I sat on my front porch as I did every Sunday evening: listening, watching, waiting. My eyes stretched as far as they would carry me, to the east end of the property, where my gravel driveway disappeared into the tree line. My feet guided me absently, subtly, forward and back on my suspended hammock. I listened in vain. Nothing but the wind and the distant call of loons in the lake to the south.

Christmas comes once a week in these hills of Colorado. The stars shine bright and the sun shines brighter. Loons call in the evening, deer and squirrels and the occasional bear roam freely during the day. But I roam freest of all.

My eyes caught it the second it appeared. First the movement in the woods, then the crunch of the gravel. Then it broke free of the trees and came into full view: a black truck, maybe the size of a delivery van.

It drove the quarter mile to my porch and slowed to a stop, squeaky breaks resisting friction’s pull. A dark man in a dark suit, with a burly build and bald head, stepped down from the driver’s seat.

“Beautiful evening, Sir,” he called to me in a Jamaican accent. “Your latest shipment is even more beautiful, if I can say.”

“You can, Mr. Morgan,” I said, reaching for a handshake, “Wonderful to see you again.”

“You have exquisite taste,” he said, leading me to the back of the van. “She is a fighter, Sir. But you will break her. Of this, I have no doubt.”

He unlatched the rear of his truck and threw up the hatch. A woman stood strapped to the rear wall, naked but for a black hood. She was bound so tightly to the wall by a thin nylon strap that she bled from each point of contact.

This was mostly for her safety. Mr. Morgan lost much of our stock to poor driving. The cattle would stand, only for Mr. Morgan to dodge a pothole and toss her skull into the wall. He kept the truck in good condition. The meat, not so much.

She truly was beautiful. Her body was pale and soft. Her legs were long and shapely, and morphed into wide hips, a thin stomach and perfectly round, soft breasts. I pulled the hood from her to reveal a beautiful face and two glaring blue eyes. She was gagged, but I could see the anger in her eyes. That would be gone soon enough.

“Hello sweetheart,” I said softly. “Welcome to The Farm.”

I patted her on the cheek, harder than she may have hoped, and turned to Mr. Morgan.

“Have her ready in the barn within the hour,” I said. “Oh, and thank you for all you do. Truly God’s work.”
I shook his hand, stuck a roll of hundred dollar bills in his suit pocket, and headed back to the porch.

…
“You see, we’re mostly a self-sufficient establishment,” I said. “Generally, we only bring in new crop when we’re in a true drought. But the last few months, I’ve been in a mood. I’ve wanted to improve the quality of our stock with high quality cattle. That’s you. New cows mean new calf, mean new training, new inventory and, obviously, new stimulus.”

She hadn’t responded, but who could blame her? She was stretched tight, spread eagle, about eight inches above the muddy barn floor. Her wrists and ankles bled and her mouth was gagged, deep and penetrating. Her round ass hovered only centimeters above the floor. How desperately she wished it would touch for even a moment’s relief, I could not imagine. I didn’t care to, anyway.

But I could tell she was listening. Her eyes followed me across the room as I paced. She heard every word I said. She heard when I told her, factually, she was nothing more than property. She heard when I explained that her universe revolved around my pleasure, and the second she did not please me was the second her universe faded from existence.

“And if you’re thinking about running,” I said, “Well, don’t.”

“A4!” I yelled.

A4 marched in. She was an exotic beauty from my first crop. She stood 5’7 and 112 pounds, with perfectly shaped breasts and an ass worth dying for. She rose through the ranks of my society – in fact the only survivor from Crop A, she was, originally, a Puerto Rican salsa dancer. Now, she was mine. Nothing else mattered. She stood nude with a spiked collar that indicated her place as Sergeant-at-Arms.

She held a small hunting dagger in one hand and pulled behind her nearly dead weight on a leash with the other. A tiny blonde girl, no taller than 5’1 and no heavier than 90 pounds, dragged behind A4 in a daze. Though she was 19, she had tiny little tits not worthy of a training bra and barely a hair on her pussy.

A4 stood at attention. “Speak, my dear,” I said.

“Sir, F17 didn’t report to mess this morning. One of your soldiers found her crossing the stream four miles south of here. She tried to get away.”

I had liked F17. She was adorable and looked something like a girl I had dated in high school, so the wonderful things I did to her body had an extra twist of the immaculate. She quivered every time I spoke and still winced when I hit her. I loved her asshole. It was the tightest I had ever felt. But none of that mattered now.

“Set her up.”

A4 rushed to bind F17’s ankles to chains that dangled from the ceiling. She looped in the young blonde slave and rushed to a support pillar, where a pulley system operated the chain mechanism. I could see the look of terror on my new beauty’s face as she pieced together F17’s fate.

A4 pulled the mechanism and F17 launched off the floor, suspended upside-down, with her skull about two feet from the floor, her curly blonde hair dangling below. She physically trembled and tears dripped up from her eyes and fell to the floor below.

I spoke to my newest prize. “F17 was beautiful. She was an excellent cock sucker and would have made for a wonderful mother to my calf. But she thought she was smart.”

“See, she’s been here fourteen months. That’s about when the smarter girls go. Sure, a couple stupid cunts try to run in the first few weeks. They’re always killed on the spot. Aren’t even worth my time.”

“But F17 thought she was smart. She’s been analyzing and watching and waiting. She thought she found a weakness in my security.”

I looked F17 in the eye for effect.

“We find the dumb girls in the trees north of the lake. The normal girls usually make it across the lake – they’ve timed our patrol guards and know exactly when to cross. But F17? She’s no slouch. She set the record this year. She thought she was in the clear.” I stood over F17 and crouched down to her eye level. “But she forgets that we’re trained military operatives. And her? She’s just a stupid girl – I mean, seriously, crossing a stream in broad daylight?”

I stood up and punched her in the pelvis with all my might. I heard a bone crack and the muffled scream below. I punched again and again. I bruised her stomach and cracked ribs. I grabbed her by the pussy and shoved three fingers in, then four, then my fist and I ripped her pussy.

“Drop her!” I yelled. A4 released the pulley and F17 collapsed to the floor, her head slamming on the floorboards. She squirmed and I tackled her, shoving my dick in her asshole. “You’ve been a fun little toy,” I whispered in her ear, and grabbed the knife from A4. I watched her squeeze her eyes tight. She knew what came next. She’s seen it before.

I pummeled her ass until I was close, and then put the knife to her neck. “I’m gonna cummm!” I sliced as I fucked her tight asshole.

I shook and spasmed and came hard in F17’s dying body. What a good little cumbucket. I lay there for a minute and then kissed her neck and slowly pulled out.

“Clean up this mess,” I said to A4, “then join me in my quarters.”

“Yessir.”

I looked at my new girl. “So yeah, don’t try to run. You’ll sleep where you are tonight. Girls will be back for you in the morning. Goodnight, sweetheart.”