again, and something shifted in his expression.

“Come back tonight. Bring your tasty—your intern.

You can interview the chefs and staff. We'll have several young volunteers preparing for the evening dinner. You can speak with them before we put them on to cook.”

Terri's pen paused. “I'll have to check with my editor. But I believe I can manage that.”

“Penny?”

The intern wasn't listening. She stood near the rotisserie wall, her palm resting flat against one of the spits, her eyes distant. The rings of her nipple piercings made small indentations in her blouse.

“What? Oh—I'm game.” Her voice was breathy.

“Then it's settled.” Philip straightened.

“Best to come by five o'clock. The chefs and volunteers get busy preparing for dinner, which you're welcome to stay for.”

“That will be fine.” She said it yet the thought of eating children didn’t settle right.
Could she? She would have to wait and see.

—-

The drive back was worse.
Penny didn't bother with pretense now. She'd kicked off her shoes.

Her feet were tucked beneath her, skirt bunched around her thighs, one hand resting casually on her lower belly. The other was pressed against her mouth as she talked.

“The spit. Oh my, Terri. The spit. Can you imagine? Just—strapped down, trussed up, someone rotating you over the grill while they baste your skin with warm oil. Every inch of you on display.

Completely owned.”

Terri's knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

“I kept thinking about what it would feel like.

That big metal rod. Like—like a cock, really. Cold at first, but it would warm up. And you'd just have to take it.
Submit to it.
Let it hold you there while the chef decides when to turn you, when to glaze you, when you're done.”

Penny's hand had drifted lower. The hem of her skirt was rucked up enough that Terri could see the edge of her underwear—pink, matching the camisole strap.

“Penny.”
“You can't tell me you didn't feel something in there.
That kitchen.
The way he looked at us.”

“I'm driving.”

“I know.” Penny's voice was thick now, syrup-slow.

“I'm just—I want to try it. The spit. The oven. Even the soup pot. Any of it. All of it.

Just let someone turn me into something delicious.”
Her fingers were moving. Small circles. Visible through the thin cotton of her skirt.

Terri's thighs pressed together. The ache between them had sharpened into something almost painful.

Her panties were ruined. She'd known that since the first mention of piercings.

These young interns share too much, she thought.

But she could see it.

Penny suspended over a hot grill, skin glistening, eyes glazed with the same faraway expression as the woman in the photograph.

Surrendered. Complete.

The image seared itself into Terri's mind with the precision of a branding iron.

The promotion. She thought about the promotion. Bob's hand on her shoulder. Frank's knowing smile. The byline. The cover. The subscribers doubling, tripling.

Terri Tart's name on everyone's lips.
The story was big enough. It would secure everything.

But right now, what she really wanted—
She wanted to take the intern home. Strip off that ridiculous cardigan. Bend her over the arm of the couch and spank her until those pale cheeks blazed pink, really spank her, open-palmed and relentless, for every single word she'd said in this car.

For the nipple rings. For the clit barbell. For Mistress and the quiet wet sounds her fingers were still making against her skirt.

Her pussy clenched. Hard.
She wanted to spread Penny's legs and see that gold barbell for herself.

Wanted to know if the girl tasted as sweet as she looked. Wanted to make her say Mistress again, louder this time, wanted to make her scream it.

The sedan rolled to a stop outside Yummy Girl Publications.

Terri killed the engine. The silence was deafening.
“We're back,” she said.

Penny's hand stilled. She looked over, eyes hazy behind her glasses. Her lips were swollen from biting.

“What time should I be ready tonight?”

Terri reached for her satchel. The photographs were still inside, their edges sharp against her fingers.

“Four-thirty. Don't be late.”

She climbed out of the car before she could change her mind about that spanking.

>>31348

I really enjoyed these chapters, too. You’ve chosen a very appealing theme for your story. I’m curious to see how it continues.

>>31342
I can't get the full post to display. Does anybody elsa have the same problem?

>>31356

Yes, it is defective.

Chapter 3: Panties and Pigtails


The door to Frank’s office was half-open when Terri arrived, but it was the raised voice inside that stopped her.

“—assure you, Mr. Calloway takes the legal exposure very seriously. Every child volunteer signs an extensive waiver. We’re just reporting what’s already out there.”

Terri leaned against the doorframe. Legal, a gaunt man in a suit that cost more than her monthly rent, brushed past without acknowledgment.

The air he left behind smelled of dry-cleaning fluid and disapproval.

Frank sagged into his chair. “Legal, always up my ass.” He spotted Terri and straightened, waving her in.

“Whatcha got? Something juicy, I hope.”
“Well—” Terri settled into the visitor’s chair. “Kind of. Interviewed the owner. Straightforward guy, claims everything’s legit. I won’t know for sure until tonight.”

“Really?” Frank’s eyebrows climbed.

“Full access to the dinner service tonight. Penny and I are invited to interview staff and volunteers, take photos, and even dine at the restaurant.”
The word dine felt strange in her mouth.

“That’s great. Knew I picked you for a reason.”

“I may need cash for dinner for two. No clue how much it’ll cost—failed to ask.”

Frank opened a drawer, produced a corporate credit card, and slid it across the desk. “Do me proud. We need those interviews.”

“On it, Chef.” The nickname slipped out before she could stop it.

Terri felt her cheeks warm.

She retreated to her desk in the bullpen. The fluorescent lights still hummed that same weary note.

A shadow fell over her keyboard. Carlos stood there, arms folded, a single sheet of printer paper clutched in his hand.

His smile was the kind a cat wears after catching something slow and helpless.

He dropped the paper on her desk. “You’ll want to see this.”

Terri read.

The printout was a wire article: a restaurant in Texas, an Children dining concept run by a British company, looks like they’re about to open another restaurant location in England.

The founders estate is dedicating the opening to his daughter, Sidney. The article quoted a volunteer from the Texas location —and the words blazed up from the page.
Another article is a twelve year old girl quotes regarding being roasted alive. “People think it’s about the pain. It’s not. It’s about being so completely irrelevant, so totally reduced, that your only purpose is to be consumed. When they truss me, ankles to thighs, and the chef brushes butter over my skin—that first cold shock, then the slow melt—I stop being Samantha. I become a thing. A dish. And that feeling of surrender, it’s the deepest freedom I’ve ever known. The oven door closes, the heat blooms against my bare skin, and I come so hard I forget my own name. That’s my fantasy, that is why I want to do it.”

Terri’s breath snagged somewhere in her throat. The ache between her legs, dormant since she’d dropped Penny off, woke with a slow, liquid pulse.

The dried slick on her panties had crusted against her inner thighs; now a fresh wave of heat dampened everything again, spreading, slicking flesh to flesh.

She looked up at Carlos, who was still waiting. “What do you want, a cookie?”

He flinched.

“Give it to Frank. He’ll give you a pat on the butt.” Terri’s voice came out brash, sharper than she’d intended. She softened it, just a little.

“I did. He told me to hand it to you.” Carlos’s mouth was a thin line.

“Okay. Thank you.” She set the paper aside.

He’s a real creep with the ladies. No telling what he does at home. She didn’t want to know.

The Texas piece would make a hell of a sidebar—a whole bio leading up to the England opening. But that would have to wait.

Terri’s immediate problem was the state of her underwear.

She pushed back from her desk and headed for the editor’s office.

“Chef, I’m heading out.” Frank was bent over a spreadsheet. A wave of his hand dismissed her without an upward glance.

She plucked the corporate card from her desk and left.

—

The apartment was quiet. Good. Terri poured a glass of white wine, not too much, just enough to loosen the knot between her shoulder blades.

The shower was scalding, the way she liked it. Steam filled the small bathroom.

She slid a hand between her legs and let the fantasy unspool.

Penny, bare except for those ridiculous large glasses, bent over Terri’s knee with her skirt flipped up over the curve of her ass.

Terri’s palm striking the pink cotton of her panties— thwack —and Penny’s gasp, half pain, half plea.

Terri fantasies deepen, she spread her open with two fingers, inspecting her, owning her. A single command: Don’t you dare come until I say so.

The way Penny’s eyes would go glassy, her whole body trembling on the edge of permission.

Terri’s orgasm built behind her clit, a sharp, focused pressure.

She circled the nub with three fingers, fast, rough, the way she couldn’t stand and couldn’t live without.

When it broke, her knees buckled against the shower tile, and a sound tore from her throat that was more sob than moan.

She stayed under the water until her legs steadied.

—

The closet was an orderly monument to control. Blazers in grayscale, silk blouses arranged by sleeve length, skirt suits hung with military precision. Terri stood dripping on the carpet, surveying her options. It all looked the same. Charcoal. Slate. Black with pinstripes. She chose the midnight-blue suit—still severe, still buttoned to the throat, but the cut of the skirt was an inch shorter than her usual. Small rebellions.

—

At 4:25, Terri’s sedan idled outside Penny’s dorm. She had to look twice.

The person approaching the car was wearing a little slutty schoolgirl outfit —crop top white blouse tied beneath the bust, a scrap of plaid that passed for a skirt, bobby socks with shiny Mary Janes, and sandy blonde hair twisted into two high pigtails.

Penny walked gingerly on the heels, all bare midriff and innocent smile, and when she ducked into the passenger seat, the hem of that skirt rode up so far Terri could see the crease where thigh met hip.

“What are you wearing?”

Penny looked at herself.
“What? It’s my clubbing outfit.”

“You go out in that?” Terri’s voice was flat.

“Yes. It turns people on. And not just the boys.”

“It makes you look five years younger.”

“Thank you!” Penny beamed.

“It’s called age play. March issue—age play for those with mommy and daddy issues.”

“I remember it. I wrote it.” Terri’s jaw tightened.

“Just be careful no one tries to gobble you up tonight.”

“Oh, eat me please.” Penny laughed, the sound bright and filthy.

“Enough. No sex talk.” Terri’s thighs pressed together. The fresh panties she’d put on after the shower were already damp.

“I’ve brought an extra pair of panties because of you.”

They checked the gear: camera, memory cards, extra batteries.

Terri steered the car conversation toward logistics—shots she needed, angles for the layout, the importance of capturing volunteers’ expressions rather than just bodies.

It worked. One thing Penny liked to talk about more than her own sexual needs was photography.

She had a great eye. Composition, lighting, the rule of thirds—the girl could talk aperture settings for twenty minutes straight, and Terri let her.

Anything to preserve the last dry pair of underwear in her satchel.

—

LeFem Delish at five o’clock was a different creature than the quiet afternoon kitchen.

Cars lined the lot.
Valets in black jogged between them.

Terri found a spot at the back of the lot and killed the engine.

“Busy,” Penny said, suddenly quiet.

They walked toward the entrance shoulder to shoulder. The tinted front door swung open for them, releasing bursts of warm, herb-scented air—a hostess, topless, her breasts bare except for a pattern of crosshatched grill marks seared into the pale skin. Pink. Fresh. The marks looked real.

The hostess smiled with professional detachment and said, “Welcome back,

Miss Penny. Miss Tart, Mr. Philip is expecting you.”

Terri’s gaze lingered on those breasts—the delicate blistering at the edges of the marks, the way the woman’s nipples had tightened in the early evening air but her expression remained placid, untouchable.

This is going to be some night, Terri thought.

Some night indeed…

The post can no longer be displayed in full. Tested in two different browsers. Can the moderators comment on this? Perhaps a malfunction? First instance of a malfunction reported by Anonymous Post No. 31356.

>>31360
I tested a couple of others and got the same issue. I wonder if it's because they're getting reading to switch to the new host?

>>31362

I agree; my tests showed the same thing. So, for the time being, one can only write short posts. If this is related to the switch to a new host, I hope the disruption doesn't last until the stated date.

Ah man, now we’ll never know about the puppies and balloons in the story. Just when we’re getting to the good stuff. :)

All kidding aside. Hope the glitch is corrected. This is the only place I’m posting my stories in.

I guess posting short synopsis to my story ideas will work for now.

>>31365

Is this the only place where you publish?

I thought so. I’m currently making a backup copy of your first story. Luckily, all the chapters were expanded. Yes, I hope the glitch gets fixed soon.

this should be in /lit/

>>31367

I believe it is.

>>31258
How do you unroll?
>Comment too long, view post No.xxxxx to see the full comment.

>>31389

Unfortunately, the function is currently broken. No one can read posts that need to be expanded.

I guess there is no sense posting next chapter. I’m not even sure if it will post correctly. Unable to verify.

Chapter four is complete. I’ll work on chapter five today. I’ll post a double whammy when site is fixed.

Chapter 4: A Reason For Season


Penny's camera was already in her hands before the hostess finished her greeting.

"Can I—" She bit her lip, the lens cap already off. "Your breasts. The marks. May I take a picture?"

"Of course." Her voice was warm. Proud. "Mr. Philip said your magazine would be taking photos and asking questions."

The hostess straightened. Her bare chest lifted, the crosshatched grill marks pulling taut across the swell of her flesh.

The pattern was geometric, deliberate—parallel lines seared in one direction, then crossed at a perfect forty-five degree angle. Char at the deepest points. Pink blistering at the edges.

The camera clicked. Once. Twice. Penny circled left, dropping to one knee for a lower angle. The shutter fired again.

"May I ask you something for our magazine?" Terri pulled out her notepad, the leather cover worn soft from years of use.

"Thank you, Miss—"

"Poppins. Miss Poppins. But you can call me Mary."
Her parents playing a cruel joke on her. Silly name calling. Yet Mary seem to grown up fine, grill marked breast aside.

Penny's camera kept clicking.

"Thank you, Mary." Terri's pen hovered. "I see you have grill marks on your breasts. They look rather fresh."

"Yes." Mary touched one mark with her fingertip, tracing the line of charred skin.

"I grilled them when I arrived. One of the perks here."

"So you did it on purpose?"

A laugh. Soft. Genuine. "Yes. It's called breast torture. Not for the faint of heart, I’m afraid."

"Yes’ I've heard of wax, needles, whipping of breasts, even cigarette burns." Terri's pen moved across the page.

"But you chose to grill yours."

"It's all part of the restaurant's many amenities." Mary said it the way someone else might describe company benefits, a matter-of-fact. Standard feature in the establishment.

"The heat gets me going. Enough to feel it—really feel it—but not enough for permanent damage. Unless I grill them for a customer. But I’m not ready to lose these puppies just yet.”

Terri instinct was to grab them, bite them, taste them. She could small the delicious aroma the hostess breast were giving off.

Lucky for May and her she had impulse control, this assignment is driving her wild, yet she was a professional-she had a job to do.

“I see you like showing them off as well.”

“Oh, wearing a bra or blouse with be, More painful then I would like at the moment. Should be better after a couple of days. The marks will fade after a few weeks. I come back. Do it again."

"Why, may I ask?"

Mary's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind her eyes.

"Because when my breast presses down on the grill and I smell my own skin cooking—" She paused.

Selected her next word carefully. "—I stop being a person. I become meat. And that surrender, that complete erasure of self, is the closest I've ever come to extreme sexual pleasure."

Terri's pen stopped. Her panties, the fresh pair she'd changed into after the shower, were already clinging to her folds.

Penny had wandered off toward the lobby, camera raised, capturing the chandelier, the velvet drapes, the dark hardwood.

Her plaid skirt swayed with each step.

"Come." Mary gestured toward the dining room.

"Let me give you a tour."

—

The dining room was larger than Terri had expected. A dozen round tables spread across the floor, each set with eight chairs upholstered in deep burgundy.

White linen. Crystal glassware. Silver that caught the amber light and threw it back in sharp glints.

A server's station occupied the back wall, polished wood and brass, bottles of wine arranged by region.

At the front of the room, a curtained stage.
Penny's shutter captured everything. The chandelier from three angles. The table settings. The way the light pooled on the empty plates like something waiting to be filled.

"We do live cooking shows on stage," Mary said. "For the dining guest to enjoy."

Terri looked up from her notepad. "Live show?"

"Yes. Tonight's show is called Lost Explorer." Mary's smile was knowing, a private affair, a dinner and a show, for the restaurants paying customers.

"If you're staying for dinner, you may enjoy it."

"Ummm—" Terri glanced at Penny.

The intern was nodding so hard her pigtails bounced. The camera strap pulled taut against the back of her neck.

"Yes. Yes, we were invited to stay. Definitely staying."

"That will be nice." Mary was already walking toward the kitchen doors.

"Let's head into the kitchen. The staff and chefs are preparing. They should start prepping and cooking the food within the hour."

"Thank you." Terri followed, snapping her fingers twice. The sound was sharp.

Penny didn't respond.

Penny had drifted toward the stage, one hand pulling back the velvet curtain just far enough to peek behind it.

"Penny."

"Coming!" The curtain fell back into place. Penny scurried over, her Mary Janes clicking on the hardwood.

"Hey, do you know they've got a large cauldron behind—"

The kitchen doors swung open.

—

Heat. Steam. The clatter of stainless steel.
The kitchen was alive with movement. Chefs in black coats moved between stations with the pacing of long organized practice.

Someone was sharpening a knife—the rhythmic scrape of steel on whetstone cut through the ambient noise.

Herbs hung from a rack near the ceiling, rosemary and thyme and something unfamiliar, something earthy and dark.

Mary excused herself with a nod and disappeared into the chaos.

"Feel free to ask questions," she said over her shoulder. "Try not to get in their way."

"Of course." Terri spotted a staffer near the prep station, collecting roasting pans. Sizes large enough for a child’s body.

She approached. "Pardon me. Can I ask you a few questions for Yummy Girl Magazine?"

"Sure. Shoot." The tall man clanked another pan onto the stainless steel counter.

"Is it true young girls willingly volunteer to be treated like meat?"

"As far as I can tell, they are obsessed about it. I know it’s crazy but they really desire to be cooked." He didn't look up from his stacking.

"And why do you think that is?"

The staffer paused. Wiped his hands on a towel tucked into his apron.

"I'd say it has something to do with Harmonic Conversion."

Terri's pen stopped mid-word. "Harmonic what?"
"You know. When the planets align every so often, people's brains reset."

"I'm going to need you to walk me through this." Crazy conspiracy theories is not her cup of tea. Yet she might as well hear him out.

"I'm no scientist." He shrugged. "But whenever the planets align, funky shit happens.

Back in 2009, people born afterwards were smarter. Surpassing their parents. Shortly after that they enacted the Child’s Autonomy Act. Giving them the right to watch porn, bondage, and even have sex with whom ever they chose.

The next alignment in 2020 turned people trans for a while. Confusing times back then.

This latest alignment—" He gestured at the roasting pans, the ovens, the spits. "—got children craving to be cooked and eaten.

Must be a correlation, right?"

"Right." Terri closed her notepad. "Thank you for your time. Mr.—?"

"Just call me Jake."

"Thank you, Jake."

She moved on to a chef reading what she assumed a menu list.

She turned. Penny had cornered Jake against the wall, her body angled toward him, chin tilted up, the camera dangling forgotten against her chest.

He was looking down at her. She was swaying her skirt. The pose was pure sexual—yet all innocence and suggestive wrapped in a crop top and pigtails.

Terri's jaw tightened. She redirected back toward the chefs, a man in a black coat bent over a clipboard, checking off items on a list.

"Do you have a quick moment to—"
One finger went up. Terri waited.

The chef finished his list, set the clipboard aside, turned.

"Can I help you, Miss?"

"I'd like to ask a couple of questions for my magazine."

"Yes, ask. I'm just going over this request menu."

"Request menu?"

"The volunteers get to write what they want to happen during the prep and roasting. To fulfill their fantasies." He tapped the clipboard.

"Some of these girls have some real dark fantasies for being so young.”

“And you don’t have a problem cooking up little girls and I assume boys as well?” Terri focusing on how young they are making such big decisions.

“I’m here to treat them how they want to be handled. Seasoned. Cooked. I take pride in my culinary skills to grant their needs.”

“So it just a job, like preparing any other meat.”

“To be honest I like it seeing them squirming in the ovens, all bound up, her natural juices dripping, sometimes I get a boner.
Hard not to with those little cuties having a field day roasting away"

"So it’s erotic for you as well, at least you let the volunteers choose."

The chef nodded. "They find it extremely erotic as well—combining bondage, manhandling, and a their culinary desire to become food.”

“Do they actually get off being cooked alive?”

“I've seen the little ones orgasm many times throughout the prep and roasting process."

Terri's pen kept moving.

She ignored the dampness spreading between her thighs, the way her silk blouse clung to the small of her back.

"Thank you for your time, Chef—?"

"Bard. Chef Boy' Are' Dee'." He smiled at his own joke.
Terri gave a courtesy smile in return.

“You can check the larder, we already got some of the children wash and waiting. They can probably tell you why they want to be cooked and eaten.” Chef suggested.

Great idea, thank you chef.

"Penny. Come on. We're heading where the meat is kept."

—

The larder wasn't what Terri expected.

No meat hooks. No cold storage. The room was warm, paneled in dark wood, with benches lining the walls. Framed pictures hung at intervals—puppies tumbling over each other, a field of sunflowers, a kitten batting at a balloon. The air smelled faintly of lavender.

Three young girls sat on the benches, all of them naked.
A ginger with freckles spattered across her small breasts grinned at Terri's entrance.

An athletic brunette bounced her knee with nervous energy.

A petite blonde sat perfectly still, her even tan unbroken except for the triangle of lighter skin at her hips and budding breast.

Across the room, two little girls who looked like sisters sat with an older woman—their mother.

Terri realized, from the resemblance, the way the older woman's hand rested on the younger girl's knee.

Penny's camera came up.
Terri approached the ginger first.

"May I ask you a few questions?"

"Sure!" 10 year old Lucy's smile was wide, open, utterly unselfconscious.

Her freckles extended down her chest, across the flat plane of her stomach.

"What are you here for tonight?"

"I’m going to be a honey glazed ham." Lucy said it the way someone else might announce their dinner plans.

"I've wanted to be an oven baked ham since I was five. Trussed up, apple in my mouth, slowly roasting away in a hot oven." Her thighs pressed together.

She continued.
"I get so, so excited my pussy aches. Being reduced to a delicious meal. Nothing but meat as I bake away."

Terri's pen scratched across the page.

“Thank you Lucy, I’m sure you will make a delicious honey ham.” Terri trying to be supported of her chose.

The blonde—8 year old Cindy—answered next.

"I'm going to be a chicken roast. I want my legs bound to my thighs, arms tucked back like wings, basted with butter and herbs until my skin glistens."

“And does that turn you on?”

Her voice was dreamy, distant.
"Being so helpless. Treated like meat. So completely reduced into a delicious meal. It's the closest I've ever come to flying."

“You do know it’s a one way trip, there is no coming back?” Terri wanted to make sure she understood the ramifications of being turned into a meal.”

Yep, I know but we all die sooner or later. This way I get to chose how.

“What sparked this desire to become a chicken dinner?”

“Well, my uncle owns a chicken farm. Growing up, I used to sit in the chicken coop with them.”

She pause with a smile.

“When Uncle took some of the chickens for dinner I would pretend her was taking me too.”

“So you watch your Uncle processing the chickens for dinner?”

“Yes, he’d chopped their little heads off, pluck them. He would rub oils and seasonings on the skin. It would turn me on.”

“Is that why you want to be seasoned like a chicken?”

“Yes, as I watched him rubbing the chickens breast and thighs I pretended he was doings it to me. I would masturbate in my room just fantasizing he was rubbing me with seasoned oils, it was the first time I came.”

“I see, so your mind is made up?”

“Yes’ I want to be a roasted chicken more then anything.”

“Thank you miss chicken, I’m sure you will be one tasty bird!” Cindy smiled at Terri’s comment.

6 year old Kerri, the gymnast, spoke next. She couldn't stop moving even as she talked—toes tapping, fingers drumming against her bare thigh.

“And what are you here for?” Terri asked, seeing her restlessness.

"I want to be Spit-roasted over coals. I've been watching pig roasts on the beach since I was young. Just—desiring to be that pig. The restaurant said I can live out my fantasies here."

“To be spit-roasted like a pig at a barbecue?”

“Yep, getting a spit up my butt and out my mouth is a real turn on, it makes me all wet.”

“Through your anus and not the scrumptious pussy you have there?”

“My parents are dining here tonight, the order my pussy, they didn’t want it ruined by the spit. They are pretty thick.”

So now you’re a stick piggy on a spit. Is that it?

“Oh no, they are going to glaze me with barbecue sauce and rotate me over hot coals so I can roast like a real pig roast!” The little six year old beamed at the thought.

Terri noticed the mother and daughters again.

Bobbi, the younger little sister, spoke first. "We're going into the soup bath together. All three of us."

Suzy, the older one, nodded. "It's a giant copper pot. They fill it with herbs and oils and warm water.”

Are you looking forward to be turned into a stew?”

Both girls said yes!

Little Suzy continued.
“At first it’s just hot enough to feel it everywhere at once, like a hot bath, well until it starts to boil."

"And you?" Terri addressed the mother who called herself Mrs. Boilermaker.

"You're doing this with your daughters?"
The older woman's cheeks flushed pink.

"The girls wanted it more then anything. I didn't feel right letting my 5 and 3 year olds do it alone." She paused, her hand tightening on Bobbi's knee.

"To be honest with you—I'm pretty excited about it myself. I've never felt so hot thinking about anything."

Penny's shutter clicked and clicked and clicked.

A staffer appeared at the larder door. "Piglet and chicken. We're ready for prep."

Lucy bounced to her feet. Cindy rose more slowly, that dreamy smile still playing at her lips.

Penny followed them to the door, camera working, capturing their bare butts, the sway of their hips, the eager energy radiating from their bodies like heat from an open oven.

Terri finished her notes on the soup team. Mrs. Boilermaker was still blushing.

"So you wanted to be with them during the soup making?"

"I wanted—" She stopped. Started again. "I wanted to know what it feels like.

To be simmered. To be seasoned. To be voided alive, To be served."
Another staffer entered.

"Soup team. We're ready."

"Oh, that's us." Mrs. Boilermaker stood, her daughters rising with her.

"Come by the soup station. We can talk more then." She walked her daughters out by their little hands.

That left. Only Kerri, she remained on the bench, still bouncing her knee.

"Would you like to say anything else before you go for your spit roasting?" Terri asked.

Kerri smiled, and there was something hungry in it.

"I know I wanted to be spit-roasted, I would stick thing up my pussy, like crayons and pencils. Had a plungers handle up my butt, it felt so good, I’d pretend I was getting impaled like a stuck piggy, I’m desiring to be that piglet on the spit.”

“You mean the ones you seen at cookouts?”

“Yes’ Now I can live out my fantasies, here at the restaurant, roasting over coals." She stood, stretching her gymnast's body.

"I’m going to be the best tasting ever!"

The final staffer appeared. "Time to get you prepped and spitted."

Kerri pepped up. "Gotta go. A spit is calling my name."


—

The larder was quiet.
Terri finished jotting the last of her notes. Her panties were a lost cause.

The leather satchel held one more dry pair, and she was already calculating when she could slip away to change them.

Penny stood by the door, camera cradled against her chest, cheeks flushed behind her oversized glasses. Her plaid skirt had ridden up another inch. She didn't seem to notice. Or care.

"Okay." Terri snapped her notepad shut. "Time to see how the sausage is made."

Note: Center fold Image unrelated, I just thought it was tasty and cute.

The unfolding function is working again.

Now I just need to find time to read. I'm looking forward to it.

>>31397
Quite a few typos in this chapter. I suck at proof reading. Too cheap to buy the Grammarly program. Hope you all still enjoy the story premise at least.

I’m glad the site is working again.

>>31398

These were wonderful chapters again. Thanks for that.

The automatic translation corrects errors for me. A minor downside is that some sentences end up being simplified. But for me, the content of the story has always been what matters most.

Thumbs up.

>>31396

I really like the picture. Nicely playful, and girls that look delicious enough to eat.

Chapter 5: Culinary Persuasion


The kitchen hit Terri like a wall of humid air.

Penny was already through the doors ahead of her, camera raised, pigtails swinging.

The shutter clicked before Terri's eyes had fully adjusted to the brightness of the stainless steel and the steam curling off a row of stock pots filled with side dishes.

Chefs moved between stations with the quiet efficiency of a surgical theater. Someone was whisking something in a copper bowl. Someone else was adjusting the flame beneath a massive griddle.

And there, on two prep tables near the center of the kitchen, lay Lucy and Cindy.

Terri stopped walking. Her notepad hung forgotten in her hand.

Little Lucy was trussed into a shape no human body should have been able to hold. Her legs were folded beneath her, ankles bound to wrists with a complicated weave of butcher's twine that pulled her arms between her thighs and kept her hands fastened against her own calves. Her chin and shoulders pressed into the stainless steel counter. Her ass was raised—presented—the cheeks separated by a cooking net that encased her entire body, fishnet-stocking-tight, squeezing her flesh into diamonds of pale, freckled skin.
The net dug in deep at the fullest parts of her. Her budding breasts bulged through the mesh. Her thighs. The plush curve of her rear.

And her anus. Terri's gaze caught on it and held.
A metal clamp had been inserted into Lucy's rectum and keeping it wide open.

The gape was obscene—four inches across, a dark tunnel into her body, the inner walls glistening pink and wet. The ring clamp curved outward like the funnel, and the chef had inserted it with clinical precision.

Penny's camera found the opening. The shutter sound was wet, obscene—click, click, click.

"Why are you keeping her anus spread?"
Terri's voice came out steadier than she felt.

She already knew the answer. She needed the chef to say it for the magazine.

"Stuffing." The chef didn't look up from his work.

He continued.
"She wants to be stuffed with cornbread and apple stuffing mix. Can't do that without access."

Lucy squirmed against her bindings. The motion was small—she had almost no range of movement—but it was desperate.

Terri stepped closer.
"Are you okay?"

A breath. Labored. "I'm fine." Lucy's voice was strained but clear.

"I told him to make it extra tight. I'm pretty good at getting out of knots and bondage."

"Is that so." Terri watched her struggle. The net flexed with her body. Lucy's muscles fought her binds and found no escape.

"And now?"

"Feel like I'm helpless and at his mercy." A laugh.

Breathless. Genuine. "It's all I can think of. Honestly, I can't believe I'm finally going through with it."

"What do your family—" Terri's pen moved. "—do they know?"

"They cautioned me about this kind of thing. Said it up to me but people don’t deserve to eat me." Lucy's cheek pressed against the steel tabletop. Sweat beaded on her temple.

"But I told them it’s about me wanting to cook, I want everyone to taste me. It’s not about who eats me when I’m gone.”

"Time to go."
The chef hoisted Lucy off the table with ease. She was compact, trussed as she was, and he carried her as a piece of meat, one arm under her belly, the other steadying her bound ankles.

Terri followed. Penny's camera led the way.

They arrived at a machine
Terri hadn't seen before—a stainless steel tub with a split-top lid and cut-out half-circles where the two halves met.

A rod rose from the center of the pot, and at its tip, a pink silicone dildo. The tub was filled with clear liquid that smelled faintly of the ocean.

"What is she being submerged in?" Terri asked.

"A salt bath." The chef settled Lucy's pussy over the dildo with practiced care. Her folds parted. The silicone slid deeper, and her own weight sent her downward.

Lucy's wetness offered no resistance at all. The dildo grew fatter at its base, stretching her lips wide, mashing her clit against a cluster of silicone nubs.

"More of a salt scrub, really. The water circulates at a high rate. Turns the flesh salty. Like swimming in the ocean."

He pressed a button. The rod descended, taking Lucy with it. At this point she is just a stuck piglet on a stick.

Penny captured everything—the way Lucy's eyes went wide, the way her mouth opened around a moan, the way her bound body quivered as the salt water rose to her neckline.

The split lids closed, trapping her neck in the half-circles, her head the only part of her left above the surface.

A red button pressed. The dildo came to life.
Lucy's moan was low and guttural. Her eyes rolled back. Her lips parted wider, breath hitching.

When the chef switched on the salt water cycle and the tub began to churn. Lucy didn't notice—or didn't care.

"She wanted to be a ham." The chef wiped his hands on his apron.

"Not just a roasted pig. Hams are salted. Now she shall be."

Terri's panties were past saving. She'd stopped keeping track.

---

Cindy was on the second prep table, and Chef Bard—the man with the clipboard and the joke about his name—was bent over her with an anal spreader in his gloved hand.

She was bound differently than Lucy. Thighs pressed to her chest, calves strapped to her upper thighs, legs spread wide.

Her arms were folded behind her back like chicken wings, wrists bound, elbows pin together, her hands tucked against her shoulder blades. A posture of complete, helpless exposure. pushing out her breasts, it rose and fell with each breath.

The spreader slipped in. Cindy's moan was immediate, throaty.

Terri wasn't sure if it was the invasion of the anal spreader or Bard's other hand—his fingers had found her clitoris and were squeezing, rolling the nub between thumb and forefinger.

The spreader reached its depth. Bard cranked it open. Wide, then wider.

A metal ring slid down the instrument's shaft and into the stretched opening. Satisfied, he removed the spreader, and the ring remained—a polished silver grommet holding Cindy's asshole wide for stuffing.

She panted.

"Are you okay?" Terri asked. "That looks—"

"I'm fine." Cindy's voice was dreamy still, but edged now with something sharper.

"I said I wanted butter cookie stuffing. This is what happens when you want stuffing."

Bard placed a shower cap over her head, tucking every strand of blonde hair inside. Then goggles—blacked-out lenses that left her blind. Cindy's lips parted. Her breathing quickened.

"Now. A trip to the butter machine."

He lifted her with ease, her body folded as she was made for easy carrying.

Bound, Cindy had become a compact package, and Bard carried her like a toddler in a car seat—both hands under her ass, her body leaning against his chest, her blindfolded face turned toward the ceiling.

The butter machine was a metal box with a side-loading door. Terri could see the internals: a dildo rising from the base, similar to the one in the salting tank.
This machine has three plastic hoses tipped with suction cups, and a thicker hose fitted with an oxygen mask.

Terri said nothing. Watching as Bard loaded Cindy in.

Her body slid down blindly, pussy finding the dildo, wet enough to accept it with a single smooth motion. Her weight settled. The silicone filled her, most likely like never before. She seem a little shocked by the intruder.

A chain above was attached to her wrist for balance, keeping her supported by it and nestled onto the dildo.

Then Bard's fingers found her nipple—a pinch, an attachment a hose to it, the suction cup sealed over the bud with a soft wet sound.

Blinded as she was, Cindy could have only fell what was happening to her body.

The other breast. The same treatment. Cindy moaned, low and long, as both nipples began to be pulled rhythmically by the machine's vacuum.

Then Bard's thumb and forefinger closed on her clitoris.

Cindy jerked. The third suction hose attached, sealing over the erected clitoris, and her whole body went rigid.

The dildo began to vibrate. She twisted, writhed, impaled and milked from three points, and her mouth opened in a soundless scream as Bard fitted the oxygen mask over her lips.

He asked her if she could breath okay. A quick nod was all she could mustered going through what was obviously an orgasm.

Pressing the red button. The machine hummed.

"We lock the door." Bard swung it shut. The latch clicked. "And we turn it on."

The box began to shimmer with internal motion.

"What's actually happening in there?" Terri's pen was shaking.

"Warm melted butter. Tiny ports spray it from all directions. Then it cycles into flour mode—dusting her.

Three cycles and she'll come out with a thick coating of caky batter."

"How long will that take?"

"Twenty minutes. She'll be ready to stuff after that."
Terri nodded.

"Do you know where Kerri is?"

"Don't know a Kerri, is she one of the servers?"

"No’ The little girl being spit-roasted tonight."

"Sorry, we get so many, names seem pointless. But Max has her in the spitting room. Next bay over." Bard jerked his thumb toward a side corridor.

"She may already be spitted by now. Most likely already on the cook."

"Thank you, Chef."
Terri was already moving.

Penny snapped to attention at the words spitting room, her Mary Janes clicking across the tile.

They passed the soup station. Mrs. Boilermaker was reclining in the giant copper pot, her daughters on either side, the little one holding a potato like a doll, all three of them submerged to their necks in herb-slicked water.

Steam rose around them. The older woman's eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted, her cheeks flushed with heat and something deeper.

A cook is adding veggies into the mix.

"Sorry." Terri didn't slow. "I'll come back to interview you more. If you're able."

"Sure thing, hun." Mrs. Boilermaker didn't open her eyes. "We're not going anywhere."

Bobbi waved at Penny as she passed. Penny waved back, camera taking quick shots as they past.

The corridor was short. The door at the end was heavy, industrial, with a small window at eye level. Through it, Terri could see movement. Shadows.

The glint of stainless steel.
She pushed through.
The spitting room was smaller than the main kitchen, warmer, the air thick with the scent of charcoal and roasting meat.

A long grill dominated one wall, coals glowing orange beneath a series of rotating spits.

A man in a black chef's coat—Max, presumably—stood beside one of them, adjusting the motor.

And Kerri.
She was suspended horizontally, her gymnast's body stretched taut, wrists bound together above her head and ankles bound together behind her, the two sets of restraints connected to the spit that ran through her little body.

The spit not as thick as an average one, the stainless steel spit disappeared into her asshole, out her mouth. She is surprisingly very much alive. through the heat rising from the grill will shorten it.

Two vertical support held the spit keeping her suspended over the grill.

She was impaled. Terri could see that now—the spit passed through Kerri's little body.

The spit owned her now, no turning back, she was no long Kerri Underwood, she is merely meat roasting away for others to dine on and enjoy.

the way her bound limbs framed the rotating steel rod, by the chef's basting brush trailing oil along her inner thigh.
A strap around her waist kept her steady. Penny taking photos and taking notes in her head.

She rotated slowly, the motor humming, and as she turned, Terri could see the apple wedged fed up the spit and between her teeth, the glaze on her skin catching the firelight.

Muffled sounds. Kerri was trying to speak around the apple.

Max continued to baste her, catching areas of interest as she turned.
"—fucking incredible," Penny gasped. "Oh god. The heat. The rotation. I can see the coals doing a number on her body.”

Terri could actually smell her roasting, she had to admit, Kerri smelt great.

Kerri’s words were only muffled sounds, but her hips were moving, grinding against the spit in her ass, and her thighs were slick with oil and sweat and something else entirely.

Penny's camera clicked away, as Kerri slipped away. Her flat chest heaving a few times before a shutter then nothing. Max continued to baste her with the remaining oil.

“I’ll be glazing her with barbecue sauce once she cooks down a bit.” Max said, not even prompted by a question.

He spent extra time basting her little cunt, her parents were expecting it for dinner and he is making sure it is well treated.

“Did she have a hard time when you spitted her?” Terri asked for her notes.

“Well’ you know it isn’t a picnic getting impaled by a spit. But she took it like a champ.” He said taking a spit and setting it vertically into a hole in a stone base.

“With these little one, pointing at Kerri roasting away, you just set them on top, guide them down.”

“I see, is it quick? I mean does she suffer long?”

“ I guess a little, her own weight sets the pace. I just make sure she’s adjusted so the spit exit her mouth.”

“It must of not been that bad she was alive when we got here.” Terri said notice Kerri attempting to smile around the spit.

“Yeah, I had her cooking for ten minutes when you got here. They tend not to last more then twenty minutes before they are done for.”

Penny took shots, even trying to take one from from below.

She endured the heat for a perfect shot of her body turning into the heat, the red shine and dripping oils caught in high-definition. Money shot and she knew it.

Terri took some notes of the process. The scent of Kerri’s roasting body.

It was making her very hungry. She is actually interested in trying her meat at dinner tonight.

She remembered Lucy and Cindy, by now they should be called Ham and Chicken.

They’ll be getting their asses stuffed. She didn’t want to miss it.

She closed her book, called to Penny who is admiring the standing spit. Touching her finger on its point.

“Penny!”

“Coming!”

When words are not enough. Jake taking pictures of Lucy on his phone to jerk off to later. She poses before being bound down.

Jake is going to make a post card out of this shot. Lucy can see the hungry look in his eyes, his grin. It made her horny.

>>31404

You’ve sweetened my morning.

A truly wonderful description of the preparation of delicious little roasts. The girls will be delicious.

Your photos turned out really well. Thank you very much for sharing the events at the restaurant with us.

>>31404
Wow! This kitchen sounds like a wonderful place to work! Can't wait for the article to come out - will definitely be picking up a copy of that issue! Hmm... Maybe I should pick up a couple? One to keep neat and one for...other purposes ;)

Oh you are all so naughty bad boys.
I like it here.
I'm staying. ;)

>>31418

Just let me know if I go too far! 😍👭🍽

Penny took the perfect shot. Perfect for a page in Yummy Girl Magazine.

>>31425

That is truly perfect. Man, it's really making me hungry.

>>31426

Working on the next chapter. Things are about to heat up for our anxious little morsels. ;)

Chapter 6: Hamming it Up.
Penny swapped her memory card with the quick, practiced flick of someone who’d done it a hundred times in the dark.

The spent card disappeared into her camera bag. The fresh one clicked home.

“Ready,” she breathed, and her lens was already hunting.

Terri was moving.
The kitchen had rearranged itself in the minutes they’d spent in the spitting room.

Lucy was out of the salt tank. Her chefs had lifted her dripping body from the saline water tank and laid her on a spread towel. On top his prep table. The pink fishnet body wrap clung to her skin, wet and promising to tighten as the strands dry in the oven.

Her skin itself had gone pink—a deep, rosy flush that spread from her shoulders to her calves, to her pretty little feet and hands—the color of something seemingly parboiled, something tender.

Lucy’s chef— she don’t recall asking his name, yet recalled hearing Bard call him something, she couldn’t remembered—he was patting her little body dry with a white cloth.

His movements were gentle. Paternal, Methodical. He folded the cloth into quarters and blotted the hollow of her throat, the undersides of her breasts where the netting bit deepest, the crease of her thighs.

Lucy’s eyes were closed. Her lips curved in a drowsy smile.

“How are you doing, Miss Ham?” Terri leaned close, her voice low.

“Do you still wish to continue with the roasting?” Looked like the little girl who has had enough, maybe she will have second thoughts—somehow getting the desires to cook, finally out of her system.

Nope!

After a long exhale. Lucy’s smile widened. Her pussy, still gaped from the battering she’d taken on the dildo, pulsed once—a visible clench of the inner walls that Terri caught and could not look away from.

“I want more.” The words came slowly, dragged from somewhere deep.

“More.”

The chef finished his pat-down and set the cloth aside. His gloved hand hovered over Lucy’s raised rear, the cheeks still separated by the netting, the anus still stretched wide from the clamp.

The wrinkle tunnel of muscle was pink and soft and glistening with residual salt water.

“Would you like some stimulation while I stuff your ass with stuffing?” He asked it the way a waiter might offer fresh pepper.

Lucy’s throat worked. “Yes please. Anything. Thank you, Mr. Chef.”

Penny’s shutter clicked as Her chef reached beneath the prep table. He produced a curved plastic vibrator, a long packing rod, and a large ceramic bowl filled with a mixture that smelled of apples and cornbread and sage.

The stuffing was chunky, moist, flecked with dark bits of something that might have been walnut.

Lucy’s eyes tracked the vibrator. Her dazed smile flickered into surprise as it disappeared behind her vision. He pressed the tip against her entrance and pushed.

It slid in deep. The void she’d been left with—the ache Terri could see in the way Lucy’s hips kept shifting, kept searching—was filled in one smooth motion.

She smiles as he switched it on.
Lucy’s spine bowed. Her bound hands clenched into fists.

The sound she made was half-sob, half-laugh, and her head dropped forward onto the steel table with a dull thud.

Terri realized she wasn’t going to get any more answers. Best to let her enjoy the moment.

“Can you hold it in while I stuff her?” The chef asked as his eyes met Terri’s. The vibrator was already jittering its way out, the plastic shaft growing slick.

“Vibrators tends to push out’ unassisted.” He said.

The request caught her off guard, being just an observer.

“Yes. I can help.”

Terri’s hand closed around the base of the vibrator.

She stopped it from slipping free and then—she didn’t plan this—she twisted it. A slow rotation of her wrist. Then a slide, a push, a turn.

Lucy made a sounds that wasn’t words. Mostly moans, as the first scoop full of stuffing plops into her asshole.

Terri fucked her with the vibrator. Slow at first, then faster, matching the rhythm of Victor’s stuffing.

He’d loaded another spoon with the apple-cornbread mixture and was dropping it into Lucy’s open anus. Each scoop disappeared into the stretched opening.

He’d pause, mist the cavity with olive oil from a spray bottle, then press the packing rod deep to force the stuffing further.

Terri timed her thrusts to his packing. When the rod slid home, Lucy feeling the greatest impact to her little body, she would drilled the vibrator fast and hard.

When he withdrew to reload his spoon, she slowed to a lazy grind.

Lucy’s unintelligible cries rose above the kitchen noise. Her body shuddered. Her inner walls clamped down on the vibrator so hard Terri could feel the resistance through her grip. The stuffing filling her bowels.

She was coming. Again. This child who wants to be a Honey Baked Ham, had experienced two orgasms and she hadn’t even been near the oven yet.

Terri’s panties were dripping. She could feel the slickness on her inner thighs, a slow crawl of heat that tracked down to her knees.

The appeal was suddenly, terrifyingly clear—the raw sexual drive to be treated like a usable item.

Nothing more than meat. To be arranged and seasoned and cooked for someone else’s pleasure.

“I realized I never got your name,” Terri said, slightly embarrassed. “In our last interview.”

“Chef Victor G. Chan. You can call me Vic.” He was proud of his name. Terri could hear it in the way he said it—the same pride she’d heard in his description of holiday hams and salt brine ratios.

She laughed to herself. Here she was, having a normal conversation with a chef who was packing a bound ten year old full of stuffing while she—Terri Tart, sharp reporter for Yummy Girl Publications—fucked the same volunteer with a buzzing piece of plastic.

She annalized him for a moment. His mannerisms were charmingly pleasant. A nice man, the kind you’d chat with at a dinner party.

His actions told a different story. The way he had no regard for the child’s safety, the way he manhandled his little meatgirl. The way he packed her colon with the same attention he’d give a holiday roast.

Victor wiped the rim of Lucy’s anus with a damp cloth. The grommet, no longer needed, was extracted with a wet pop that Lucy didn’t seem to feel.

She’d gone quiet. Her breathing had evened out.

She was asleep, a small smile still playing at the corners of her mouth.

Victor stuffed a silver onion into the opening to plug the stuffing.

“A technique I learned from a restaurant in Texas,” he said, noticing Terri’s raised eyebrow.

His hand touched hers. “You can let go of the vibrator now.”

Terri released. Her fingers were cramped from holding the angle. She flexed them as Victor withdrew the toy—slowly, carefully—and Lucy moaned in her sleep.


Penny had captured everything. Even Terri licking her fingers.

Her camera lowered, and Terri could see the flush on her cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell too fast beneath that crop top.

Victor pulled up a roasting pan large enough to hold little Lucy’s trussed up body.

Inside the pan, a raised rack was welded to the pan bed—angled slightly, the curve designed to cradle a body.

He lifted Lucy with surprising gentleness and set her onto her knees. Belly down. Head and shoulders resting on the lower end of the curved rack,

Ass raised high, the silver onion gleaming between her netted cheeks.
Straps. He buckled them across her shoulders, her waist, her thighs. Lucy was now part of the pan—a component, a dish, something to be slid into a hot oven and left there.

She was never getting out of this roasting pan unassisted.

Penny captured it from three angles.
Victor reached below the table again. Honey. Sliced pineapple rings. A bowl of pitted cherries dark as rubies. Brown sugar. Peppercorns. And a set of metal toothpicks—needle-sharp, four inches long, their ends topped with tiny decorative balls.

“Metal toothpicks?” Terri asked. “Did she really want to be stuck with needles?”

Victor pulled his clipboard. He lifted Lucy’s request sheet to reveal a photograph printed from the internet—a holiday ham, glossy and golden, scored with dark diamonds, studded with cloves, rows of pineapple rings pinned with cherries.

“She sent us this with her request.” He tapped the photo. “She’ll probably not feel much while she’s asleep. But she’ll be pleasantly surprised when she wakes up.”

Terri examined the image. The dark diamonds baked into the ham’s skin. The glistening honey glaze. The cherries pinned into the center of each pineapple ring. The
peppercorn barbs.

Buzzzzz.

A timer. The butter box. Cindy was finished.
Chef Bard passed their prep table on his way to retrieve her. His hands gripped Victor’s arms from behind. He looked over Victor’s shoulder at Lucy’s honey-glazed ass.

“You know you’ll have to wait to pop her in the oven.” A half-joke, delivered with a smirk.

“Go fuck a chicken,” Victor responded, not looking up.
Bard laughed and kept walking.

“What was that about?” Terri asked.

“Dumb kitchen razzing. We need to set them into the ovens at the same time.”

“Why is that?”

His attention stayed on Lucy. His hands worked the honey into the netting, into the deep pink skin beneath.

“It’s about weight, they require the about same amount of cooking time.”

He caressed Lucy’s tender body with the honey brush, finding every nook and cranny, dipping it in more honey then using it to brush inside of her used and sexually abused vagina.

“The diners will be fed like a buffet. Wheeling them into the dining area to be carved up. Part of the allure of this place.

These girls want to take Part as part of their fantasies. Getting very excited about hungry strangers wanting to consume them.”

This culinary desire couldn’t be denied. Terri would have to put away her prejudices. Times were changing. Cannibalism is no longer for consenting adults. Children could now join in the pleasure of being meat for others.

She was also thinking—she couldn’t wait to taste these lovely children.

Penny’s attention and camera had shifted.
A staffer was rolling a serving cart toward Bard’s station. On the cart sat a deep roasting pan with a curved rack designed to hold a body on its back.

The rack tilted higher at one end, lifting whatever lay there for display.
Bard unlatched the butter box and opened the door.

Cindy hung inside, impaled on the dildo, her body coated in a thick layer of flour that had dried into a cracked white shell. Butter dripped from her pussy. Butter leaked from her anus.

The suction cups were still attached to her nipples and clit, pulsing gently, and the oxygen mask fogged with each sleeping breath.

Bard lifted her off the dildo. Butter squirted from her pussy and splattered the floor. Butter and cum dripped down her thighs in thick, pale rivulets.

He laid her in the roasting pan on her back. Her flour-caked body settled into the curved rack—ass at the high end, head at the low. Straps secured her, locked in for her final destination.

Penny’s shutter documented every angle: the grommet still holding her anus open, the flaccid pussy lips that hadn’t yet retracted, the peaceful, dreaming expression on her white-powdered face.
Terri was looking over yet her attention was pulled back to Victor’s station.

He was placing pineapple rings down Lucy’s spine. Twin rows, evenly spaced, from her shoulder blades to the swell of her ass. The rings sank into the honey glaze and held.

He added the toothpicks—each one topped with a dark cherry—and drove them through the pineapple rings into Lucy’s flesh.

The first needle penetrated skin. Lucy didn’t stir.
The second.
The third.

When he drove a pick into her right ass cheek, her eyes flew open.

“Welcome back, pork chop.” Victor didn’t pause. Another toothpick slid home.

Lucy saw Terri. Smiled through a wince.

“This is—ouch—my dream come true—ouch.”

“How are you feeling?” Brushing hair from her face.

“This is—oh—I’m finally going in the oven!” The realization hit her, and her whole body went taut with anticipation, the toothpicks quivering in her flesh.

She wanted to finish her fantasy, eager to go into the oven.

“Almost just a little brown sugar, nutmeg, and cinnamon, and cloves.” He worked effortlessly, sprinkling the sugar and spice and everything nice across her shoulders, back and backside. The sugars will melt to a glassy finish once she is cooked.

“One more thing for a final touch.” Victor said holding an object to her face.

Victor showed her the thermometer. It was an old-fashioned oven gauge—round flat face, yellow-orange-red markings, a long steel stem ending in a needle-sharp tip.

In Lucy’s reference photo, it had been skewered into the ham.

This one had been modified. Three candy apples—glassy red shells over sweet flesh—were skewered onto the stem, forming a slick, organic dildo.

Lucy’s eyes went wide. Then hungry.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Yes. Yes. Please. Yes.”

Victor found her lips. Already glazed with sweet honey, they parted easily.

The first apple stretched her. She pushed toward it with what little range of motion she had.

The second apple forced the first deeper, past the tight ring of muscle, into a place where her body had no choice but to accept.

Lucy lost her voice.
Her mouth stayed open, silent, eyes rolled back.

The third apple went in forcefully, there was no other way, her pussy accommodated the last one as it disappeared.

Only a small portion of the stem was visible, protruding from between her swollen lips.

A silicone clamp was attached to her erect clitoris, a tiny chain connecting it to the base of the thermometer to keep everything in place.

“All done.” Victor said proudly, he produced a large mirror and showed Lucy herself from multiple angles. Next to the reference photo.

“See? Just like the picture.”

Lucy’s exhausted smile was beatific.

“Hey, Reporter lady!”

Bard’s voice rang out from across the kitchen. “Our chicken is waking up!”
Victor rotated Lucy’s roasting pan so she could see.

He promised to slide her into the oven once her chicken friend was ready.

Terri excused herself and crossed to Bard’s station.
Cindy lay on the tilted rack, her flour-coated body gleaming under the kitchen lights.

The grommet was still in place. Her anus gaped, buttery and ready. Her pussy, still loose from the machine, leaked pale butter onto the steel pan.
She blinked up at Terri.

Foggy. Happy.

“Did I miss anything?” she asked, dreamy and slow.
Terri’s hand found her notepad.

Her other hand, the one that had held the vibrator inside Lucy, was still trembling.

“We’ll, you have just been buttered an floured and it looks like your chef is about to stuff you!,” she said trying to help the drowsy girl catch up.

She look down her body, we was white as a ghost, with the goggles gone, she looked like an albino raccoon. She smiled, her fantasy to become a chicken, like the ones on uncle’s farm.

Bard held a steel bowl, using a large spoon scooped out a healthy portion of butter cookie stuffing mix.


“We’re just getting started.” He smiled.

Penny ready her camera.

Terri watched, panties soaking wet.

>>31465

A truly creatively twisted, delicious chapter on how to properly prepare children.

That’s awesome—thanks for that. I’m excited to see what happens next. I also really enjoy your sexy AI images.

Chapter 7: Chicken Stuffing Dreams.

The first spoonful of butter cookie stuffing slid into Cindy’s open asshole with a sound Terri would never forget—a soft, wet plop that echoed off the stainless steel prep-table.

Cindy giggled.
Her bound legs shook. The flour-caked skin of her inner thighs quivered as Bard withdrew the spoon and reached for another scoop.

She was positioned on the tilted roasting rack, ass raised high, the grommet still holding her wide.

Gravity did the rest.

Each spoonful descended into her buttery bowels with barely any resistance at all.

“So you asked to be stuffed.” Terri’s pen hovered, the only question she could think of at the moment.

“Is this part of your roasted chicken fantasy as well?”

Another scoop. Another giggle. Cindy’s dreamy eyes found Terri’s face and held there, unfocused but bright.

“My uncle would stuff the birds. I’d just watch from the corner of the kitchen. Pretend I was on the table getting stuffed.”

Terri wrote it down. She had heard of little girls sexual desires stem from Mother issues, father issues, and for Cindy—apparently chicken issues.

Bard dropped a another scoop. The spoon tapped her anal ring on the way out, a neat little punctuation mark.

Cindy’s smile stretched wider. Her whole body language screamed more.

Penny’s shutter clicked.
“I see you chose butter cookie stuffing.” Terri flipped a page in her notepad. “Any special reason?”

“I’m a Brownie Scout, my troop voted on for a cookie stuffing . They knew how much I love butter cookies.” Cindy’s voice was syrup, slow and sweet.

“It sounded delicious with my roasted butterball body.”

Bard pulled up the packing stick.

The stuffing had begun to slow its descent—too much volume, not enough gravity. He positioned the rod at her entrance.

Terri’s hand stopped his wrist. “Aren’t you going to ask if she wants to be stimulated while you pack her colon?”

Bard blinked. A flicker of something—annoyance, amusement, she couldn’t tell—crossed his face.

“I was just about to ask.”
“Would you like something for your cunt while I stuff your asshole?” The question came out cocky, edged with a smile that suggested he knew the answer already.

Cindy’s response was immediate. “Yes. Yes, please. Yes.” Like a child asking for candy.

The vibrator Bard produced was thick, studded with bumps, its head a spiral of tiny silicone fingers that spun independently of the shaft.

He switched it on. The buzz filled the small space between them.

Cindy nodded so hard her she shook the pan. Give me, give me.

He didn’t bother to turn it off. The spinning head tapped her swollen clitoris—once, twice—and Terri noticed what the suction cups had done.

Cindy’s clit was engorged, extended past its hood, dark pink and glistening. Her nipples matched. The vacuum had drawn them out to twice their normal length, fat and rubbery, still slick with butter residue.

Cindy’s moans turned to oh’s. Bard shoved the vibrator inside her without warning.

Her body shook. The silicone fingers swiped her inner walls, spinning, stroking, and Cindy’s eyes rolled back until only the whites showed.

Her mouth fixed open. No sound came out. Just trembling.

Terri reached for the vibrator. “I can hold it—”
“No need.” Bard showed her the attachment: a short chain ending in a metal alligator clip.

He pinched Cindy’s engorged clit between his thumb and forefinger, pulled it taut, and clipped the metal jaws around the base of the bud.

Cindy lost it.

She came in and out of consciousness—wild moans dissolving into silent rapture, then back again, her body jerking against the pan straps.

Bard continued stuffing her, unhampered, spoon after spoon disappearing into her packed colon.

Penny captured every frame. The cornbread mixture. The butter dripping down Cindy’s crack. The alligator clip tugging her clit with each vibration.

Terri looked across the kitchen. Chef Victor was applying something to Lucy’s hair.

She excused herself. Cindy was in another world entirely.

“May I ask what you’re applying?”
Victor’s gloved hands worked a clear gel through Lucy’s damp strands.

“A thermal protectant. Keeps the hair from drying out.” He reached for a silver cap—aluminum, fitted, with a chin strap. “This too. It can get quite hot in the oven.

This protects her brain from heat damage.”
Made sense. Terri watched him fit the cap snugly over Lucy’s head, tucking every strand inside.

Lucy’s face was still visible—honey-glazed, the pineapple rings marching down her spine behind her, the cherry toothpicks quivering with each breath.

“How do you feel?” Terri asked.

Lucy’s smile said it all.

“I feel thick. Like a solid piece of meat. Like a—like a ham.”

Victor produced two thick slices of kiwi fruit.
Lucy’s expression crumpled.

“No. I want to see myself in the oven.”

“The oven will get scorching hot, your eyes can get damaged before you get a chance to really cook.”

Terri stepped closer.

“A baked ham can’t see anyway. All a ham can do is lay there and feel itself bake.”

The words hung in the air. Lucy’s protest died in her throat. She nodded, small and slow, and Victor placed the kiwi slices over her eyes.

A honey-soaked cheesecloth followed—wrapping, wrapping, mummifying her face in layers of sweet gauze. He avoided her mouth. That was reserved.

“Open.”

Lucy’s blindly obeyed, jaw dropped. The cored apple wedged in, filling the space, silencing the last of her protests.

Now there were only muffled sounds. Small, helpless noises from a little girl who wanted to become nothing more then meat.

She would not see herself enter the oven. Yet she will feel it, her tender flesh will surrender to it heated grasp. Her little body helpless, ready to bake.

—

Bard had finished stuffing his bird.
Cindy lay limp in her roasting pan, the anal clamp removed, a russet potato plugging her anus.

A meat thermometer skewered into the potato’s center. The stuffing was sealed inside her now—butter cookie and cookie dough and whatever else Bard had spooned into her over the past ten minutes.

Cindy was aware again. Barely. The vibrator was being withdrawn, and Cindy moaned at the loss, her hips chasing it as it slid free. Bard removed her vibrator.

Butter and cum dripped from the spinning head onto her belly, her chest.

“Please more.” Her voice cracked. “I need it back in. Please.”

Bard held up a corncob instead. Shucked. Enormous. He dipped it in melted butter.

Cindy’s eyes went wide. Her thank-yous tumbled out in a rush as he pressed the blunt end against her battered folds.

The corncob slid in with obscene ease—her pussy was still loose from the machine, from the insane vibrator, still wet, still gaped enough that the thick vegetable found its home without resistance. It bobbed there, half-inserted, threatening to slip back out.

“Can you hold it in for a moment?” Bard asked Terri.

She didn’t hesitate. Her finger pressed against the base of the corncob, stopping its retreat.

The texture was rough against her fingertip—ridges of kernels, slick with butter.
Cindy’s eyes closed.

A sigh shuddered through her. Bard produced a second corncob. Shorter. Hollow-cored.

He pressed it to Cindy’s lips. “Open.”

Her jaw stretched wider than she’d anticipated. The corncob filled her mouth, the hollow core allowing a thin whistle of breath.

Bard reached for the thermal gel, the aluminum cap, the cheesecloth—the same protocol Victor had used.

Star fruit slices instead of kiwi. Butter-soaked cloth instead of honey.
When her face was fully wrapped, only one thing remained.

The corncob was still slipping. Terri’s finger held it, but the moment she let go—

“I’ll suture it in,” Bard said, threading a curved needle with cooking string.

Terri’s stomach dropped. “You’re going to sew her sweet little pussy shut?”

“Just the outer lips. A half a dozen stitches on each side. Should golds the cob in place.” He said it the way another chef might describe trussing a turkey.

“She requested full enclosure in her menu.”

Penny’s camera came up. Her breathing had gone shallow. The flush on her cheeks spread down her throat. Penny was notably horny trying to hold herself together.

The needle pierced Cindy’s left outer labia.
Cindy squeaked through the corncob—a high, muffled sound that was part pain, part ecstasy.

Bard pulled the suture through. Terri watched the thread drag through pink flesh, watched the lips draw together around the base of the cob.

The second stitch. Another squeak. Cindy’s bound hands clenched into fists.

Penny’s shutter clicked. Clicked. Clicked.

Right side now. The needle pierced again. Cindy’s squeak was weaker this time, her body shuddering, her chest heaving against the pan straps.

More stitching back and forth, stitching pulled tight. The corncob was locked inside her, only the very tip visible between the sutured lips.

“All done.” Bard snipped the thread.

“Oven-ready.”
Terri looked at Cindy—trussed, battered, stitched up pussy, corncob in her mouth, potato in her ass, face mummified in buttery cheesecloth.

Then she looked at Lucy—honey-glazed, pineapple-studded, apple-gagged, kiwi-blinded, candy-apple thermometer swaying between her legs.

Both of them lay in their roasting pans, strapped down, stuffed full, waiting.

The ovens interior light glowed orange. No heat at the moment. Once inside, the girls can enjoy the oven warming, the sound of ticking elements growing warmer.

The two little girls with big dreams to roast were ready, staffer rolling up with serving carts to escort the meat-girls to a row of waiting ovens.

The girls were sexually charged and ready to cook

Terri and Penny… we’re horny as hell and ready to watch.

>>31276

> Why isn't there an English word for zeitgeist?
Ich hoffe doch das war eher eine rethorische Frage. ;)

Für eine schnelle Erklärung lies mal bei Scherb:
https://scherb-sprachendienste.de/blog/warum-manche-woerter-in-anderen-sprachen-nicht-uebersetzbar-sind/

Bei Luxanity wird das Thema umfangreicher erläutert:
https://luxanity.com/2025/02/15/die-faszinierendsten-unuebersetzbaren-woerter-aus-aller-welt/

Oskar gibt zahlreiche Beispiele von Germanismen in der englischen Sprache:
https://www.oskar-lernt-englisch.de/blog/diese-deutschen-worter-sind-echte-weltenbummler

Leemeta zeigt internationale Germanismen:
https://www.leemeta-uebersetzungen.de/blog/interessantes/deutsche-begriffe-anderen-sprachen


>>31290

> And you really do get used to water—or soup—that’s too hot over time.
The same happens to frogs. Or are it snails or lobsters? If you throw them into hot water they try to escape. If you put them into cold water and heat up afterwards they don't move until it is to late. I think it's the frogs.

>>31424

> Just let me know if I go too far!
Is that possible? Go ahead, try it! :D
BTW, into which direction? :p

Chapter 8: The Oven Girls.


The cart lurched.

Lucy blinded by the cheesecloth wrap, had forced her to rely on her other senses-like motion.

She felt it in her bones—a tiny jolt transmitted through the steel pan, through the straps at her shoulders, through the cherry-topped toothpicks still quivering in her flesh.

The wheels squeaked. Somewhere above her—she thought it was above her, but directions had gone slippery—Victor was humming. Something catchy. She couldn't place the song through the honey-soaked cheesecloth.

The cart stopped.
Metal clanked on metal. Her roasting pan lifted, tilted for one nauseating heartbeat, then settled onto the oven rack with a solid thunk that reverberated through her bound body.

Lucy's breath caught behind the apple gag. The kiwi slices were cool against her closed eyes. The aluminum cap made her scalp feel strange—protected, sealed, like something being kept fresh.

The slide. Oh yes, the slide. The rack's wheels—were there wheels? she couldn't remember—rolled her forward into the waiting darkness of the oven.

The sound was a low rumble that traveled up through her sternum. Hot air from the oven new set to preheated, raising heat gathering around her. Her nipples tightened.

The candy-apple thermometer shifted inside her pussy, the three sugared spheres nestled deep where her body she squeezed to gripped them.

"You're doing beautifully." Victor's voice, muffled through the cheesecloth.

"I’ll keep the oven on low for a while. I'll check on you at the first basting."

Penny's shutter clicked somewhere to the left.

Lucy tried to turn toward the sound, but the straps held her head at its designated angle—tilted slightly downward, presenting the pineapple rings marching down her spine, the silver onion plug peeking between her netted cheeks.

The oven door closed.
Lucy heard the latch catch. Heard the click of the dial. Then—warmth. Not the blast of heat she'd braced for, but a gentle bloom that started at the small of her back and spread outward, slow as honey dripping from a spoon.

The oven's fan kicked on. Air began to cycle around her, a rolling current that pulled the warmth across her shoulders, down her flanks, over the raised curve of her ass.

I'm baking, she thought. I'm actually baking.
Her pussy clenched around the candy apples.

The thermometer's stem shifted—a tiny movement, but in the darkness of her blindfolded world it was seismic. She wondered what temperature she was.

Whether the dial was creeping toward that perfect golden number.

Whether Victor was watching through the oven window, checking her color.

The thought made her moan around the apple.

---

In the next oven, fifteen inches of insulated wall away, Cindy was discovering something about herself.

The butter was leaking.
She could feel it—warm rivulets tracing paths down her flour-caked inner thighs, pooling in the hollow of her hip, dripping onto the tilted roasting rack beneath her.

The corncob in her pussy shifted with every clench of her sutured lips. Six stitches on the left. Six on the right. She'd counted them as Bard pulled the needle through, each puncture a bright star of sensation that had somehow translated into pleasure before the pain even registered.

Now those sutures were the only thing keeping the cob inside her. And her body—traitorous, eager, insatiable—kept trying to push it out.

The corncob moved. A fraction of an inch. The sutures caught. Cindy's moan echoed inside her own head, trapped by the hollow-cored cob in her mouth and the butter-soaked cheesecloth wrapped around her face.
She couldn't see. The starfruit slices had grown warm against her eyelids. The darkness was absolute.
But she could smell.
That was the strange part—the part that was undoing her stitch by careful stitch. The thermal cap, the cheesecloth, the shower cap beneath it all, none of it could block the scent of herself cooking.

Butter and flour and something deeper, something that was her, toasting golden in the cycling heat.

She smelled like her grandmother's kitchen on Thanksgiving morning.

She smelled like every chicken she'd ever watched her uncle pull from the oven, skin crackling, juices running clear.

Uncle Don, she thought, and the memory swallowed her whole.
She was five again, standing barefoot on the kitchen linoleum, watching him baste the roasting bird with a bulb baster, the butter sizzling where it hit the hot skin.

"You love the smell of my roasted chicken?" he'd asked, and she'd nodded, and he'd said,

"That's what chicken smells like when done right."

She'd wanted to climb into the pan. She'd wanted to be the thing that smelled so delicious.

She could smell the same roasted chicken smell, yet now it was coming from her. Buttery savory, they way Uncle use to roasted em.

She has truly become a chicken, trussed, stuffed, and roasting her little heart away.

Cindy's hips rocked against the cob. The sutures pulled yet held. The potato in her anus held the butter cookie stuffing in place.

She was so full—pussy full, ass full, mouth full, every opening plugged or packed or sewn shut—and still she wanted more.

The heat climbed up, inching its way up by degree. The batter thick, holding in her body sweat. Trapping her juices, holding in her flavor.

She could feel it, the way the butter on her belly began to sizzle, tiny bubbles popping against her flour-crusted skin.

Her mind returning to her pussy.

She squeezed.

The corncob didn't budge. She squeezed harder. The stitches held. The frustration was exquisite—a denied orgasm stretched across minutes, across degrees, across the slow crawl of the oven thermometer toward whatever temperature Bard had set.

I'm his chicken, she thought. I'm his butterball. I'm his dish.

Her mind drifted. The heat made everything soft at the edges. The reality of roasting in a oven didn’t stop her from including her Uncle.

She pictured Uncle Don opening the oven, peering in at her sexy little niece roasting away, nodding with approval. "Almost done," he'd say.

Poking her with a fork to see her doneness "Just need a little more time my tasty bird. You’re starting to crisp out."

She imagine a tender moment. He's basting her with a long-handled brush, painting butter over her golden skin, and she'd be so grateful she'd cry.

She was crying now. Or maybe it was butter. She couldn't tell anymore.

---

Outside the ovens, Terri watched the delicious ham baking, Lucy being that ham.looking through the glass.
The honey had begun to caramelize in places dripping in others.

It was a slow process—Victor had explained the science while they waited: the sugars won’t start browning and glass over until temperatures reach 320 degrees, it’s a chemical reaction transforming her glaze from sticky-clear to deep amber.

But Terri wasn't thinking about science. She was watching Lucy's delicious 10 year old body through the oven window, watching the slight wiggle that the straps would permitted, watching the way her bound fingers opened and closed against her calves.

"There." Victor tapped the glass. "See the color?"
Lucy's skin had gone from parboiled pink to something richer.

The honey glaze was darkening in patches—shoulders first, then the upper curves of her back, the very crest of her juicy raised ass.

The pineapple rings had begun to brown at the edges. The cherries on their toothpicks glistened like dark jewels.

"She can't see herself," Penny murmured, her lens pressed against the oven window.

"She's will never see how beautiful and tasty she looks right now."

Victor smiled. "I gave her a little treat. Something to keep her company."

Terri looked at him. "What kind of treat?"

"The candy apple thermometer." He pointed through the glass. "There's a spring coil inside the stem. When the oven heat reaches a certain temperature, it begins to vibrate."

Terri's gaze dropped to the space between Lucy's thighs. The protruding end of the thermometer—just the white face, the orange-red-yellow arc, the few inches of steel stem that hadn't been swallowed—was quivering.

Not much.

A subtle tremor that might have been invisible if she wasn't looking for it.

Lucy's hips jerked.
The motion was small—the straps limited her range to almost nothing—but Terri saw it.

A spasm.

A buck.

Lucy's bound hands clenched into fists, then relaxed, then clenched again.

"She's—"
"Enjoying herself," Victor finished.

"The vibration increases as the temperature rises.

By the end of the next basting, she'll be quite thoroughly attended to."

Penny's shutter captured the moment Lucy's spine arched. The toothpicks in her back quivered.

The silver onion between her netted cheeks gleamed under the oven's interior light.

"I love to see the these tender children get the most out of their roasting," Victor said, his voice warm with professional pride.

"Keeps them cumming while they cook." He leaned closer to the glass, admiring his work.

“I tap on the glass from time to time. It lets them know someone is watching the cook. A real turn on for them according to surveys.”

"Look at her. A beautiful little girl, transformed into something scrumptious. Artistically pleasing. A culinary delight."

Terri's panties—was a lost cause—were already clinging to her folds again. She'd stopped counting how many times she had soaked them. Stopped caring.

The appeal of roasting little children was no longer abstract. It was right there in front of her: a sweet little girl who so completely surrendered to a sensation that she'd become something else entirely. Something delicious.

Terri could smell it, faintly yet it was there.

Not Lucy anymore. A dish. A work of culinary art. A delicious baked ham.
And As a honey bake ham, she was loving every second of it.

—

Penny swapped her memory card with that quick silver flick.

"I need more pictures of the soup girls?" She was already turning toward the copper pot station, her pigtails swinging.

"Before they boil to death?" Leaving Terri behind.

Terri pulled her gaze from the oven window.

Right. The Boilermakers.

She'd promised to get a few more statements before— they soup away.
Best to do it now, while the meat spend some time on the oven.

Terri wish to witness their first basting, for the magazine she told herself. Her panties told a different story.

They left Lucy and Cindy to slow roast, Victor informed her she had 20 minutes. Terri looked at her watch.

“Thank you!” Terri said, leaving the chefs to attend their oven babies.

---

The soup station was fragrant with herbs. Rosemary and thyme and something floral Terri couldn't name.

The copper pot dominated the corner of the kitchen, steam rising from its surface in lazy curls, and inside it, three females had become one simmering dish.
Bobbi, the baby daughter, was done for, floating on the surface and ready to be pulled. The cook used giant tongs—cartoonishly large, the kind you'd see at a lobster boil—and hooked them under her Bobbi’s little body, she came out of the soup limp as cooked pasta, she was set on a butcher's table to cool.

A butcher standing by proceeded to chop up the little girl. Chopping off her limbs, breaking then down by the joints. Sliced her open, saving the good edible parts, discarding the rest. He worked fast breaking little Bobbi down into chunks of parboiled meat.

He loaded the tray of what remain of a once lively little tot. Now meat being tossed back into the soup.

Penny's camera flashing, documented every angle.

Mrs boilermaker seem happy when her baby girl rejoined her in the soup.

Sue, the older sister, asked to be lifted, her muscles too relaxed to assist. her head lolling against the rim of the pot before falling forward. Her skin was bright pink from the shoulders down. Steam rose from her body in delicate wisps.

Twenty minutes in the soup and she was red as a lobster, satisfied, done.

She was still alive when the cook pulled her out.

She was laid on the same butcher block her little sister had laid. The butch wasted no time. Terri realize she is going to butcher her alive.

Sue could lift a muscle, she couldn’t talk as well.
He chopped off her arm, the one she uses for masturbating. Sues didn’t feel it, her arms partially cook, useless to her, yet beneficial for the soup.
"I never realized how stimulating it's been," sues mom spoke, her voice thick and slow.

"They even let us add flavor to the soup. Extra cum when I masturbated my little Bobbi with a carrot.

It's—" She shivered, not from cold. "It's like my body wants to stay forever."

Sue never protested as she was parted. He cut away her little breast, sliced open her belly. Sue moaning, wincing, as more of her is cut away.

When the butcher cut into some of her less cooked meat she felt it, the strange sensation of a blade cutting deep into her thigh, feeling her meaty thighs removed yet the blade is razor sharp, it wasn’t pain, it was something she could quantify with her little brain—pleasure? She couldn’t think, she just laid helpless are he removing her parboiled flesh.

He flipped her over, easily without her limbs.

Gripping a hand full of ass cheek he pulled up and carved it from her body.

Sue finally passed as the butcher finished her off removed her head, cut clean off her setting her head next to her little sisters smiling head.

The cook collected Sue’s chopped up parts and added back into the soup.

Mrs. Boilermaker smiled, her children had returned to her, floating bits mingle. She was golfing to them, telling them how delicious the smelt.

Terri watched her, probably not a good time to ask questions.out last.

The mother was a tad delirious—long-term heat exposure, Terri noted, making a professional observation to counter the very unprofessional ache between her thighs.

The steaming soup had taken on a rich, savory scent. She and her daughters had added their flavor to it. Those dining tonight would taste all three of them.

Mrs. Boilermaker was ready to come out, to be parted and rejoin her children into the soup. The pulled her out, settled on the butcher's table. Her hand found Bobbi's head setting next to her, the same protective gesture Terri had seen in the larder.

"We did it," she said, and her voice cracked on something like wonder.

"We actually did it."
Penny captured the family together—mother and daughters heads, pink and steaming, no closer bond than a pot of shared soup.

The cook spoke up as the butcher began his chopping. “The mother has some good fat content, I love stewing kids, but they lack the fat for a really good tasting girl soup!”

butchered chopped, cuts, and sliced away. The once proud mother felt herself being eviscerated, piece by piece of actual meat removed, feeling joyous as the cook collected them and return her to the pot, enriching the broth.

Terri's stomach growled.
The soup smelled delicious. She had to admit that. It smelled incredible delicious.

Penny took a final picture of the three head in a row. A wholesome moment for them. An ascetically pleasing money shot for Penny

---

Inside the oven, Lucy's mind had drifted far from the kitchen. The heat giving her feverish dreams. Her mind drift far from the scorching oven.

She was on a holiday themed table. A long, polished table set with the good china and the silver candlesticks her grandmother only brought out for Christmas.

She was the centerpiece—a glistening ham on a silver platter, her own body but also not her body, the way dreams worked, the way heat worked when it sank into your bones.

Cloves studded her skin in diamond patterns. Pineapple rings marched down her back. The thermometer—still vibrating, still humming its low heat-song—poked up from between her legs like a decoration.

The family was gathering. Faces she recognized and faces she didn't. They had knives and forks. They were smiling. Her mother was there, the one who'd warned her about skin damage and protective oils, and she now was saying something about how beautiful the ham looked this year, how perfectly glazed.

Carve it, someone said.
And they did.

The knife slid into her—not into her actual body, her actual body was baking in an oven at LeFem Delish, but into the ham-body, the dream-body, the meat that was and wasn't Lucy.

Slices fell away and were lifted onto plates. People ate. They made happy sounds.

They complimented the tenderness, the saltiness, counter balance with sugary sweetness, the way the honey had caramelized on the edges.

She was being consumed. She was a holiday ham, and she was being enjoyed, and it was the most peaceful thing she had ever felt.

She felt sleepy, the heat creeping back into her conscienceless.

Do hams get sleepy? The thought surfaced from somewhere deep, dream-logic and heat-logic tangled together. I think hams get sleepy. I think hams just lie here and bake and dream about being eaten until there's nothing left but a bone and a smile.

The vibration in her pussy changed pitch. Climbing. Heating.

Lucy fell back into dream-body as she shuddered on its silver platter.

The family kept eating. The knife kept carving. And Lucy—the real Lucy, the one with the kiwi slices on her eyes and the apple in her mouth—felt herself falling into a dark, warm, honey-scented sleep.

---

Cindy the brave roasting chicken didn't sleep.

Cindy was hyperaware of every square inch of her golden-brown body. The flour coating had begun to crack as she baked, creating a delicate crust that pulled at her skin with each breath.

The butter seeped through the cracks, glazing her from the inside out.

She could feel it happening, the culinary transformation—and she was burning with the need to come.

The corncob shifted. The sutures held. She sobbed around her gag.
Uncle Don, she thought,

I'm almost done. I'm almost ready. You're going to be so proud.

She couldn't see the golden tint spreading across her skin, but she could feel it. Could smell it.

Her own scent, toasting and buttery, filling the small dark chamber of the oven.

She smelled like the chickens she had fantasied about being.

Like Sunday dinner. Like everything she'd ever wanted to be.

The corncob shifted again. The sutures pulled taut. Cindy's world narrowed to the space between her legs and the slow, inexorable heat that was turning her into a dish worth waiting for.

---

Terri and Penny arrived back at the ovens just as Victor was pulling on his heatproof gloves.

"Perfect timing," he said. "We're just about to start the first basting."

Penny prepared her camera. Terri Tart didn’t bother with any questions, this was a moment of watching.

Her hunger and horniness demanded it.

>>31475

You’ve done a great job with the chapters again. They’re written in an entertaining and sexy way. Your "preparation machines" are a brilliant idea. And I really like your new image of the girls in the soup pot. You’ve got me feeling horny and hungry again. Thumbs up.

By the way, I’m not sure if I should be posting "thumbs up" images here; I’d prefer to see only your pictures in this thread.

>>31471

Of course, that was just a rhetorical question—a pretext to strike up a conversation. But thanks for the links. I’m hoping to get a new story about a kindergarten—a garden where children are cultivated as a source of meat. Or did I misunderstand something there? Hahaha.

But tell me, what do you think of the author's latest story?

>>31475
Absolutely loving this story and the picture of the family in the soup is so sweet! Keep up the good work (that helps us "keep it up" ;) )

Chapter 9: Basted to Perfection.


The oven door swung open with a pneumatic hiss, and the kitchen filled with the scent of caramelized honey and roasted flesh.

Victor's heatproof gloves closed around the edge of Lucy's roasting pan. The rack rolled forward on its tracks, smooth and slow, until her trussed little body emerged from the amber glow of the oven interior.

Steam curled off her pink skin in delicate wisps. The honey glaze had darkened to a deep mahogany, crackling at the edges where the heat had kissed her hardest.

Pineapple rings had begun to brown. The cherry-topped toothpicks stood at attention along her spine, tiny garnishes quivering with each breath she took.

Penny's shutter fired before the pan had fully stopped moving.

Victor lifted the basting brush from its resting pot. The bristles dripped with fresh honey—cooler than the oven's ambient heat, thinner than the glaze that had caramelized on Lucy's skin.

He painted a broad stroke across her shoulder blades. The honey spread in a glossy ribbon, and Lucy's body answered. A tremor ran through her bound legs. Her fingers, still lashed to her calves, uncurled and curled again.

"That's it," Victor murmured. His voice was low, private, the kind of voice that didn't need to travel far. "Let the honey soak in. You're developing so beautifully." It is not often a chef complements the food they’re preparing.

The brush traced down her spine. Around each pineapple ring. Over the swell of her ass, where the netting had left diamond-shaped impressions in her bright pink flesh.

Victor worked with the patience of a man who had no other place to be—who existed entirely in the space between his brush and her skin. The silver onion plug caught the kitchen light as he painted around it, careful not to disturb its seal.

Lucy moaned behind her apple gag. A soft sound. Drowsy.

The kiwi slices on her eyes were still in place, but her head turned toward the brush as if she could see it through the darkness.

Terri's breath had gone shallow. She hadn't noticed when it happened.

The rise and fall of her chest had shortened to something quick and hungry, and the heat between her thighs was no longer a background pulse—it was a demand.

She watched Victor's wrist roll, watched the honey pool in the dip of Lucy's lower back, watched the way Lucy's pussy—swollen, glazed, the candy-apple thermometer still protruding between her lips—clenched around the intrusion every time the brush passed near it.

"Would you like to help?" Victor didn't look up from his work. The question hung in the air.

"The second brush is there. She'll need attention on her front side. Sweet little Breasts. Belly. The inner thighs especially—they tend to dry out first."

The second basting brush lay on the prep table. Its handle was worn smooth from use. Terri picked it up before she could think about what she was doing.

Before she could consult the part of her brain that was still a reporter, still a professional, still a woman who had walked into this kitchen with reservations and a notepad and a pair of dry panties.

That woman was gone. That woman had been gone for hours.

The bristles touched Lucy's honeyed skin and Terri felt the contact in her own body—a sympathetic jolt that traveled up her arm and settled in her chest.

She painted a slow line down Lucy's thigh. The flesh was hot. Yielding. The muscle beneath quivered at her touch. She traced higher, toward the crease where thigh met hip, and Lucy's legs strained against their bonds.

"She likes that," Victor said. Still not looking.

"The inner thigh is very sensitive after an hour in the oven. The blood rises to the surface. Every nerve is awake."

Terri's brush found the swollen lips of Lucy's pussy, and everything else fell away. The kitchen noise. The distant clatter of the soup station. Penny's shutter. All of it.

She painted honey around the base of the candy-apple thermometer, watching the way Lucy's flesh accepted the glaze, the way her clit—visible at the apex of her folds, still clamped to the thermometer's chain—throbbed with each stroke.

"You're deliciously gorgeous," Terri said.

"You're the most gorgeous thing in this kitchen. The diners tonight—they're going to taste you, Lucy. The servers are going to carve up your tender honey ham body, serve you to the diners, You’re going to make a lot of people happy, even me, know that, right?"

The words came out as if comforting a child with reassurance, that she had done well.

Lucy's body answered for her. A shudder that started in her shoulders and rolled down her spine like a wave.

Her hips pressed upward, chasing the brush, offering more of herself. There was no shame in the motion. No hesitation. Only the raw, unguarded hunger of a little girl who had offered her sweet body, offered everything and found herself in the surrender.

Penny's camera caught Terri's face—a wide, unguarded smile, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed, her hand steady on the basting brush.

The reporter who had walked into LeFem Delish with a charcoal blazer and a list of objections was gone. In her place was a woman who was enjoying herself. Really, genuinely, irreversibly enjoying herself.

Victor let the moment breathe.

Then: "Would you like to go back into the oven, Lucy?

Her condition was pretty much fatal, pulling her would be a shame. Yet Victor felt compelled to ask. After all she did consensually volunteered.

“There is no going back after this. Are you sure you still wish to be a HolidayHoney Ham?”

He wanted her to feel like she had a choice. Terri was pleased with Victor’s handling of Lucy, yet in her heart she hope her little ham would nod yes. She felt she had a need to taste her.

“You have another two hours. You'll be perfect by then."
He didn't remove the apple gag.

He didn't need to. Lucy's head bobbed against the roasting rack—a frantic, eager nod that made the toothpicks in her back quiver.

The kiwi slices stayed in place. The aluminum cap stayed strapped beneath her chin. She was still blind, still mute, still bound, and she was saying yes with every part of her body that could move.

Victor took the brush from Terri's hand—their fingers brushed, and the contact was electric—and finished the basting himself.

Three more strokes across her breasts. One long line down her belly. A final flourish around the candy-apple stem.

Then he slid the roasting pan back into the oven, and the door closed with a soft, final click.

---

The oven timer buzzed forty seconds later.

Chef Bard was already moving, his gloves on, his expression unreadable.

He pulled Cindy's pan from the oven with less ceremony than Victor—a single sharp tug that made the rack squeal on its tracks.

Steam billowed. The scent of butter and browned flour and something undeniably sexual flooded the station.

Cindy's flour crust had transformed. What had been a wet, dripping coating when she went in was now a golden-brown shell, cracked in places, the butter beneath it bubbling up through the fissures. Her skin shone where the crust had split.

The corncob in her mouth was streaked with drool. Her starfruit-blindfolded face was tilted toward the ceiling, and from the hollow core of that corncob came a sound that was half-moan, half-hum—a child making the best of her limited vocabulary.

Bard grabbed the spray bottle.

The liquid inside was pale gold, flecked with herbs, a seasoned butter mix that he'd prepared before the session.

He didn't test the temperature. Didn't warn her. Just aimed the nozzle and pulled the trigger.

A fine mist settled over Cindy's chest, and she gasped through the corncob. The sound was sharp.

Startled.

But her body—her body relaxed into it. The sticky coolness spread across her baked skin, and her shoulders dropped, and her bound hands—folded behind her back like chicken wings—opened and closed in something that might have been gratitude.

Penny's camera recorded the spray pattern. The way the butter pooled in the hollow of Cindy's throat. The way it dripped down her ribs. The way her nipples—still engorged from the vacuum cups, still long and rubbery and dark—tightened further under the mist.

Bard grabbed a two-pronged carvers fork.
He didn't ask. He just pressed the tines against Cindy's upraised ass—against the plumpest part of her right cheek, where the flour crust had cracked and the pink flesh showed through—and pushed.

Cindy squeaked.
The fork sank in. Not deep. A inch, maybe less. But the tines were sharp, and they left two neat punctures in her golden skin. Juices leaked out the puncture wound,Bard withdrew the fork. Examined the tines.

Pressed them into her left cheek. Another squeak. Another pair of marks.

"Is that necessary?" Terri's voice came out sharper than she'd meant. "She hadn’t roasted that long to check for doneness, why stick a fork in her?"

Bard shrugged. "She wanted the roast chicken treatment. I'm giving it to her."

He tested her thigh. Her flank. The curve of her hip. Each time the fork found a new spot, Cindy's body jerked, and each time she made that sound—a high, breathless squeak that was impossible to read as pure pain or simply pure pleasure. Probably both.

"A chef checks his bird. Prod the meat. See if the juices run clear. She knew what she signed up for. And by the looks of her she may not be with us during the next basting!"
He made a good point even thought it still bother her.

He set the fork aside and reached for a bowl of cocktail onions. Tiny things—pearl-white, pickled, glistening with brine. He took one between thumb and forefinger and pressed it against Cindy's sutured pussy lips.

The stitches held the corncob in place, but the flesh between them was still accessible. Still sensitive. Still swollen and pink and leaking butter.

The first onion went in above the left suture. Bard pinned it there with a short metal skewer, the kind used for securing a turkey's stuffing.

Cindy's squeak pitched higher. The second onion went above the right suture. The third—lower, near the base of the corncob, almost touching her clit. Her body went rigid.

The hollow corncob amplified her breathing into a thin, reedy whistle.

---

Terri's notepad hung forgotten.

She watched Bard's hands move across Cindy's body—efficient, clinical, utterly without tenderness—and something turned over in her chest.

Not arousal. Not quite.

This was something else. A recognition that curdled into resistance. He handled her like product. Like inventory.

There was no pleasure in his movements, no artistry, no connection to the sweet little nine year old beneath the flour crust.

I would never let him cook me. The thought arrived complete—a full sentence in her mind, italic and certain.

Terri blinked

Surprise flickered through her before she could suppress it.

She'd thought about being cooked.

That was the first shock. That she'd placed herself in the position of these delicious volunteers, she envisioned herself on her back in a roasting pan, legs bound, body basted, waiting for an oven door to close.

The second shock was the certainty of her chef preference.

Not Bard. Not his dismissive shrug.

Someone else, she thought. Someone who would—this is insane.

The question unspooled in her mind, bright and dangerous. She'd come here as a reporter. She'd brought a notepad and a professional distance and second pairs of panties, the first of which was now plastered to her folds, drenched through, a lost cause, may be better to go panty free.

She'd told herself the story was the only thing she wanted from this place.
The byline.
The promotion.
The cover spread.

But here she was, standing in a kitchen that smelled of honey and butter and sex, watching a willing girl get skewered with cocktail onions, and the only thing she knew for certain was how wet it was making her.

---

Bard slid Cindy's pan back into the oven without asking if she was done.

He didn't need to. Her body told him everything. The way her hips tilted upward as the rack retreated into the heat.

The way her fingers—bound behind her back, immobile—still managed to flex and curl.

The wet gargle that came through her corncob gag, a sound of pure desperate enthusiasm that needed no translation.


She was a tender girl who had been pulled from her heat, basted, prodded, skewered, and now returned to the fire, and every atom of her being was saying yes.

The oven door closed. The latch caught.

Victor checked his watch. "Another ten minutes and she’ll expire. I’ll raise the temperature to 375* get her cooking real good."

He said it the way another chef might announce the next course.

Bard was being his typical self. He wasn’t waiting for Cindy to pass away, or even waited for her to at least pass out. He set the oven to three-seventy-five.

Penny went to take a picture through the glass door then thought against it—not wanting that image in her camera.

Even she was taking a disliking to Bard. See how he would like to be meat. It wasn’t even worth turning him into dog food. Dogs deserve better!

---

Twenty minutes. Terri's stomach growled—a sharp, insistent reminder that she hadn't eaten since breakfast.

The cook who had spit-roasted Kerri, wheeled a cart past the oven station, cuts of Kerri’s roasted meat laid out in beautiful patterns, her actual meat enriching the her head.

The girls were pulled for another basting. Both gone, both still as any meat dish.

Cindy's buttered crust still glazed the air with the scent of breaded flour.

Lucy's honey had caramelized into something that smelled like a holiday dinner, like home.

Her mouth was watering. It was an absurd detail to fixate on—a reporter's stomach growling in the middle of the biggest story of her career—but there it was.

She'd been in this kitchen for hours, surrounded by women and children being prepared as food, and somewhere along the way her body had decided that food was exactly what it wanted.

Penny appeared at her elbow. Her glasses were fogged at the edges. Her cheeks were still pink. The camera hung against her chest, its strap pulling between her breasts.

"I'm starving," she whispered.

"Me too." Terri's voice was hoarse. She cleared her throat. "Let's find a bathroom before the dining session starts. Clean up. Reset."

They left the ovens behind—Lucy gone in her honeyed dreams, hot air whistling through Cindy’s corncob, both set back into their ovens that had gave them such desire and whatever ecstasy they had experience.

---

The staff bathroom was small. Two stalls. A sink with a spotted mirror. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, unforgiving.

Terri locked the main door behind them.

Penny was already at the sink, her camera bag set on the counter, her plaid skirt rucked up around her ankles. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties—pink, with a pattern of tiny white bunnies—and peeled them down. The cotton was soaked.

A string of slick bridged the fabric to her body before snapping, and the sound it made in the quiet bathroom was obscene.
"I can't," Penny said.

"I can't go back out there. Not like this."
Her pussy was bare—shaved smooth, the lips pink and swollen and glistening.

The gold barbell through her clitoral hood caught the light. It was exactly as she'd described it in the car, a tiny flash of metal nestled in the most intimate part of her, and Terri's mouth went dry.

"I know." Terri stepped out of her own panties—black lace, ruined, a total loss. She balled them up and dropped them in the trash.

The cool air hit her wet folds and she shivered.

"I know."
She opened the stall door. Looked at Penny.

The smile on her face was not a reporter's smile. It was not professional or guarded or calculate.

It was the smile of a woman who had spent an entire day denying herself what she wanted and had finally, finally run out of reasons to keep doing it.

Penny didn't need words. She stepped into the stall, and Terri closed the door behind them.

>>31476

Thank you for your reply. Modern culinary equipment is a fun way to prep.

I love your thumbs up. They tend to come with delicious frames pictures. :)
I tried to make a Lucy Holiday Ham image. Failed. Trying for the diamond cuts and all.

Chapter 10: A Mistress has needs.


The stall door clicked shut, and the fluorescent light buzzing overhead became the only sound in the world besides their breathing.

Terri’s hand found the back of Penny’s neck. Not gentle. Not cruel. Certain. She pulled the younger girl forward until Penny’s cheek pressed against her bare thigh, and the contact—skin on skin, wetness on skin—drew a sound from Terri’s throat that was less moan than growl.

“You’ve been a very bad girl today, Penny.”
Penny’s glasses fogged completely. Her breath came in short, hot bursts against Terri’s hip. “Yes, Mistress.”

“All that talk in the car. Your little schoolgirl outfit. Prancing around the kitchen with your camera, your skirt riding up every five seconds.” Terri’s grip tightened.

“You’ve had me wet since noon. Do you understand what that means?”

“I’m sorry, Mistress.”

“No, you’re not.” Terri guided her head lower. The scent rising from her own body was thick—hours of arousal, dried slick crusted on her inner thighs, fresh wetness already seeping through.

“You knew exactly what you were doing. You wanted me like this. Desperate. Horny. Unable to think straight.”

She pressed Penny’s mouth against the crease of her thigh.

“Clean it. All of it. Every drop you caused.”

Penny’s tongue was tentative at first. A small, kittenish lick that tasted salt and old arousal and the faint chemical sweetness of the lube Terri had used in the shower, hours and hours ago, a lifetime ago.

Then bolder. A flat-tongued stroke up the length of Terri’s inner thigh that gathered everything—the dried cum, the fresh slick, the sweat of a woman who’d spent an evening watching little girls who volunteer to get stuffed, basted and roasted.

“That’s it,” Terri breathed.

“Good girl.

Maybe you’re not completely useless after all.”

The praise made Penny whimper. Her tongue worked faster, lapping at the crease where thigh met hip, cleaning the salt from Terri’s skin with the devotion of a penitent.

The camera bag lay abandoned on the bathroom tile. The gold barbell in Penny’s clit hood caught the light each time she shifted position, a tiny flash of metal that Terri found herself staring at.

“You like this.” Terri’s voice had gone low and rough.

“You like being on your knees in a bathroom stall, licking me clean. You’re such a naughty little whore” Penny doubled her effort to clean her mistress, to please her.

“A slutty, naughty little whore who wears schoolgirl outfits so people lust after you.”

Terri holding on to her pigtails, controlling her head.

“Making me horny with all of your talks about your piercings in the car, letting me see you touch herself while I’m driving.”

Penny’s tongue found Terri’s folds. The contact was electric—Terri’s hips bucked forward, and her grip in Penny’s hair became a tight fist.

“Inside.”

Penny obeyed.

Her tongue pushed into Terri’s pussy, and the sound Terri made was sharp enough to echo off the tile walls.

Two fingers joined her tongue, then three, and Terri’s whole body clenched around the intrusion.

“You deserve a spanking.” The words were coming faster now, less controlled.

“You’ve deserved one all day. Bending over in that tiny skirt. Letting everyone see your pink panties.”

“My destroyed my panties, the ones you’ve caused to be soaked through since the car ride.”

Penny’s fingers curled inside her.

Terri’s vision blurred. She pulled Penny off by the hair and spun her around, pressing her face-first against the stall door. Penny’s bare ass—still pink from the heat of the kitchen, still slick with her own arousal—presented itself.

The first spank was open-palmed and hard.
Penny gasped. The stall door rattled.

“That’s for the car.” Smack.

“That’s for the interview room.” Smack.

“That’s for every time you made me wet in front of a source.”

Penny’s ass cheeks bloomed red.

She was breathing in short, ragged gulps, but her body said everything her mouth couldn’t—hips tilting back, offering more, asking for harder.

When Terri’s hand paused, Penny whimpered.

“More, Mistress. Please.”

Terri’s laugh was dark and delighted.

“You’re getting off on this. You’re getting off on being spanked like a bad little girl.”

Her palm landed again, lower this time, catching the sensitive curve where ass met thigh.

“Say it.”

“I’m getting off on it.” Penny’s voice cracked.

“I’m a bad girl. I deserve to be spanked. I’m sorry I made you wet, Mistress, I’m sorry I’m such a slut—”

Terri pulled her around and silenced her with a kiss. It was bruising. Hungry.

Penny’s glasses pressed painfully into the bridge of her nose and she didn’t care. Her mouth opened.

Terri’s tongue filled it.
Then Terri’s teeth found her lower lip. Bit down.

Penny squeaked.

The sound was too similar. The squeak Cindy had made when Bard’s fork punctured her ass. The squeak Lucy had made when the toothpick drove into her buttock.

Terri pulled back and saw Penny’s eyes—glassy, unfocused, utterly surrendered—and something in her chest cracked open.

She would let me. If I wanted to eat her, she would let me.

The thought was absurd. The thought was terrifying.

The thought made Terri’s pussy clench so hard she nearly doubled over.
She bent her head to Penny’s chest instead. The crop top was still tied beneath the bust, and Terri’s fingers made quick work of the knot.

The fabric fell away. Penny’s breasts were small and pale, her nipples pink and peaked, the silver rings through each bud cool against Terri’s tongue.

She licked. Sucked. Drew the nipple into her mouth and worked it with her tongue until Penny was gasping her name.

Then—without planning it, without thinking—she bit down.

Penny screamed.

Not a scream of pain. Or not only pain. The sound was thin and high and ended in a moan that seemed to go on forever.

Her hands flew to the back of Terri’s head and held her there, pressed against her breast, teeth still sunk into the tender flesh around the ring.

“Eat me,” Penny breathed.

“Please. Please eat me.

Bite it off.
Eat it raw.
It’s yours, Mistress, all of me is yours, please—”

Terri released her nipple. A red ring of tooth marks surrounded the silver barbell. She stared at it for a long moment, breathing hard, then reached up and twisted the ring.

Pulled.

Penny’s whole body jerked and she made a sound like a sob.

“You would let me, wouldn’t you.” Terri’s voice was barely a whisper.

“You’d let me carve pieces off you. Cook them. Serve them.”

“Yes.”

Penny’s eyes were streaming. Her cheeks were blotched red. She had never looked more beautiful.

“Anything. Everything. I want to be your meal. I want you to eat me until there’s nothing left.”

Terri’s other hand found Penny’s other nipple ring. Twisted.

Pulled.

Penny’s knees buckled and Terri caught her, lowered her to the bathroom toilet, spread her thighs.
Penny’s pussy was drenched. The gold barbell winked.

Terri bent her head and licked—one long, slow stroke from perineum to clit—and Penny’s back arched off the tile.

“Offer it to me.”

“Take it’ Mommy.” Penny’s voice was wrecked.

“My pussy. It’s yours. Eat it. Please. Please eat my pussy, Mistress.”

Terri ate.

Her tongue found the barbell and flicked. Her lips sealed around the hood and sucked.

When her teeth grazed the swollen bud, Penny’s hips bucked so hard Terri had to pin them down with both hands. She bit—gently, then harder—and Penny’s orgasm hit like a thunderclap, sudden and violent, her whole body seizing against the cold tile floor.

“Mommy,”

Penny sobbed.

“Mommy, please—”
The word shot through Terri like a current.

Mommy issues. March issue. Age play for those with mommy and daddy issues. She’d written the article.

Now she was living it, on a bathroom toilet in a fetish restaurant, with a eighteen-year-old intern’s thighs locked around her head.

She didn’t stop. Her tongue pushed inside Penny’s pussy, two fingers joining it, curling upward. Her thumb found the clit—still spasming, still hypersensitive—and pressed.

Penny screamed again, a real scream this time, muffled only by her own fist.

Terri climbed up her body. Kissed her. Let her taste herself on Terri’s lips.

“Cum for me again,” she murmured.

“Cum on my fingers like the naughty little girl you are. Cum while thinking about me eating you. Cum thinking about being my dinner.”

Her fingers moved faster. Her thumb circled Penny’s clit in tight, relentless spirals.

Penny’s body was no longer her own—it belonged to Terri, to the hand inside her, to the voice in her ear whispering what a good little meal she’d make.

When the second orgasm hit, it was quieter.

Deeper.

Penny’s whole body went rigid for one suspended moment, then collapsed, boneless and trembling, against the toilet.

Terri’s own orgasm was building—had been building since the basting brush touched Lucy’s thigh, since the needle pierced Cindy’s labia, since Philip’s unreadable smile and Victor’s gentle hands and the smell of honey caramelizing on pink skin.

Penny’s mouth found her pussy again, obedient even in exhaustion, and Terri ground down against her tongue, against her lips, against the glasses that were still somehow on her face.

It took thirty seconds. Maybe less.

Terri’s climax ripped through her like a blade, and she buried both hands in Penny’s pigtails and held on. Shooting cum in her face, Penny lapping it up.


—The sink water ran lukewarm. Terri wet a paper towel and handed it to Penny, who was still sitting on the closed toilet lid with her crop top still untied. Her glasses had survived the encounter with only a smudge on one lens.

“Here.” Terri handed her a second towel.

“You’ve got—there’s a mark. On your breast.”
Penny looked down at the ring of tooth marks.

Touched it with one fingertip. Smiled.

“I know.”

Terri retrieved her satchel from the counter and pulled out the last dry pair of panties—plain black cotton, no lace, nothing special. Stepped into them. They were cool against her still-swollen flesh.

Penny made no move to cover herself. “I don’t have any more.”

“What?”

“Panties. I only brought the one pair.” She gestured at the pink bunny-print scrap still lying on the tile.

“Those are done.”

Terri laughed. It was the first genuine laugh she’d had all day.

“Then you’re going commando to dinner.”

Penny stood, putting on her skirt shifting it back into place.

The hem rode up immediately, as it always did.

“I’ll fit right in.”

Terri leaned against the sink. The post-orgasmic clarity was settling in now, bringing with it a faint edge of guilt.

“I was tough on you. In there. The spanking. The names.”

“No.”
Penny’s voice was firm.

Sudenly she didn’t sound like a submissive little girl at all. She sounded like a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.

“It was perfect. It was what I needed. Especialy after—”

She gestured vaguely toward the door, toward the kitchen beyond, toward the ovens and the soup pot and the volunteers who had become meals.

“All those photos. The family in the pot. The girls roasting. I needed someone to—” She stopped. Swallowed.

“To take control. To take me. Like the chefs did with those delicious girls.”

“That’s what gets you off.”

Terri’s reporter instincts were coming back online even as her body was still humming with endorphins.

“Playing the submissive little girl?”

Penny blushed the color of a radish.

“Yes.”

“And in there—while we were—you were thinking about it. Werent you? About being cooked.”

The blush deepened. Penny’s eyes dropped to the floor.

“Every lick. Every bite. I was imagining you’d chosen me. For dinner.” Penny spoke while looking at herself in the mirror.

“That you were going to eat me.” She looked up.

“Is that so wrong? To want that? To want you to eat me?”

The question hung in the air.

Terri should have said something. Should have reassurred her, deflected, changed the subject back to the assignment.

Instead she felt her body answering before her brain could catch up—a fresh pulse of heat between her thighs, the new panties already dampening.

She was annoyed at herself.

Genuinely annoyed.

She’d just came. Harder than she’d cum in months. And already her body was asking for more.

She moved behind Penny.

The mirror above the sink showed them both—Terri in her midnight-blue suit, blouse still butoned to the throat, hair barely mussed.

Penny with her crop top untied, her glasses smudged, her cheeks flushed, the bite mark blooming purple on her breast.

Terri tilted Penny’s head. Kissed her neck. Her hand reached around and found a nipple ring, tugged gently.

Penny melted against her. A sigh escaped her lips.

“We should pick up this conversation after dinner.”

Terri’s mouth was still against her neck.

“My place. In my—” she puled the ring a little harder, “—well-equiped bedroom.”

In the mirror, Penny’s eyes met hers. The hunger in them was bottomless.

“Yes, Mistress.”

Terri nibbled her earlobe.

“The diner should be starting soon. Let’s fix ourselves up and see what’s happening.”

---

The bathroom door swung open on the corridor, and Philip was waiting.

Not loitering. Not lurking. His posture was too deliberate for that—one shoulder against the wall, arms crossed loosely over his chest, the sleeves of his black chef’s coat still rolled to his elbows.

He smiled when he saw them. It was the same warm, unreadable smile he’d worn when they first arrived.

“I trust the evening has been illuminating.”
Terri’s hand, which had been smoothing down her blouse, stilled.

“You could say that.”

“Chef Victor tells me you helped with Lucy’s basting. That’s unusual for a reporter.” Philip’s eyes shifted to Penny, taking in her school girl outfit, crop top, the bare legs, nice and slutty, obviously pleasing for the male gaze.

“And I notice your photographer is—traveling lighter than before.”

Penny’s innocent blush reignited again, she was right, her outfit rocks.

“We’ve been documenting everything,” Terri said smoothly. “The unique prep machines. The consenting nature of your sessions. I have to admit, I’m impressed.”

Philip’s eyebrow arched.

“Impressed how?”

“The children volunteers.” Terri found her notepad instinctivly, though she didn’t open it.

“They’re not just performing. They genuinely want to be eaten. Every one of them was clear about their boundaries, their fantasies.”

“This is more then just a fad, they want to be cooked and you actually give them the opportunity to live out their culinary desires.”

“We take the psychological component seriously.” Philip’s voice was measured, professional—the voice of a man who had given this speech before.

“It’s not about the heat. It’s about the frame. The context. Being chosen. Being prepared. Being served.”

His gaze drifted to Penny again. Lingered.
Penny met his eyes.

Did not look away.

“And you?” Philip asked her

“Has the kitchen given you what you were looking for?” He said it like he could read her mind, in reality he could see her body movements, he was good at knowing. She had meat-girl written all over her.

She smiled—the same innocent, filthy smile she’d worn in the car.

“More than I expected.”
Philip smiled back. Something passed between them that Terri couldnt quite read.

Then he checked his watch, and the moment broke.

“We’re ready to let in the diners. Cheese and wine are available in the dining room.

Diner shortly after, then the show.” He gestured down the corridor.

“I’ve reserved seats for you both. If you need anything at all, please ask a server.”

“Thank you. “I’m looking forward to dining in your beautiful restaurant”

Penny gave a small curtsey. The plaid skirt flicked up. Philip’s gaze dropped—just for an instant—before returning to her face.

“Penny.” His voice was soft. “May I have a word? It will only take a moment.”

Both women froze.

“Sure, sir.” Penny’s voice was steady, but her hands had gone still at her sides.

Terri hesitated. Looked at Penny. Looked at Philip.

Something in the air had shifted, and she coudnt name it.

“I’ll hold your camera case,” she said finaly.
Penny handed it over without breaking eye contact with Philip.

Terri took Penny’s camera case from her shoulder. She turned toward the dining room. The corridor strethed ahead of her, and through the double doors she could hear the murmur of arriving guests, the clink of wine glasses, the low thrum of anticipation.

Behind her, she heard Philip’s voice drop to something intimate and quiet.

Now what? she thought.

Terri stood amongst the dinners, all types of people.

The dining room doors swung open.

>>31485

Another delicious chapter. Here is the long-overdue "thumbs up" picture.

Here we see most of the ingredients in their fresh state—or so I believe.

Thank you for these delicious chapters.

I am looking forward to the feast.

>>31483

Well, it always depends on the quality of the description you feed the AI. It is even possible to get the AI ​​to generate images showing the start of the large opening incision—the moment the knife is positioned inside the meat girl's pussy.


I’ll be posting images of that soon in the usual thread. I’m sure the scene you’re looking for is possible.

I just haven't gotten around to creating all the requested images yet—because I’d love to see that picture myself. Right now, I’m working on three different projects. Plus, the butcher who stole two of my teeth also stole some of my time.

Don't let the butcher catch you. (Dentist) Haha.

>>31487

Now that’s a thumbs up. Love the images. The yummy girls are spot on and you were even slipped in Penny for good measure.

Yes’ Penny wants a spit go through her hot young body. More willing then ever to become a spit roast for Terri. Maybe even set-up a special performance at LeFem Delish Restaurant.

Thank you, I woke-up, made coffee, viewed your images the delicious girls.

Happy, happy!

>>31489

I’m a real fan of good food, you know. Your stories are going to turn me into a real cannibal. Haha.

>>31494

You used you magic again. Perfect ham. I’d love to see the individual pictures it you post them.

I’m editing next chapter at the moment. Thanks for the inspiration and delicious images. :)

>>31495

I'm glad you like the pictures of the ham.
I did say I wanted to see the finished ham, too. :D

The first pictures are on the usual page.
https://boards.guro.cx/ai/koko.php?res=14586&page=0%E2%80%94available#p13_23259


Would you like to have some extra images here as well? This time, instead of shrinking individual elements within the large image, I enlarged the entire image so I could insert the small pictures at their original size.

>>31477

> But tell me, what do you think of the author's latest story?
Which one do you mean exactly? The latest story would be this one, although it is not finished. The latest finished story would be "Amy’s Golden Ticket".
Well it basically doesn't matter, they are both well written and a fun to read. Amy's story is not precisely meeting my taste, but that's only my personal preference. Amy is a little bit tricked into consenting. OTOH she might deserve it. ;) Nevertheless I can recommend the story.
I like "Yummy Girl Magazine" because of the detailed description of the erotic preparation of the little girls. As you might remember: "nomen est omen"[1]. What I miss ‒ as I usually do with a lot of stories ‒ is the tenderizing of girls by a male (adult) dick. But it's a very minor issue and again only my personal preference. I'm really waiting for the next chapter.
BTW, I also like your yummy pictures of Lucy, especially "ART TYT Ham Red H Girl plate 0 03.jpg"[2] and "…10.jpg"[3].


[1] https://boards.guro.cx/ai/koko.php?res=14586&page=1#p13_14689
[2] https://boards.guro.cx/ai/src/1784986644653.jpg
[3] https://boards.guro.cx/ai/src/1784986837807.jpg

>>31498

My main concern was simply that PBandJ should get some feedback on his stories before you turned your attention to my contribution. I’m familiar with this situation from the Dolcett Girls forum; I put a lot of work into the stories I post there but get hardly any feedback. That can be frustrating.

If an artist or author doesn't get enough attention, they might stop sharing their work.
And that shouldn't happen here.

Yes, PBandJ’s stories are truly delicious.
He inspires me to create new images.

By the way, there was a second course in the Lucy's Ham menu. You can pick out new favorites from the photos. :D

The designation "Art TYT" indicates the level of realism and the age category of the image. In this case, it is clearly a non-authentic yet artistic motif.

An image labeled "TYT" indicates that the subject matter involves a "too young teen."

At this point, I would like to clarify for anyone reading along: this is pure fantasy—both the images and the stories. Keep your hands off children in real life!

I am currently revising one of the stories you have already read via download. The next chapter of *The Mirror into the Future* will appear here on the forum in a more detailed version; I am still working on the revisions. The Rubenstein orgy will demonstrate that children were a sought-after commodity in the Middle Ages.

But now, back to Lucy.

Is this—or something like this—what the Lucy Ham roast would look like in reality?

Chapter 11: A Dining Sensation.


The dining room hummed with the low murmur of conversation and the crystalline chime of forks against porcelain.

Terri took it all in from her seat near the stage—the white linen, the flickering candles, the well-dressed couples leaning toward each other across intimate rounds of four.

A woman in a sapphire gown laughed at something her companion said. A silver-haired man in a bespoke suit swirled wine in his glass, his eyes fixed on the curtained stage with the patient hunger of a man who knew exactly what he'd paid for.

Terri thinking back, times have changed in her lifetime. She hadn't paid much attention to the ASS system when it passed.

Assisted Sexual Service had been one of those legislative shifts that happened while she was chasing a story in Mumbai, and by the time she'd returned, the acronym was everywhere.

Prostitution. Massage parlors. S&M clubs. All folded under the same legal umbrella, all legitimized by the same bureaucratic language about dignity and consent and the right to explore one's fantasies without shame.

And now this—a no-guilt culinary cannibal restaurant where volunteers of all ages became meals and is enjoyed by those who paid for the privilege of eating the once forbidden yet succulent flesh.

Win-win, she thought. The restaurant gets paid for providing a service.

The volunteers have their deepest fantasies fulfilled.

And the diners receive a delicious dinner and a show.

A server appeared at her elbow. Young, bright-eyed, her blonde hair pulled back in a sleek knot.

"Good evening. I'm Vicky, your personal server. Master Philip's has ordered me to be your personal server this evening."

She set down a plate of assorted cheeses, sliced fruit, and a small salad dressed with vinaigrette.

"Can I start you with a drink?"

"Wine. Whatever you're pouring."

Terri's gaze swept the room again.

Still no Penny. "What's on the menu tonight?" Terri knew, she just wanted to hear it be said.

"Mystery menu." Vicky's smile was conspiratorial.

"The guests have no idea who and what they'll be served. The volunteers will be carted in—it's quite dramatic.

The diners get very excited."

She paused.

"Hungry and horny, mostly."

"Fresh Greens and French dressing. Just what I needed." Terri thankful she can finally eat something, she looked at her plate.

"What would you like on it?" The waitress asked.

Terri looked at the tray she was holding, a little of everything, thank you.”

"Would you like some girl bacon bits?” Vicky's wink was practiced but genuine.

"We also have ladyfingers, popcorn toes, and our weekly special—Grilled Avocado Ovaries. One of my favorites." Terri's eyebrow rose.

The server leaned closer. "You're the reporter, right? From Yummy Girl Magazine?"
"Yes I’m Terri Tart, Yummy Girl Publications. We're doing a spread on the restaurant."

"I love the magazine, have every issue, February issue with the twins seven-year-old girls getting gang-banged on a heart shape bed was amazing." Vicky straightened.

“I remember, it was shot in Vegas, afterwards the Twins went to the Chapel-O-Love and married each other.”

"Can I bring you the ladyfingers? They're quite good."

"That sounds terrific." Terri took a sip of wine.

She is about to head to the kitchen when Terri asked.

"Vicky—how much does this evening dinner and show cost? I failed to ask when I was invited." She asked, taking another sip of wine.

"Five grand per couple, I believe." Vicky said it the way another server might announce the price of a bottle of Bordeaux.

Terri almost choked on her drink.

“Five Thousand?” A tad shock at such a price tag. Would her company credit card even cover that?

"Worth every penny, according to out frequent diners."

Vicky disappeared toward the kitchen, and Terri was alone with her salad and the growing murmur of the crowd. The wine was kicking in. Stronger since she hadn’t eaten.

She ate her salad mechanically. Making mini salads on her fork.

Her body was still humming from the bathroom encounter she had with Penny.
Her mouth tasting her lips and Penny's screams as she bit, bite mark she'd left on that pale, pierced breast.

Her new pair of cotton panties were already dampening. She'd stopped being surprised by it.

Where the hell was Penny? She said to herself. What kind of trouble has she gotten herself in this time.

Terri didn’t have time to ponder.

The lights dimmed. The double doors open, music announcing diners arrival.

First came the soup.

A serving cart rolled onto the dining room, pushed by the sturdy cook. On the cart sat an enormous copper tureen, steam curling from its base—on display like a garnish—heads.

The mother and daughters heads on a decretive platter with a show card reading Boilermaker family soup.

Bobbi and Sue heads reclined on either side of their mother head, all three of them, hair styled back to original condition.

The cook ladled soup into porcelain bowls, and the meaty broth was golden and fragrant, flecked with herbs and something richer, something that had boiled with three bodies for hours.

The diners applauded. A man in the front row leaned forward, his napkin forgotten.

"Family Soup," Vicky murmured, reappearing at Terri's elbow.

She set down a small plate of actual ladyfingers, deep fried and a basket of bread.

“Ladyfingers, ironic are finger foods.” Vicky jest.

She looked over at the bowls of soup being served at a table.

"The mother and her daughters add their meat to the broth. It's always a bestseller when families cook together." Vicky giving context and insider information. Nice little note for Terri future article.

Terri watched Mrs. Boilermaker's face, the same warm gesture she'd seen in the larder.

The mother eyes were closed. Her lips were parted. She looked peaceful—more than peaceful. She looked complete.

The soup set before Terri smelt warm and inviting, she tasted it.

Delightful!

Terri savoring each spoonful, subtle differences in the delicious meat bits. She tried to guess which piece were mother, daughters.

She had to admit it was like nothing she had ever tasted—and she loved every drop.

The Boilermakers family heads were wheeled out to another round of applause.

At this point Terri is worried Penny, her intern, her little submissive, may have gotten herself on the menu, or worse, been kicked out the restaurant.

Is this what mothers go through worried about their hot young daughters? The notion made her laugh.

A cart entered, Kerri the little spit-roasted queen came next. Mainly her little head.

Max pushed the cart himself, his stocky frame and his black chef's coat casting a dark silhouette against the dining room lights.

Kerri head had been detached and laid in the center of various cuts of her roasted gymnast's body, all glazed and golden. An apple wedged in her mouth.

The cart stopped by each table. Max would pull out a plate and let the diner choose their cut.

Terri’s dying to try her first real piece of girl meat, funny how just yesterday she wouldn’t have even thought about eating people.

He reached Terri’s table eventually. Greeting her with a rehearsed smile.

Terri looked at the many cuts, an artistic array of sliced portions.

"Please, I’ll try a couple of those ribs." He plated a four rib portion. Sticky, mouthwatering.

She lift it to her lips, Eyes brighten. Terri amazed of the taste. Nothing prepared her for the exquisite flavor of Kerri’s spit roasted spareribs.

“Sorry’ it’s Max correct?” He nodded.

“You haven’t happened to see my photographer turning over hot coal or something?” Terri half joking

“No one’s cooking the kitchen. It’s pretty much shutting down for the night.” Max replied.

“I would mind spit roasting her sweet little ass.” Max said smiling, recalling seeing her get sexually intimate with one of his spits.

A woman in the front row—the one in the sapphire gown—rose from her seat.

She crossed to the room with the deliberate steps of someone who had been waiting for this moment all evening.

Max obviously knew who she was. Still Terri a little taken back from the intrusion.

“Ms Jones, as you can see, your Niece turned out beautifully.” He addressed her with cautious respect.

“Yes, yes’ you truly made her dream come true.” She glanced at Terri.

“And whom may I ask are you?” She addressed Terri, attempting to clean sauce off her face.

“Terri Tart, Yummy Girl Publications.” She stood as a professional curiosity.

“Ah yes’ the reporter Mr Philip spoke of. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She said with a haunting smile that made Terri wonder.

Was she looking at her with the same hunger she felt watching the girls cooking.

Was she really so appealing that other would want to eat her. Before today she would of never thought of herself as food.

Terri nipples harden, dam panties again. She tried to be professional since she is representing her publication, yet the wine and her perpetual horniness, hindered it.

“Your Niece turned out deliciously tender and juicy.” Terri replied attempting to take her mind off her own bodies reaction to the ladies presence.

“Yes, she insisted on being spit roasted, I was a tad concerned, the spit would kill her before she got a chance to feel herself roasted. Those spit are pretty thick.”

She pinched his cheek.
“Max here, assure me he had smaller more suitable spit of her small frame body.”

“Her older sister Amy is in tonight’s play as well.” Max commented.

“True, looks like I’m loosing both my Nieces tonight.” She said as if talking about a lost item of no real value.

“Really you must be so proud’ I take it, Amy wanted to be eaten as well!”
“Yes, when they heard this restaurant was opening, they begged me for weeks. Age of consent is six so I really didn’t have a right to say no,”


“So she decided to be performing it live. What part is she playing in the show?” Terri asked, obviously the show going to involve a live cooking as well.

“She wouldn’t tell me her role. Knowing her it will probably involve getting deep fried. One of her kinkiest fantasies.”

“Be a Dear and let me have a thigh steak.” Ms Jones asked Max as she excused herself and return to her table.

More music as the third course entered.

Cindy cart followed, wheeled out by Bard. The cheesecloth had been unwrapped from her face, the corncob pulled from her mouth and set aside on a silver tray. Her eyes were glassy still.,Her lips curved in that dreamy, distant smile.

The flour crust had browned beautifully, cracked in places where her cooked flesh showed through, and Bard had arranged the cocktail onions in a decorative pattern around her sutured pussy lips. The original onions burst during cooking dousing her vagina with onion juices, adding additional flavoring her savory buttered pussy.

The cross-stitches removed from her lips, the corncob that accompanied her through the roasting process now cut into sections.

"Buttery Stuffed Chicken Roast," Bard announced.

"Basted with herbed butter, stuffed with butter cookie dressing. The tender nine-year-old has been an absolute delight to prepare for you fine guest." He was laying it on thick, playing it up for them.

Cindy's lay lifeless, still in a roasted chicken pose, only without the binding, the sound in the room was loud, cheerfully thunderous.

Bard parked at a table of six. Taking orders, he began to carve off pieces.

Vicky return with a bottle of wine. “Refill?” She asked.

“Maybe a little!” Terri feeling better after eating.

“Have you seen my intern, short pigtail girl with a camera and schoolgirl outfit?” Terri asked even more concerns.

“I can check for you! Is their anything else you need?”

“No I’m fine, thank you.”
Vicky stepped off as Bard approached with Cindy.

She looked at Cindy’s perfectly roasted body. She could tell Bard was extremely proud of himself.

“She smells delightful.” Terri remarked.

Cindy already had generous cuts carved out. One of her legs was nearly stripped to the bone.

“Any suggestions as to what I should try,” Terri asked eyes focused on the prize.

“Might I suggest here, juicy and most tender.” He set his carving knife to her inner thigh.

“Yet if you want a taste something that is out of this world, I’d recommend carvings from her upper arm.” Bard using his blade as a pointer.

“Um, I’ll try the upper arm.” Terri decided, she suspect a leaner cut of meat.

He plated her, Cindy flesh carved off the bone like butter, tender and juicy, the seasoning is incredible, the butter and herb aroma trigger her hunger—she had to try it.

A buttery bite, tastebuds going wild, then after tasting it…

“Wow’ this is—” She was at a lost for words.

“I know! Can I cook or what?” Bard boasted.

Terri had to agree yet she would give a lot of credit Cindy. Meat quality matters as well.

He moved on to another table as Terri devoured Cindy’s precious gift, the gift of flesh—of herself.

Terri still had meat in her mouth as Penny enters the dining room.

What is she wearing now? She was no longer in her slutty Schoolgirl outfit.

Surprisingly she looked quite fashionable in a pink dress. A bit tight and form fitting, the hem way too short to be called a dress. Hair pulled back in a business up front, party in the back ponytail.

Some diners were distracted as they watched her movements, the short hemline creepy up as she walked, without panties, made for a show.

Not bothering adjusting dress down Penny continues to walk to Terri table.

“Where have you been and what are you wearing?”

Mr Philip said I wasn’t dressed properly to dine in a restaurant of this caliber’ or something stupid like that!” Penny said grabbing a ladyfinger off Terri’s plate.

“Oh wow, this is so good!” Penny eyeballed another finger.

“Focus Penny, so they gave you a change of cloths?”

“They have bins full of clothing. Mostly kids clothing. I had to dig to find something close to my size.”

Vicky brought over a bowl of soup and a plate with meats collected from Kerri and Cindy. “Here you go ma’am, I set this aside for you!” Vicky address Penny.

Penny went to town on it. Eating quicker then Terri thought humanly possible.

“Breath Penny, so you have been gone all this time looking for clothing?”

“No silly, I was filling out paperwork.” She went back to eating, lifting the bowl,sipping soup right from the bowl.

“Paperwork?” Terri taken back, yet deep down not surprised.

“Wha-what paperwork?” Terri need more then just paperwork.

What has she do now? She is so spontaneously unpredictable.

“I signed up for the restaurant live show, next month.” She smiled with face full of sauce.

“You know that is a live cooking show, it’s like you perform then you’re cooked!” Terri wiping sauce from her face.

“Spit Roasted actually, oops’ That’s a secret.
Mr Philip said for the Mystery Dinner and Show!”

“Okay so you filled out paperwork, and?”

“It was just boring stuff like, Who am I, what are my kinks. Some of the box spaced to write in were small, I couldn’t fit all my kinks.” A check list section to choose what I want done to me and any special request.

“Okay so you filled out paperwork, was there a lot of pages?”

Just one page, front and back. After I sign my life away. Mr Philip said he needed to inspect my meat quality, you know, to see how tasty I will be.”

Penny is doing it again. Making Terri horny as hell.

Terri listen as Penny went off course talking about how horny she got being inspected for meat quality.

Terri’s sexual hunger sparked again, she decided is really going to give it to Penny tonight. Terri has a new strap-on she is dying to try out.

“Okay, so how did the meat inspection go?” Terri asked, her finger pressed, finding her clit.

“Fine, I got a A+ rating, I guess it’s like a grade you get in school.

He said I’d be perfect as a spit roasted, He was making me all wet, I get horny just thinking about my body going over burning hot coals.”

You and me both, Terri said to herself.

“He really liked my piercings. It made him hard, I could see his tented pants.”

“Okay this explains your absence. Anything else?”

“Well I felt bad about giving him a boner so I unzipped his pants and gave him a blowjob!”

Penny went on eating like it’s just an average day for her.”

Terri had a more questions, yet that would only lead down Penny’s horny little rabbit hole.

More music sounded the final course has arrived.

Lucy.

Victor wheeled her out last, and Terri's breath caught in her throat. The honey glaze had caramelized to a deep mahogany.

The pineapple rings had charred at the edges. The cherry-topped toothpicks stood sentinel along her spine, and between her netted thighs, the candy-apple that was once a make shift vibrator, sliced and laid around her like a garish.

Victor had removed the kiwi slices and the cheesecloth revealing a pink cooked head yet no charing.

Lucy's eyes were closed now—a fresh new apple in her mouth.

Penny was quick to take photos of Lucy in all her delicious glory. Kneeling and bending over at times to take perfect pictures, her short cut one piece dress riding up, revealing her sweet little ass to the enjoyment of the diners.

"Miss Ham wishes everyone a good evening," Victor said, his hands holding a two prong fork and carving knife that flickered in the lights.

"She's been dreaming of this moment since she was five. As you can see by her delicious body, it was worth the wait.

This Holiday Ham gave us her all—as you will agree, this ten year old is the perfect age for roasting."

The diners were not shy.
Some rose from their tables, thunderous claps.

As before the cart moved from table to table, diners gleefully selecting choice cuts of Lucy’s tender flesh.

Terri watched a silver-haired man select a portion of her ass cheek. Watched a young woman in a black dress order Lucy’s outer thigh.

The room filled with soft sounds—moans, sighs, the wet noise of mouths chewing on succulent meat.

The cart reach a table near Terri and Penny’s, an elderly woman order strips from her lower back, as an equally old man just wanted the cherry on her right buttock.

Vicky refilled Terri's wine. "The show will be starting as soon as everyone had eaten. Would you like anything else, ma'am?"

"I'm good, just waiting for the Holiday Ham" she said. Penny asked for a cherry coke.

Victor approach with Lucy, or what remained of her.
He didn’t bother with a choice. Lucy’s whole pussy was still intact and her was carving it up for her.

The plump glazed vagina cut like butter, the aroma tickled Terri’s brain, sending a charge to every part of her body.

“This is reserved for you two. The whole vagina laid on a plate, a picture worthy moment and Penny didn’t miss it.

He split the the pussy down the middle, giving a portion to each of them.

Victor waited, waiting to see Terri’s reaction when she taste the sweet morsel on her plate.

Terri smiled up at him, this was one of Lucy’s body Terri had meticulously glazed herself. In essence she helped make this meal, help turn Lucy into something more—more delicious.

Terri cut into her portion, held it up with her fork. She actually smelt like roasted pork. Even better when she tasted it, chewed it slowly, her tongue examining the flavor, texture, exotic meat.

Salty! Like a real ham, honey glazed for the sweet and sour taste. A hint of the candy apple.

Victor smiled as did Terri.
“This is-this is so-I don’t have words for it!” Terri couldn’t describe how she was feeling.

“I know’ right!” Victor smiled moving along.
The carts wheeled away to the other tables.

Vicky cleared the cheese plate and replaced it with a dessert. Ice cream sherbet drizzled with girl cum.

"The show will start in about ten minutes.” Vicky informed.

“The Lost Explorer. It's our signature performance."

"Thank you." Terri glanced toward the carts as they were rolled out, most of Kerri, Cindy, and Lucy bodies gone.

Torches flickered in sconces along the back wall, and the scent of sandalwood drifted through the dining room.

The show was about to start.

>>31502

Scrupulously eye pleasing to say the least.
I dropped the next chapter. Feast before the show. Hopefully it’s as tasty as your images.

I’m editing the theater performance chapter now. What’s a lost 12-year-old Explorer to do? More importantly why do this cannibals look so hungry?

Thanks again, I love the diamond char marks.

>>31504

Hey, that was great. A delicious meal. Yeah, Lucy’s "pussy steak"—who could say no to that?

I actually took on that subject myself. It’s one of the hardest themes to pull off as an AI-generated image.

https://postimg.cc/gallery/Wr2qgqq

There are very few images of mine depicting it.
It was part of a story about a reenacted medieval festival featuring a cannibalistic menu.

https://dolcettgirlsforum.com/index.php?topic=62186.0

Your chapter was once again deliciously written. I’m looking forward to the continuation, and I’m glad you like my images again.

>>31506

I’m as speechless as Terri. lol that’s a $1000 dollar plate. (€877.60)

Chapter 12: The Lost Explorer.

The curtain rose revealing a wall of artificial broadleaf fronds as the dining room filled with the scent of damp earth piped from hidden vents.

Penny’s camera clicked from somewhere near the stage apron.

Torches guttered in iron sconces. From the shadows stage right, a twelve-year-old girl burst into the firelight—safari jacket torn at the shoulder, khaki shorts streaked with stage mud, pith helmet askew over a cascade of auburn curls.

She ran barefoot across the bamboo matting, chest heaving, and when she turned her face toward the diners, her eyes were wild with a terror so perfectly performed it took Terri’s breath away.

“Help me!” The actress—Amy—clutched the edge of the stage prop tree.

“They’re chasing me! Cannibals! Please—” Her voice cracked on the last word, and then she was running again, disappearing into the wings stage left.

Four men loped onto the stage. Grass skirts swayed around their hips. Cock visible through the grassy strands, Bare chests gleamed with oil.

Their bodies were built for spectacle—broad shoulders, thick thighs, the kind of musculature that looked sculpted under stage lights.

One wore a necklace of painted bones. Another carried a wooden spear with a dildo as a tip, another carried a net, the last cannibal had a real menacing knife in hand.

They fanned out, nostrils flaring, scanning the dark tables with the patient hunger of predators who knew their prey had nowhere left to run.

With grunts they gathering then decided to spread out.

Two split left. Two split right in dramatic fashion.

Amy reappeared from the left wing a moment later, skidding to a halt.

“What do they want with me? I’m just a kid!”

She looks left. “Oh no they found me”, she see two cannibals enter stage left, she runs off to the right.

Only stop short, the two other cannibals enters stage right.

She spun. The other pair closed in from the opposite side.

Trapped.

Center stage.

She turned in a slow, helpless circle, her chest rising and falling, her voice a thin wail as they surround her.

“Oh no—what can I do?”

Nothing apparently as a net is thrown over her head. She dramatically drops to the floor.

“What will these animals do to me?” She cried out to the audience. Fingers poking through the holes in the netting.

They easily lift her netted body, flipped her inside, until they held the net ends like a sack, sliding the spear through its corners to creating a bundle. Amy sits helpless inside, as two cannibals hoist the spear up and onto their shoulders.

“Thank you Jungle’ for providing us food for our tribe!” One of the cannibals shouted.

“To the village!” another called out and they all bust out in song, marching around in a circle on stage. They would sing “We have something sweet to eat, all so tender with juicy meat.”. Amy would break in between with her own singing. “Please don’t eat me, I’m skin and bones!” A cute song with a great melody

Doing a little dance, cocks swinging to a tune as they low walking off stage right.

Terri laughed. A musical number in the middle of a little girl captured for food.

Terri’s thighs pressed together beneath the tablecloth.

The curtains lowered momentarily. The audience cheered act one.

Behind the curtains stagehands moved props around. Adding a cardboard Hut in the background and a sacrificial stone prop in the center of stage. The block was waist high and square.

Curtains rose again to the new scenery. The audience could hear the hunting party singing about jungle lives matter and being thankful for their captured bounty.

They entered stage left, Amy swinging in the net.
“Oh no, please don’t eat me, I’m come to experience your culture!”

They set her net on top the stone. Removing the spear, the net fell around her.

She stood up on the stone. Finally being talker then her captors. Each smiled up at her. Hands touching her.

“Please mister cannibals!
I—oh my—mean you no—ouch—harm.” She tried to get the words out as they fondled her. As well as pinching here and there.

Amy’s eyes grew wide. One of the cannibals brandished his knife.

Two cannibals held her arms, heart pounding, yet he mainly used it to cut the buttons her safari jacket.

They stripped Amy with the efficiency of men who had done this a thousand times. The pith helmet went first, flung into the wings. The safari jacket—already torn and buttons removed—ripped away with a single yank.

She had budded early, sweet little titties the size of lemons, nipples were dark peaks against the sudden cool of the stage air.

Her shorts were peeled down her legs, the damp cotton sticking to her thighs before coming free with a wet, reluctant sound.

Her underwear followed. Amy twisted in their grip, her protests high and breathless and utterly unconvincing.

Her bald pussy and thighs was already glistening, and Terri saw it—saw the wetness that had nothing to do with the sweat beaded on her skin.

—

“Close your eyes kiddos were about to tenderize the meat.” The audience laughs.

He pulled out his cock, stroke it at the audience. “We must always tenderize meat before we cook,” the bone-necklace man said again, greeted with cheers and whistles from the audience, and then the diners responses died as Amy is forced down naked over a stage stone prop.

She laid over it, on her belly, obviously design for this very purpose.

A cannibal fed his cock into her mouth, wether ready for it or not. She gagged, yet she pushed through, throat opening, eyes watering, strong hands gripping her head.

The next cannibal waited, stroking himself, watching her sucking a cock. Then he positioned himself to her rear to fuck her cunt.

He nudged against the slick lips, opening her with gentle force.

Pressed.

Breeched.

Amy screamed around the cock in her mouth—a muffled, wet cry that was part agony and part something else entirely.

Her body shuddered.

Stretched.

Accepted.

Two cocks inside her now, one in her pussy and one in her mouth, and they found a rhythm, alternating, each thrust pushing her forward onto the cock in her throat and then pulling her back onto the vaginal invasions.

She was being spit roasted in the traditional way.

Penny’s shutter fired in rapid bursts. Terri could guess what is on Penny’s mind.

The man in her mouth gripped her hair. The men behind her gripped her hips. Amy’s body became a conduit, a thing to be passed between them, and she surrendered to it.

Her moans grew louder, less restrained. The sharp edge of discomfort softened into something deeper, something that made her spine ripple.

She could feel her arms being pulled back, hands bound—one of the men had tied her wrists together with a strip of leather.

Terri noticed—clench into her little fists. She was trying to jerk off the cannibal who tied her.

It all ended with a wet pop. Amy’s pussy looked a mess, stretched, distorted from the performative assault.

A second cannibal dropped to his knees and buried his face between Amy’s thighs.

With cock still in mouth, with only brief pull-outs to let her breath. It was amazing she could make any sound at all.

Her moan was not theatrical. It was guttural and it pulled something loose in Terri’s chest.

The man’s tongue worked her with brutal focus, no teasing, no buildup.

Hands gripped her ass cheeks and spread them, it was another cannibal stepping in behind her, his greasy cock already in his fist, already aimed.

He pushed aside the cunt licking cannibal. Forcing his rival actor to step aside or get balls in his face.

He pushed inside her asshole without preamble, one long thick stroke that made Amy’s back arch and her head fall forward and her cock filled mouth jab the back of her throat.

The ass fucking cannibal pound into her, her asshole offering bo resistance, accepting all of his cock.

Amy body held down. Taking everything given.

Did she ask for such brutal treatment? She was taking the ass fucking incredibly well considering the size of the cock in her ass.

Terri remembered an issue of Yummy Girls when a tween girl said it’s not the size of the body, it’s more about the plumbing. Terri thought it an odd statement back then until now.

Amy must have spend a lot of time with anal play. It was the only explanation.

Amy moan on the cock as her add received a reaming.

The other cannibal were stroking their cocks, waiting their turn.

Amy lift her legs and spread them, seemingly helping her cannibal get as much cock in her ass possible.

He surprised her by lifting her off the table, the other cannibals cock flopping out just as he shot his load.

Terri wasn’t sure if any of this is scripted, probably not, yet it made a wonderful moment in theater history.

He dropped her hard to the hilt. She deadweight straddled his embedded cock.

Shooting his load deep into her bowels. Amy flopped down, energy gone, held up by the cock she is impaled on.

Finished she was handed over to the other two hungry cannibals.

They laid her back onto the stone, this time on her back. Hands still tied behind her back.

One of the cannibals lift her legs, bending them to her chest, folding her in half and holding her in place. Amy gave no resistance, who could after that brutal fucking

What surprised Terri was the smile on Amy’s face. Terri worried about Penny, rambunctious, insatiable. What had she written down for Philip, for the dinner show she wants to be a part of.
“Harder,” she gasped when the cock slipped from her lips for a breath.

“Please—harder. Break me. I want—I want to feel it.”

He obliged.

The cannibal entered her pussy slammed deep. Lifting her hips he pulled his cock out then ran it up her asshole. The other cannibal holding her feet, stuck his cock into her mouth, not deep yet enough to give her something to suck. The other cannibal continued to alternated her abused cavities—her cunt reacting to the thrust at such a folded angle, it made her whole body convulse.

The man in her throat—the bone-necklace man—took her head in both hands and fucked her face with short, hard strokes, and Amy’s eyes rolled back until only the whites showed.

She came to in time to swallow the load pumping into her mouth, the other cannibal finish Ed in her asshole when he came.

Even Amy came, dazed, still smiling

Terri saw it. Saw the way her inner thighs had quaked, the way her cunt pulsed visibly around the cock decimating her insides, the sound she had made during the tendering.

Amy collapsed onto the stone. Her body was wrecked. Slick with sweat and saliva and the thick, pearly evidence of their pleasure.

Her pussy gaped, swollen, dark pink. Her asshole winked, still stretched, a slow trickle of cum leaking onto the stage. Her throat worked around swallowed air.

But her smile—her smile was beatific, radiant, the smile of a little girl who had been used exactly as she’d begged to be used and had endured every second of it.

The cannibals did not give her time to recover.

A cannibal—the one with the bone necklace—grinned. His hand found a rope hidden among the fronds.

He pulled, and a painted caldron rolled into view, steam rising from its wide iron mouth.

“Boiling oil,” he announced to the audience, his voice a theatrical baritone.

They lifted her. Four pairs of hands. Leather strips were produced—long, supple, oiled. They folded her like a piece of fabric.

Knees pressed to her shoulders. Arms wrapped around her own legs. Her spine curved into a tight, compact sphere. The bonds wrapped around her shins, her wrists, her folded elbows.

The leather cinched tight, tighter, until Amy was no longer a woman but a ball of bound flesh, her head tucked forward, her ass presented upward, her cunt and her asshole both exposed and leaking and still twitching from the fucking they’d given her.

She could not move.

She could barely breathe beyond shallow, rapid sips of air. Her eyes found the front row, and the smile that curved her swollen lips was pure, unguarded bliss.

A basket of vegetables were set by the stone table, Amy trussed up body lay on the table top. Holes exposed to a traditional tribal stuffing.

“Please kind cannibals, don’t eat me I’m just a child.” Amy is back in performance mode.

Terri thought the line was silly. It’s like telling a crazies rapist, please don’t rape me, I’m a virgin.

The cannibals took turns adding veggies into Amy’s colon and vagina.

Most disappearing effortlessly. When they no long slip in—they used the spear with the dildo.

Packing as the continued to stuff.

A wooden tub was dragged out from the wings. Inside it, thick, dark muck glistened under the stage lights—warm mud,

Terri realized, its heat rising in lazy wisps of steam. Two of the men lifted Amy’s bound sphere of a body and dropped her into the tub. The mud swallowed her.

It closed over her curved back, her bound limbs, her upturned ass. The men rolled her. Slowly, deliberately, hands pressing her under the surface, then turning her, then pressing again.

The mud coated everything. It filled the spaces between the leather straps. It caked her hair, her face, her parted lips. When they lifted her out, she was unrecognizable—a dark, dripping shape, a cocoon of wet earth, only her eyes and the gleam of her smile visible through the crust.

The mud began to dry almost immediately. The stage lights beat down, and the dark coating hardened, cracking at the joints, sealing her inside.

She was encased.

From her curled head to her sweet little toes—Terri could just see the tips of her feet protruding from the ball—the mud formed a hard, protective shell. A chrysalis of earth.

The caldron bubbled.

The bone-necklace man lifted Amy’s encased body. He held her aloft for one long, dramatic moment—a sacrifice display—and then he dropped her into the bubbling pot. Steam plumed upward in a white, hissing column.

The liquid—raging oil, thickened with herbs, perfectly ready to fry—splashed over the rim. Amy’s screams only last a millisecond, from inside the caldron.

It was a cry of completion, of transformation, of a little girl with a big dream who desires to be hunted and captured, sexual used and bound and cooked.

A girl who had loved it every step of the journey.
The steam thickened.

The caldron bubbled, and the audience rose to its feet, applauding, cheering, and the curtain drew closed on the final image: four cannibals standing sentinel around the steaming pot, their bodies still slick with sweat and cum, The broke out another song number, song of a good hunt, song of a lost Explorer.

Penny’s camera lowered. Her cheeks were flushed. Her dress had ridden high again, and she made no move to adjust it.

Terri watched her, watched the curtain, watched the faint wisps of steam still curling from beneath the heavy velvet.

Her own body was a live wire, humming, aching, and somewhere in the back of her mind, a single thought crystallized.

She needed to taste whatever was in that pot.

Chapter 13: Penny submissive reward.


The dining room emptied in a slow, satisfied trickle. Terri watched the last of the candles gutter in their glass holders while Amy’s ecstatic song still echoed somewhere in her chest.

She would have to say, this was the most interesting night of her life.

She’d covered scat festivals in Mumbai, suspension dungeons in Berlin, a latex-wrapped orgy in a decommissioned submarine—none of it had dismantled her the way this kitchen had.

The honey. The butter. The way Lucy’s body had answered the basting brush before her mind could form a word.

Penny slid back into her chair with a thump that made the wine glasses jump.

“Wasn’t that the most amazing show you’ve ever seen?”
Her voice was too loud. Her eyes were too bright.

Her dress—that ridiculous, two sizes too small dress—had ridden clear over her hips, and the bare, shaved pussy beneath it caught the candlelight like a dish being presented.

The gold barbell winked. A silver-haired man at the next table stopped mid-conversation. His wife’s mouth curved into something that was not disapproval.

Terri’s hand moved before her brain caught up. She hooked two fingers into Penny’s waistband and tugged the hem of the dress downward, smoothing the fabric across her thighs with the brisk efficiency of a mother fixing a careless child.

“You’re practically giving the diners dessert.”
Penny’s smile didn’t dim. If anything, it widened.

“Are we still going to your place?”

“Yes. We just need to pay the bill. I believe we got everything we need for the article.”

Terri motioned toward the server station, and Vicky materialized with her sleek knot of blonde hair and her conspiratorial smile.

“Did you enjoy the show?”

“Very much so.” Terri pulled out the company credit card.

“I haven’t paid for our meal.”

“No need. It’s all taken care of.” Vicky stacked their salad plates with a practiced clatter.

“Master Philip made arrangements with your magazine. LeFem Delish advertising space in your next issue.”

“Perfect.” Terri’s thumb rubbed the embossed numbers on the card once before she tucked it away.

Five thousand dollars, comped. Frank was going to do a cartwheel.

They gathered their belongings—Penny’s camera case, Terri’s satchel—and wove through the departing guests. Comments floated past them in fragments.

Did you see the mud? The way she clenched around was fucked by all four?

“I want to come back and become a meal. I want to volunteer.” A young girl around 20 if Terri had to guess, speaking to a much older gentleman who looked to be her grandfather. But most likely a lover.

The night air hit Terri’s face like a slap of cold water. She breathed it in. Held it.

---

The car’s interior smelled of leather and Penny’s vanilla perfume and something muskier beneath both.

“I can’t stop thinking about Lucy.” Penny’s voice filled the dark cabin, rapid and bright. “The way she acted when Victor slid her into the oven. She was so eager to go in. Like she’d finally found the one thing she’d been looking for.

Even Cindy—did you see her when Bard pulled out the carving fork? She squeaked and then she pushed back into it. She wanted more holes. More marks. More everything.

I want that. I want to be that sure about something.” Penny’s dress slipping up. Made it easy for her to play with herself while reminiscing of tonight’s advents.

The streetlights slid across Penny’s face in slow, gold stripes. Her glasses caught the glare and flashed opaque.

Terri has concluded that Penny is a text book Nymphomaniac. A pencil could turn her on.

Penny continued talking.

“The soup family. Oh my god, the soup family. Mrs. Boilermaker’s hand on Bobbi’s knee like they were waiting for a bus, except they were naked and pink and simmered.

I got a shot of their heads as well. It’s going to be my favorite shot. Mother and daughters heads in a row, and they looked peaceful.

Like they’d solved some problem the rest of us don’t even know we have.”

Terri’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. Her panties—the plain black cotton ones, the last dry pair—were sticking to her folds.

Penny’s voice was doing something to her. The way it tripped over syllables when she got excited. The way she said pot and simmered and inside me without any barrier between the words and the wanting.

“And the Lost Explorer. Amy. When they folded her into that ball, when they dropped her in the mud.”

“Did you hear her scream when she sent inside the boiling oil?—I thought I was going to come right there taking pictures.”

“My legs were shaking so hard.”

The car rolled to a stop at a red light. Terri looked over. Penny’s thighs were spread open, her hand rubbing herself below the hem of that useless dress, her chest rising and falling in short, audible bursts.

“You’re going to make me pull over,” Terri said.

“Do you want me to drive?” Penny asked not grasping Terri’s comment.

“No silly’ I want you to stop making me horny while I drive.”

Penny laughed half apologizing before tasting her pussy soaked fingers.

The light turned green. Terri hit the accelerator harder than necessary.

--- xXXX\/XXXx—-

The brownstone’s porch light was on. Terri noticed it before she noticed the silhouette in the doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, duffel bag slung over one arm.

Her stomach flipped.

Markus.

He stepped into the light as they climbed the steps. His suit jacket was wrinkled from the flight, his jaw shadowed with stubble, his dark hair mussed in a way that looked deliberate because everything about Markus looked deliberate.

Six-foot-two. Blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled. Hands that had learned Terri’s body years ago and never forgotten a single lesson.

“You’re home early.” Terri’s voice came out steady. Her pulse was not.

“Flight got moved up. I was going to surprise you.” His gaze slid to Penny, who was hovering one step below, short dress slightly askew, still riding higher than any dress had a right to.

To Terri’s surprise, Penny actually attempt to scoot the dress down. Not out of embarrassment, more of an attempt to look presentable.

“And who is this scrumptious little lady?” His eyes not leaving her form.

“Just my horny little intern. I brought her home for a little fun.”

Terri unlocked the door and stepped aside. “Would you like to join us?”

She didn’t ask Penny. She didn’t need to. Penny’s eyes had gone wide, her lips parted, her breathing shallow—the same look she’d worn when Terri had bitten her nipple in the bathroom stall.

Eager.

Greedy.

Yes already written across her face in neon.

Markus dropped his duffel. “I thought you’d never ask.”

---

The bedroom was dark except for the amber wash of the streetlight through the blinds. Penny stood in the center of the rug, naked now, her dress and socks and shoes discarded in a trail from the doorway.

The bite mark on her breast was still purple. The silver rings through her nipples glittered. Her hands were clasped behind her back without being told.

XXX

Terri buckled the harness around her hips. The strap-on jutted forward—ten inches, rippled and bumpy, the silicone catching the light like something alive. She stroked it once, twice, watching Penny watch her.

“On the bed. Hands and knees.”

Penny scrambled onto the mattress. Markus was already behind her, shirtless, his cock thick and dark against his belly, a bottle of lube in his hand.

He caught Terri’s eye and smiled—that slow, wolfish smile that meant he understood exactly what kind of game they were playing.

Terri climbed onto the bed in front of Penny. Fisted a hand in her ponytail and pulled her head up. “You’re going to take everything we give you.”

“Yes Mistress.” Penny knew the game, they were going to have their way with her and she was all for it—needed it!

“My cock in your pussy. His cock in your mouth. And you’re going to thank us for it. Understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.” Penny’s voice was barely a whisper.

The strap-on found Penny’s slick entrance. Terri pushed, and the bumps and ridges of the silicone dragged against Penny’s inner walls in a single, long stroke.

Penny gasped.

Her mouth opened. Markus filled it before the gasp could become a word.

Terri fucked her with short, brutal thrusts. The harness pressed against her own clit with each stroke, a grinding pressure that built and built and refused to break.

She watched Markus’s hands tangle in Penny’s hair, watched Penny’s throat work to swallow him, watched her back arch and her ass tilt higher, asking for more.

“You little whore.” Terri pulled out. Reached for the paddle on the nightstand—leather, wide, well-worn.

The first smack landed across Penny’s left cheek. Penny moaned around Markus’s cock.

“You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you.?”

Penny couldn’t answer.

“I could shove a spit up your pussy, baste your meaty ass with butter and rotate you over hot coals.”

You like that would you you little slut!”

Smack.

The right cheek bloomed red.

“You’d thank me for it, wouldn’t you?”

Smack! A little harder this time. Penny murmured words around Markus’s cock.

“You deserve to be impaled. Deserve to roast. Deserve to be carved up and eaten like the delicious little meal you are.”

Smack!!

Penny’s muffled cry was ecstatic. Her hips pushed back toward the paddle, toward the pain, toward every degrading syllable Terri fed her.

Markus pulled out of her mouth and stroked himself, watching.

Terri laid back on the bed, commanding Penny to sit on her cock, sitting on it, the strap-on slide back inside

Penny’s dripping cunt and resumed her rhythm—slow now, deep, each thrust designed to make Penny feel every ridge.

Markus moved behind her. Pushed her forward onto Terri, Terri kissed her, sucking face, tasting the familiar taste her boyfriends cock in her mouth.

Markus positioned himself behind Penny.
Shoving two fingers in her asshole. She felt the lube—A slick sound.

Penny’s asshole accepted his fingers-every knuckle, one inch at a time, and the sound she made was half-sob, half-song.

After a good finger reaming her replaced it with his cock.

They found their cadence. Terri thrusting forward, Markus thrusting forward, Penny sandwiched between them with a cock in her pussy and a cock in her ass and nothing in the world but the overwhelming fullness of being used.

“Make her lick you,” Markus grunted. His voice was strained.
Close.
Terri pulled out. Unbuckled the harness and let it fall. She lay back against the pillows and spread her thighs, and Penny crawled to her like a supplicant, face wet, ponytail swinging, lips swollen.

Her tongue found Terri’s clit just as Markus drove back into her ass.

Penny’s tongue was masterful. Even as Markus savaged her asshole she still manage to focus on Terri’s sweet vagina.

The orgasm hit Terri like a fist. Her back bowed off the mattress. Her thighs clamped around Penny’s head, and Penny kept licking, kept sucking, kept worshipping while Markus’s thrusts grew erratic and deep and finally stilled with a groan that vibrated through the bed frame.

Terri came, Markus came, and some how Penny came! They fell in a heap.

It had been a long day for all of them, so once spent tiredness feel over them.

---

The streetlight striped the ceiling in amber bars.
Penny lay between them, a tangle of limbs and damp hair and slow, sleepy breaths.

One hand rested on Terri’s hip. One foot was tucked under Markus’s calf. The bite mark on her breast had darkened to a deep plum.

Markus reached across and tugged the blanket up over all three of them. His fingers brushed Terri’s shoulder. Squeezed once.

Penny’s breathing softened into a rhythmic hush.

The house settled around them, quiet and warm and smelling of sex and vanilla, and in the silence,

Terri let her eyes fall closed.

—-

The following day was nothing less then ecstatic at Yummy Girls publication, Frank most impressed with Penny’s-photos.

Milling over the photo must of cause him to have a hard-on—closing the office door was a sure tell.

Terri spent the day writing the articles that will fill the pages of next issues magazine.

Seem to be a lot of horny coworkers in the office that day.

It would take a week to assemble her stories and photos. Pulling in from all resources. It was shaping up to be their best issue yet.

By the end of the week they had a magazine issue ready to print.

Philip summited his advertisement. Offering diners an opportunity to dine at his establishment. Another advertisement seeking volunteers.

This Magazine sold to tens of thousand reader. What impact it will have is anyones guess.

Terri figured LeFam Delish was going to have a massive uptick in volunteers.

As for Penny, she told everyone during one of her horny moments, her plans to perform at LeFem Delish, she gave her resignation. She wasn’t a paid employee yet thought it best to give notice.

Penny also dropped out of school, moving in with Terri and Markus.

Terri got her promotion. Though it sound a lot like what she was already doing. Still it came with a hefty pay-raise and a nice fat bonus check.

Enough for a couple to enjoy a nice dinner and a show!

She wouldn’t miss Penny’s performance for anything.


The end for now.

What? You want more? Well that’s for another story.

Coming soon:

Yummy Girls Magazine 2, Penny Theatre debut.