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For Emma P.
I left the pub in a daze, my tummy seemingly filled with a riot of moths worshipping the flickering candle of my fear; my everyday self reduced to mere helpless observer as my brain’s capacity for rational thought melted away, drunk on a cocktail of nameless desires and nervous excitement, set ablaze by the pure white heat of animal lust.
My cunt oozed its approval.
As instructed, I followed Georgina in silence through a maze of narrow backstreets, hanging back until we reached a tiny car-park where I was shepherded towards the rear of a battered red van with the scratched-out remains of the words ‘Royal Mail’ on its sides — a retired mail-van bought cheaply at auction only weeks before, I later learned, but worked into the ground ever since.
I remember a blast of hot air almost searing my exposed skin when the rear doors were opened, an hour or more parked in the hot sun having turned the van’s interior into an oven. Then the stench hit me — the stink of rotting compost and fresh manure, rendered piquant by the tang of engine oil, creosote, piss and stale sweat.
“I really must get round to giving it a good clean out one of these days,” Georgina mused, seeing my nose wrinkle its disgust. “But then farms are just naturally smelly, so you’ll just have to get used to it.”
“I’ll take that,” she snapped, her tone firm but still amiable as she all-but snatched my little suitcase from my hand. “You won’t be needing it and it will be quite safe with me up front. Best to start as we mean to carry on, don’t you think? Livestock travels in the back.”
A sharp intake of breath as I watched Georgina unlock the sturdy wire cage that had once been used to secure the more valuable items of mail. Was I already reduced to a mere beast?
“Shoes off!” Georgina continued. “We don’t want you breaking a heel. Love your dress by the way. Shame to ruin it though, so let’s have that off as well, shall we? In fact, seeing the time, you may as well take everything off while we’re here. We’re running late.”
Georgina rummaged through her satchel-sized handbag and handed me a large, black, plastic sack and a stout manilla envelope.
“Footwear and clothing in the sack. Phone, jewellery, purse and any other valuables in the envelope. Make sure you turn off your phone and seal the envelope when you’re done. I’ll give you a receipt when we get to the farm. You’ll get it all back when you leave.
“Well? What are you waiting for?!!! Undress and hop in!”
I still can’t believe how matter-of-fact Georgina sounded. She reminded me of my Job Centre Advisor whenever the system set me a task we both knew was a complete waste of time — that same vacant smile; that same patient raising of the eyebrows while she waited for some sign of compliance; the silent assertion that it was not up for debate, just a box to be ticked: ‘This is what we do now or there are consequences’.
Even so, Georgina’s instructions hit me like a punch in the stomach. I hadn’t prepared for the possibility that my ‘holiday’ might begin before we reached the farm. And she had been right about me being painfully self-conscious about my body — a still weeping wound left by the merciless teasing I endured at school when I developed breasts while my peers still had at best only puffy pectorals. The one and only time I was induced to go on a beach holiday as an adult, I spent the entire week hiding under a beach-towel. Yet there I was being asked to strip naked, not just in front of a woman I barely knew, but in broad daylight and in public.
“What?!!! You mean here?! Now?!” I stammered. “Oh fuck! Please no! You are joking, right? Can’t we wait until we get to the farm?”
“You asked for this! No limits remember?!” Georgina reminded me. “So be a good little piggie, take everything off and hand it over … NOW please!”
So I was a pig and this my Rubicon — my point of no return! A sudden wave of panic threatened to engulf me, leaving me frozen like a rabbit trapped in the headlights of an oncoming juggernaut, unable to take my eyes off the trickle of passers-by traversing the car-park’s road entrance less than fifteen metres away; one or two glancing in our direction.
“Oh, poor piggie!” Georgina mocked. “Are you shy? Surely you must know that pigs don’t wear clothes and you, my dear, are now a pig.
“Or are you thinking you are somehow better than the last sow I transported? One rule for you and another for us peasants? Is that it? Oh my God! And here was I thinking you were joking about being a stuck-up posh bitch!
“So let me explain how this works. I have to get back to the farm now. I can leave with my van empty, or I can leave with a pig in the back. Your choice! Just stop wasting my fucking time! Either do as you are fucking told or fuck off and find your own fucking way home!
“Nobody forced you to make the promises you made and I won’t force you to keep them. But it will be your loss and I doubt you will ever forgive yourself if you bursa escort bayan chicken out and break your word and you know it!”
She was right of course. I had asked for this. Or rather, implicit in my acceptance of a place on Monkswood Farm was the understanding that my promise to submit to whatever might be demanded of me, without question or complaint, was a sort of plea to be dragged, kicking and screaming if necessary, so far beyond my comfort zones that I could never go back.
“You want this,” I told myself. “You need this,” I told myself. “It’s for your own good and you know it,” I told myself. And as my panic abated, I found myself silently chanting the mantra my best and only friend at school had taught me when she first showed me how to orgasm: “Fear is the enemy, the destroyer of dreams. Listen to your body. Dare to be happy. Dare to be yourself!”
I was still shaking like a leaf though. In fact, my hands were trembling so violently my fingers proved incapable of undoing more than the top three of the nine buttons that held the front of my calf-length, cotton dress closed, obliging Georgina to step in and undo the rest for me.
“No, you have to take it off and put it in the sack yourself,” she added, seeing me waiting for her to finish the job. “If I do it, you can claim you were forcibly stripped against your will. This way confirms your consent.”
Why oh why had I chosen to wear my sexiest, semi-sheer, black lace bra and matching frilly French knickers?
“Nice! Very nice!” Georgina purred once my dress was in the sack; her sly smile leaving me in no doubt that it was not just my underwear that she was admiring. “Keep going! Pigs don’t wear undies, now do they, sow?!”
Shaking from head to toe, I took a deep breath and forced myself to slip my bra-straps off my shoulders, but that was as far as my spinning brain would take me in terms of what to do next. In the end, it was left to Georgina to undo the clasp at the back. My heart stuttered, feeling her hot breath on my neck and bare shoulders.
Then she stepped back, shaking her head in mock disbelief, making no effort to conceal her amusement as she witnessed the embarrassingly comic spectacle of me attempting to deposit my bra in the sack with both arms clamped across my chest like an Egyptian mummy — an utterly futile attempt to cling to modesty I realised, seeing her then nod towards my knickers, knowing I needed both hands to remove them.
That was when I really lost it! Cowering between the van’s open doors with my thumbs in the waist-band of my drawers and my bare tits hanging free, I just happened to look up and immediately dropped to my knees, stifling a scream as I curled up into a foetal ball, having realised my strip-tease was being performed under the unblinking, ever watchful eye of the CCTV camera on a nearby lamp-post.
“Don’t panic!” Georgina said sternly, gently lifting me back on to my feet by my hair having obviously read my mind. “Look closely. That camera isn’t connected. There was actually a thing in the local paper all about it being a waste of tax-payers’ money after a car was stolen from this very spot.
“We are not stupid! We take good care of our livestock. Think about it! You’re no use to us in jail … or in hospital. Trust and obey … SOW!!!
“Now get those sopping wet knickers off and in the sack, before a stray dog mistakes you for a bitch in heat, then get your arse in that cage.
“Nice body, by the way. Nothing to be ashamed of, that’s for sure!”
I had no fight left in me. I did as I was told.
“Not like that, sow!” Georgina hissed, padlocking the cage behind me, watching my ungainly attempts to find some plausibly comfortable way to crouch in the far corner that did not involve letting her see right up my now exposed and shamelessly engorged, gaping cunt.
“Crawl and curl up on the floor like a good little piggie. You’ll be safer that way in any case. These country roads can be a bit bumpy.”
* * *
Georgina had been right about me being safer on the floor. No sooner were we beyond the outskirts of the town than the engine’s rattle became a scream as she put her foot down and sent us hurtling along roads never intended for anything faster than a horse and cart.
That, I have to say, was the one and only time I was truly afraid — not of what might be done to me when we reached the farm, but of dying in a tangle of twisted metal wrapped around a tree before we got there.
Georgina was not a safe driver!
By the time we arrived, I felt like a rag-doll put through a tumble-dryer, having been thrown this way and that whenever the van turned, swerved, braked or accelerated; literally bouncing on the floor for the final stretch along the rutted dirt track that led up to the farmyard’s main entrance.
“And what have we here, Mrs Farmer?” I heard a man growl when the van’s doors were eventually thrown open, leaving me momentarily blinded by a sudden blaze of bright sunlight.
“It’s görükle escort our new pig, Mr Farmer!” Georgina exclaimed, her voice as bouncy and shrill as that of an over-excited child.
“I didn’t think we were expecting another today,” the man puzzled.
“We weren’t Mr Farmer,” Georgina continued, more bubbly than ever. “It’s that posh tart I couldn’t reach to tell her the school try-out had been cancelled. As you can see, she has decided to stay anyway.”
The rush of relatively cool, fresh air into the oven in which I had been transported was so delicious my first instinct was to cling to the wire of my cage and let it wash over me, filling my lungs and to hell with modesty. Then I saw what I can only describe as a huge bear of a man peering in at me and recoiled, curling up tight in an effort to conceal my nakedness.
God knows what he must have thought of me. Laying there stark naked, no better than a caged animal in the back of the van, I didn’t need a mirror to tell me I looked a mess — my hair bedraggled where my French plait had snagged on the wire of the cage and come half undone; my body glazed with a patchy admixture of perspiration and black grime picked up off the van’s filthy floor; the darkest smudges streaked with grey where rivulets of sweat had cut through the dirt before dripping off me.
“Oh that posh humiliation slut? I remember now,” the man leered as he unlocked the cage and half led, half dragged me out by my hair, gently kicking my knees apart, until I was posed on all fours to his satisfaction on the yard’s smooth cobblestones with even the most private parts of my body vulnerably and fully exposed for inspection.
“She doesn’t look much like a shy, well bred, respectable, young lady to me, but okay, what have we got?
Georgina rifled through her handbag for a sheaf of papers.
“Emma Jane P***e … London … actually Wimbledon. Not the uber-rich bit but close. White British female … Twenty-eight years old,” she droned, reading from the form I had submitted to become Head Girl of the school, now seemingly in another lifetime.
“Currently unemployed but an administrator/secretary … some managerial experience … well educated … unmarried … no ‘significant other’ … no children … no pets …”
Georgina paused for breath: “No limits to her use and abuse of course, but she actually triple underlined the word ‘none’.
“Sexual orientation … now irrelevant. But, in conversation, she claimed to have had only a handful of sexual partners, all male, so heterosexual? No virgin anyway, but hardly a nympho. Probably just masturbates.”
I could feel even my earlobes burning with humiliation.
“Probably, but vets are entitled to their fun as well so we’ll leave Jenny to find out when she gives the sow her medical,” the man smiled.
“And is this pig serious? Genuine? Not here on a ‘suck it and see’ whim? If you twisted her arm, even a little bit, I’ll be cross. Total commitment, Mrs Farmer! That’s what we need, otherwise we’ll be the ones in the shit.
“So what do you think? Will this sow stick?” Mr Farmer growled, lifting my face with his huge, calloused hands to fix me with a stare that seemed to see into my very soul.
I lowered my eyes to the cobblestones, unable to hold his gaze, and found myself wondering what sights these time-polished stones must have witnessed and how I too was now a part of their history.
“Time will tell, Mr Farmer,” Georgina said, suddenly serious. “I know David and Allison, who found her for us, listed her stubbornness and pride as causes for concern in the reference they gave her, but I don’t think David appreciates just how much willpower it takes to submit voluntarily as completely as the farm demands.
“Proud as she is, I don’t think little miss haughty here could bring herself to quit even if she wanted to. It would be an admission of weakness, you see. You forget that I know her sort — bred and brought up to rule an empire. Stiff upper lip and all that. And if you remember, husband, I was a lot like her once upon a time, but I’m still here. I think she’ll do very nicely!”
Mr Farmer nodded, thoughtfully stroking his long, straggling beard as he did so. Having come thus far, it had never occurred to me that I might be rejected — arrogance I suppose — yet, in that moment, I sensed that to be a real possibility. I looked up and our eyes met — his still probing, mine pleading.
“Okay! Put her on the books and take her over to the vet’s place while I find Jenny and see if she can fit the sow in before dinner,” he boomed. “Jenny is staying the night, by the way. I said she could have Charlotte’s bed.
“Which reminds me! Charlotte rang to say she is going to a party up in London tomorrow night, so that’ll save you a drive. You can stay here and help Jenny instead. But can you pick Charlotte up on Sunday?”
“Of course, Mr Farmer. I’m dying to see just how evil Jenny’s new medical toys really are,” Georgina bursa escort bayan smirked, slipping a rope around my neck and pulling it tight.
“And this one’s a pig you say?” Mr Farmer chuckled, prodding my dangling tits with the toe of his boot. “Seeing the size of these udders, I can’t see her staying a sow for long once Charlotte gets back, can you Mrs Farmer? You know how our daughter is about big tits and…”
I tensed as he crouched behind me then yelped feeling a sausage-sized finger being thrust unceremoniously deep into my cunt.
“… and cunts as juicy as this one,” the man-mountain noted approvingly, hooking his finger as he continued to probe until he eventually found my special spot and sent a jolt of involuntary pleasure through my entire body.
“I don’t think I have ever seen one this sloppy wet before anyone had even touched it. Not even yours, wife!”
“Oh Jesus … fuck!” I moaned, grimacing and panting; chewing my lip in a desperate but vain effort to retain at least some control over my body once his thumb began working the swollen glans of my clit.
“Did you hear something, Mrs Farmer, or am I imagining things?” Mr Farmer enquired sarcastically, before prising open my bum-cheeks and transferring his now slimy finger to my arsehole, instantly killing the orgasm I had felt building deep in my belly.
“Oh shit!” I howled, gritting my teeth. “Fuck, fuck … FUCK!!!”
I suppose, deep down, I always knew my bum-hole would eventually be violated, but my only previous anal experience had been a self-administered, experimental probing with the blunt end of a chopstick when I was nineteen, so hardly preparation for what was now being done to me. My sphincter screamed in protest; the initial pain turning only gradually to a bearable burning sensation. I found myself suddenly in desperate need of a shit.
“Did you mean that squelching sound her cunt was making just now, Mr Farmer?” Georgina chirruped, looking down at me with that now familiar wicked grin of hers.
“I was just thinking about that. As you named the other sow ‘Piddle’ after she pissed herself in the van on the way here, I was thinking perhaps ‘Squelch’ would be a rather fitting name for this one, don’t you Mr Farmer? Or perhaps ‘Melons’?” Georgina giggled, taking her turn to set my tits swinging with a gentle kick.
Hearing Georgina using my old school nickname — ‘Melons’ — was a strange feeling. My cheeks were on fire and what remained of my everyday self just wanted to curl up and die of shame. And yet, for all that, I couldn’t help but appreciate my tormentors’ wicked sense of humour and might well have found myself joining in with Georgina’s giggling had it not been for the uncomfortably fat finger stuck up my arse.
“Squelch? I like it!” Mr Farmer chortled, withdrawing his finger in order to waft it under my nose before checking my teeth and exploring my mouth until I gagged — a cruel trick, since my natural recovery reflex after each spasm resulted in my involuntarily sucking my cunt-slime and the feint brown smear of shit from his monstrously fat digits. I was still retching and gasping for air when he withdrew his fingers completely and dried them with my hair.
“But that wasn’t the noise I was thinking of, Mrs Farmer. I could have sworn I heard a pig speaking English, assuming ‘fuck’ counts as English that is.”
“Certainly possible, Mr Farmer,” Georgina nodded. “After all, upper-class twats aren’t exactly famed for their intelligence, so perhaps the sow doesn’t know that pigs don’t talk… That they only snuffle, grunt, snort, squeal or oink.
“Of course, being more intelligent than dogs, pigs can sometimes manage to answer simple questions — one oink for yes, two for no — but I don’t know about this one.
“Well Squelch?”, Georgina coaxed. “Are you still a stupid, posh cunt, or a clever little Monkswood Farm pig?”
I closed my eyes and forced myself to take deep calming breaths. Of course, I knew what Georgina wanted and, for the sake of my ego, I am tempted to claim that I forced myself to comply. But that wouldn’t be true. I don’t really know how or why the sound suddenly escaped my mouth. It just did!
“Oink, oink! OINK!”
“I’ll go and find Jenny,” Mr Farmer concluded, his voice suddenly as warm, smooth and comforting as hot chocolate on a cold winter’s night.
“What’s for dinner by the way, Mrs Farmer? Something worthy of a special occasion, I hope. Jenny has brought us a bottle of champagne to celebrate the farm opening.”
“Why roast pork of course, husband! What else?” Georgina giggled, grinning down at the crumpled heap of naked pig flesh that I had become.
* * *
“You did well, my dear,” Georgina whispered as soon as we were alone. “Now don’t let me down. And don’t you dare fucking let yourself down either.”
I tried to nod but managed only to gasp, Georgina having taken a firm grip on both my already bullet-hard nipples in order to roll them to aching full erection before standing up and giving my rope a good, hard yank.
“Come on, Squelch! Let’s get you over to the vet’s and get you checked out.
“You will, I’m sure, be relieved to know that Doctor Jenny’s fingers are a lot more slender than those of my husband.”
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