"No!" Mae cried, at the terrible image before her.

In the center of the room stood two metal tables. And at the end of each, a long glistening spike was horizontally held within a machine. The table on the left was empty, while trussed up on the other was a frightening sight. The naked pigboy raised his head to look at the newcomers, his face twisted with fear. A young human man, dressed in a white chef's coat, stood over the pigboy, basting him with a nice honey glaze.

"Oh, God," whimpered Mae, forced to take a few steps toward the tables. "Not this!"

"Shh," the bald man hushed. "Try and remain calm, my dear. Stress is awful for the meat."

For a moment, Mae couldn't take her eyes from the poor pigboy. His arms were bent at the elbows, forearms tied to biceps. The legs were spread wide, knees bent, and bound in the same manner as his arms. Wiggling and struggling, he could hardly budge. Inches from his bottom, the tip of the spike waited, lubed with oil.

What a spectacle the pigboy made, and despite herself, Mae felt a tingling between her legs. He was pink and muscled, glistening in the thick layer of shiny glaze. Big-eared and with a large snout, his handsomeness made the pigirl yearn. Between those spread legs was a huge set of genitals, the testes abnormally swollen. The penis was long and thick, erect and dripping with arousal. Never before had Mae seen a package like this, be it on human or pigboy.

Finally breaking her gaze, she took in the rest of the room. Counters and cabinets and various appliances filled the industrial kitchen. Huge ovens and vertical roasters lined the far wall, one after another. There were hooks, knives, and long spits displayed in racks upon the walls. Large pans and giant trays were neatly stacked about. It was all a nightmare! Mae scrunched shut her eyes and begged her brain to wake up.

But the nightmare was just beginning. The bald human stepped over to a hanging white coat–a chef's coat. Mae watched him pull it on and button it up.

"Well," he said, rubbing together his hands and looking at Mae. "Let's get you prepared, darling. Up on the table."

"No!" Mae whined, pressing back into Mr. and Mrs. Thompson. "Please, no…"

"Now, now," Mrs. Thompson said, setting her hands on Mae's shoulders. "Come, dear. I know you want to do this the easy way."

"That's right, Mae," Mr. Thompson agreed. "Let's be a good piggy, now."

The chef took Mae by the wrist, firmly tugging. Ms. Kent, likewise, took the pigirl's other hand and pulled her toward the table. Tears ran down Mae's cheeks as reluctant steps brought toward certain doom. Thoughts of running, of fighting, of escape flickered across her mind. But the collar… The horrible collar would painfully reign her in.

"Please," she cried, as the group surrounded her. "Don't do this."

The chef and Mrs. Thompson picked her up by the legs, while Mr. Thompson and Ms. Kent held her upper body. Plopped onto the table, feeling the cold metal upon her back, Mae had never been so scared. The humans held her down while the chef retrieved a few lengths of rope and set to trussing up the pigirl. Mae struggled, but she was held pinned, her body positioned the same as the pigboy. One by one, the chef expertly tied her limbs. In a few moments, Mae was unhanded and left there, spread wide and helpless.

"Mr. Thompson," Mae sobbed, "don't do this to me."

The pigboy had now been thoroughly basted. The young chef, taking him by the underarms, slid his tied up body toward the head of the table. Now, his cranium would hang off the edge unless he held it aloft. Stepping over to the spitting device, the human flipped it on, setting it to auto-calibration. Making a whirring noise when it moved, the spike lowered a bit before slowly advancing toward the pigboy's bottom. Approximately an inch from his anus, it stopped, and the machine released a hiss.

"A wonderful investment, these spitting machines," the older chef told the Thompsons, as he grabbed a jar and basting brush. "They eliminate all the guesswork. There's nothing so disappointing as a botched spitting."

"Worth their weight in gold," the young cook called over. "This piggy's all ready. Shall I wait?"

Mae whimpered while the man, dipping the brush into the jar, started coating her chest with the honey glaze. The thick liquid slowly trickled down her sides as the chef worked.

"Yes, wait a moment," the man told him. "I want 'em roasting at the same time."

"The porkpeople business is something we're excited to get into," Mr. Thompson was saying. "We're thinking of building a block of holding cells, if all works out. Adding more tables and spitting machines. Expanding the kitchen."

"I know a few chefs who may be interested," the older man said, his brush coating Mae with expert strokes. "So long as I'm head cook, of course."

"And we'll set up a few more examination rooms," Mrs. Thompson added, "for pork we acquire ourselves. Purchasing through The Market is too expensive and will cut into profits."

Mae barely heard the banter, as she felt the brush dancing over her sensitive skin. The bristles tickled and titillated her flesh, her nerves responding unnaturally, pleasurably, to the sensation. Passing over her hard nipples, Mae nearly let loose a moan. What the hell is wrong with me? she wondered. Lifting her head to peer down, she saw ample breasts that no longer seemed her own. Dark pink and glistening, a watery white fluid was trickling from her nipples.

"What have you done to me?" whimpered the pigirl.

"Oh, we've just fattened you up a bit," grinned the bald chef. "And got those hormones going. I like my piggys juicy."

More of her body was beginning to shine with the glaze: arms, ribs, and tummy. The chef was now coating her thighs, and Mae found herself half-wishing that he'd work those bristles between her legs.

Looking to her left, the pigboy returned her gaze. With his head held up, his eyes were unabashedly roaming her nude body. Mae caught her breath, as her inner thighs were touched by the brush. Again, she took in the physique of the pigboy, while the chef lightly dragged the slippery bristles across her privates. Mae positively tingled within.

"Oh…" she exhaled.

"It's okay," the pigboy told her, desperation on his face. "It'll… It'll be okay."

"I don't," Mae whimpered, looking him in his pretty brown eyes, "I don't wanna die."

"Be brave," the male said, trying to instill some bravery in himself as well. "We have to be brave."

"Pig feet are my favorite," the chef was saying, having coated the calves and reached Mae's soles. "And these look particularly tasty."

The pigirl squirmed as her sensitive feet were pet by the brush. Pink and smooth, her two toes scrunched up in ticklishness. The chef eyed the round and plump pink heels, imagining the tender meat that could be sucked off once cooked.

"Okay," the older chef finished, setting down his brush and glaze. "A very, very simple recipe for starters. But, honey glazed ham is a classic, right? Male and female meat, to see if there's any preference. "

Like the pigboy, Mae was now grabbed under her arms and pulled to the edge of the table. Her head was left dangling uncomfortably.

"Oh, God!" she whimpered, her heart pounding in dread.

"For a female," the bald chef instructed, taking up a metallic device, "the spit enters vaginally. We can therefore use a rectal meat thermometer."

"And for the male?" Mrs. Thompson wondered.

"The male must be spit anally, of course," he answered, "and so we simply stick a regular meat thermometer in his buttock. But for the rectal thermometer, we'll get it nice and lubed up. See how it's curved? You need this model so it may be read it on a vertical spit roast."

The Thompsons and Ms. Kent watched while the chef oiled up the large plug. Leaning between Mae's spread legs, the man placed it to her small, pink anus. Poor Ms. Kent has to avert her eyes.

"Uh!" Mae gasped, the cold metal touching her.

"In we go," the chef smiled.

"UHH!" groaned Mae, as the human mercilessly pushed the thermometer against her.

The plug started slipping in while the Thompsons watched intently. It was big, bullet shaped, and looked a bit cruel.

"I know what you're thinking," the younger chef offered, as he peered over, "but a pigperson can take it. Don't let their noises fool you; they're not as delicate as us humans."

"That's the truth," the bald chef agreed, speaking loudly over Mae's crys. With a stern and steady pressure, he pushed the instrument deep into Mae's rectum.

"REEAAA!" the pigirl squealed, twisting in her ropes. Never had she felt anything so horribly wonderful.

"Perfect," the chef said, the dial curving out of her. Stepping over to the machine, the man switched it on. "Let's get the spit calibrated, and we should be good to go."

Mr. and Mrs. Thompson joined him to watch. Simple enough, with the push of a button, the device got to work. Whirring, the spike lined itself up with Mae's vagina and slowly extended toward her. An inch away, it came to a halt with a hiss.

"Now, we'll initiate partial impalement," he said, looking at his fellow chef, who had taken his place at the opposite machine. "Ready?"

"Ready," the young human answered.

"No, please!" Mae begged. The pigirl felt so full with the inserted thermometer, and yet… The idea of being filled up more was sonewhat exciting. "Ms. Kent… Please, help me. Help me?"

"Three, two, one," the older cook counted down, "initiate."

The two chefs simultaneously pushed their buttons and made for the head of their respective tables. Each braced the pigpeople by their shoulders, while the spikes slowly crept toward the victims. The pigpeople were breathing hard with fear, hearing the mechanical whirring of the approaching spits.

"Keep still," the chef ordered Mae. "It'll be much easier if you keep still."

"Noo," Mae whined, as she felt the point of the spike touch her lips.

"Ooh," the pigboy grimaced, as the spit began poking his anus.

How the two pigpersons wailed as the shafts slowly entered them. Mae couldn't believe the sensations, and her loins were throbbing. Mr. and Mrs. Thompson watched, glancing between Mae and the pigboy. The male moaned pathetically as the spike moved deeper. Then, after what must have seemed an eternity, the machines stopped with a loud hiss. The two victims had been entered a good four inches, and they could only lie there, partly impaled.

"Why did it stop?" Mrs. Thompson wondered.

"I like to spit in two parts," answered the bald chef. "I think it helps ease them into the process."

"Yes, I agree," the younger cook concurred. "It's also the ideal time and milk 'em."

"Milk 'em?" asked Mr.Thompson. "Oh, my."

Mae barely heard the voices, so stuffed was she down below. Aching within, she felt something running down the sides of her heavy breasts. Raising her head, she saw her shining, bound body and the terrible metal rod entering her. Large and swollen, her breasts now dripped with milk. The pigirl's insides quivered in a combination of terror and pleasure, and a puddle was forming on the table underneath her privates.

"First, we stick in the thermometer," went on the young chef, picking up a device.

The round dial had a single spike poking from the back of its face. Touching it to the pigboy's right rump cheek, the man mercilessly jabbed him with the instrument.

"REEE!" screeched the pigboy, with the thermometer now stuck into his glute.

Ignoring the poor thing, the chef next took a shot glass. Mae watched in disbelief as the human wrapped his hand around the throbbing penis of the trussed up pigboy.

"Always milk the males just before they roast," he informed the Thompsons. "Not only can pig semen be made into a lovely sauce, but an orgasm will get those endorphins flowing."

"Uhh," groaned the pigboy, as the chef's hand began to slide up and down his meaty member. "Uggh. Please…"

Mae couldn't help but watch the twisted scene. Oh, it was arousing! The pigirl wanted to be the one doing that to him, feeling that ridiculously large member…

Meanwhile, the older chef was leaning in close to inspect the pigirl's wet genitals. The vulva glistened in glaze and natural juices, pink and puffy. And entering the tender vagina was the unforgiving metal spit. Gently, he pushed back the fleshy hood to unveil her clitoris, hard and erect.

"Ahh," Mae moaned at his touch, her clitoris buzzing.

"What a sweet piggy pussy," the human smiled.

Deep within, her loins were desperate for relief, and she had never before felt this way. Packed with a thermometer in her bottom and the spit in her vagina, the pigirl wanted to scream in twisted pleasure. How she wished it was that pigboy inside her instead of the metal rod. Up and down, up and down she watched the human's hand. How sickening. It was all an abomination! But the pigboy, himself part way spitted, was moaning in what sounded to be pleasure. He looked at Mae, eyes wide in blissful fright. And then…

"Ree," he oinked, his eyes moving over her nakedness. "Ree! REEEA!

Mae and the humans watched as the pigboy erupted with a stream of white. Into the waiting shot glass, it sprayed. The pigboy writhed in his ropes while the human relentlessly milked him, spurting and spurting his long-pent up juices. Gasps and chuckles came from the humans at the spectacle. But the chef kept pumping, and his victim kept cumming, squealing and shrieking and oinking. The glass was nearly filled with ejaculate by the time the pigboy was finished and released.

"Well, that was rather impressive," the chef laughed, setting aside the collected essence for later. Going to the machines, he once more engaged them and resumed his place at the pigboy's head. "Here we go!"

"Okay, dear," said the older chef, once more bracing Mae by the shoulders. "Head back. Look between my legs."

Fearfully, Mae let her head dangle off the table. That horrible whirring sound began, and the spit again started moving. Slowly, it was pushing inside of her, and her shoulders, in turn, pushed against the hands of the chef. It felt wonderful, the rod sliding into her vagina. A small puddle of milk had formed on the table beside her breasts, and the pool of vaginal drippings had grown between her legs. The pigboy was squealing awfully beside her, but she only stared at the far wall between the chef's legs and focused on the pleasure.

"That's a girl," the chef encouraged. "Doing great!"

"I-" she gasped. "I wa-wanna go home…"

Pressure was building inside, and Mae wondered if what she felt was her organs moving around. A tightness came to her throat, and she wanted to cough. How her heart pounded in terror, as she realized fully that she was being skewered alive.

"Open your mouth," the chef said. "Open up…"

"Oh…God," the pigirl sobbed. "M-momm…"

"Shh," the chef tried to calm her. "Open, now. Nice and wide for me."

Mae opened her mouth. It felt like the natural thing to do. She coughed and felt like she was about to gag. Mr. And Mrs. Thompson were now crouching down by her face, telling her that she was doing a great job. In the distance came the sounds of the pigboy, squealing and choking, thrashing about on his table. With him was Ms. Kent, who couldn't bear to watch what was happening to Mae. But Mae's body remained still and peaceful. As the spike continued in, her genitals were alight in pleasure.

"Almost," observed the chef.

Mae moaned. Then she gagged. It was hard to breathe, and she coughed. She felt it–the spike coming up her throat. Thinking of the pleasure instead made it easier, and she could suppress the awful urge to choke. Trying to close her jaws, her teeth bit down on metal. It was sliding past her bite, and now she could see it: the shining pole emerging from her mouth. The spit stopped moving. The noise of the machine ended with a long hiss. The pigirl waited, fully conscious, wondering what happened now.

"And, both are alive," the bald chef announced, after checking the pigboy. "Very good. Now, I highly recommend inducing orgasm in the female. The dopamine and feel-good chemicals do wonders to sweeten the brain."

Taking up a device, the Thompsons watched as the man flipped it on. The white ball of its head hummed with vibrations.

"An easy trick I picked up," he smiled. "Once she's been spitted, simply touch a vibrator to the pole. Right here, by the vulva."

"Mmm-ggk…hakk…mmm-gak," Mae half-moaned, half-choked, as she was immediately inundated with sexual pleasure.

The spit buzzed inside, and it was unlike anything she had ever imagined. From her labia to her anus, from rectum, through to the vaginal canal, and all around her needy clit, the pigirl was simultaneously stimulated. She tensed up involuntarily, squeezing against both the spit and thermometer. With blue eyes wide, tears running down her forehead, Mae started orgasming on the objects penetrating her.

"REEA-GG-AKK" the pigirl gagged and squealed. "REA-GKK… GUKKK… REEEA!"

The humans watched the pigirl, her bound body weakly trying to move. Moaning and choking and oinking, she came. And then, everyone backed up as the poor thing started squirting into the air. The fear and pleasure had all been too much for the poor pigirl.

"This happens on occasion," the chef assured the Thompsons, standing back and holding the vibrator at arm's length. "Totally natural."

Finally, the chef removed the vibrator. Mae settled down and lay still. From her neck they unlocked the collar, as she softly whimpered. At last, she was free of the blasted compliance device! But what good did that do her now? She was already as good as dead.

The two chefs each retrieved a "perch", as they called them–metal rods they placed through holes near the base of the spits. Disengaging the pigboy's spike from the driver, they lifted and carried him to a roaster. Propping the bottom end of the pole to its hole, they lifted the pigboy vertically into the tube-shaped cooking appliance. As it locked into place, his body slid down a bit until his shins came to rest on the perch. Closing the door, the heating coils winding about the interior fired up. Squealing, the pigboy began to turn on the spit. Cooking was underway.

Mae watched as the humans approached her and repeated the procedure. Lifted and carried toward her death, she caught sight of the roasting pigboy. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Never again would she see her family, and they would never know the horrible fate that befell their daughter. Raised up, she felt herself sliding down before she stopped, kneeling on the perch. The door of the tube closed and the wires around her started to glow. The ceiling, all that she could now see, began to slowly spin. Soon, the air was hot. The pitiful sounds escaping her echoed in the confined space of the roaster.

Why am I still alive? Mae wondered. "How long will this go on? There was a smell at first, terrible and rank. But once her pretty blond hair had burned away, the aroma gradually became more pleasant. It took a while, but Mae eventually realized that what she smelled was her own cooking meat. Time lost all meaning, and the pigirl would fade in and out of reality. The heat grew to be terrible, and at last, she yearned for release. As all went dark, the last thing Mae recognized was the sound of her own sizzling flesh. Her eyes closed for the last time, and she had become meat.

​

Epilogue

The pigpersons slowly roasted all that night and following day. The Thompsons had planned a huge gathering in the evening to taste-test their potential product. The grand dining room was filled with close friends and associates, all happy to be fed a luxurious meal in exchange for their opinions.

All cheered when the staff wheeled in the huge, lid-covered serving platters. It took multiple people to lift and place the heavy dishes on the table. At the word of Mr. Thompson, the covers were simultaneously lifted away. Revealed were the succulent carcasses of Mae and the pigboy.

The meat was largely positioned as it had roasted: with body facing down, legs bent and spread, resting on the knees; rump sticking up, feet in the air; arms bent and out to the sides; heads facing forward, propped up under the chin by a halved watermelon. Set on a fresh bed of lettuce and surrounded by a variety of colorful fruits, the two centerpieces left the guests speechless. In each mouth, as a finishing touch, was placed the typical red apple. Steam rose from the hot bodies, and the sudden aroma of pork had mouths watering.

Hanging between the pigboy's legs was the impressive set of genitals, the browned testes plump and penis hard. Served beside the platter was a bowl of creamy sauce, prepared with the extracted semen. Likewise, the pigirl's labia were on full display, reddish and crisped. Within those lips, the meat was moist, pink, and tender.

The staff, sharpening their knives, set to work carving up the two carcasses. Slices of meat were taken from any area the guests wished. The Thompsons held their breath while their friends dug in, and breathed sighs of relief when only positive comments began pouring out. The flesh was succulent and juicy, the honey glaze sweet and complementary.

Watching and enjoying their triumph, the two chefs stood. Nothing was sweeter than seeing a tableful of diners gleefully filling their faces with food they had cooked. When all the guests had been served, the Thompsons insisted that the two chefs join in, and so they did.

The younger man sampled a slice of rump from both male and female and compared the flavors. Indeed, there was a difference, and he enjoyed the richer taste of the pigboy quite a bit. The milky, melted fat of the female's mammaries made for a wonderful spread, which he scooped up and slathered on a fresh slice of bread. After a few ribs from the pigboy, the man was full and satisfied.

The bald chef went for what he had been thinking about all day: a delicate foot of the pigirl. Removing it, he bit into the smooth pink sole and nibbled away at the meat. It fell off the bones, and he sucked away at the toes and heel. Those feet had been so sensitive in life, and he pondered if a correlation existed between nerve response and tenderness. The foot was flavorful and sweet, but the man was still hungry. Sticking with the pigirl, a thick slice of thigh made for a nice finish, along with a few strawberries dipped in the semen sauce.

The most important guests–the potential investors–were served the rarest cuts of meat. To them went the testicles, still juicy with sperm, and the penis, deliciously chewy. Vaginal meat was passed around, so tender and hot. But most memorable was Mae's clitoris, cored out and plated with a fancy garnish.

For dessert, the servers cracked open the skullcaps and served the guests a scoop of gray matter. Drizzled in a homemade caramel syrup, and packed full of endorphins, the diners were finally left full and satiated. Care packages were made from the leftovers, and everyone left with another meal for the next day.

All in all, a success! Zero complaints were had, and the Thompsons discussed different recipes with the chefs. A few more pigpersons would be purchased to experiment on, and a veterinarian would be put on staff to examine any pork the couple acquired independently. Other cooking methods were a topic of conversation, along with what equipment would be needed to expand the menu. There was certainly a lot to think about as the business model took shape. Mr. and Mrs. Thompson had made their fortune in one area of business already; this would be no different. A new pork empire was about to be born.

The end