Wanted to extend Joe’s cattle drive snippet in Carl’s style.
Attempt 1:
Outline for Completing "Cattle Drive" in the Style of Carl Bradford's Stories
The completed story would adopt the first-person perspective from the female protagonist's viewpoint, emphasizing her internal conflict, growing arousal amid humiliation, and eventual acceptance of her submissive role, as seen in "The Substitute" (Gwen's evolving fantasies and self-sacrifice) and "Fraternity Girl" (Patricia's journey from debt enslavement to fulfillment). It would incorporate literary conventions like the standard slavery world disclaimer at the start, detailed sensory descriptions of physical examinations/grading, power dynamics in dialogue (e.g., dominant characters using clinical, livestock-like terminology, akin to Sam's grading sheet in the fragment and market scenes in "Same Old Halloween Costume"), explicit erotic elements without moralizing, and a resolution where temporary enslavement leads to personal growth or deepened relationships, mirroring the positive outcomes in "Fraternity Girl" and "The Substitute." Assuming "Sabbatical in Slavery" follows a similar pattern of voluntary/temporary indenture for experiential purposes (based on its title and references in related threads), the story would frame the protagonist's summer as a "sabbatical" in slavery, blending farm/ranch realism with fantasy humiliation. The narrative would be divided into no more than 3 sections for pacing, with breaks marked by time jumps or shifts in setting, focusing on buildup, immersion, and climax/resolution without unnecessary subplots.
Section 1: Dorm Room Conditioning (Setup and Temptation)
Expand the fragment's dorm interactions over orientation week and into the semester, building the protagonist's fascination with Sam's ranch life through escalating "play" sessions. Include daily "grading" rituals where Sam inspects and documents her body (echoing auction prep in "Fraternity Girl"), introducing light bondage, Horny Juice analogs (e.g., aphrodisiac lotions), and mock training exercises like slave yoga or oral practice on props. The protagonist's internal monologue would detail her arousal, self-doubt (e.g., contrasting her "princess" city life with Sam's rugged dominance, similar to Gwen's marital reflections in "The Substitute"), and growing addiction to the fantasy. Culminate in Sam's formal invitation for a summer "sabbatical" as volunteer slave livestock on the ranch, with the protagonist signing a temporary FINO contract for the experience, leading to a section break as she arrives at the Lazy M.
Section 2: Ranch Induction and Training (Immersion and Breaking)
Shift to the ranch, where the protagonist is stripped, collared, microchipped, and branded (drawing from branding scenes in "Same Old Halloween Costume" and "Fraternity Girl"), treated as one of the "head" in group slave quarters. Describe her daily regimen: enemas, butt plug training for "handling," group inspections by wranglers (including public fondling and arousal tests, akin to market displays in "The Substitute"), and chores like mucking stalls while chained. Incorporate interactions with other slaves (e.g., city "dudes" on vacation as wranglers, using her sexually under Sam's supervision) and her conflicted pleasure-pain responses. Build tension with Sam's protective yet dominant role, echoing house mother dynamics in "Fraternity Girl," ending the section with prep for the cattle drive as a break, heightening anticipation.
Section 3: The Cattle Drive and Auction (Climax and Resolution)
Depict the multi-day drive to Billings/Fargo: the protagonist driven naked in a herd through rivers and trails, whipped if straying, with vivid descriptions of physical exhaustion, exposure humiliation, and forced sexual services at campsites (paralleling party degradations in "Same Old Halloween Costume" and brothel fears in "The Substitute"). Include a "grading stop" midway for official USDA inspections, amplifying her objectification. At the auction endpoint, she's displayed and "sold" symbolically (temporary bid for experience, not permanent), but Sam buys her back low to affirm their bond. Resolve with her return to college, transformed—perhaps continuing a consensual D/s relationship with Sam—emphasizing empowerment through submission, as in the redemptive arcs of Bradford's protagonists. End with a teaser for potential future sabbaticals.
Part2 initial draft:
The ranch smelled like dust, horse sweat, and something sharper—fear-sweat, maybe, or the faint metallic tang of oiled leather restraints. The Lazy M sprawled across dry Montana hills, all weathered barn boards and endless sky, no trees to soften the edges. When Sam’s truck finally rattled to a stop in the gravel yard, I stepped out barefoot, still in the thin sundress I’d worn from the airport, feeling like I’d been dropped into someone else’s fever dream.
Sam didn’t give me time to gawk. “Strip,” she said, already moving toward the barn doors. No preamble, no ceremony—just the flat command of someone who expected obedience. My hands shook as I pulled the dress over my head, the fabric catching briefly on my hair before I dropped it in the dirt. Bra next, then panties. The late-afternoon sun hit my skin like a slap; I crossed my arms instinctively over my breasts, but Sam clicked her tongue once, sharp, and I let them fall.
Inside the barn the air was cooler, thick with hay dust and the low murmurs of other girls already in place. Six of them, naked, collared, wrists cuffed behind their backs, knelt in a loose semicircle on clean straw. Their eyes flicked toward me—curious, assessing, resigned. One, a tall redhead with faint whip marks across her thighs, gave a small nod like welcome to the club.
Sam clipped a heavy leather collar around my throat before I could draw breath to protest. The buckle clicked shut with finality; a small brass tag dangled against my collarbone, already engraved: Property of Lazy M – Temp Volunteer – #47. She pressed a cold scanner to the back of my neck; I felt the quick sting of the microchip injector, then the dull throb as it settled under my skin. “Official now,” she muttered, almost gentle. “USDA’s got your number.”
Next came the hallmark. Sam heated a small iron in a portable forge—nothing elaborate, just a simple Lazy M brand, no bigger than a quarter. I was bent over a padded sawhorse, wrists and ankles strapped wide. The heat kissed my right ass cheek first, a warning sear, then pressed firm. I yelped, bucked; the iron hissed against skin. When she pulled it away, the smell of singed flesh mixed with the barn smells. It hurt less than I expected—more shock than agony—but the mark throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a permanent reminder that summer was no longer optional.
Training started at dawn the next day.
Mornings were for conditioning. We lined up in the wash rack—concrete floor sloped for drainage, overhead hoses. A wrangler named Travis, broad-shouldered and sunburned, worked the line with clinical efficiency. Cold water first, then soap that stung my freshly branded skin. He scrubbed everywhere: between legs, under arms, inside. When his gloved fingers pushed past my labia to clean deeper, I gasped; he only grunted, “Hold still, stock.” My body betrayed me anyway—nipples tight, clit swollen despite the chill. Travis noticed. Of course he did. “Responsive,” he noted aloud, like he was grading produce. “Good for drive work.”
Enemas followed in the same rack. Bent double, strapped, nozzle inserted while Travis timed the fill. I whimpered through the cramping, tears mixing with water on my cheeks. When he finally pulled the tube and ordered me to release into the drain, humiliation burned hotter than the brand. Yet the ache between my thighs only deepened.
Afternoons were for plugs and posture. We practiced “presentation”: knees wide, back arched, hands laced behind neck so breasts thrust forward. Wranglers circled, correcting with crop taps—light stings on thighs, harder ones on ass if we sagged. Sam oversaw most sessions, her voice calm but unyielding. “Chin up, shoulders back. You’re not hiding tits—you’re offering them.” When my form slipped, she’d step in herself, one rough hand cupping my mound, thumb circling my clit until I trembled on the edge, then withdrawing. “Earn the touch,” she’d say. “Earn it on the trail.”
Evenings brought the wranglers’ rotation.
The third night, Travis chose me.
The bunkhouse was dim, lit by a single bulb. I’d been chained to a low ring in the wall—collar linked short, wrists cuffed to a spreader bar at ankle level so I knelt with ass presented, thighs spread. The position left nothing hidden. Travis entered without knocking, boots heavy on the plank floor. He didn’t speak at first—just circled me slowly, calloused hand trailing over the brand, then down the curve of my spine to rest possessively on one cheek.
“Been watching you squirm all week,” he said finally, voice gravel-rough. “Figured you needed breaking in proper before the drive.”
He unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness. The sound made my stomach clench. When he freed himself—thick, already hard—I felt the first real flash of fear mixed with something darker, wetter. He didn’t rush. One hand fisted my hair, tilting my head back so I had to meet his eyes. “Open,” he ordered.
I did.
He fed himself in inch by inch, stretching my lips, my jaw. The taste was salt and musk; I gagged once when he hit the back of my throat, but he held me there, waiting until my eyes watered and my throat relaxed. Then he fucked my mouth—slow at first, then deeper, faster. Drool slicked my chin; my cunt ached untouched. When he pulled out abruptly, strings of saliva connected us. He moved behind me.
No warning—just the blunt head pressing against my entrance, then one hard thrust burying him to the hilt. I cried out, the sound muffled against my own arm. He was big, stretching me wide; each stroke dragged over every sensitive spot until my legs shook. His hands gripped my hips, thumbs digging into the fresh brand so pain flared bright alongside pleasure. “Tight little stock,” he grunted. “Gonna milk me good.”
He didn’t last long—maybe he’d been waiting all day. A few more punishing thrusts and he came hard, flooding me deep. When he withdrew, his spend trickled down my thighs. He wiped himself on my ass cheek, patted the brand like I was a good horse, then left without another word.
I stayed chained like that for another hour, dripping, aching, branded inside and out. When Sam finally came to release me, she only crouched, wiped the mess from my thighs with a rough towel, and murmured, “You took it well. Tomorrow we start real herd training.”
By the end of the second week, the routine had settled into my bones: inspections, plugs graduating in size, group yoga where we held stress positions until muscles screamed, public arousal checks where wranglers fingered us in line to test responsiveness. I stopped flinching at the casual handling. Stopped pretending the constant low-grade arousal wasn’t pleasure. The other girls shared stories in whispers—some here for debt, some for thrills, a few like me, chasing the edge of what they’d only fantasized.
Sam watched it all, protective in her way. She never fucked me herself—not yet—but her touches lingered longer each day: a thumb brushing my nipple during inspection, fingers tracing the brand like she owned the mark. “You’re shaping up,” she told me once, voice low. “Prime potential. Just need the drive to prove it.”
The cattle drive loomed closer—fifty head, rivers to cross, trails to endure. I was no longer the city girl in cashmere. I was #47, marked, plugged, conditioned. And when the day came to move out, I would walk naked among the herd, wrists shackled to a chain line, Sam riding drag with her whip coiled at her hip.
Ready.
Cattle drive fun
Re: Cattle drive fun
Attempt2:
Part 1: The Dorm Room Awakening
In this introductory section, set on a college campus in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is normalized for debt, voluntary indenture, or experiential purposes, the narrative follows a first-person perspective from the protagonist, a petite, urban-raised freshman named Emily (the "city girl" or "princess" from the fragment). Drawing from the college and fraternity themes in "Fraternity Girl" and "The Substitute," Emily arrives at Boston University with aspirations of academic sophistication, only to be paired with her dominant roommate, Sam—a tall, rugged farm girl from Montana specializing in "Slave Ag" (agricultural handling of slaves classified as livestock). The fragment is incorporated verbatim as the core of this part, detailing their initial encounters: Sam's bold entrance, her casual references to slave grading and handling, Emily's growing fascination with Sam's stories of ranch life, the revelation of Emily's "grading sheet," and the teasing invitation to join a summer cattle drive at the Lazy M ranch.
Key events build tension through explicit, sensory descriptions of Emily's arousal and humiliation, such as when Sam clinically appraises her body like livestock, injecting elements of objectification and power reversal similar to the training sequences in "Breeding the Pony Girl" and "Sabbatical in Slavery." Emily's internal monologue reveals her secret online fantasies about slavery, mirroring the submissive desires in "The Substitute" and "Same Old Halloween Costume." The part culminates in Emily's tentative agreement to volunteer as a "dude ranch guest" pretending to be a slave for the drive, signing a temporary indenture form (non-binding but with real risks of extension for debt or misbehavior), echoing voluntary self-indenture themes. Sam arranges her transport, emphasizing the ranch's protocols for "breaking" high-strung city girls into obedient "cattle," setting up themes of degradation, livestock classification, and erotic submission.
Part 2: Ranch Conditioning and Grading
Shifting to the Lazy M ranch in Montana, this middle section intensifies the humiliation and training motifs from Bradford's works, treating Emily as part of a herd of voluntary and debt slaves. Narrated with vivid, first-person sensory details—focusing on the sting of whips, the chafe of shackles, and hormone-induced arousal akin to "Horny Juice" in "Fraternity Girl"—Emily arrives stripped, collared, and caged for transport, recognizing the reality of her "pretend" role. Sam, now in her element as a licensed wrangler (with USDA credentials for slave livestock), oversees Emily's integration into the program, drawing from pony girl training in "Breeding the Pony Girl" and obedience school brainwashing in "Fraternity Girl."
Key events include: Emily's public grading at the ranch vet station (measurements, responsiveness tests, and a "Choice" brand on her buttock, with nipple piercings for control leads); mandatory slave yoga and conditioning classes led by ranch hands, incorporating mantras of submission and group demonstrations of oral and anal service (overcoming Emily's initial resistance, similar to Gwen's arc in "The Substitute"); a "breaking" session where Emily is harnessed as a pony girl for cart-pulling drills, gangbanged by wranglers as "temperament testing," and punished with quirts for hesitation, blending pain and pleasure. Interwoven are moments of compassion from Sam, who "studies" Emily privately, fostering a complex bond like Josh and Patricia in "Fraternity Girl." Jealousy emerges as Emily envies more seasoned slaves' ease, leading to her deeper embrace of subservience. The part ends with the herd's preparation for the drive—shackled in a barn, injected with arousal enhancers, and briefed on the route to Billings for auction or shipping—heightening anticipation and themes of dehumanization as livestock.
Part 3: The Drive and Redemption
The climactic section depicts the multi-day cattle drive to Billings, emphasizing themes of endurance, public exposure, and ultimate empowerment from "Sabbatical in Slavery" and "Same Old Halloween Costume." In first-person style, Emily narrates the grueling trek: naked slaves chained in a coffle, herded by horseback wranglers (including Sam) through rivers, trails, and towns, with whips cracking for stragglers and nightly "use" by dude ranch guests paying to "wrangle." Explicit scenes detail river crossings where water soaks bound bodies, evoking vulnerability; roadside inspections by locals, including fondling and impromptu breeding demonstrations (Emily paired with a "stud" slave for fertility testing, tying into "Breeding the Pony Girl"); and a storm-forced camp where Emily submits to a group session, finding liberation in her loss of agency.
Complications arise when Emily's temporary indenture risks extension due to a "misbehavior" fine, mirroring debt spirals in "The Substitute," but Sam's advocacy reduces it. At Billings' market, Emily is displayed, graded "Prime" after her "breaking," and nearly auctioned before Sam buys her out with ranch funds, revealing her affection. The resolution echoes Bradford's happy endings: Emily returns to college freed but transformed, pursuing a Slave Ag minor under Sam's mentorship, with consensual playdates involving collars and whips. The narrative closes on themes of self-discovery, where submission strengthens identity, with Emily reflecting on her "premium" value as both slave and free woman.
Part2:
The bus from Boston to Billings took thirty-two hours, but the real journey started when I stepped off in a dusty parking lot outside a truck stop just past the Montana border. A black panel van waited, engine idling, windows tinted so dark they looked like voids. The driver—a wiry man in a faded Lazy M cap—didn’t speak, just jerked his thumb toward the open side door.
Inside, three other girls already waited, naked except for the thin canvas hoods pulled over their heads and the steel collars locked around their throats. Their wrists were cuffed behind them in heavy transport restraints, ankles shackled with just enough chain to shuffle. One trembled visibly; another sat with eerie stillness, knees together like she’d done this before. I hesitated at the threshold until a rough hand—Sam’s—pressed between my shoulder blades.
“Clothes off, princess,” she said, voice calm but final. “Protocol starts now.”
My fingers shook as I peeled off the hoodie, jeans, bra, panties. The air inside the van was warm, thick with the smell of sweat and metal. Sam took each item as I handed it over, folding them neatly into a plastic bin labeled EMILY - TEMP INDENTURE. When I was bare, she clipped a temporary tag to my collar: white plastic, printed with bar code, my student ID number, and the words VOLUNTARY GUEST - LIVESTOCK SIMULATION - 90 DAYS MAX.
“Hands,” she ordered.
I crossed them behind my back. Cold steel clicked around my wrists, tighter than I expected. The ankle cuffs followed, chain rattling softly with every shift of weight. Sam guided me to the bench seat, buckling a wide leather belt across my waist that pinned my arms in place. A final strap went between my thighs—not tight enough to hurt, just enough to remind me I couldn’t close my legs fully.
The van doors slammed. Engine growled to life. We rolled.
For the first two hours, no one spoke. The hood muffled sound, turning the world into a soft roar of tires and breathing. My nipples hardened against the cool air vents; every bump in the road jolted the chain between my ankles, sending little sparks up my spine. I could feel the other girls shifting—small whimpers, the clink of metal on metal. My own body betrayed me quickly: dampness slicked my inner thighs, the strap rubbing just enough to keep me teetering on edge without relief.
When we finally stopped, gravel crunched under boots. Doors opened. Fresh air rushed in, carrying dust and sagebrush. Hands—multiple now—unbuckled me, hauled me out. The hood came off last.
We were at the Lazy M vet station: a long, low concrete building with fluorescent lights and stainless-steel exam tables. Five more girls waited in a line, already processed—nipples pierced with heavy steel rings, linked by short chains; buttocks stamped with fresh temporary brands (a simple “LM” in red ink that would fade in weeks); microchips freshly implanted under the skin behind their left ears. Wranglers in denim and chaps moved among them with clipboards and scanners.
Sam led me to the head of the line. “New arrival. City stock. Voluntary, but treat her standard.”
A vet tech—older woman, no-nonsense—snapped on gloves. “Up on the table, girl.”
The surface was cold vinyl. I climbed up, knees drawn to my chest until they pushed them apart into stirrups. Measurements came first: height (5’3”), weight (112 lbs), bust-waist-hips (34-24-35). Calipers pinched skin at strategic points—thighs, belly, breasts—while the tech muttered numbers into a recorder. “Prime candidate. Good muscle tone, low body fat. Responsive tissue.”
Temperature probe next—rectal, quick and clinical. Then the speculum, cold metal spreading me open while a light shone inside. “Cervix healthy. No anomalies.” Lubricant followed, warm and slick, fingers probing deeper. I gasped; the table creaked under me.
“Vocal,” the tech noted approvingly. “Good for training feedback.”
Sam stood at my head, one hand resting possessively on my shoulder. When the nipple clamps came out—steel with adjustment screws—I whimpered before they even touched me. The tech twisted each one slowly until I arched, tears pricking my eyes. “Pain threshold moderate. Nipple sensitivity high—recommend weighted rings for conditioning.”
The piercing gun clicked twice. Sharp sting, then dull throb as heavy rings settled into place. Sam threaded short chains through them immediately, clipping the ends to a overhead bar so I had to arch my back to ease the pull.
“Brand or stamp?” the tech asked.
“Stamp for now,” Sam decided. “She’s still pretending this is temporary.”
Red ink, hot stamp pad, firm pressure against my left buttock. The “LM” burned for a second, then cooled into a tingling claim.
Last came the microchip. Sam held my head steady while the injector pressed behind my ear. A quick pop, faint pressure, done. The scanner beeped green. “Registered. Temporary indenture logged. Ninety-day clock starts today.”
They released me from the table but didn’t remove the restraints. Instead, a wrangler clipped a lead to my collar and marched the line of us—eight total now—across the dusty yard to the conditioning barn.
Inside smelled of hay, leather, and arousal. Rows of stalls, each with a padded mat, wall-mounted rings, and a water trough. We were herded in pairs. Sam chose me and the quiet brunette from the van. Our cuffs were swapped for lighter wrist chains padlocked to overhead rings, forcing us onto our knees.
“Slave yoga first,” Sam announced, cracking a short quirt against her palm. “Positions build obedience and flexibility. You’ll learn them until they’re automatic.”
The routine was brutal in its precision: “Present” (knees wide, chest to floor, ass up); “Display” (standing, hands behind head, feet apart); “Beg” (kneeling, palms up, mouth open); “Service” (crawling forward, tongue extended). Every hesitation earned a snap of the quirt—light at first, then sharper. My skin bloomed red welts across thighs, breasts, buttocks. Pain blended into heat, into need.
By hour three, sweat slicked every inch of me. The brunette beside me moaned softly each time the quirt landed; I bit my lip to stay quiet until Sam noticed.
“Too proud, princess?” She crouched, gripped my chin. “Open.”
I did. Her fingers slid inside my mouth, then down between my legs. Two plunged in without warning—wet, easy. “Soaked already. Good girl.”
She worked me there on my knees while the others watched—slow strokes, thumb circling my clit until my hips bucked despite the chains. When I came, it was loud, shuddering, tears mixing with sweat. Sam wiped her hand on my thigh, then fed me my own wetness from her fingers.
“Night one,” she said, standing. “Tomorrow we harness you for pony drills. Wranglers like a well-broken cart team before the drive starts.”
She clipped our leads to wall rings, dimmed the lights. I curled on the mat, chains clinking softly, body aching and alive in ways I’d never known. Somewhere down the row, another girl whimpered through her own aftercare.
Ninety days suddenly didn’t feel temporary at all.
The herd would move at dawn.
Part 1: The Dorm Room Awakening
In this introductory section, set on a college campus in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is normalized for debt, voluntary indenture, or experiential purposes, the narrative follows a first-person perspective from the protagonist, a petite, urban-raised freshman named Emily (the "city girl" or "princess" from the fragment). Drawing from the college and fraternity themes in "Fraternity Girl" and "The Substitute," Emily arrives at Boston University with aspirations of academic sophistication, only to be paired with her dominant roommate, Sam—a tall, rugged farm girl from Montana specializing in "Slave Ag" (agricultural handling of slaves classified as livestock). The fragment is incorporated verbatim as the core of this part, detailing their initial encounters: Sam's bold entrance, her casual references to slave grading and handling, Emily's growing fascination with Sam's stories of ranch life, the revelation of Emily's "grading sheet," and the teasing invitation to join a summer cattle drive at the Lazy M ranch.
Key events build tension through explicit, sensory descriptions of Emily's arousal and humiliation, such as when Sam clinically appraises her body like livestock, injecting elements of objectification and power reversal similar to the training sequences in "Breeding the Pony Girl" and "Sabbatical in Slavery." Emily's internal monologue reveals her secret online fantasies about slavery, mirroring the submissive desires in "The Substitute" and "Same Old Halloween Costume." The part culminates in Emily's tentative agreement to volunteer as a "dude ranch guest" pretending to be a slave for the drive, signing a temporary indenture form (non-binding but with real risks of extension for debt or misbehavior), echoing voluntary self-indenture themes. Sam arranges her transport, emphasizing the ranch's protocols for "breaking" high-strung city girls into obedient "cattle," setting up themes of degradation, livestock classification, and erotic submission.
Part 2: Ranch Conditioning and Grading
Shifting to the Lazy M ranch in Montana, this middle section intensifies the humiliation and training motifs from Bradford's works, treating Emily as part of a herd of voluntary and debt slaves. Narrated with vivid, first-person sensory details—focusing on the sting of whips, the chafe of shackles, and hormone-induced arousal akin to "Horny Juice" in "Fraternity Girl"—Emily arrives stripped, collared, and caged for transport, recognizing the reality of her "pretend" role. Sam, now in her element as a licensed wrangler (with USDA credentials for slave livestock), oversees Emily's integration into the program, drawing from pony girl training in "Breeding the Pony Girl" and obedience school brainwashing in "Fraternity Girl."
Key events include: Emily's public grading at the ranch vet station (measurements, responsiveness tests, and a "Choice" brand on her buttock, with nipple piercings for control leads); mandatory slave yoga and conditioning classes led by ranch hands, incorporating mantras of submission and group demonstrations of oral and anal service (overcoming Emily's initial resistance, similar to Gwen's arc in "The Substitute"); a "breaking" session where Emily is harnessed as a pony girl for cart-pulling drills, gangbanged by wranglers as "temperament testing," and punished with quirts for hesitation, blending pain and pleasure. Interwoven are moments of compassion from Sam, who "studies" Emily privately, fostering a complex bond like Josh and Patricia in "Fraternity Girl." Jealousy emerges as Emily envies more seasoned slaves' ease, leading to her deeper embrace of subservience. The part ends with the herd's preparation for the drive—shackled in a barn, injected with arousal enhancers, and briefed on the route to Billings for auction or shipping—heightening anticipation and themes of dehumanization as livestock.
Part 3: The Drive and Redemption
The climactic section depicts the multi-day cattle drive to Billings, emphasizing themes of endurance, public exposure, and ultimate empowerment from "Sabbatical in Slavery" and "Same Old Halloween Costume." In first-person style, Emily narrates the grueling trek: naked slaves chained in a coffle, herded by horseback wranglers (including Sam) through rivers, trails, and towns, with whips cracking for stragglers and nightly "use" by dude ranch guests paying to "wrangle." Explicit scenes detail river crossings where water soaks bound bodies, evoking vulnerability; roadside inspections by locals, including fondling and impromptu breeding demonstrations (Emily paired with a "stud" slave for fertility testing, tying into "Breeding the Pony Girl"); and a storm-forced camp where Emily submits to a group session, finding liberation in her loss of agency.
Complications arise when Emily's temporary indenture risks extension due to a "misbehavior" fine, mirroring debt spirals in "The Substitute," but Sam's advocacy reduces it. At Billings' market, Emily is displayed, graded "Prime" after her "breaking," and nearly auctioned before Sam buys her out with ranch funds, revealing her affection. The resolution echoes Bradford's happy endings: Emily returns to college freed but transformed, pursuing a Slave Ag minor under Sam's mentorship, with consensual playdates involving collars and whips. The narrative closes on themes of self-discovery, where submission strengthens identity, with Emily reflecting on her "premium" value as both slave and free woman.
Part2:
The bus from Boston to Billings took thirty-two hours, but the real journey started when I stepped off in a dusty parking lot outside a truck stop just past the Montana border. A black panel van waited, engine idling, windows tinted so dark they looked like voids. The driver—a wiry man in a faded Lazy M cap—didn’t speak, just jerked his thumb toward the open side door.
Inside, three other girls already waited, naked except for the thin canvas hoods pulled over their heads and the steel collars locked around their throats. Their wrists were cuffed behind them in heavy transport restraints, ankles shackled with just enough chain to shuffle. One trembled visibly; another sat with eerie stillness, knees together like she’d done this before. I hesitated at the threshold until a rough hand—Sam’s—pressed between my shoulder blades.
“Clothes off, princess,” she said, voice calm but final. “Protocol starts now.”
My fingers shook as I peeled off the hoodie, jeans, bra, panties. The air inside the van was warm, thick with the smell of sweat and metal. Sam took each item as I handed it over, folding them neatly into a plastic bin labeled EMILY - TEMP INDENTURE. When I was bare, she clipped a temporary tag to my collar: white plastic, printed with bar code, my student ID number, and the words VOLUNTARY GUEST - LIVESTOCK SIMULATION - 90 DAYS MAX.
“Hands,” she ordered.
I crossed them behind my back. Cold steel clicked around my wrists, tighter than I expected. The ankle cuffs followed, chain rattling softly with every shift of weight. Sam guided me to the bench seat, buckling a wide leather belt across my waist that pinned my arms in place. A final strap went between my thighs—not tight enough to hurt, just enough to remind me I couldn’t close my legs fully.
The van doors slammed. Engine growled to life. We rolled.
For the first two hours, no one spoke. The hood muffled sound, turning the world into a soft roar of tires and breathing. My nipples hardened against the cool air vents; every bump in the road jolted the chain between my ankles, sending little sparks up my spine. I could feel the other girls shifting—small whimpers, the clink of metal on metal. My own body betrayed me quickly: dampness slicked my inner thighs, the strap rubbing just enough to keep me teetering on edge without relief.
When we finally stopped, gravel crunched under boots. Doors opened. Fresh air rushed in, carrying dust and sagebrush. Hands—multiple now—unbuckled me, hauled me out. The hood came off last.
We were at the Lazy M vet station: a long, low concrete building with fluorescent lights and stainless-steel exam tables. Five more girls waited in a line, already processed—nipples pierced with heavy steel rings, linked by short chains; buttocks stamped with fresh temporary brands (a simple “LM” in red ink that would fade in weeks); microchips freshly implanted under the skin behind their left ears. Wranglers in denim and chaps moved among them with clipboards and scanners.
Sam led me to the head of the line. “New arrival. City stock. Voluntary, but treat her standard.”
A vet tech—older woman, no-nonsense—snapped on gloves. “Up on the table, girl.”
The surface was cold vinyl. I climbed up, knees drawn to my chest until they pushed them apart into stirrups. Measurements came first: height (5’3”), weight (112 lbs), bust-waist-hips (34-24-35). Calipers pinched skin at strategic points—thighs, belly, breasts—while the tech muttered numbers into a recorder. “Prime candidate. Good muscle tone, low body fat. Responsive tissue.”
Temperature probe next—rectal, quick and clinical. Then the speculum, cold metal spreading me open while a light shone inside. “Cervix healthy. No anomalies.” Lubricant followed, warm and slick, fingers probing deeper. I gasped; the table creaked under me.
“Vocal,” the tech noted approvingly. “Good for training feedback.”
Sam stood at my head, one hand resting possessively on my shoulder. When the nipple clamps came out—steel with adjustment screws—I whimpered before they even touched me. The tech twisted each one slowly until I arched, tears pricking my eyes. “Pain threshold moderate. Nipple sensitivity high—recommend weighted rings for conditioning.”
The piercing gun clicked twice. Sharp sting, then dull throb as heavy rings settled into place. Sam threaded short chains through them immediately, clipping the ends to a overhead bar so I had to arch my back to ease the pull.
“Brand or stamp?” the tech asked.
“Stamp for now,” Sam decided. “She’s still pretending this is temporary.”
Red ink, hot stamp pad, firm pressure against my left buttock. The “LM” burned for a second, then cooled into a tingling claim.
Last came the microchip. Sam held my head steady while the injector pressed behind my ear. A quick pop, faint pressure, done. The scanner beeped green. “Registered. Temporary indenture logged. Ninety-day clock starts today.”
They released me from the table but didn’t remove the restraints. Instead, a wrangler clipped a lead to my collar and marched the line of us—eight total now—across the dusty yard to the conditioning barn.
Inside smelled of hay, leather, and arousal. Rows of stalls, each with a padded mat, wall-mounted rings, and a water trough. We were herded in pairs. Sam chose me and the quiet brunette from the van. Our cuffs were swapped for lighter wrist chains padlocked to overhead rings, forcing us onto our knees.
“Slave yoga first,” Sam announced, cracking a short quirt against her palm. “Positions build obedience and flexibility. You’ll learn them until they’re automatic.”
The routine was brutal in its precision: “Present” (knees wide, chest to floor, ass up); “Display” (standing, hands behind head, feet apart); “Beg” (kneeling, palms up, mouth open); “Service” (crawling forward, tongue extended). Every hesitation earned a snap of the quirt—light at first, then sharper. My skin bloomed red welts across thighs, breasts, buttocks. Pain blended into heat, into need.
By hour three, sweat slicked every inch of me. The brunette beside me moaned softly each time the quirt landed; I bit my lip to stay quiet until Sam noticed.
“Too proud, princess?” She crouched, gripped my chin. “Open.”
I did. Her fingers slid inside my mouth, then down between my legs. Two plunged in without warning—wet, easy. “Soaked already. Good girl.”
She worked me there on my knees while the others watched—slow strokes, thumb circling my clit until my hips bucked despite the chains. When I came, it was loud, shuddering, tears mixing with sweat. Sam wiped her hand on my thigh, then fed me my own wetness from her fingers.
“Night one,” she said, standing. “Tomorrow we harness you for pony drills. Wranglers like a well-broken cart team before the drive starts.”
She clipped our leads to wall rings, dimmed the lights. I curled on the mat, chains clinking softly, body aching and alive in ways I’d never known. Somewhere down the row, another girl whimpered through her own aftercare.
Ninety days suddenly didn’t feel temporary at all.
The herd would move at dawn.
-
Jackdonkey22
- Commenter
- Posts: 11
- Joined: Wed Apr 30, 2025 9:30 am
Re: Cattle drive fun
Used a slightly different prompt and gave grok this thread with additional instructions to improve it. The result:
(Author's note: This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debts, or voluntary self-indenture. All slaves depicted are over 18 years of age.)
Part 1: The Dorm Room Awakening
My name is Sarah Thompson, and at 22, I'm a senior at the University of Montana, majoring in Agricultural Sciences with a minor in Animal Husbandry. I've always been a city girl from Seattle—tall, athletic build from years of track and field, with long brunette hair, hazel eyes, and what my ex-boyfriends called a "killer ass" that filled out my jeans just right. But deep down, I've harbored these secret fantasies. You know the kind—reading those trashy novels about women who end up enslaved, stripped of their freedoms, and turned into obedient playthings. The humiliation, the loss of control, the forced arousal... it all made me wet just thinking about it. But in real life? No way. Until that orientation session.
It was the start of summer break, and the university was hosting a "Volunteer Penal Service" program for students looking to earn credits or just... experience something different. In this world, volunteering for a term of slavery could wipe out student loans or boost your resume in certain fields. I signed up on a whim, telling myself it was for research on livestock management. Yeah, right.
The orientation was in my dorm room—private, they said, for discretion. I was lounging on my bed in shorts and a tank top when there was a knock. Opening the door, I was greeted by a vision straight out of my fantasies: a tall, muscled woman in her mid-20s, dressed in worn jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt that hugged her broad shoulders. She smelled like pine resin and leather—raw, earthy. Her name was Sam, short for Samantha, a licensed livestock handler from the Lazy M Ranch.
"Evenin', Miss Thompson," she drawled, her voice deep and commanding, with a hint of amusement in her blue eyes as she looked me up and down like I was a heifer at auction. "I'm here to appraise you for the program."
Appraise me? My stomach flipped, but I invited her in, trying to play it cool. She pulled out a grading sheet, the kind used for actual slaves, and had me stand in the center of the room. "Strip down to your skivvies, darlin'. Need to see the goods."
I hesitated, my cheeks burning. This was it—the first taste of surrender. My hands shook as I peeled off my tank top, revealing my lacy bra, then shimmied out of my shorts, standing there in matching panties. Sam's gaze was clinical but appreciative, circling me like a predator.
"Turn around, hands behind your head. Legs apart." I complied, feeling exposed, my nipples hardening against the fabric. She measured me—bust 36C, waist 28, hips 38—muttering notes. "Good muscle tone, firm tits, nice round ass. Temperament seems docile enough. Aesthetics: 8 out of 10. You'd grade 'Choice' right now, but with some training? Prime material."
Prime. The word sent a shiver down my spine. She explained the ranch: Lazy M specialized in slave training and cattle drives, herding naked slaves like livestock over miles to Billings for auction. Microchipping, hallmarking, bills of sale—all treated as property. "You'll be chipped, branded if needed, and worked hard. Entertain the wranglers at night. Safety first, but discipline with crops and whips if you step out of line."
Her teasing was relentless. "Bet a city girl like you's never felt a plug up that tight ass, huh? Or serviced a line of cowboys after a long day?" I squirmed, my panties dampening. She noticed, smirking. "Aroused already? Good sign. Sign here if you're in—three-month term, volunteer penal slavery."
My mind screamed no, but my body betrayed me. The fantasy was too real, too tempting. With a trembling hand, I signed. Sam clipped a temporary collar around my neck—a simple leather band with a D-ring—and tugged the leash. "Heel, girl." She led me to the window, making me kneel while she called in the paperwork. "Welcome to slavery, Sarah. You're mine to train now."
That night, alone in my room with the collar still on, I masturbated furiously, imagining the ranch. Terrified, humiliated—and absurdly horny.
Part 2: Ranch Conditioning and the Drive
The transport to Lazy M was humiliating from the start. A week after signing, I was picked up in an unmarked van with blacked-out windows. Two wranglers—rough, sun-baked men in cowboy hats—cuffed my wrists behind my back and stripped me naked right there in the parking lot, my clothes tossed into a bin labeled "Free Woman Discard." "No need for these anymore, slut," one growled, slapping my ass. They tagged my ear with a temporary plastic clip, like cattle, and shoved me into a cage in the van's back. Bouncing over rural roads for hours, my breasts jiggling with every pothole, I felt the first real pangs of regret. But between my thighs? That familiar buzz of arousal.
Arrival at the ranch was a blur. The Lazy M sprawled across Montana plains—barns, corrals, and a main house with slave quarters attached. Sam was waiting, crop in hand. "Out, girl. Inspection time." Naked and cuffed, I was led to a vet station under the open sky, where a grizzled veterinarian in overalls waited with tools laid out on a metal table.
"Spread 'em," he ordered. I stood with legs apart, hands on head, as he measured me again—probing my breasts for firmness, pinching nipples until they stood erect. "Responsive. Good." A cold speculum slid into my vagina, stretching me open for inspection. I gasped, humiliated as Sam watched, nodding approvingly. "Clean bill of health. Chip her."
The microchip gun pressed against my hip—zap—and I yelped as the needle embedded the tracker. Next, nipple clamps with bells, making me jingle with every movement. "For training," Sam explained. "Keeps you aware of your tits." Then the stamping: a hot iron pressed briefly to my thigh, marking me with the Lazy M brand. The pain was searing, but brief; I collapsed to my knees, tears streaming, yet my core throbbed with unwanted heat.
Herded to the conditioning barn, I joined a dozen other slaves—men and women, all naked, collared, some plugged or harnessed. Morning routine started at dawn: group enemas in a communal trough, hoses inserted while we knelt ass-up. The warm water filled me, cramping, then released in front of everyone. "Gets you clean for use," Sam said, her hand on my back. Afternoons were slave yoga: positions like "Downward Slave," arching back with ass high, or "Present," knees wide, hands pulling cheeks apart. Punishments for poor form—a quirt across the thighs or breasts—stung, but the constant exposure kept me dripping.
Evenings brought the wranglers' rotations. My first night, Travis—a lanky cowboy with a mischievous grin—claimed me. "Time to break you in, filly." Bound to a sawhorse, wrists and ankles secured, he teased my folds with fingers, then his tongue, until I begged. He took me vaginally first, slow and deep, my body betraying me with an orgasm that shook the frame. But Sam had whispered earlier: "Tonight, we add something new. Your first anal—stretch you for the drive."
After Travis finished, Sam stepped in with lube and a small plug. "Relax, girl. Breathe." The cold tip pressed against my virgin hole, insistent. I tensed, but a slap to my ass made me yield. It slid in, filling me strangely—uncomfortable at first, then a building pressure that mingled pain with pleasure. "Good pony," Sam cooed, twisting it. Travis returned, larger plug in hand. "Upgrade time."
They worked me up gradually—small to medium, each insertion accompanied by clit stimulation to associate the stretch with arousal. By the third, I was moaning, hips bucking involuntarily. "She's ready," Sam declared. Travis lubed his cock, thick and veined, and positioned behind me. "Push back like you're expelling," he instructed.
The head breached me, a burning stretch that made me cry out. "Too big!" But he eased in, inch by inch, the fullness overwhelming. My mind raced—This is it, Sarah. You're being ass-fucked like a slave. Humiliating... but god, it feels... He bottomed out, balls against my cheeks, and began thrusting. The initial pain faded into a deep, throbbing pleasure, waves building as he reached around to finger my clit. I came harder than ever, clenching around him, milking his release deep inside.
Post-orgasm, plugged to "hold it in," I was caged for the night, exhausted but transformed. The routine intensified over weeks: daily inspections, larger plugs for posture training, yoga evolving into harness drills where we pulled carts, bells jingling. Arousal checks—fingered publicly to ensure wetness—became routine. One evening, a gang rotation: three wranglers at once, spit-roasting me while Sam watched, crop ready. Oral, vaginal, anal—my first triple, leaving me sore but sated.
The cattle drive loomed. We were prepped: oiled skin for sun, tails plugged in (mine auburn to match my hair), harnesses with bits. Dawn broke, and we were herded out—20 slaves, naked, leashed in a coffle. Horses flanked us, crops urging us forward. Miles of marching, breasts bouncing, plugs shifting with each step. Rest stops meant servicing riders—kneeling blowjobs or bent-over quickies. My first drive anal came mid-day: a burly wrangler pulled me aside, removed my tail, and took me against a tree, the bark scraping my breasts as he pounded. Humiliation peaked when free tourists watched, snapping photos.
Nights in camp: bound to stakes, used freely. I serviced Sam too—her strap-on in my mouth, then ass, teaching me to crave the fullness. By drive's end in Billings, auction-bound (symbolic for volunteers), I was Prime: confident, submissive, aroused constantly.
The auction: stripped on block, posed, inspected. Sold temporarily to a bidder (arranged buy-back), then released. But transformed. Back at school, I pursued a Slave Ag minor, collar scars a secret thrill.
(Author's note: This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debts, or voluntary self-indenture. All slaves depicted are over 18 years of age.)
Part 1: The Dorm Room Awakening
My name is Sarah Thompson, and at 22, I'm a senior at the University of Montana, majoring in Agricultural Sciences with a minor in Animal Husbandry. I've always been a city girl from Seattle—tall, athletic build from years of track and field, with long brunette hair, hazel eyes, and what my ex-boyfriends called a "killer ass" that filled out my jeans just right. But deep down, I've harbored these secret fantasies. You know the kind—reading those trashy novels about women who end up enslaved, stripped of their freedoms, and turned into obedient playthings. The humiliation, the loss of control, the forced arousal... it all made me wet just thinking about it. But in real life? No way. Until that orientation session.
It was the start of summer break, and the university was hosting a "Volunteer Penal Service" program for students looking to earn credits or just... experience something different. In this world, volunteering for a term of slavery could wipe out student loans or boost your resume in certain fields. I signed up on a whim, telling myself it was for research on livestock management. Yeah, right.
The orientation was in my dorm room—private, they said, for discretion. I was lounging on my bed in shorts and a tank top when there was a knock. Opening the door, I was greeted by a vision straight out of my fantasies: a tall, muscled woman in her mid-20s, dressed in worn jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt that hugged her broad shoulders. She smelled like pine resin and leather—raw, earthy. Her name was Sam, short for Samantha, a licensed livestock handler from the Lazy M Ranch.
"Evenin', Miss Thompson," she drawled, her voice deep and commanding, with a hint of amusement in her blue eyes as she looked me up and down like I was a heifer at auction. "I'm here to appraise you for the program."
Appraise me? My stomach flipped, but I invited her in, trying to play it cool. She pulled out a grading sheet, the kind used for actual slaves, and had me stand in the center of the room. "Strip down to your skivvies, darlin'. Need to see the goods."
I hesitated, my cheeks burning. This was it—the first taste of surrender. My hands shook as I peeled off my tank top, revealing my lacy bra, then shimmied out of my shorts, standing there in matching panties. Sam's gaze was clinical but appreciative, circling me like a predator.
"Turn around, hands behind your head. Legs apart." I complied, feeling exposed, my nipples hardening against the fabric. She measured me—bust 36C, waist 28, hips 38—muttering notes. "Good muscle tone, firm tits, nice round ass. Temperament seems docile enough. Aesthetics: 8 out of 10. You'd grade 'Choice' right now, but with some training? Prime material."
Prime. The word sent a shiver down my spine. She explained the ranch: Lazy M specialized in slave training and cattle drives, herding naked slaves like livestock over miles to Billings for auction. Microchipping, hallmarking, bills of sale—all treated as property. "You'll be chipped, branded if needed, and worked hard. Entertain the wranglers at night. Safety first, but discipline with crops and whips if you step out of line."
Her teasing was relentless. "Bet a city girl like you's never felt a plug up that tight ass, huh? Or serviced a line of cowboys after a long day?" I squirmed, my panties dampening. She noticed, smirking. "Aroused already? Good sign. Sign here if you're in—three-month term, volunteer penal slavery."
My mind screamed no, but my body betrayed me. The fantasy was too real, too tempting. With a trembling hand, I signed. Sam clipped a temporary collar around my neck—a simple leather band with a D-ring—and tugged the leash. "Heel, girl." She led me to the window, making me kneel while she called in the paperwork. "Welcome to slavery, Sarah. You're mine to train now."
That night, alone in my room with the collar still on, I masturbated furiously, imagining the ranch. Terrified, humiliated—and absurdly horny.
Part 2: Ranch Conditioning and the Drive
The transport to Lazy M was humiliating from the start. A week after signing, I was picked up in an unmarked van with blacked-out windows. Two wranglers—rough, sun-baked men in cowboy hats—cuffed my wrists behind my back and stripped me naked right there in the parking lot, my clothes tossed into a bin labeled "Free Woman Discard." "No need for these anymore, slut," one growled, slapping my ass. They tagged my ear with a temporary plastic clip, like cattle, and shoved me into a cage in the van's back. Bouncing over rural roads for hours, my breasts jiggling with every pothole, I felt the first real pangs of regret. But between my thighs? That familiar buzz of arousal.
Arrival at the ranch was a blur. The Lazy M sprawled across Montana plains—barns, corrals, and a main house with slave quarters attached. Sam was waiting, crop in hand. "Out, girl. Inspection time." Naked and cuffed, I was led to a vet station under the open sky, where a grizzled veterinarian in overalls waited with tools laid out on a metal table.
"Spread 'em," he ordered. I stood with legs apart, hands on head, as he measured me again—probing my breasts for firmness, pinching nipples until they stood erect. "Responsive. Good." A cold speculum slid into my vagina, stretching me open for inspection. I gasped, humiliated as Sam watched, nodding approvingly. "Clean bill of health. Chip her."
The microchip gun pressed against my hip—zap—and I yelped as the needle embedded the tracker. Next, nipple clamps with bells, making me jingle with every movement. "For training," Sam explained. "Keeps you aware of your tits." Then the stamping: a hot iron pressed briefly to my thigh, marking me with the Lazy M brand. The pain was searing, but brief; I collapsed to my knees, tears streaming, yet my core throbbed with unwanted heat.
Herded to the conditioning barn, I joined a dozen other slaves—men and women, all naked, collared, some plugged or harnessed. Morning routine started at dawn: group enemas in a communal trough, hoses inserted while we knelt ass-up. The warm water filled me, cramping, then released in front of everyone. "Gets you clean for use," Sam said, her hand on my back. Afternoons were slave yoga: positions like "Downward Slave," arching back with ass high, or "Present," knees wide, hands pulling cheeks apart. Punishments for poor form—a quirt across the thighs or breasts—stung, but the constant exposure kept me dripping.
Evenings brought the wranglers' rotations. My first night, Travis—a lanky cowboy with a mischievous grin—claimed me. "Time to break you in, filly." Bound to a sawhorse, wrists and ankles secured, he teased my folds with fingers, then his tongue, until I begged. He took me vaginally first, slow and deep, my body betraying me with an orgasm that shook the frame. But Sam had whispered earlier: "Tonight, we add something new. Your first anal—stretch you for the drive."
After Travis finished, Sam stepped in with lube and a small plug. "Relax, girl. Breathe." The cold tip pressed against my virgin hole, insistent. I tensed, but a slap to my ass made me yield. It slid in, filling me strangely—uncomfortable at first, then a building pressure that mingled pain with pleasure. "Good pony," Sam cooed, twisting it. Travis returned, larger plug in hand. "Upgrade time."
They worked me up gradually—small to medium, each insertion accompanied by clit stimulation to associate the stretch with arousal. By the third, I was moaning, hips bucking involuntarily. "She's ready," Sam declared. Travis lubed his cock, thick and veined, and positioned behind me. "Push back like you're expelling," he instructed.
The head breached me, a burning stretch that made me cry out. "Too big!" But he eased in, inch by inch, the fullness overwhelming. My mind raced—This is it, Sarah. You're being ass-fucked like a slave. Humiliating... but god, it feels... He bottomed out, balls against my cheeks, and began thrusting. The initial pain faded into a deep, throbbing pleasure, waves building as he reached around to finger my clit. I came harder than ever, clenching around him, milking his release deep inside.
Post-orgasm, plugged to "hold it in," I was caged for the night, exhausted but transformed. The routine intensified over weeks: daily inspections, larger plugs for posture training, yoga evolving into harness drills where we pulled carts, bells jingling. Arousal checks—fingered publicly to ensure wetness—became routine. One evening, a gang rotation: three wranglers at once, spit-roasting me while Sam watched, crop ready. Oral, vaginal, anal—my first triple, leaving me sore but sated.
The cattle drive loomed. We were prepped: oiled skin for sun, tails plugged in (mine auburn to match my hair), harnesses with bits. Dawn broke, and we were herded out—20 slaves, naked, leashed in a coffle. Horses flanked us, crops urging us forward. Miles of marching, breasts bouncing, plugs shifting with each step. Rest stops meant servicing riders—kneeling blowjobs or bent-over quickies. My first drive anal came mid-day: a burly wrangler pulled me aside, removed my tail, and took me against a tree, the bark scraping my breasts as he pounded. Humiliation peaked when free tourists watched, snapping photos.
Nights in camp: bound to stakes, used freely. I serviced Sam too—her strap-on in my mouth, then ass, teaching me to crave the fullness. By drive's end in Billings, auction-bound (symbolic for volunteers), I was Prime: confident, submissive, aroused constantly.
The auction: stripped on block, posed, inspected. Sold temporarily to a bidder (arranged buy-back), then released. But transformed. Back at school, I pursued a Slave Ag minor, collar scars a secret thrill.
Re: Cattle drive fun
Final version for now … still has some mistakes but pretty close to good.
Disclaimer
In this fictional universe, slavery is legal for adults over 18 who volunteer, accrue debts they can't repay, or commit certain crimes. It's strictly regulated, non-hereditary, and often temporary. Enslaved individuals are treated as valuable property, with rights to health and safety, but subject to owners' whims within those bounds. This story explores consensual fantasy elements—nothing here advocates real-world harm.
Cattle Drive Summer
My name's Emily, and up until that wild freshman year at Boston University, I was your classic city princess—Chicago bred, all sleek leggings and iced coffees, eyeing a future in some glossy high-rise. Slavery? Yeah, it was a thing in our world—legal for debts, crimes, or those thrill-seekers who signed up voluntarily. I'd sneak peeks at those steamy online forums late at night, heart pounding as I devoured tales of women stripped of everything, collared and commanded. But me? Hell no. Until Sam crashed into my life.
She stormed our dorm like a Montana whirlwind—tall, sun-kissed, with biceps that screamed real labor, not spin classes. "Hey, roomie," she said, her voice a lazy drawl as she tossed a duffel that reeked of sun-baked earth and saddle leather. "Sam from the Lazy M Ranch. Ag major, specializing in Slave Handling." Her grin was sharp, predatory, and it sent a shiver straight to my core.
Slave Handling? I rolled my eyes at first, but her stories sank hooks into me. We'd sprawl on our beds munching ramen, and she'd paint pictures of the ranch: vast skies over rolling pastures, where they ran cattle alongside slave herds—mostly women, volunteers or debt girls chasing a raw reset. "It's like wrangling wild mustangs, but with bare skin and begging eyes," she'd say, her blue gaze locking on mine, making my skin prickle. I'd feign disgust, but alone in the dark, my fingers would wander, imagining myself in those chains, exposed under that endless blue.
It kicked off subtle. One rainy afternoon, post-midterms, Sam whipped out a worn notebook. "Check this out." Flipped to a page: "Slave Grading: Emily." My pulse hammered. There I was, dissected like prime beef: Height: 5'4". Build: Slender, 115 lbs. Measurements: 34C-24-34. Skin: Pale, smooth, freckles on shoulders. Hair: Brunette waves to mid-back. Eyes: Hazel, expressive. Notes: Perky tits with sensitive nipples; tight ass; quick to flush—high humiliation response.
"When the hell did you—?" I spluttered, cheeks blazing.
She lounged back, smirking. "Observation's my job. You're top-shelf stock, Em—soft city curves begging for a handler's touch. You'd pull premium at auction." Her eyes raked over me, and damn if my nipples didn't harden against my thin tee.
That sparked the games. Mornings in our cramped shower stall—dorm life, right?—she'd take charge. "Arms up," she'd order, lathering me with rough efficiency, her callused hands gliding over my breasts, tweaking peaks until I bit my lip to stifle moans. "Good response," she'd murmur, one finger trailing down to part my folds, circling my clit in slow, teasing swirls. The steam thickened the air, mingling with the floral soap and my growing musk. I'd arch into her touch, slick and aching, but she'd pull away just as I teetered on the edge. "Not yet, princess. Earn it."
Evenings ramped up: me stripped bare in our room, standing at attention while she inspected. Cool air kissed my skin, raising gooseflesh as she circled, prodding my ass cheeks apart, noting how my pussy glistened under her scrutiny. "Wet already? Slutty little volunteer." She'd introduce toys—a slim vibrator humming against my entrance, edging me mercilessly while I recited slave mantras: "I am property. I serve. I submit." The buzz filled the room, my whimpers echoing off the walls, thighs trembling as denial built a fire in my belly.
Her ranch tales grew filthier, laced with details that left me drenched. "We drive the herd to market—cows and slave girls chained naked, splashing through creeks, huddling in camps where wranglers claim their favorites. No boys in the slave line at Lazy M; keeps the focus sharp." I'd picture it: sun scorching bare backs, dust coating sweat-slick skin, the crack of whips urging us on.
I was obsessed, craving that edge. One humid night, after she'd finger-fucked me to the brink—two digits curling deep, thumb grinding my clit, my juices coating her hand—she whispered the offer: "Come with me this summer, Em. Volunteer for the drive. Three months, temp contract—real enough to bite, but with outs." Her breath hot on my neck, the scent of her arousal mixing with mine.
I signed the papers days later—voluntary indenture, health clauses, safe words. As finals wrapped, she booked my ticket. "Travel light," she winked. "Clothes are optional where you're going."
The Lazy M slammed into my senses like a freight train: endless golden fields under a sky so vast it swallowed you, air thick with dry grass, manure, and that underlying tang of animal heat. Sam's battered truck rumbled up the drive, gravel crunching under tires, dust clouding the windows. "Out," she commanded, her tone shifting to pure handler mode—no more roomie softness.
I stepped into the blistering sun, my light sundress whipping in the breeze. "Strip." One word, but it hit like a command. Fingers fumbling, I peeled off the dress, bra, panties—fabric pooling at my feet, warm wind teasing my newly bare skin, nipples pebbling instantly. The exposure burned: vulnerable, alive, my pussy already slicking.
Into the barn we went, hay dust tickling my nose, the dim light filtering through slats, shadows dancing on wooden beams. Seven other women knelt in the straw— all naked, collared, wrists bound behind. A curvy blonde with pierced nipples, a tattooed brunette whose thighs bore faint crop marks, a redhead with welts crisscrossing her ass. Their eyes flicked to me: fresh meat, appraising my curves, my untouched skin.
Sam didn't waste time. The collar first: heavy leather encircling my throat, buckling tight with a metallic click that echoed in my ears. A tag dangled cold against my chest: "Lazy M Property – Volunteer #47." Then the chip: a sharp sting at my nape, like a bee's bite, the device burrowing under skin. "Tracked livestock now," she said, her fingers lingering, tracing down my spine, raising shivers.
Branding came next, and fuck, it seared into my soul. Strapped face-down over a padded sawhorse—wrists and ankles locked wide, ass presented high, cool air brushing my exposed holes. The forge crackled, iron glowing cherry-red, the heat radiating waves that made sweat bead on my back. "Breathe," Sam advised, but as it pressed—hiss of flesh, acrid smoke filling my nostrils, agony exploding like firecrackers—I screamed, bucking against bonds, tears streaming hot down my cheeks. The pain throbbed in waves, syncing with my racing heart, but beneath it, a twisted heat bloomed between my legs.
"Part of the herd," Sam murmured, unstrapping me. Her palm soothed the fresh mark, rough skin contrasting my tenderness, fingers dipping lower to stroke my dripping slit. "And already leaking. Promising."
Training hit at dawn, shattering any romantic haze. Herded to the wash rack: rough concrete under bare feet, overhead hoses looming. Travis—a burly wrangler with callused hands and a perpetual stubble—took charge. Icy blasts pelted my skin, stinging the brand like needles, water cascading over curves, pooling between my toes. Soap came next: his gloved paws scrubbing without mercy—under arms, kneading breasts until nipples ached erect, parting ass cheeks to scour my crack. When he spread my labia, fingers plunging deep to "rinse," the intrusion sparked fireworks—rough digits curling, thumb flicking my clit, building pressure until my knees wobbled. "Eager hole," he grunted, the barn echoing with wet slaps and my gasps. The scent of clean sweat and arousal hung heavy.
Enemas were a ritual of pure humiliation. Bent over rails, ass up, nozzle cold and unyielding as it breached my tight ring—lube slick, but the stretch burned, water flooding in warm rushes, cramping my guts like a vice. I whimpered, clenching, tears mixing with drips down my thighs, holding until permission: release in a humiliating gush, the drain swallowing my shame. But god, the emptiness after left me aching for more.
Afternoons: anal prep dominated. Starting with slim plugs—cold silicone greased, pressed against my pucker, twisting in slow until it popped past resistance, filling me with a constant, maddening pressure. We'd drill postures: "Present"—knees wide, back arched, holes offered. Crops corrected slips: sharp cracks on inner thighs, welts blooming hot and red, each sting zinging straight to my core. The plugs graduated—medium, then large, stretching me open, the fullness making every step a reminder of submission. Sweat slicked our bodies, the barn air thick with feminine musk as we panted through sessions.
Evenings brought rotations, and they wrecked me. Second night, Travis claimed me. Chained to the bunkhouse post—collar tethered short, spreader bar forcing thighs apart, ass high and vulnerable. The rough wood scraped my knees, hay pricking skin as he circled, boot heels thudding. His hand slapped my branded cheek—fresh pain flaring—then traced my crack. "Tight little backdoor tonight," he growled, unzipping. His cock emerged thick, veined, the musky scent hitting me as he rubbed the head against my lips.
"Suck." I opened wide, tongue swirling, saliva pooling as he thrust deep, gagging me with each push, drool stringing down my chin. The taste—salt, skin—filled my mouth, his grunts vibrating through me. Then behind: lube drizzled cold down my crack, fingers probing, scissoring to open me. "Relax, slut." The breach burned—head pushing past my ring, inch by inch, stretching to fullness that bordered pain. He paused, letting me adjust, then slammed home, balls slapping my clit. Each thrust rocked me, friction igniting nerves I didn't know existed, his fingers reaching around to pinch my nipples, twisting until I cried out. Harder he went, the slap of flesh echoing, my ass clenching around him as waves built. "Cum for me," he commanded, and I did—shuddering, juices squirting as he flooded my bowels with hot spurts, leaking out as he pulled free.
Sam cleaned me after, her touch gentle yet possessive, wiping the mess with a warm cloth, fingers teasing my sore hole. "Building that tolerance. You'll need it on the drive."
Weeks melted into a haze of use. Group exams: lined up bent over, wranglers delving into every orifice—fingers slick with lube probing pussies and asses, testing grip, wetness. Tongues sometimes lapped, sending jolts; vibes buzzed clits to measure orgasms. I learned to beg, body betraying with gushes at the slightest touch. The other girls shared whispers: "Loosen up for the big ones," or "Milk them with your ass—they cum faster." No male slaves—just us women, a sisterhood in collars, scents of our combined arousals perfuming the air.
Sam kept distance mostly, but her eyes promised. One stormy afternoon, post-yoga—holding "Downward Slave" with a thick plug shifting inside, rain hammering the tin roof—she dragged me to a stall. "Time for mine," she said, strapping on a harness, the dildo gleaming. On all fours in hay, she took my mouth first—thrusting deep, gagging me on silicone, saliva dripping. Then my ass: lubed head pressing, breaching slow, the stretch exquisite agony turning to bliss as she filled me utterly. Her hips slapped mine, hand fisting my hair, pulling me back onto each pound. "Take it, property." The friction built, her free hand slapping my clit, and I exploded—ass spasming around the toy, screams muffled in straw.
The drive dawned crisp, dust already stirring under hooves. Fifty cattle ahead, our herd of nine slaves behind—naked, wrists shackled to a communal chain, collars linked for control. Sun baked our oiled skin, breasts bouncing with each step, plugs (now tailed for "authenticity") swaying, tugging inside. Sam rode point on her mare, whip coiled at hip. "Hyah, stock! Keep pace!" Leather cracked air near laggards, stinging welts on calves.
Trails twisted through sagebrush, scents of wildflowers and earth rising. River crossings: water icy to thighs, current pulling, chains clanking as we waded. I slipped once—mud sucking at feet—yanked up by the line, a wrangler rewarding with fingers in my ass, pumping until I moaned, the water lapping my swollen clit.
Camps at dusk: staked spread-eagle, bodies offered. One night, three wranglers tag-teamed me— one in mouth, salty thrusts gagging; another pounding my pussy, stretching wet walls; the third claiming my ass, lubed cock sliding in deep, the double fullness overwhelming. They synced rhythms, friction building to a frenzy, my cries piercing the night as orgasms ripped through, muscles milking them dry. Cum leaked from every hole, cooling on skin under stars.
Mid-drive: USDA checkpoint. Inspectors in crisp whites probed publicly—gloved fingers delving pussies and asses, measuring depths, vibes testing responses. Bent over a tailgate, I squirted on a thick probe up my rear, earning "Prime Anal Grade," the humiliation flooding me with fresh arousal.
Billings market pulsed with energy: herded into holding pens, dust and sweat caking us. Auction block: oiled anew, plugs vibrating low, displayed—knees spread, holes presented as bidders groped. "Firm ass, takes it well," one said, fingers reaming my backdoor, twisting until I whimpered.
Bids flew, but Sam swooped in: "For the Lazy M." She "purchased" me back, leading me away in chains, her hand possessive on my branded cheek.
Fall semester hit, but I was remade—tougher, insatiable. Sam and I blurred lines: dorm nights with straps and plugs, her dominance my drug.
Disclaimer
In this fictional universe, slavery is legal for adults over 18 who volunteer, accrue debts they can't repay, or commit certain crimes. It's strictly regulated, non-hereditary, and often temporary. Enslaved individuals are treated as valuable property, with rights to health and safety, but subject to owners' whims within those bounds. This story explores consensual fantasy elements—nothing here advocates real-world harm.
Cattle Drive Summer
My name's Emily, and up until that wild freshman year at Boston University, I was your classic city princess—Chicago bred, all sleek leggings and iced coffees, eyeing a future in some glossy high-rise. Slavery? Yeah, it was a thing in our world—legal for debts, crimes, or those thrill-seekers who signed up voluntarily. I'd sneak peeks at those steamy online forums late at night, heart pounding as I devoured tales of women stripped of everything, collared and commanded. But me? Hell no. Until Sam crashed into my life.
She stormed our dorm like a Montana whirlwind—tall, sun-kissed, with biceps that screamed real labor, not spin classes. "Hey, roomie," she said, her voice a lazy drawl as she tossed a duffel that reeked of sun-baked earth and saddle leather. "Sam from the Lazy M Ranch. Ag major, specializing in Slave Handling." Her grin was sharp, predatory, and it sent a shiver straight to my core.
Slave Handling? I rolled my eyes at first, but her stories sank hooks into me. We'd sprawl on our beds munching ramen, and she'd paint pictures of the ranch: vast skies over rolling pastures, where they ran cattle alongside slave herds—mostly women, volunteers or debt girls chasing a raw reset. "It's like wrangling wild mustangs, but with bare skin and begging eyes," she'd say, her blue gaze locking on mine, making my skin prickle. I'd feign disgust, but alone in the dark, my fingers would wander, imagining myself in those chains, exposed under that endless blue.
It kicked off subtle. One rainy afternoon, post-midterms, Sam whipped out a worn notebook. "Check this out." Flipped to a page: "Slave Grading: Emily." My pulse hammered. There I was, dissected like prime beef: Height: 5'4". Build: Slender, 115 lbs. Measurements: 34C-24-34. Skin: Pale, smooth, freckles on shoulders. Hair: Brunette waves to mid-back. Eyes: Hazel, expressive. Notes: Perky tits with sensitive nipples; tight ass; quick to flush—high humiliation response.
"When the hell did you—?" I spluttered, cheeks blazing.
She lounged back, smirking. "Observation's my job. You're top-shelf stock, Em—soft city curves begging for a handler's touch. You'd pull premium at auction." Her eyes raked over me, and damn if my nipples didn't harden against my thin tee.
That sparked the games. Mornings in our cramped shower stall—dorm life, right?—she'd take charge. "Arms up," she'd order, lathering me with rough efficiency, her callused hands gliding over my breasts, tweaking peaks until I bit my lip to stifle moans. "Good response," she'd murmur, one finger trailing down to part my folds, circling my clit in slow, teasing swirls. The steam thickened the air, mingling with the floral soap and my growing musk. I'd arch into her touch, slick and aching, but she'd pull away just as I teetered on the edge. "Not yet, princess. Earn it."
Evenings ramped up: me stripped bare in our room, standing at attention while she inspected. Cool air kissed my skin, raising gooseflesh as she circled, prodding my ass cheeks apart, noting how my pussy glistened under her scrutiny. "Wet already? Slutty little volunteer." She'd introduce toys—a slim vibrator humming against my entrance, edging me mercilessly while I recited slave mantras: "I am property. I serve. I submit." The buzz filled the room, my whimpers echoing off the walls, thighs trembling as denial built a fire in my belly.
Her ranch tales grew filthier, laced with details that left me drenched. "We drive the herd to market—cows and slave girls chained naked, splashing through creeks, huddling in camps where wranglers claim their favorites. No boys in the slave line at Lazy M; keeps the focus sharp." I'd picture it: sun scorching bare backs, dust coating sweat-slick skin, the crack of whips urging us on.
I was obsessed, craving that edge. One humid night, after she'd finger-fucked me to the brink—two digits curling deep, thumb grinding my clit, my juices coating her hand—she whispered the offer: "Come with me this summer, Em. Volunteer for the drive. Three months, temp contract—real enough to bite, but with outs." Her breath hot on my neck, the scent of her arousal mixing with mine.
I signed the papers days later—voluntary indenture, health clauses, safe words. As finals wrapped, she booked my ticket. "Travel light," she winked. "Clothes are optional where you're going."
The Lazy M slammed into my senses like a freight train: endless golden fields under a sky so vast it swallowed you, air thick with dry grass, manure, and that underlying tang of animal heat. Sam's battered truck rumbled up the drive, gravel crunching under tires, dust clouding the windows. "Out," she commanded, her tone shifting to pure handler mode—no more roomie softness.
I stepped into the blistering sun, my light sundress whipping in the breeze. "Strip." One word, but it hit like a command. Fingers fumbling, I peeled off the dress, bra, panties—fabric pooling at my feet, warm wind teasing my newly bare skin, nipples pebbling instantly. The exposure burned: vulnerable, alive, my pussy already slicking.
Into the barn we went, hay dust tickling my nose, the dim light filtering through slats, shadows dancing on wooden beams. Seven other women knelt in the straw— all naked, collared, wrists bound behind. A curvy blonde with pierced nipples, a tattooed brunette whose thighs bore faint crop marks, a redhead with welts crisscrossing her ass. Their eyes flicked to me: fresh meat, appraising my curves, my untouched skin.
Sam didn't waste time. The collar first: heavy leather encircling my throat, buckling tight with a metallic click that echoed in my ears. A tag dangled cold against my chest: "Lazy M Property – Volunteer #47." Then the chip: a sharp sting at my nape, like a bee's bite, the device burrowing under skin. "Tracked livestock now," she said, her fingers lingering, tracing down my spine, raising shivers.
Branding came next, and fuck, it seared into my soul. Strapped face-down over a padded sawhorse—wrists and ankles locked wide, ass presented high, cool air brushing my exposed holes. The forge crackled, iron glowing cherry-red, the heat radiating waves that made sweat bead on my back. "Breathe," Sam advised, but as it pressed—hiss of flesh, acrid smoke filling my nostrils, agony exploding like firecrackers—I screamed, bucking against bonds, tears streaming hot down my cheeks. The pain throbbed in waves, syncing with my racing heart, but beneath it, a twisted heat bloomed between my legs.
"Part of the herd," Sam murmured, unstrapping me. Her palm soothed the fresh mark, rough skin contrasting my tenderness, fingers dipping lower to stroke my dripping slit. "And already leaking. Promising."
Training hit at dawn, shattering any romantic haze. Herded to the wash rack: rough concrete under bare feet, overhead hoses looming. Travis—a burly wrangler with callused hands and a perpetual stubble—took charge. Icy blasts pelted my skin, stinging the brand like needles, water cascading over curves, pooling between my toes. Soap came next: his gloved paws scrubbing without mercy—under arms, kneading breasts until nipples ached erect, parting ass cheeks to scour my crack. When he spread my labia, fingers plunging deep to "rinse," the intrusion sparked fireworks—rough digits curling, thumb flicking my clit, building pressure until my knees wobbled. "Eager hole," he grunted, the barn echoing with wet slaps and my gasps. The scent of clean sweat and arousal hung heavy.
Enemas were a ritual of pure humiliation. Bent over rails, ass up, nozzle cold and unyielding as it breached my tight ring—lube slick, but the stretch burned, water flooding in warm rushes, cramping my guts like a vice. I whimpered, clenching, tears mixing with drips down my thighs, holding until permission: release in a humiliating gush, the drain swallowing my shame. But god, the emptiness after left me aching for more.
Afternoons: anal prep dominated. Starting with slim plugs—cold silicone greased, pressed against my pucker, twisting in slow until it popped past resistance, filling me with a constant, maddening pressure. We'd drill postures: "Present"—knees wide, back arched, holes offered. Crops corrected slips: sharp cracks on inner thighs, welts blooming hot and red, each sting zinging straight to my core. The plugs graduated—medium, then large, stretching me open, the fullness making every step a reminder of submission. Sweat slicked our bodies, the barn air thick with feminine musk as we panted through sessions.
Evenings brought rotations, and they wrecked me. Second night, Travis claimed me. Chained to the bunkhouse post—collar tethered short, spreader bar forcing thighs apart, ass high and vulnerable. The rough wood scraped my knees, hay pricking skin as he circled, boot heels thudding. His hand slapped my branded cheek—fresh pain flaring—then traced my crack. "Tight little backdoor tonight," he growled, unzipping. His cock emerged thick, veined, the musky scent hitting me as he rubbed the head against my lips.
"Suck." I opened wide, tongue swirling, saliva pooling as he thrust deep, gagging me with each push, drool stringing down my chin. The taste—salt, skin—filled my mouth, his grunts vibrating through me. Then behind: lube drizzled cold down my crack, fingers probing, scissoring to open me. "Relax, slut." The breach burned—head pushing past my ring, inch by inch, stretching to fullness that bordered pain. He paused, letting me adjust, then slammed home, balls slapping my clit. Each thrust rocked me, friction igniting nerves I didn't know existed, his fingers reaching around to pinch my nipples, twisting until I cried out. Harder he went, the slap of flesh echoing, my ass clenching around him as waves built. "Cum for me," he commanded, and I did—shuddering, juices squirting as he flooded my bowels with hot spurts, leaking out as he pulled free.
Sam cleaned me after, her touch gentle yet possessive, wiping the mess with a warm cloth, fingers teasing my sore hole. "Building that tolerance. You'll need it on the drive."
Weeks melted into a haze of use. Group exams: lined up bent over, wranglers delving into every orifice—fingers slick with lube probing pussies and asses, testing grip, wetness. Tongues sometimes lapped, sending jolts; vibes buzzed clits to measure orgasms. I learned to beg, body betraying with gushes at the slightest touch. The other girls shared whispers: "Loosen up for the big ones," or "Milk them with your ass—they cum faster." No male slaves—just us women, a sisterhood in collars, scents of our combined arousals perfuming the air.
Sam kept distance mostly, but her eyes promised. One stormy afternoon, post-yoga—holding "Downward Slave" with a thick plug shifting inside, rain hammering the tin roof—she dragged me to a stall. "Time for mine," she said, strapping on a harness, the dildo gleaming. On all fours in hay, she took my mouth first—thrusting deep, gagging me on silicone, saliva dripping. Then my ass: lubed head pressing, breaching slow, the stretch exquisite agony turning to bliss as she filled me utterly. Her hips slapped mine, hand fisting my hair, pulling me back onto each pound. "Take it, property." The friction built, her free hand slapping my clit, and I exploded—ass spasming around the toy, screams muffled in straw.
The drive dawned crisp, dust already stirring under hooves. Fifty cattle ahead, our herd of nine slaves behind—naked, wrists shackled to a communal chain, collars linked for control. Sun baked our oiled skin, breasts bouncing with each step, plugs (now tailed for "authenticity") swaying, tugging inside. Sam rode point on her mare, whip coiled at hip. "Hyah, stock! Keep pace!" Leather cracked air near laggards, stinging welts on calves.
Trails twisted through sagebrush, scents of wildflowers and earth rising. River crossings: water icy to thighs, current pulling, chains clanking as we waded. I slipped once—mud sucking at feet—yanked up by the line, a wrangler rewarding with fingers in my ass, pumping until I moaned, the water lapping my swollen clit.
Camps at dusk: staked spread-eagle, bodies offered. One night, three wranglers tag-teamed me— one in mouth, salty thrusts gagging; another pounding my pussy, stretching wet walls; the third claiming my ass, lubed cock sliding in deep, the double fullness overwhelming. They synced rhythms, friction building to a frenzy, my cries piercing the night as orgasms ripped through, muscles milking them dry. Cum leaked from every hole, cooling on skin under stars.
Mid-drive: USDA checkpoint. Inspectors in crisp whites probed publicly—gloved fingers delving pussies and asses, measuring depths, vibes testing responses. Bent over a tailgate, I squirted on a thick probe up my rear, earning "Prime Anal Grade," the humiliation flooding me with fresh arousal.
Billings market pulsed with energy: herded into holding pens, dust and sweat caking us. Auction block: oiled anew, plugs vibrating low, displayed—knees spread, holes presented as bidders groped. "Firm ass, takes it well," one said, fingers reaming my backdoor, twisting until I whimpered.
Bids flew, but Sam swooped in: "For the Lazy M." She "purchased" me back, leading me away in chains, her hand possessive on my branded cheek.
Fall semester hit, but I was remade—tougher, insatiable. Sam and I blurred lines: dorm nights with straps and plugs, her dominance my drug.
Re: Cattle drive fun
IP rights: probably some mix of Joe (imreadonly2), jackdonkey22 and Carl Bradford. This sort of thing can make attorneys richer and I have no clue what the courts will do. Given this is being posted solely for non-commercial use under US laws (for me at least), I reserve the rights to characterize these posts as Fair Use of the underlying IP. If one of those 3 wants my IP rights in these posts, I would be willing to quitclaim any interest I have in these posts to any of the specified 3. Don’t know if I actually have any such rights and neither does anyone else atm. 
