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…Now Cathy noticed that many of her naked, bound companions had bulging stomachs.
“Any questions?” he asked.
She coughed.
“Better ask now. Don’t wait. Because you are going to be gagged from now on.”
CHAPTER TWO
It was turning into a tick: For some reason, she couldn’t seem to stop turning the ring that went in her pussy and came out her asshole. Or did it go in her asshole and come out her pussy? She “played” with her ring so much that both orifices were sore. Not only was her new habit a source of pain, it was also a source of shame. Was she secretly masturbating? What was wrong with her? At first, she had studied the other girls to see if they were “playing,” too, but none of them had a similar ring. She did notice, however, that the girl whose hands were chained to her clit seemed to be playing some guilty games of her own. Whenever the girl noticed her watching, she always looked away and then turned her back.
“Sooooeeee, pigs!” called a gruff male voice.
Cathy knew she was being summoned to the feeding. She and the other girls, some two dozen of them, all bound differently, lined up dutifully to have the ball gags removed from their mouths.
“Thank you, Master,” said the first girl as he removed the red ball.
Blond, beautiful, tall and six or seven months pregnant, this expectant mother wore a metal disk stamped with the number “1” suspended from the steel collar around her throat. On the side, her pregnancy-swollen right breast, she was branded “#1.” Her left butt cheek was branded “BR” with a circle around it. Her left butt had four short parallel lines burned into the skin. While she was playing with her ring, Cathy often tried to guess what the BR stood for. Bed Room? Bill’s Reckroom? Baby Something or Other? And what about those parallel lines? She also wondered why she hadn’t been branded. Or was it that she hadn’t been branded yet? Did she still have that ordeal to look forward to?
“Thank you, Master,” said a pretty brunette who wore a “2” medallion on her chest and a “#2” brand on her swollen right tit.
He slapped her on the butt, turning pink the skin around her four bright white parallel lines. The slap sent her on her way. She hurried to the still empty trough and knelt next to #1.
“Thank you, Master,” said #3.
Slap. Hurried steps. Then she knelt beside #2 and bowed her head, like the others, as if grace were about to be said. Although their gags were removed, the girls did not speak. Speaking was a hanging offence. Unless you preferred to have your head cut off or to be starved to death.
“Thank you, Master,” said #5.
Cathy wondered what death-sentence crime she had committed: Talking? Not producing enough babies? Not obeying one of the master’s obscene whims? #5 only had two stripes on her right ass which Cathy guessed was probably bad news.
“Thank you, Master,” said #9.
Maybe he just got tired of fucking #6, #7, and #8 and so cut off their heads. Perhaps they weren’t good in bed, not that there were any beds in this prison. The girls slept and fucked and passed their time as best they could with no furniture whatsoever except a concrete floor and bars.
(space)
“Thank you, Master,” croaked Cathy who was still having trouble with her almost-never-used voice.
If she had had a medallion or a brand, it should have read “41” – or perhaps even higher – but she was actually just the 23rd girl in line. A slap on the ass and she hurried to kneel beside the trough.
He walked over to the wall that was just bars top to bottom. Well except for the ledge that ran along the bottom of the bars, a kind of curb used by the inmates for a shared pillow at night. He reached through the bars and retrieved a tall, thin bucket that barely squeezed inside. Then he approached the head of the trough where #1 was kneeling. He poured a kind of slop – made mostly of various dog foods – into the trough from one end to the other, from #1 to the 23rd girl.
“Sooooeeeee, pigs,” he said again. “Put your snouts in there and get busy.”
“Thank you, Master,” they said in unison which was half their vocabulary. The only other words they were allowed to say were: “Yes, Master.”
The pigs’ snouts buried themselves in the slop and their ass went up in the air. The trough, which was very deep, had been designed with this posture in mind. So posed, Cathy knew what was coming. His cane struck her across the ass leaving an ugly welt. She tried to stifle her cry but couldn’t help herself. Not only did she cry out, but she then took a reflex breath which filled her nostrils not with air but slop since her nose was buried in the horrible snuff.
“Just for that,” he said, “you get three more.”
She stifled a “no” in her throat, but she couldn’t silence her screams. He nonetheless moved on to cane the others.
“Faster! Faster! I don’t have all day,” he shouted.
The slop tasted terrible, but Cathy, like the rest of the girls, gobbled it as quickly as she could get it down. The last one to “clean her plate” always got a sound and thorough caning at the end of the meal. It was a race not to win to the prize of being able to sit down for the next couple of days.
“Faster! Faster! I’m feeling especially strong today.”
Cathy gobbled faster which seemed impossible but she managed it. She could hear herself making pig noises and felt ashamed but kept making them. Then she felt the sting of his cane on her ass again. Her master was making a second round. This time she gritted her teeth and only half screamed, but she got the same three penalty strokes anyway.
The master slopped them only every other day. Which was good because the slop tasted terrible and always involved a beating. But it was bad because they were always hungry. Between feedings, they longed for the next one and dreaded it at the same time.
#10 raised her head and leaned back on her haunches. She was a big girl with a correspondingly large mouth. She almost always finished first. She looked like a big blonde Suede milk maid, especially with her hormone stoked tits. The master appeared behind her. He used a wet, dirty rag to clean her face.
“Open wide,” he said.
#10 opened her big mouth as wide as she could. He stuffed in the extra large red ball made specially for her. Then he fiercely tightened the strap that held it in place. She would have to break her jaw to dislodge it. He moved on while she sat as still as a statue.
#20 was next. She leaned back on her haunches with a great sigh.
“I hope that means you liked your dinner,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
Then her ability to speak was cut off abruptly by the insertion on a regulation-sized red ball.
Each time another of her roommates leaned back and accepted her gag, Cathy grew more frightened. She usually finished in the middle of the pack, but today she found it harder than ever to choke down the slop. All too soon, she and two others were the only ones still “eating.” With only three victims to attend, the master rained down blows on her ass with much more often. And since she could never keep from screaming, she got many more blows than the others.
Her only hope seemed to be that #31, who lost more than any other pig, would continue to lose. She had lost so often that she was actually crippled. She limped horribly around the cell. Lately the master had resorted to novel tortures since he was in danger of killing her. Or worse, she might miscarry. He caned her tongue. He caned her ears until she went deaf. What he didn’t cane was her swollen belly. But #31 licked her carefully calibrated portion of the trough clean and sat up. The even dirtier rag. The gag.
And for Cathy the terror. Trying to gobble faster, she succeeded in throwing up. Then she had to eat her vomit.
#11 sat back on her haunches and started to cry out of relief, happiness or something like it, a painful bullet dodged.
Cathy felt the sting of the cane on her still upturned ass. This time she choked down the scream, but she knew it didn’t matter. There would be plenty more screams to come. She wouldn’t be able to swallow them all.
CHAPTER THREE
He tied her to the bars, slightly bent over, her ass slightly cocked in the air. The first stroke stung but the gag choked of her scream. The second stroke hurt much worse and not even the gag could hold it in. In spite of the red ball, her screams rang out over and over in the big barred room. Each stroke hurt in and of itself, but every new stroke also awakened the pain in the older lashes. The welts seemed to vibrate together like guitar strings, and she provided the wordless lyrics. He beat her bottom until he got tired and had to sit down on the bare concrete floor to rest. He was breathing hard, but not as hard as she was. She gasped for breath and gagged on her own spit.
When he got his breath back, he turned her around and tied her with her back pressed up against the bars. Then he went to work stroking her breasts. They didn’t begin to swell until after the first dozen or so blows. But then they puffed up quickly and changed colors from red to blue to black. She kept on screaming although she knew it would do no good. Her right nipple started to bleed. She was giving blood instead of milk. Even between strokes, her tits ached individually and they ached together. Then in mid stroke, he paused, he hesitated. She distrusted the hesitation. He never hesitated about hurting anybody.
“What do you know,” he said, pleased with himself. “I’ve got a new idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”
He fished in his jeans and came up with a cheap, plastic, kerosene lighter. Naturally he was a smoker. He flicked it open and grinned at the flame. Closing the lighter, he knelt at Cathy’s bound feet as if he were a supplicant. With his left hand, he reached out and examined her pubic hair.
“A little sweaty from the pain,” he reported, “but I still think it will burn. We’re gonna have us a bush fire. Like a brush fire but it hurts more.” He blew on her pussy, moving her hair around. Then he laughed and said: “Take a deep breath.”
She did. Then she watched as the lighter’s flame approached her pussy…but stopped and pulled back. He was teasing her. Then here came the flame again. She heard her singed pubic hair popping. But the flame went away again. She exhaled. He inhaled thrust his lighter into the heart of her bush. The moist hair sputtered at first and then swelled into a tiny bonfire one her pubic mound. She screamed as her own flesh was cooked by her own hair. She felt blisters rising and popping. Her labia minora caught fire and flames danced along these lips. She strained at the ropes, strained at the gag, strained at her limits for pain and terror. She passed out but came to much too quickly to find her pussy still burning.
“Beautiful!” he cried. “The girl with the burning pussy. I think I love you.” He laughed. “Now all of you others, line up, #1 to whatever it is. Put your backs against the bars.”
As they lined up, the breeding stock began to realize what must be in store for them. He could see the hesitation in many of their eyes. They milled rather than lined up.
“Would you rather have your pussy haired burned,” he said, “or would you rather be burned to death. I’d love to pour gasoline all over you and light you up, and who’s to stop me, huh?
As Cathy’s pussy smoldered out, still aching, screaming with pain, the others lined up and were tied in order to the bars. Then he lit them all up, moving as quickly as possible, running from one to the next, so he could have them all burning at the same time.
“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, I’m an artist,” he crowed, still breathless after his race. “I should have video-taped it. Why didn’t I video tape it? Now, you pigs, shut the fuck up!” He raised his hands over his head as if he had scored a goal. “Regular Guy Faulkes Day, ain’t it?”
Cathy noticed a stain on the front of her master’s jeans: He had come while he watched a couple of dozen bush fires.
“You owe it all to number…” he began. “Come to think of it, I don’t know what her number should be. Anyway Number Whatever, she inspires me. I looked at her pussy and there it was: the whole burning bush scenario. Hey, that’s biblical, isn’t it? Sure it is. God spoke out of the burning bush to Moses. What did your burning bushes say, huh?” He looked from one to the other, as if expecting an answer. “Oh, that’s right. You’re lips down there can’t talk. Too bad. And your upstairs lips better not either or I’ll cut your head off and make it lick your own pussy lips. Probably always wanted to do that, huh? Well, now’s your chance. Any takers?” He laughed.
Even after he left, she could see them all glaring at her reproachfully, as if it were her fault they had gotten their pussies roasted. Anyway she imagined they were accusing her. Just what he wanted.
(space)
The next morning, the girls all shied away from Cathy. Whether or not she had caused the pussy burning, she had somehow excited a burning rage inside the master. She was a kind of brothel bad luck charm. They all wanted to stay as far away as possible from the violence she inspired in their captor. Not that they stopped speaking to her, because they couldn’t. But they could withdraw, and they did. Cathy felt it and felt the injustice of it. She was being shunned because somebody had burned her pussy. She hadn’t asked her to burn it. She hadn’t wanted him to burn it. And yet she was guilty of her own hair burning and all the others. Even the sense of sisterhood in this depraved harem was denied her.
CHAPTER
The next morning, the master appeared bearing tools. Cathy didn’t recognize them at first. Two things that looked like pokers from a fireplace and a giant Right Guard can.
“Yesterday reminded me,” he said, “you poor thing, you haven’t be branded. Sorry. Don’t want you havin’ and identity crisis wonderin’ who you belong to. See this?”
He held out the fireplace pokers close to her frightened face for her examination. At the end of one of these steel rods, she read “BR” but it was printed backwards. At the tip of the other was a backwards “49.” Now she understood what she was looking at.
“In case you’re wonderin’, this here means Baby Ranch. Because from now on, you ain’t nothin’ but a brood mare. Anyhow you better come up with a brood. Otherwise, you’re gonna end up as the headless mare. Maybe you could team up with the headless horseman. Go on tour.”
He was the only one who laughed. Of course, the others were gagged, but they didn’t even try to laugh.
“Now this contraption is called a blow torch,” he went right on. “It’s better’n a campfire for heatin’ up brandin’ irons.”
Now that he had identified this place as a ranch, he seemed intent on talking like a rancher, or so Cathy thought. He turned her around facing the bars and bound her.
“We’ll go with this one first,” he said.
He turned on the blow torch and plunged number 49 into its arrow-like flame. Cathy shuddered at the implications. Since the last number surviving on a living slave was 40, some eight girls had been killed since he had found a keeper. Why were #41, #42, #43, #44, #45, #46, #47 and #48 no longer alive? Were his standards ascending? Did he expect more and more from the girls to warrant their staying alive? Were her chances diminished or diminishing?
He advanced upon her. At its business end, the tip was red-yellow hot.
“Welcome to the Baby Ranch,” he said slamming the branding iron home on the right side of her helpless breast.
Cathy heard a sizzle and felt an overwhelming tidal wave of pain, pure undiluted pain, pain that made her want to die. Then she thankfully lost consciousness.
She finally woke up when he threw buckets of water in her face. He didn’t want her to miss the additional pain that was coming.
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty,” he cooed. “You ain’t finished yet.”
He untied her and turned her around. Even as she staggered and almost collapsed. He tied her, slightly bend, ass out, facing the bars. When the BR landed on her left ass, she fainted again. Was baptized again. And came to just in time to feel the searing, blistering, childbirth-like agony of 49 buring into, searing, melting her skin.
>>Alarmed, it occurred to her even more forcefully now: Would hers be a missing number the next time some poor girl was branded? How would she die? Hanging? Headless? Then worms fucking her. Happy to discover that they could easily slide through a hole connected her delicious vagina to her ever even more savory colon. Her fears for her life made this brand hurt even more than the first one.
CHAPTER
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