BDSM Library - Cow 13

Cow 13

Part 1

He sold me! Can you believe that? The bastard sold me! Well, what else should I have expected? He calls me a cow and treats me like a cow, why should I be surprised when he turns around and sells me like a cow?

Actually, it's probably a good thing, considering what he did to Emily, not to mention what he did before the trial — sending those eight girls off to be cooked alive! And I'm pretty sure he had me lined up to be next on the menu. Of course, the police raid and the "Knobscot Monster" trial put an end to that stuff, even though it was too late for poor Christina, his eighth and last contribution to the barbecues. Her and that newspaper woman died just a couple of hours before the cops arrived.

Old Tony, though, he got away through the woods, him and Eric. Mr. Thomas, who owned the place, blew his brains out, and most of the guests who was fucking us "hostesses" while Christina and the woman was roasting got put away for life. Me and the other girls was state witnesses and got off scot free, although the defense attorneys chewed us up pretty bad, saying we was degenerate whores "whose words are as easy to buy as their bodies." But when the jury saw what Tony done to his girls, the ones who pissed him off in any way, they didn't have no trouble believing we was all there against our will.

Much good it did for us to go free, though. Tony's thugs managed to grab all fucking five of us the day after they let us out of jail. They actually hogtied and gagged us, threw us in a sound-proofed truck and took us to God knows where. The trip took days, bouncing along on the floor of that fucking truck in the total dark with no food or drink, pissing and shitting ourselves and suffocating in the stench. My throat was burning with thirst. My whole body was in pain.

We had no idea what the fuck they was gonna do to us, but figured it wouldn't be good. Working for Tony and Eric had made us pretty tough, but we was all scared shitless and crying like babies by the time they finally opened those doors again. The truck had been backed into some kind of a warehouse and the first thing they did was drag us out of the truck and take off enough of the ropes so we could stand up. Then they took out the gags. God, what a relief THAT was! Emily, a stacked dark haired girl with big brown eyes, who had just turned nineteen, immediately began to complain that her shoulder was wrenched and she was in terrible pain. Tony walks up and stares hard at her.

"Jesus, Tony!" she says, "Untie me. My shoulder fuckin' hurts! I'm reeking with shit and piss. You can't treat people like this. It ain't right."

Then he whacks her upside the face, first one side then the other, and tells her to shut the fuck up. Blood wells up between her lips and she whimpers, but she don't say another word. It's too late, though. He grabs her by the hair and drags her in front of the rest of us.

He takes out a pocket knife and cuts off all her clothes, pulling them out from under the ropes. When she's stark naked, he shoves a pan between her feet and orders her to squat over it and piss. She tries, but we ain't drunk nothing for days so not much comes out, and it's pretty rank. Tony scoffs at it, pulls out his dick and practically fills the pan with his own piss. Then he pours it from the pan into a mug and while one of his goons forces Emily's head back with her mouth open, he pours it from the mug down her throat. She's sputtering, coughing and gagging, but she swallows every drop.

"You bitches hungry?" he asks.

No one moves, afraid of what he'll do next. He knows damn well we ain't eaten for days.

He smiles. "I imagine you are. Guess we better take care of that," he says, and we all have to follow him through a long corridor as he forces poor Emily along by the hair.

We wind up in the kitchen of a restaurant which is either closed or out of business. There's this huge butcher block table in the middle and Tony's goons lift Emily up and set her on the table. They untie her bonds long enough to lay her back, face up, and strap her down on it, her arms bound to the legs on one end, her legs spread with her ankles bound to the table legs at the other end. They also bind her down to the table top with ropes around her neck, belly and pelvis. She's crying from pain as they tie short pieces of rope tight around her upper arms just under the shoulders and around her thighs just below the crotch.

Her arms and legs are beginning to turn blue and Tony asks her, normal as you please, "Feeling a little numb in your hands and feet?"

She wiggles them a little and says in a whimpery little voice, "Yeah."

"Uh huh," he says, smiling evilly at her. "That shoulder still hurt?"

"Yeah," she sniffs. "Somethin' awful."

"Which one?" he asks, all commiserating like.

"The right shoulder."

"Well," he says. "Don't you worry. We'll fix that."

With us standing around the table watching, he casually picks up this big fucking cleaver, goes to her left shoulder and with a roundhouse swing brings it down just under the binding, whacking off her arm. Everyone screams, including Emily, but he just catches the arm before it flops to the floor and holds it while one of the goons unties the wrist and carries the arm, dripping blood, to another butcher block table.

"Oops," Tony says. "I got the wrong arm. Sorry about that. Don't worry, I'll take care of it." Then he moves around Emily's head and positions himself to lop off the right arm. I don't know about the other girls, but I shut my eyes. Just the sound of the cleaver smacking into the thick wood of the table made me scream. I couldn't bear to actually watch her other arm fall off. The sound was horrible enough. Two of the girls wretched, although there weren't nothing in their stomachs but nasty yellow bile.

But Tony don't stop there. While Emily is still shuddering and groaning from the horror of what he'd just done to her, he chops off both legs as well. Emily was a voluptuous girl with well-shaped muscular legs, so it took three or four solid whacks of the cleaver to cut off each leg at the upper thigh. The goons lug those off, too.

While two of the goons start skinning Emily's arms and legs, Tony takes a big boning knife, the kind with a sharp point and a curved blade, and carefully cuts off first one tit then the other, as Emily screams bloody murder. I could actually see the tops of her ribs where he scraped down deep to get all the meat. As each breast is lifted away, one of the goons presses the back of a hot skillet against the open wound to seal it. Emily screams, passes out, and is revived with smelling salts. Tony places the tits, nipples up, on a broiling pan, brushes butter on them, sprinkles on some seasonings and shoves the pan in an oven. In the meantime, another one of the goons at the other table is slicing Emily's arms and legs into filets and laying them out in pans on top of the big commercial ranges. We was all sobbing hysterically by now. The bindings near Emily's shoulders and crotch and the seared flesh where her boobs used to be kept her from bleeding to death and she was forced to watch her own meat cooked on the stoves and in the oven. When it was done, an hour later, Tony made the rest of us sit around a table in full view of Emily and eat a plateful of her leg meat. He even forced some of it into Emily's mouth and made her chew and swallow it. He had saved the tits for himself and his crew.

We had seen this stuff before, and been forced to eat the meat they took from the other eight girls when we had to whore at the Knobscot estate. But this was worse, what with Emily still alive and watching us. We was all aware, of course, that Tony wouldn't let her live long. He was just tormenting her, making her wait to die in some way that was sure to be even more painful and gross.

Tony had a cattle prod and made us eat every scrap of Emily off our plates. The only thing we had to drink with it was urine that his goons had pissed into our mugs. It was disgusting, but we was so thirsty we drank it anyway.

"What I'm doin' here," Tony said when we was finished, "is making a fuckin' point. The point is, you don't never tell me what I can and can not do. Not ever. You cunts lost all your rights to say anything or complain about anything or even think anything you're not told to think when you got up on that stand and ran your mouths off about me and Eric. You sealed your own fates when you told that jury we was there at them barbecues, or that we even knowed anything about them."

"But Tony," I piped up, being too stupid to have learned better, "your name was all through that journal Mr. Thomas had wrote. He put down all kinds of stuff about you. So how could we . . ."

I shut my mouth when Tony took a Sharpie marker out of his pocket and comes toward me with his eyes all hard and pissed off. He makes a downward slash on my forehead with the marker, and snarls, "Got any more helpful remarks, cow?"

With a quick glance at Emily, I finally clamp my stupid mouth shut and shake my head.

"I don't wanna hear a single 'nother sound comin' outta that pie hole of yours ever again. The only thing you're gonna use it for, from now on, is feedin', suckin' cock and cleanin' out ass holes. Got that?"

I almost said "yes, sir," but caught myself. I just nodded my head.

He looked disappointed that I hadn't fallen into his little trap, but he just turned to the rest of the group. "I used to treat you decent when you worked for me. Let you keep more of your earnin's than you was worth. But that's all over. When you turned traitor on me at that trial, you kissed off any chance of bein' treated like a human. All you are to me now is a set of meat cows with rental cunts. And that's how you're gonna be treated from now on. Livestock is all you are, and you'll stay alive only as long as it's worth it to me to keep you around. Now stand up and take off all your clothes! It's ridiculous to see a bunch of cows standing around with clothes on."

After we'd stripped, Tony's goons tied our hands behind our backs and locked one-inch wide metal collars on our necks. While they was doing that, Tony wrapped a much wider metal collar around Emily's neck. It was so wide it jammed up under her jaw forcing her head back. When our own collars was in place, the goons clipped a length of heavy chain to them and led us back out through the corridor and into the warehouse. An enormous wire cage had been dragged to the center of the floor and inside was two large Dobermans glaring at us like it wouldn't take much to talk them into tearing our throats out.

"See what I managed to have rescued from the animal shelter where the fuckin' court was gonna have them euthanized," says Tony sauntering into the warehouse. "Recognize them? These bad boys was the guard dogs at the Thomas estate. Remember how they loved eatin' the girl guts that Doc threw to them while he was gettin' the cows ready for the spit? Well, do they have a treat in store for them now!"

Behind him through the door from the corridor comes one of the goons carrying what's left of poor Emily. She can't weigh much, being just a head and torso. Her mouth is open and she's making gasping sounds, blood bubbling out of the holes where those big beautiful boobs used to be. The Dobermans are pacing like crazy now, but not making a sound. It's eerie!

"You'll notice these are very quiet dogs," Tony says. "That's because Doc sliced their vocal cords, like he did the cows, so they can sneak up on spies and prowlers silent as you please. Now watch this."

Tony took out his pocket knife again and without another word plunged it into Emily's upper belly, then dragged it slowly downward, right through her navel and on to where the blade ground against her pelvic bone, all the while poor Emily screaming. Her intestines bulged up through the gash. The dogs went crazy at the sound, smell and sight of it, lunging at the side of the cage! One of the goons slid open a door on the top of the cage and the guy holding Emily in his arms tossed her through it. Her body bounced off one of the Dobermans and before she hit the floor of the cage both animals were tearing into her flesh. She went on screaming as the dogs ripped out chunks from the stumps of her arms and legs. Unable to bite into her throat and kill her because of the collar, they had to be satisfied with tearing off pieces of her ass and face, and grabbing mouthfuls of her guts and other internal organs. The last thing I remember seeing before passing out was one of those big black brick faces sinking its teeth into her cunt, ripping one of the lips away from her body along with a long patch of belly skin and swallowing it in two gulps. I remember the sound of her screams fading away with the rest of the world.

When I came to, I was strapped tightly in a chair and couldn't move. Even my hair had been tied down to the back of the chair in some way so that my head was tilted painfully back and immoveable. Tony was glowering at me. I could hear the dogs still chewing on Emily's bones behind me, but it was the least of my concerns. The look on Tony's face frightened me so much that my heart began to pound and I felt warm piss trickling out of my slit and collecting under my butt.

"Too bad you missed the best part," he said, "where they went for her eyeballs and tongue, the bitch screamin' all the time. Right after she died the boys fished out what was left and took off the collar so the Dobermans could enjoy some nice neck meat.

"Now it's time to complete your conversion into a cow." He waved a jaw spreader in my face. "Open wide!"

I knew the awful thing he was going to do to me and my mind spun in mad circles. I had enough presence of mind not to say anything, but my lips involuntarily clamped shut and I couldn't hold back a whimper, my body's pathetic refusal to be brave and accept this terrible mutilation as the only alternative to ending up like Emily.

"Maybe you didn't hear me, little bitch traitor. Or maybe you'd rather Jerry ram a cattle prod up your cunt. That'll make you open wide enough. Or maybe you'd rather be tomorrow's supper for your cunt friends. I know Spot and Rover over there will sure enjoy snacking on the leftovers, now that they've tasted the other traitor cunt. OPEN UP!"

Weeping, I opened my mouth and he shoved the spreader in, cranking it as far as the tendons in my jaw would allow, putting me in terrible pain. He clamped a pair of those locking pliers that doctors use on my tongue, pulling my tongue out and holding it there with a cord attached to a toothed metal clamp on my right nipple. God it hurt!

"I learned how to do this watching Doc do it to the last six cows we sent to Thomas," he said, inserting a long handled scalpel into my mouth and down my throat. "Don't move a fuckin' muscle or I'll cut into your windpipe. Then I WILL throw you to Spot and Rover."

He looked up past me and nodded. I felt a pair of iron hands grab my ears and hold me steady while a fire erupted in my throat! I tried to scream but no sound came out, only a geyser of blood. The hands let go of my ears and undid whatever was binding my hair so I could bend my head forward and cough up the blood running into my lungs. I knew he had cut my vocal cords, but some hopeless optimist in me made me try to talk anyway, just to prove it wasn't true, I guess. But it was. No sound came out. Whatever plans he had for me next, I had spoken my last words. To the end of my life (which will probably not be long) I will be mute.

Part 2

It was at least a week before I could eat anything solid again. Tony was human enough to understand that, even though he didn't give a shit how much pain I was in. It turns out that I was only the first of the surviving quartet to be permanently silenced. That was what the mark on my forehead was about. But it's just as well. At least I didn't have to wait my turn like the others did, knowing what was coming and helpless to do a damn thing about it.

Tony was really into the cow thing, although he set it up different from what Thomas did. I remember Mr. Thomas showing us the "stall" where he kept the girls before they were brought out for roasting. It was basically a room constructed of planks with a wooden manger. He would cover the floor with straw, cuff the girls' hands behind them and chain them by their collar to the wall. They had a pail to piss in but had to shit in a corner and kick straw over their dump. He put out a pan with water but they had to stick their face in it to drink. Same with their food. He only fed them vegetables in the manger which they had to push their face in to eat.

Tony had decided that wasn't quite cow-like and demeaning enough. He had constructed a long, barn-like room in a basement area under the restaurant. The flooring and walls was authentic, taken from some old barn somewhere, and the "stalls" ran along one side of the room. There was no walls separating us cows, but there was a pair of thick wooden upright poles on the open side of the stall row for each cow. Stanchions they called them. One of each pair of poles was hinged at the bottom so it could be opened up to put our head through, then put back vertical and locked in place so's our head was trapped between the poles. This meant we had to stay down on all four like a cow, or stand up bending over. Sleeping was a bitch because it was impossible to lay down in a comfortable position. Besides which all we had to lay down on was straw. Just to make sure we didn't manage to slip our heads out of the stanchions and get a good night's sleep, he put rings through our noses (soldered shut so they couldn't be taken out) and attached them to one of the uprights with a chain. As insurance against us escaping, he kept one ankle chained to a ring in the center of the stall floor. One good thing was, he didn't cuff our hands behind us all night like Thomas had done with his cows. The only time he did that was at feeding time. We wouldn't get any food or water unless we had our hands cuffed behind us so's we'd have to eat like animals.

At feeding time one of his regular whores would come in, cuff us and shove a pan of some disgusting gruel-like stuff on the floor where we could push our faces into it to eat. A few hours later it would be replaced by a pan of water, sometimes laced with piss if the serving whore felt like being mean. I often wondered if it ever occurred to these nitwits that they was only a whim away from joining us.

And join us they did. It was hard to keep track of time in that place but it couldn't have been more than a week before two more of his working girls found themselves locked in the same row with us original four. We couldn't ask them how they got themselves put there, of course, and they couldn't speak up themselves because Tony had cut out their voices, too.

Tony's goons used us all as fuck toys, as you might guess. Them and some other guys who were maybe customers of Tony's for all I knew. Tony never fucked us. He had plenty of ass in his regular stable of whores to keep his dick lubed. I remember from my days out there, when I was still a human, that if Tony told you to strip and spread 'em for him, that's what you did. The happier you made Tony, the bigger cut you'd get from the fees and tips you brung in. If he was driving me to an appointment with a client, I'd usually be down on the floor of the car with his gristle in my mouth for the whole trip, him squeezing my tits with one hand and steering with the other.

When he told me that slicing my voice out would complete my "conversion into a cow," I hoped he'd forgotten one other of Thomas's little cowmaking tricks. But he didn't. Maybe it just took him a while to have a branding iron made up to look like he wanted. Anyway, when he finally got around to it, there was six of us in the cow stalls and he decided to brand us all on the same day to save time. He'd also sold tickets to the show! There was a dozen guys who'd paid to watch us taken one by one from our stanchions, bent face down over a table and strapped down, legs tied to the table legs and asses up and ready. I was the third in line to be branded and the air was already filled with the smell of cooked flesh from the two girls before me. I hoped I'd faint when that red hot iron burned into me, but I didn't. He held it there against my right ass cheek as he counted off five full seconds, the longest fucking five seconds of my life! I'd never knowed such terrible pain! My body tried to scream, but only a loud raspy whisper came out, like sandpaper scraping on the end of an old tin can. Then, with the burns still fresh and us in agony, we had to get down on our hands and knees so the johns could fuck us, slapping their pelvises against our burned asses as they reamed us. Jesus Christ, did that hurt!!! It was the first time I was happy to be led back to my stall and stick my head in that fucking stanchion.

From then on Tony branded his new cows before he slit their vocal cords so he could hear them scream.

After that first branding, Tony come up with another idea. Using an awl and a block of wood, he punched holes in our nipples and cunt lips and installed rings, using solder to make them permanent (with the extra bonus of causing us horrible pain). From then on when we was taken out of our stalls, they'd clip a leash to one of the rings. It was obvious that it wouldn't take much to tear any of those rings right through the flesh, but Tony made it clear that if one got ripped out, they'd just use another, and if we managed to tear out all four, we'd be meat.

Right after we'd all been fitted out with tit and pussy rings, he decides regular names was too dignified for a herd of cows, so he gives us numbers. He didn't want to give anyone the distinction of being Cow No. 1, so he started the numbering with the first eight who'd been butchered at the Thomas estate before the trial. I happened to be fifth in line that day in the stanchions, so I come out as number thirteen. And that's what I've been called ever since. I'm just Cow 13. Lucky me.

Part 3

Us cows never got taken out for exercise, only to service one or more of Tony's clients. Sometimes a whole group. Tony made no bones about why we got no exercise. He said he was tenderizing us for the meat market. He hinted they was mostly Asian and claimed he could get big bucks for us at some auction that was coming up. I gathered there was some kind of underground association of rich businessmen who had worked up a taste for fresh girl meat and were willing to part with lots of cash to see young women snuffed and roasted, especially pretty, well endowed white chicks. Like me.

In the meantime, he figured having us fucked once or twice or even fifteen times a day wouldn't spoil the tenderizing process and would help pay for our upkeep. (What upkeep? Fifty cents a day for barely edible food?)

Aside from nursing on cocks and being pulled along by our tit leash to the shower or to a room with a mattress upstairs to spread our legs or ass cheeks for a client, the most exercise we got in a day was trying to twist our bodies over the fucking slop bucket so we could piss and shit in it with our head stuck in the stanchion.

We wasn't even allowed to wash ourselves. A goon would chain our wrists to a ceiling ring in the shower and scrub us down with a stiff brush that hurt like hell. He would pay special attention to our cunt and tits, of course, and sometimes fucked us right there in the shower if he felt like it. The one they called Jerry was especially sadistic. He was fond of making me cry by fisting me or twisting my rings viciously. He also liked to ram a prickly cucumber up my cunt, then eat it. Or he'd shove a big carrot up my ass and get it all covered with shit, then make ME eat it.

Sometimes, if the goons was busy elsewhere, one of Tony's street whores would shower us. Some of them was as sadistic as the men, but mostly they was a lot nicer to us. One of the lezzies, an older woman named Sam, probably in her late twenties, would wash me real gentle, then kiss and lick me all over. She'd kneel down, drape one of my legs over her shoulder and lick my pussy till I came six or seven times! I wouldn't have minded hanging in that shower all day if she'd keep licking.

But that's how it went. Day after mostly silent day. Surviving each day one at a time with my head clamped between wooden poles, useful only as a place to stuff stiff sausages and foreign objects for the amusement of the paying public and no-neck handlers. Hoping against hope for rescue while waiting to be auctioned off for meat.

Every time the door to our make-believe barn banged open, I prayed it was another platoon of cops like the ones who busted the Knobscot bunch, only this time arriving BEFORE it was too late. But it was not to be. Wherever this place was, none of these girls was about to rat out Tony. I suspect that he had wised up and stopped threatening them, maybe even paid them to feed us. God knows how he explained us to them. The new cows coming in seemed more confused and scared than pissed, so I suspect he was having his goons snatch girls off the street — runaways and whores from rival pimps. But of course, none of us could talk, so who knows?

There was twelve of us in the barn the day they come for us. Cows 10 through 21. Tony put every damn one of us up for sale. He'd pretty much stopped being pissed at us original four so there was no singling us out to sell to the meanest bidders, so far as I could tell. We was just merchandise like the others. The whores that had been feeding us was there in the warehouse where the auction block was set up. They spent some time trying to make us look human again, more attractive, before the bidders showed up. They combed and fixed our hair, put makeup on us and made sure we was clean and smelled nice. They even let us brush our teeth and rinse out our mouths.

Before the bidders were let in, we was led to a long rail and tethered to it by our tit or cunt leashes, our hands cuffed behind us. There was seven bidders, but only three looked Asian. Two was women. They all paraded by us, feeling our tits and legs and asses, checking our teeth and hair. One guy stuck a finger up the cunt of every one of the girls, checking for tightness I guess.

For some reason we'd been lined up along the rail according to height, and that's the order we was auctioned off. I was third to go, being one of the shortest. The bidding was in English, which surprised me because the bidders had been yammering among themselves in totally weird languages. And I was amazed at the prices they were bidding!

The first girl, a shy little thing with light brown hair, a nice figure and cute little tits, went for $7,500. The second girl was more full bodied, but not fat. Her boobs were average but firm with pointy nipples. Her best feature was her face — really pretty with bright blue eyes set off by black hair. She fetched $12,100.

Stupid as it sounds, the only thing I was thinking about was how humiliating it would be if I got a lower bid. I did have a few things going for me. I was one of the few natural blondes in the lineup and I've never had any complaints about my face and figure, especially my 38C boobs. But I was blown away when one of the two women bid $20,000 for me. I actually felt flattered. At first. Then, as they led me off the auction block by my tit leash and out to the shipping section it hit me. I'd just been sold like a fucking animal! But what would I be used for? Fucking or eating?

Part 4

The woman who bought me is dusky with big round dark eyes and black hair, and she's definitely not Asian. I don't speak no languages but English (although now I can't even speak that!) but I've come to recognize Spanish when I hear it. She also bought Cow #17 who's about three inches taller than me and lovely with green eyes and long brown hair, but not as much in the tit department. The two of us was loaded into a black van with windows tinted so dark you can't see in. We was chained to the seats by our ankles, wrists and around our bellies.

A nice looking man sits down next to me. He's what you'd call swarthy with black hair and eyes that make your clit tingle. 'Course I don't know at that point what they're gonna do to me, so I'm swinging through a series of moods, from anger to despair to straight out scared shitless.

"Are you comfortable?" he asks.

No one's come close to asking me that since the trial. I figure he's being sarcastic, that it's just a way to slide into some kind of sadistic way of making me miserable, but what can I do? Frustrated by fear and helplessness I bust into tears and nod yes at the same time. Then an amazing thing happens. He pats my hand.

"Don't be afraid," he says. "We're not going to hurt you. Not unless you cause us trouble. We're just taking you to your new home. Are you going to be a good girl?"

I nodded vigorously, eager to ward off whatever punishments they dealt out to their newly purchased girls.

"That's all we ask," he said. "Can you read and write?"

I glanced at him, feeling a flicker of anger at the implied insult. But I looked away quickly, hoping he don't see it, and nodded.

He laughed. "Many of the girls we buy can't, you know. So you can, and that's all the better for you. If I unlock your wrists and give you a pen and pad, will you write something for me?"

I peered over at him carefully, trying to decide what kind of trap this was. I had been a cow for so long, being treated like a human felt all wrong. But there was no question of answering No to any demand. I nodded again, cautiously.

He began unlocking my wrists. "Here's what I want you to do. I want you to write about how you got into this predicament. How you got to be Cow 13. What it feels like no longer being human, just an animal to be used for profit."

I gave him a "what? are you kidding?" look.

He just laughed. He finished freeing my hands and puts a spiral notebook and pen in my lap. It's cold against my naked thighs. "Go ahead. Show me you can write."

So the first thing I write is the thought that's been foremost in my head since I went up on the auction block.

He read it and laughed. "Of course. But not until you've worked off your purchase price and turned a decent profit. In fact, as long as you're more of a money maker alive — a cash cow, so to speak — I'm sure Mrs Q. will keep you in stock. It's just business."

<It's my LIFE!>

"But that's of no consequence to Mrs Q. You're her property. She can do with you what she pleases."

"Your owner."

<No, I mean . . .>

He clamped a hand over mine, a surprisingly gentle hand. "She's your owner. That's all you need to know. You will do whatever she wishes or suffer the consequences."

"I am your handler and work for Mrs Q. If I report to her that you are insubordinate and troublesome, she will simply sell you to a snuff club."

"Certainly not. Not for parties. It's far too risky. She sticks with sex. The authorities are easy to buy off in the sex industry. The drug lords handle things like snuffs and girl roasts. That's what they do best — torture and killing."

"Because Tony is reliable and druggies and goons are not. Tony's a businessman and the men he works with are pros. The girls his men grab are runaways and prostitutes. They aren't even missed till it's far too late to track them down. Besides, at the moment Mrs Q is interested only in his cows. They're muted, branded and tenderized. Her meat clients love that. Regular girls she can buy cheaper elsewhere. Tony's cows can be used in a brothel for three or four years, clear a three, four hundred thousand dollar profit, then be sold for meat at special barbecue parties."

"Or a week. Depends."

"On Mrs Q. She's a business woman. While she can make money off you, she will. But if you're worth more to her for some other specific purpose, say to buy favor from a powerful official who has requested you for his next girl roast . . ." He waved a hand, dismissing my sorry ass.

"She listens to my advice. This is a project that could prove profitable for her."

"Among other things."

I bit my lower lip and looked away.

"What's the big problem?"

<I'm afraid>

"Of what?"

"What do you mean?"

"Not at all. I want to read your perspective on what has happened to you. On what's happening now. Write what's true. No punishment. I promise."

"I'm not Tony. I have a use for your thoughts. I count them as valuable."

"A special cow. A cow who is more or less literate."

I sat for a while, afraid to continue this conversation. But it felt so good to be able to communicate with someone again, and he was so kind looking, I wrote in small letters:

<I'm still scared you'll hurt me if I write what I'm really feeling and thinking. Why would you want me to do that if you don't plan to punish me?>

"Okay, let me be perfectly frank. I'm going to publish a novel on the internet about a girl like you who's been turned into a cow waiting for slaughter. I'll edit your material and fix the spelling, take out anything libelous or legally problematical. It will appear to be only a story. Fiction. But if you're any good at all as a writer, it should be riveting and sell a bundle."

<I CAN spell!> I wrote indignantly. <I won a spelling bee in the 7 ^th grade>

"All right." He patted my hand. "That will make it easier."

"Certainly not. You'll be dead and eaten by then, so why would you care?"

"No one. I promise. Of course if you just write condescending shit, I'll simply tear it up and throw it away. I want raw truth. Otherwise, I'll take away your writing materials and you'll be mute again."

As I thought about it, I realized I wanted to tell my story more than I wanted to live another three or four miserable years, even if no one ever read it but this man beside me. But I had to try one more attempt to bargain for my life.

He hesitated. "Maybe. But as I said, Mrs Q makes that decision."

"That's right. She does. But she also makes the final decision, and it won't be based on how much she likes your writing, but, rather, on whether you're worth more to her as a writer or as meat at a banquet."

I knew I was beaten.

<OK>

"Okay what?"

<I'll do whatever you want. You and Mrs Q.>

"Of course you will. You're a good cow, Number 13. Docile and compliant." He put his left hand on my pussy and slipped a finger inside. His right hand wound up on my nearest tit. "And these like to be milked." He began gently rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, making it harder so that it jut out even more than usual. Soon he had my clit tingling and everything in there real slippery and I stopped caring about how much longer before I'm snuffed or who will do the honors or how.

And that is how this recollection of my days as a cow got started. I've been writing non-stop while this SUV bounces along to God-knows-where. After bringing me off about ten times, Mr ? (I don't even know his name!) got up and started talking to Cow 17. Probably making her the same offer. But who gives a shit? I'll probably never get to read this stuff anyway when and if he ever does publish it in his book. I'll be long gone — cooked and digested.

But it don't matter. Even if it's all just a trick to give my new owner an excuse to punish me, it makes me feel better to be writing this stuff down, to be able to talk, if only with a fucking pen. It helps me remember that once I was human.

Part 5

"I'm tired of livin' and scared of dyin' . . ."

Funny how some words stick in your mind. Those go back three years to 8 ^th grade, my last year in school before I run away, when they put me in an old fashioned musical play about a boat and a bunch of slaves. Now I'm the slave, and I feel the same way. Tired of living, scared of dying.

I wrote all that earlier stuff in one day riding in that SUV with windows so black I could hardly see out. Cow 17 wrote for a few minutes, too, after Mr Nameless gave her a pad and pen, but I guess she don't have much to say.

The SUV part of the trip ended in another warehouse. Cow 17 and me was brung to the middle of the warehouse where they had a table and a bucket waiting. Right there in front of a bunch of warehouse workers they bend us over the table and give us three enemas, the men standing around grinning at the show. They must've put in 3 gallons at a time, until we was crying and on the verge of exploding! We shit ourselves empty into the bucket till nothing comes out but the soapy water they put in. Well, I thought to myself, at least I won't be shitting myself during this trip. In fact, I might not poop for a week!

After that, we was cleaned up, tied up, and laid out in long wooden boxes. They lashed me down so tight I couldn't even wiggle. It was awful, like being put into your coffin while you're still alive! I guess I was kinda wild-eyed. I know I was shaking bad. So one of them puts a blindfold on me so I can't see where I am before they nail the lid on. It helped a lot. I don't think I would of been sane at the end of the trip if he hadn't done that. At least we didn't have to be gagged, us having no voice box and all.

It was a long, long trip. Some of it was in a truck I guess, because we bounced along all hot and stuffy. Some of it was in airplanes where it was icy cold and it sometimes felt like we was falling off a cliff. The whole time we got nothing to eat or drink, just like when Tony grabbed us after the trial. Only then I was sure he was gonna torture us in the most horrible way he could think of and then kill us. Now I didn't know what to think. I know they're gonna kill me sooner or later, but maybe it'll be later. It's what they might do to me in between that makes my skin crawl

When they finally pried open my box, lifted me out and took off the blindfold, I found myself in still another warehouse. This time there was no truck inside, just lots and lots of boxes of all sizes, stacked up all over. The door to the warehouse was open and it was dark outside. And hot inside! Both Cow 17 and me was staggering, barely able to stand up after what seemed like days in those boxes, unable to move, except to wiggle our fingers and toes. A couple of men — big, swarthy guys — helped us stumble around in circles, keeping one arm around us (and both hands on our tits) until we could walk proper again.

Then they called in warehouse workers from other parts of the building, spread out a dirty blanket on the floor, laid us down on it side by side and proceeded to organize a fuckfest. They was all laughing and pointing and talking in a foreign language which I later find out is Spanish. I didn't understand a word, but it was pretty obvious they was trash talking us like guys do everywhere when they gang bang a couple of whores. I had boners in both my southern channels as well as in my mouth. By the time they ran out of spunk and had to get back to work, I had sperm all over my face, boobs, belly and thighs. My handler was careful to take a rag and wash all the most obvious cum crust off my body, although the stuff kept drooling out of my pussy and down the inside of my leg as they cuffed my hands behind me and led me out of the warehouse by the tit leash. He loved that leash and kept yanking on it to see me wince and lurch forward to keep up.

Cow 17 and me were led along the side of a very long building, sometimes on tarmac and sometimes on a gravelly dirt surface that hurt like hell on my bare feet. The men seemed to take great pleasure in making us trot faster on the pebbles and sharp bits of rock. It was dark, but you could see it was an airport. I could make out the shapes of aircraft beyond the dim lighting at the side of the building. It was plenty hot and humid, too. I began to sweat from the excursion and pain. Remember, I'd been standing and lying around "tenderizing" for weeks. The amazing thing was, we went by lots of people, and although some gawked, nobody questioned why two naked, handcuffed girls was being dragged along by a leash attached to their tits. Wherever this was, it sure wasn't America. Not even Florida.

Eventually we come to a white panel truck. They slid the door open and pushed Cow 17 and me in, leaving the leashes to drag at our feet. The inside was bare metal except for a wooden bench along each side. The door slammed shut behind us, leaving us in pitch blackness. I heard the lock click. We found each other in the dark and sidled over to one of the benches, sitting down and pressing close together for comfort and physical support. I think that was the moment it really struck me just how cruel it is to deliberately destroy a person's voice. There was so much we wanted to say to each other facing that terrible unknown, and yet we couldn't utter a word. We just held hands behind our backs as the truck rolled out and began the last dark leg of our journey.

This time it didn't take all that long. Twenty minutes maybe. When the truck stopped and the door slid open, two guys jumped in and quick as lightning wrapped blindfolds around our eyes. I don't know why. Where the hell was we gonna run? Painful tugs on the fucking tit leash got me off the bench and out of the truck.

Thank God the driveway was asphalt because my feet was raw from the last walk.

I only had the feel of the surface under my sore feet to clue me in as to where we was being taken. The harsh asphalt surface turned to smooth, cool concrete, then to wood and finally to carpet. Men kept yelling things at me, but I didn't understand them, so they would yank and twist at my tit leash and slap my face. Someone touched me with something that was almost as painful as the branding, so I knew it must be a cattle prod. I jumped and wept and hopped in circles, totally frightened and frustrated, until finally someone grabbed both my upper arms and pulled me backward up against a rail of some kind and lashed my cuffed wrists to the rail. Then they left me alone.

Other things were happening at the rail and in the room around me, but they hadn't removed the blindfold and the jabbering was incomprehensible, so I just stood there and hoped someone wasn't about to cut my throat.

Finally the blindfold was whipped off. I looked around, amazed! There was a whole row of us tied to that rail — all girls around my age or maybe a bit older, I'd guess fifteen to twenty years old. Some looked defiant. Others looked scared shitless.

Then she comes in. Mrs Q. herself. Cool and haughty that one. She walks along the whole row of us, holding a clipboard that she's tapping with a riding crop. Some men are following her. She goes back to the beginning of the row, looks at the first girl, appraising her closely, and says something in Spanish to the men. They release the girl from the rail and hustle her off. God knows where!

She does the same to the next girl. And the next.

Then she comes to me.

"Cow 13," she says to the men. One of them writes something. She says something else and they turn me roughly to look at my brand. They laugh and make another note. One of them uses a finger to see how deep it's burned. She says something else and they raise an eyebrow, looking at each other. Suddenly she hauls back and whips me hard across the breasts with that riding crop. I open my mouth to scream but only a whoosh of breath comes out. The men nod appreciatively. Then smile. I know what they're thinking. We can torture this bitch and no one will hear . She says something else and two men behind them step up, untie me from the rail, grab my tit leash and lead me away.

They lead me down a corridor to the door at the end. It opens into a long corridor lined with doors made of heavy wire, like a hurricane fence, or fencing at a zoo. I got the impression of being in a kennel. Behind each door is a cell, some empty, others filled with naked young women. Mostly they're sitting or lying on mats that take up most of the tiny space in the cells, staring at us as we parade by. Some are asleep. Others are lounging at their cage door. A few are squatting on toilets. The toilets have got no seats. Just a bowl. One of the inmates is scooping water with her hands from the toilet and drinking it. Another is propped up against a wall eating something from a small bowl, fishing it out with her fingers. I notice there's a slot at the bottom of each cell door just large enough to slip a bowl through. I also notice that there's a plaque beside each door with a number, and under it a bracket with a name hand wrote on an insert card. Some of the doors are standing open with no one inside.

We reach an open door and my escort (guard? handler? whatever he is) brings me to a stop. The plaque tells me this is cell number 147. Under it the name "Cow 13" is on the insert card. The guard unclips my tit leash, takes off the cuffs and shoves me into the cell. The door slams shut behind me.

The first thing I notice is this pad of paper and a pen laying on the mat. The second thing I notice is how clean the cell is. I can smell soap and disinfectant.

I test the mat with my foot. It's softer than the cement floor, but just barely. Still, it's a lot better than straw on a cow stall floor. It reminds me of like the mats they used in gym class for tumbling at school. The best thing is I won't have to stick my head in a stanchion. Gotta look on the bright side.

I sat down on the mat cross legged and thought about things. On the one hand I was happy to be upgraded from barn animal to sex slave. I've been fucked hard both with and without permission for as long as I can remember, so forced whoredom is no big deal. On the other hand it's only a temporary reprieve from being meat. I definitely don't look forward to being slaughtered or, worse, roasted alive. Maybe, I decided, there's a way out of this if I just stick it out long enough. Hope springs eternal, even in Hell.

So I picked up the pen and paper and began to write. But now I'm sleepy. It's not like I was able to sleep nailed in a wooden box. Maybe I'll wake up and it'll all have been a fucking dream. Or I'll be dead.

Part 6

I don't know how much time has gone by since I last wrote. When they woke me up and hauled me off the mat, they took me to the shower room where they cleaned me up, then to a client room where they chained my ankle to a bed. I serviced eight or ten guys with a guard looking on to make sure they only got what they paid for. A couple of the clients just got a hand job, but got to spurt in my face. Three got blow jobs and came in my mouth. The others got into my pussy and pounded me raw. But the guard made all but one of them wear a condom. When I was put back in my cell, the pad and pen was gone, but there was a bowl of food.

After days of not eating, I wolfed it down. They didn't give me nothing to drink, which is how I found out why that other girl was drinking from the toilet. That's the only water we get around here.

I soon discovered that I wouldn't get no more food unless I pushed the empty pan through the door slot into the hallway. When meals come, they're always the same thing: mostly rice, but mixed with what I suspect is table scraps from somewheres.

There ain't no windows in the cell block or in most of the rooms where the clients fuck us, so I've lost track of how long I've been here. The lights in the hallway are always on, and the meals don't arrive on any kind of regular basis, so that don't help at all in trying to figure out one day from another.

All I know is, it was a long time before this pad and pen arrived on my mat again. Obviously Mr NoName don't want a day-to-day journal. But I guess he was happy enough with the last stuff, so I'll write more.

He said he wants to read about how I feel. Well I'll say this: the dungeon room scares the shit out of me. See, they got this room where clients sometimes take me that's equipped with all kinds of terrible stuff for hurting the girls. The clients who've taken me in there have spent a lot of time doing painful things to me — like sticking long pins into my tits and scraping the points on my bones until I faint. But a lot of the girls who get taken there are horribly mutilated. I've watched guys slice off a girl's nipples, shove wood rasps and barbed wire up their cunts till they're gushing blood, drill holes in their teeth, yank out their tongues with pliers, slice off their eyelids and make them eat them, stick red hot coals up their vaginas, you name it! I've noticed that it's the older women who get maimed the most— the ones in their mid and late twenties who look like they've been around the track a few times, if you know what I mean. Maybe Mrs Q figures they're not worth taking up space any more, because I've also noticed I never see them again. Their names disappear from beside their doors and a new young girl appears in the cell.

I think I know what happens to them, too. The meat scraps that get mixed into our bowls of rice have a very distinctive flavor. I recognize it from the barbecues on the Thomas estate. The next step for those girls is to be slaughtered and cooked.

I think Mr NoName was right. I'm being spared in the dungeon because Mrs Q wants to keep me in fuckable condition for the regular clients so she can continue to make money off me, or because she wants me to be an attractive specimen for roasting whole over a barbecue pit. Or both.

The hardest part, at this point, is not knowing what's next. So far, my writing has not resulted in my punishment or snuffing, so I'm a little bit encouraged that Mr NoName meant it when he said he really wants to hear about my feelings. On the other hand, they could come for me at any time. Whenever I hear footsteps in the corridor my heart skips a beat then speeds up. But now that I've started, I can't shut off the words. The only reason I want to go on living is that I'll get to say a little more about the horror these people have perpetrated, even though I'm pretty sure no one will ever read it. Except Mr NoName, of course. Does he care how much I'm suffering? I doubt it.

I'm remembering my first customer here.

After the shower, they led me to an upstairs room and handed me a cheap dress to put on. Nothing under it. Then they shackled me to the bed by my right ankle.

My first customer was a burly guy who stunk like a goat. He took one leering look at me, grabbed my dress at the neck and ripped it off. He took off his own pants, releasing a medium size boner, and pointed at the bed, yelling things in Spanish. I took a wild guess that he wanted me to lie back and spread my legs, which I did. In a moment he was inside me, pumping wildly and grunting. The guard had made him roll on a condom so I didn't feel the hot semen against my cervix. Instead, he pulled out as he softened and slipped off the used rubber, dumping it's contents on my belly. Other customers after that dumped their condoms on my face or over my breasts. One guy tied it off and took it away with him. To impregnate his fat wife? Who knows? Who cares?

I found out something else, too. The reason this place is so clean, they have women come around and scrub everything down now and then, especially the toilets. Which is why I can drink from it without gagging. (The toilet don't have a tank, by the way. Just a valve that lets in flush water. And it'll only flush every so often. One learns to shit only when absolutely necessary, and only after a long drink of water.) I think the women do this as part of a punishment, but I never give any trouble so I've never been punished. So far.

Part 7

Another pad and pen! Thank you, thank you, thank you, whoever you are! I go crazy day after day (or is it week after week) with nothing to do but wait. Wait for my bowl of gruel, each little bit of meat imbedded in the rice reminding me that I'll be in there one day for some poor girl to eat. Waiting to be taken to the showers so I'll be nice and clean for the next dozen pigs who want to stick their tool in me or make me drink their piss. Wait for the next trip to the dungeon so some snarling sadist can put me on the rack and stretch me till my shoulders and hips dislocate, then flick cigarette ashes into my mouth and stub it out on my tits or cunt. I try to remember whether my life was better or worse in a cow stall.

I just got back from a really scary party. Maybe that's why this pad arrived on my mat. He wants me to write about it. Okay. What else do I have to do? Count my toes? Lap water out of my toilet? Stare at the cement block walls and diddle myself? Why the fuck not?

The reason it was so scary — at the start — was that it was the first time I've been allowed out of the building since I got here. I remembered that Mr NoName had told me that girls were taken to some other place to be snuffed for roasting. So what the hell was I to think?

There was eight of us girls. The guards cuffed our hands in front of us, put shackles on our ankles and hobbled us out to a waiting panel truck. They had to lift us into the truck because we couldn't step up. The shackle chain was too short. Then they locked the doors. Like we was gonna escape? Nude and shackled hand and foot? They sat us on benches along each side of the truck.

There's a no talking rule in this place. No girl's supposed to talk unless spoken to by a staff member or client. ('Course it don't mean much to the cows from Tony's, since we can't talk no more anyway.) It's one of the things you get punished for around here. But, of course, the girls do it anyway. Like, they whisper to each other around the corner of their cell doors when there's no guard in the corridor.

When the truck starts up, the two guards in front begin jabbering with each other in Spanish and the girl on my right leans close and whispers something in my ear. She's a slim thing with light brown hair and beautiful dark eyes. Her tits are kind of average, maybe 35 B, but she's really young and attractive in a wholesome kind of way.

"You're one of the cow girls, right?" she asks.

I look at her. Being called a cow girl sounds a lot better than being called a cow. I nod.

"I mean," she says, "I saw your brand. Jeez! That must have hurt like hell!"

I nod again.

"Wow!" she says. "Cow girls can't talk because they cut out your voice, right?"

When I nod again she says, "Shit! Can't you even whisper."

I try it. "Only a little." But the look on her face tells me it don't come out very clear.

"What I hear," she says, "is some girls don't never come back from this place they're takin' us to. You know anything about that?"

I shake my head, staring at my knees. Of course I do! But in the first place I can't make myself understood. And in the second place, how can it brighten her day to know that we might be dead within a few hours and cooking over a fire?

"I'm from Iowa," she says. Where are you from?"

For some fucking reason I burst into tears at that point and she looks away. She don't ask me again. And that was the high point of the day.

When we get to the party, we're lifted off the truck by the guards and led immediately to our jobs. Mine turns out to be acting as a kind of decoration. I'm lashed to a cross and crucified with three others to form the points of a quadrangle around the party site. Thank God we wasn't nailed to the crosses (I can only imagine how horrible that must be!). It was terrible enough to hang there for hours. It became impossible to breathe after a while unless I pushed myself upward by my feet which was bound to the sharp point of a wooden cone. Then, after a while, my trembling legs would collapse and I'd be hanging by my wrists again until my lungs demanded more air. Up and down. Up and down. For hours! The skin of my back sore from rubbing hard on the wood cross.

In the meantime, one of the girls who was serving the partygoers as a bargirl was selected by the partygoers as their choice for entree. Next thing you know, she was strapped down, sliced open, degutted and put on a skewer for roasting alive. I cried as the roasting went on and the guests got drunker and drunker. My pain on the cross was only a pittance compared to what she went through before she died.

So there you are, Mr NoName and Mrs Q. Is that what you hoped for?

Part 8

Another pad and pen. Is this good news or bad?

It's been many weeks, probably months since the last time. I must of fucked and licked five thousand cocks and assholes since then. My cunt, mouth and tits are constantly sore. About every tenth customer hauls me into the dungeon to string me up, tie me down, flay me with whips, cane me raw or hang terrifying weights from my nipples and cunt lips that near tears them off! Usually the arrival of writing materials means something new is happening and Mr Nameless would like my reaction to it. The "something new" could be a welcome change, or it could turn out to be my worst nightmare. But at this point I'd welcome most any change.

I just got back to my cell from being banged by two brothers. ("This is my brother" was one of the two English phrases they knew. The other was, "you fucking whore.") Their brotherly thing was for both of them to do me at the same time, constantly changing holes. They kept a grueling round robin going for an hour until they had both come twice, always unloading it in my mouth so I could swallow it. Cum has become a staple of my diet here. That and rice mixed with girl meat. Oh, and don't forget piss. About one in ten clients wants me to be a toilet. There must be two hundred girls in this place. Why do the pissers always come to me?

I don't suppose I should complain too much, considering it's one of the things that's keeping me on the outside of the oven. Shit, I spread my legs often enough for Tony's clients, and that was just for the chump change Tony let me keep. After the first dozen times for money, the sex don't mean nothing. Fucking is fucking whether it's paid for or free. Sometimes I could even get an orgasm if the guy was nice to me and not too ugly.

Jesus! I hear boots clomping down the hall. They're probably coming for me. It scares the shit out of me because I feel so helpless. Whatever they got planned for me, good or bad, there ain't a fucking thing I can do about it.

Page 2

There's fourteen of us in the truck this time, including Cow 17 and two other cows I don't recognize. Mrs Q must of bought them recently off Tony. I knowed right away they're his because they've got his brand on their ass. They've also got his rings in their noses, tits and cunts. And they can't talk.

One of the girls sitting next to me in the truck told me their names are Cow 68 and Cow 72. Looks like Tony ain't had no trouble finding stray girls to haul in, turn into cows and sell. And the cows are probably only the tip of the iceberg. Knowing Tony and Eric, they probably got three or four dozen new whorehouses and out-call services in operation by now, all staffed with runaways and single moms trying to feed their families with what Tony gives 'em from working their pussies seven days a week. And once Tony gets his claws in 'em, they're too scared of his goons to try running out on him.

From what I hear being whispered around, Tony and Eric are now big time suppliers of sex slaves to buyers all over the world, including the Middle East market where white American girls are hot sellers for raping, torturing and snuffing.

It's hard to write with this fucking truck bouncing around so much, so I'll stop until we get to wherever we're going.

Page 3

The truck dropped us off at a different place than before. It's a big honkin' mansion way the fuck out in the woods with acres of lawn, lots of fountains and a high stone wall all the way around. There's already a lot of people here, all babbling in different languages, and more coming in every minute.

I'm a decoration again, thank God, but this time I'm on a great long, wide table, squatting cross-legged in the center of a huge platter surrounded by vegetables, fruits and flowers with four chains from my collar and two more from my knees locked to ring bolts in the table around the platter so's I can't stand up and can barely move. There's two other tables set up alongside mine, three tables altogether, and all set up with platters in the middle and a girl chained down to the platter. Cow 17 is in the platter on one side and Cow 72 is in the platter on the other side, with me in the middle. Both Cow 17 and 72 have their arms bound behind them with their elbows together, which forces them to thrust their tits out where the guests can pinch and twist their nipple rings. Me they did different. My wrists are cuffed and attached by chains to the table so's I can write with the pad in my lap, but I can't raise my hands high enough to fend off the guests who want to play with MY boobs (which are the most popular because they're the biggest). And I'm not talking gentle love twists! These guys love to make a girl cry. But if that's all I'm here for — to look sexy, write and get my nipples twisted by crude foreigners — it's OK by me. Could be a lot worse.

Cow 68, a pretty little brown eyed girl with a trim body and a gorgeous pair of legs, is now hanging from her ankles from a kind of scaffold on the lawn not far from what looks like a huge barbecue pit. Not good news for her! Her arms are also strapped together elbow to elbow behind her back and her legs are spread wide, so she's in the shape of a Y. This gives the guys easy access to her girl holes and ass, and believe me, they've come up with all kinds of stuff to ram into them. She's got an O ring strapped into her mouth and her head is right about crotch level so some of the cruder types can whip out their tool right in front of everyone and stick it right in there to get it hardened up. They like to shove it deep and make her gag.

There's been plenty of fruits and veggies pushed up my cunt, too, as well as the other two cows. Thing is, I can grope in there and pull most of mine out again, but they can't. God knows how full their vaginas must be of olives, radishes, cherry tomatoes, pickles, jalapinos, shrimp, sardines, baby carrots, grapes and other crap.

Five of Mrs Q's girls are on their backs on the lawn, spread eagled and staked down in a star pattern, ankle to ankle. They serve double duty, both as a decoration and a set of fuck holes. Some guys, after getting hardened up with the hanging cow, take their boner over to the star and work their way around it, fucking each girl until they get off, usually over some girl's face.

Like us cows, the girls in the star are stark naked. The six other girls are dressed in skimpy maid outfits — short black and white mini skirts, high heel pumps, braless under a short vest not quite connected in front — and are serving drinks and snacks to the guests, along with feels of tits and pussy.

There's quite a crowd here, and almost as many women as men. The women are mostly young and sexy while the guys look pretty damn tough. There's a lotta laughing going on, but I wouldn't wanna cross any of these guys. I notice none of the women complain when their man gropes them in front of his buddies, or decides to dip his weenie into one of the girls in the star cluster, or grabs a maid and pulls her into the house (where I'm sure it ain't to watch TV).

This is so much like the scenes back at Mr Thomas's estate that it's real scary! But from what I can see there'd only be room enough in that barbecue pit for one girl and Cow 68 looks like the likeliest candidate for that.

Any position you're forced to hold for hours becomes painful after a while. I've been here for hours in this forced squat and it's becoming agony. The guests are getting real drunk, too, and starting to really hurt us.

To help take my mind of the growing pain, I've been doing some figuring. These three tables are really huge! I figure the can seat at least twelve to a side and two at each end. That's twenty-eight per table. Three tables makes eighty-four. That's just about the number of party goers circulating around this place. As the alcohol flows some of the women are shedding their tops or bottoms or both, giving Mrs Q's girls competition for the men's attention.

I fight off my increasing suffering by remembering that I've endured worse. I think the most painful hour of my life so far took place in the dungeon when I was the plaything of a particularly mean client who nearly cost me my tongue. The asshole hogties me, stretches my tongue out with pliers and drills a hole in it with a fucking cordless drill. He puts a thick ring through the hole and runs a heavy fishing line through the ring, threading it over a ceiling pipe. Then he stands me up, my forearms bound together behind me, and pulls the line taut, making me stand on tiptoes to keep my tongue from being torn out. He ties off the cord on a wall cleat. The bastard makes me stay like that, my calf muscles and tongue turning to fire, while he pokes needles in me and whips me with a cat and a singletail, and hangs heavy weights from metal toothed clips biting into my nipples and cunt lips. But the pain from the clip teeth was nothing compared to the molten agony in my calves. I started dancing, hopping from the toes of one foot to the other trying to get relief. All I got, of course, was double the pain in the supporting leg and horrible cramps. This went on and on, tears streaming down my face, while the dungeon guard (who's supposed to protect the "inventory" from serious damage) is looking on and saying nothing. I guess he figured yanking the tongue out of a dumb cow who can't talk anyway is not serious. The creep! The client finally got bored with it and took me down to torture me in other ways. My tongue was so swollen up and sore it didn't work right for a long time. I couldn't even eat!

Damn! Some guys just came over to the tables and injected some milky colored stuff in all our tits with huge fucking syringes, the needles as thick as nails. Three times they stuck them in each breast! They did it on the underside, probably so the holes won't show. God! My boobs fucking hurt!! Like they're on fire!!! But I notice they're bigger and firmer than they was before, so I guess that's why they did it. I bet I've gone from size C to E!!! Jesus God! They're aching like crazy!

Oh shit. Something's going on over by Cow 68. Everyone's gathering around over there.

Oh fuck! Shit shit shit! It's what I was afraid of. I'm gonna be sick!

They've slit open her stomach and are pulling out the guts. She's wriggling like a worm on a hook. Now they've rolled out a short table. They've taken her down and draped her face down on the table, her legs hanging off one end. They've strapped her down tight. Oh fuck! Here comes the skewer. They've put the point of it in her cunt and are screwing and pushing it up through her. She's going into convulsions. They've pulled up her head and the spit is coming out her mouth, all bloody. Now they're wiring her arms behind her back and her legs to the spit. They've put a rectal bracket up her ass and bolted it to the spit so she'll turn with it. Two beefy guys have picked up each end of the spit and are carrying her off to the barbecue pit.

Page 4

I can't tell if the poor girl is dead or alive at this point. She's turning slowly over the fire while they baste her with brushes.

It don't make sense. She's just a skinny little thing, no more than five feet tall. Probably don't weigh more than a hundred pounds. She ain't got near enough meat to feed this size crowd. Unless she's just a side dish.

O God! I gotta puke. I can't watch this.

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I managed to keep from vomiting on my note pad.

But I've been thinking. One scrawny cow won't feed this many people. But three voluptuous cows will. Is that why we're on platters? Are we more than decorations?

Cow 68 has been roasting all afternoon while the party has been getting crazier. The happy drunks have been slobbering all over the girls in maid costumes and fucking the girls in the star pattern relentlessly, usually pumping jizz all over their faces. The mean drunks have been twisting my tits so hard I've fainted a couple of times. Same with the girls in the star, except their tormentors have better access to their southern parts, too.

Oh shit. A guy with a knife has just stepped up to Cow 72 on my right. She's terrified, poor thing. A crowd is gathering around her table. She's a honey blond with creamy skin, deep brown eyes and a cute face. She's a little wide in the hips, but most guys in the real world would focus in on her outstanding hooters. These guys, on the other hand, are releasing her from the chains holding her to the platter and standing her up. They've unbound her arms from behind her and are tying leather thongs around her upper arms near her shoulder, and around her thighs near her hips. O God! I've seen this before! I don't want to look, yet I can't help myself.

They bring her over to that same little table they used for Cow 72, now roasting over the fire. One no-neck brute holds her right arm on the table while another holds her body in a choke hold about a foot away from the table. A third guy with an electric saw steps in and — oh shit!!! — saws right through her arm. The tightly wrapped thongs keep the stump from bleeding.

They turn her around and do the same thing to her left arm. Then to both legs! They cauterize the stumps with a hot fry pan. Her bucking, limbless body is then plunked on the table and they take a knife to her breasts, slicing them off and cauterizing the gaping wounds the same way. Next they flip her over and carve off both her rumps, searing the wounds with the hot pan. Jesus! This is almost exactly what Tony did to Emily! The pain must be incredible!

In the meantime, the table where she has been the centerpiece until now is pulled apart in the middle. Under where the platter was is a hole split in half by the opening of the table, and under the hole a plastic bin with a wooden cone in the bottom. What's left of her body is lowered into the bin, her cunt impaled on the cone. The table is then closed together around her neck so that the only part of her showing is her head. Another split dish is brought in and closed around her neck. They decorate it with parsley and such so that it looks like her head is on a platter. But the head's alive! She'll be watching herself eaten by the guests.

Now attention is turned to Cow 17 on my left. They're doing the same to her, cutting off her arms, legs, breasts and ass. I can't bear to watch but I can hear it. And the bastards are standing around cheering! Oh Christ! There she is! Her head is on the fake platter in the center of her table, like Cow 72 on the other side. She's crying. Great wretched sobs. One of the maids has laid out a linen table cloth on the table with a cutout for Cow 17's head. Another one is setting out plates and tableware and wineglasses.

O my God! Now they're coming toward me!!! It's not fair! I done everything they asked! It's not fucking fair!!!!

Part 9 Epilogue

In spite of what she said, Cow 13 wasn't all that great a speller. I had to do a lot of editing to make the preceding material readable. But I hope her first-hand report of life as a property — first of Tony, then of Mrs Q — has proved interesting to you. We have translated these notes into Spanish and Arabic, but this original English version is the most authentic reflection of this particular cow's last thoughts. I am a bit disappointed that she didn't really give us an in depth look into her emotional state and the fear she must have felt as she awaited her inevitable death, but then, one should not expect too much from a semi-literate prostitute who only completed the eighth grade.

I find it surprising that she remained in denial about her fate for so long, given that I was entirely up front with her right from the beginning. Perhaps I should have told her prior to her second party that she was scheduled to be slaughtered and cooked. I didn't because I wanted her to enjoy the suspense of not knowing, of wondering when it would be her turn to die. She did get to watch the other cows being butchered first, but strangely, she failed to realize as she watched that it was deliberately staged as a preview of her own butchering. I'm afraid she missed out on most of the anticipatory excitement of knowing she was to die. Once she had been reduced to a head on a plate, she could no longer report her emotional state, of course, except by her eyes. Interestingly, most of her facial expressions registered anger rather than fear.

I did her the honor of seating myself at her table directly in front of her so I could dine on her as she watched. She didn't seem to appreciate it at first, in fact seemed downright churlish; but when I told her I did it to protect her from the uncouth morons who like to torture the living heads — grinding cigarette butts out on their eyes, that sort of thing — she settled down.

The chefs had set up a lovely presentation at each table, each living head surrounded on four sides by one of her legs, an arm and both breasts — all roasted to perfection. The rest of her meat was presented sliced and laid out in geometric patterns on beds of parsley and red peppers. I helped myself to one of Cow 13's delightful breasts, the skin and nipple wonderfully crunchy and the meat tender, sweet and succulent. I must admit, injecting mother's milk into them before harvesting really enhances their flavor.

In fact, I'm happy to report that every one of her cuts was absolutely delicious, just what one would expect of prime sixteen-year old girl meat. I offered her a taste of herself, but she declined. She looked rather horrified, I must say. No doubt it's because Tony made one of the cows eat her own meat in front of the others as part of her punishment. Cow 13 may have thought I was punishing her. I think I cheered her up, though, by reminding her that her leftovers would help nourish the more than two hundred girls Mrs Q keeps in her stables at all times, so none of her meat will go to waste, including the rib meat and organs we harvest later.

After dinner I paid her a salute by finding her right hand among the scraps (fortunately no one had chewed the crispy fingers) and kissing it gallantly in front of her. I also did her the favor of cutting her throat personally, rather than letting the cartel bozos kill her in more imaginative ways. She was a plucky little cow, I'll give her that. She didn't flinch. She was looking straight at me with those amazing blue eyes, her lower lip quivering only slightly as the blade sliced through her carotid arteries. A single, sweet little tear slid down her right cheek as her lights went out. It was really an inspiring sight.

UPDATE:

All four cows we slaughtered at the Bogota party at which Cow 13 was served were every bit as tasty as Tony had promised, so since then we have purchased dozens more from him. We have come to appreciate how well Tony prepares his cows and the quality of their meat. We especially appreciate the disabling of their voices to eliminate annoying complaints and noise during their stay at Mrs Q's and throughout their processing, no matter how frightening and painful it may be for them.

I am pleased to report that Mrs Q has just purchased thirty-four new girls from Tony for our extensive network of pleasure establishments. All of these new acquisitions are young, lovely and well trained. In addition, she has purchased twenty-two meat cows for upcoming snuff parties at our worldwide banquet facilities. All twenty-two are exceptionally pretty and well proportioned beauties. As always, they will be available for personal services at our Bogata pleasure house prior to shipment to the banquets. Please arrange with our desk manager or at any of our pleasure facilities for official invitations to any of the next round of banquets. Requests for participation in the slaughter of a particular cow will be honored for an extra fee, circumstances permitting.

All major credit cards accepted.

Cow 13

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