Carla stood frozen in the barn doorway, dust floating in the shafts of light, the smell of yams and warm earth thick around her. Melissa on her knees, naked, long blonde hair in tight braids, yellow tag glinting in one ear. A little plastic bottle on the ground, half-full of milk. A soft silicone shield pressed to her breast, the faint mechanical whirr of the battery pump.
Their eyes met. Three heartbeats of silence.
“Carla?” Melissa’s face crumpled, with pure, raw joy. She dropped the pump to the ground.
Carla dropped the beer bottle she was still holding. It rolled, fizzed, foamed.
They crashed together, two naked, collared women hugging so hard the breath left their lungs. Carla’s arms around Melissa’s back, Melissa’s face buried in Carla’s neck, both shaking.
“You’re here,” Melissa whispered, voice breaking. “You’re really here.”
“I thought I’d never see you again,” Carla managed, half-laughing, half-crying.
They pulled back just enough to look at each other. Melissa’s breasts were heavy, nipples dark and wet, a faint sheen of milk on her skin. When Melissa hugged her again, the wetness smeared across Carla’s own chest. Carla didn’t care. Melissa wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist.
“Look at us. Collars, no clothes, and I’m milking myself like a bloody cow.”
Carla’s eyes went to the bottle, the pump, the wet shine on Melissa’s breasts. The sweet smell of milk hit her a second later. Melissa saw the question before Carla asked it.
“You’re… lactating?” The word came out a cracked whisper.
“Yeah. Markus decided The Slave Academy was getting too expensive. Victor had an idea. So they injected some hormone pellet into my butt, and here we are.”
“What!?”
She tapped the plastic bottle with one finger. “Six times a day now.”
Carla’s mouth opened, closed. “He did this to you to save money?”
“That’s what he said.” Melissa’s voice cracked. “Then one evening, after my shift at the milk bar, they just chained me into the farm coffle, and loaded me in the cattle truck with the others from here. I have been kept here ever since. No explanation. No goodbye. Nothing.”
Carla stared, horror rising in her throat. “He just… left you here?”
Melissa gave a tired laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “Not completely. They still take me to The Slave Academy three days a week to drill more obedience into me.”
Carla’s mouth opened. “But you’re here milking yourself…”
“Exactly,” Melissa said. “I work the farm and the milk bar to pay for my own training at the Academy — so they can make me a better slave for Markus. How sick is that?”
Carla felt sick. “That’s… they’re making you work for your own—”
Melissa cut her off with a shrug. “Welcome to Grabesh.”
Carla stared, horror rising in her throat. “So he just… left you here like this?”
Melissa shrugged again, eyes on the dirt. “Looks like it. I guess until Victor tells Markus that I am subservient enough.”
Carla’s mouth opened, closed. She had nothing. They sat in silence a moment, the weight of it settling between them.
Melissa managed a tired smile. “Your turn.”
Carla gave a shaky laugh. “I pull a cart to make deliveries. Barefoot. Every day.”
“I have to do farm work, when I’m not, well, livestock myself.”
“Every morning I have to shave myself and stand at Attention while this sixty-year-old creep checks for red stubble.”
Melissa raised an eyebrow. “Every morning?”
“Every morning.”
“Wow.”
Melissa pulled back first, eyes shining. “I live in a barn.”
Carla let out a ragged laugh. “They lock me in a cage on most nights. In a storage room. With three other girls.”
They both laughed then, the kind of laugh that hurts.
Melissa wiped her eyes. “My barn has a cage too. Same thing, bigger space.”
Carla shook her head, still grinning through tears. “At least you stay in one place. I get chased all over the bay, barefoot, pulling a cart like a bloody donkey.”
Melissa’s smile faded a little. “You get to see the sea. The village. All kinds of places. I see this farm. And the milk bar when they take me there. This is my world now.”
Carla’s grin died completely. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I get to see everything. And if I’m late, the thing inside me shocks me until I can’t stand.”
Melissa stared. “Inside you?”
Carla’s voice dropped. “I’ve got a tracker inside me. If I’m late, it shocks me.”
Melissa stared. “Inside you? It shocks you… there?”
Carla nodded.
Melissa let out a slow breath. “Whoa. I thought the milking was bad.” She gave a broken laugh. “You win.”
They dragged themselves to the nearest stack of yam crates and sat on one of them. Their fingers remained locked together as if letting go would make the other disappear like a heatstroke dream.
Melissa touched the steel band around Carla’s neck. “Still can’t believe this is real.”
Carla’s fingers brushed the yellow tag in Melissa’s ear. “Cattle get tags.”
Melissa’s mouth twisted. “Yeah. Cattle.”
Silence for a moment, just breathing.
Melissa broke the silence first. “You said you spend most nights in the cage. What about the others?”
Carla shrugged. “When the boss decides he wants company, he takes me home with him.”
Melissa’s face softened with worry. “Oh no! Are you okay?”
Carla gave a small, tired laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “Oddly enough… yeah. He doesn’t hurt me. He just… takes me. Chains me to the bed, does what he wants, falls asleep. I don’t even fight it, and…” She trailed off, and glanced away. “oddly enough, it doesn’t feel bad. That’s the part I can’t understand.”
Melissa nodded slowly, mulling this over. “Markus used to do the same. He stayed at a resort. He would pick me up from The Slave Academy for a few days, have his way with me, and bring me back after a few days. I kept thinking, how is this happening. He knew me back in England when I was free. He should know this is wrong. But he never accepted that and did it anyway. I hated that.”
Carla looked at her hands. “My ‘owner’ is different. He’s from here. And he has only ever known me as a slave. To him, I’m just… a slave he happens to fancy.”
Melissa gave a soft, bitter laugh. “A slave he has the hots for.”
Carla’s mouth twitched. “Oh yeah. A lot.”
They both let the silence sit for a moment.
Melissa nodded slowly. “Maybe because here it fits the rules. Your owner isn’t doing anything wrong by Grabesh standards. He’s just… using what’s his.”
Carla stared at the dirt. “And it feels better than anything I ever had back home. Way better. I thought it was supposed to be the other way round.”
Melissa tilted her head. “You have a boyfriend back home?”
Carla snorted. “One guy. One night. When I moved out from home, I wanted to know what the fuss was about. It was… fine. Awkward. Nothing special.” She shrugged. “I figured I just needed to be in love for it to be good. But I don’t even like my so-called ‘owner,’ and I don’t want to be chained down. But somehow it feels great doing it with him. Better than back home.”
They both let out a short, broken laugh.
“Funny how that works.” Melissa squeezed her hand. “Back home you weren’t supposed to do it at all, weren’t you?”
Carla exhaled. “Yeah, that is how I was raised.”
Melissa squeezed her hand. “Here, we have no choice. We are slaves.”
A rough voice boomed from the barn door. “Melissa! Where’s your milk? You’re late!”
Melissa’s head snapped up. The colour drained from her face.
Carla’s heart slammed against her ribs.
“I’ve got to go,” Melissa whispered, already scrambling to her feet. She grabbed the pump bottle, hands shaking. “Come back. Please. Try to get this route again.”
“I will,” Carla said. “I promise.”
Melissa gave her one last fierce squeeze of the hand, then turned and hurried toward the voice.
Carla picked up the dropped beer bottle, tucked it into the cart, and started back down the path at a fast walk. She had stayed too long; the tracker would be buzzing its warning soon if she didn’t hurry.
Carla couldn’t stop seeing Melissa on her knees with that pump. When the path finally curved out of sight of the farm, she spotted the small lake tucked behind the palms and veered toward it without thinking. The water lay flat and clear, lily pads drifting, dragonflies flicking above the surface. No one around. Just quiet and shade and the soft lap of waves on sand.
She was glad — so glad — to have found her friend again. But the picture of Melissa milking herself like that… it sat in her stomach like a stone.
She sank onto a flat rock at the edge, let her feet dangle in the cool water, and finally let herself breathe.
She sat there longer than she should have. Melissa’s words continued to circle in her head. The pump. The bottle. The tag. The cage. How she had said, “here, we have no choice. We are slaves.” A shiver ran down Carla’s spine, remembering it. There was something final about hearing this calmly being said by a friend. Carla wondered if the reason the sex with Juma was so good was because as a slave she had no other choice than to oblige him. Her lack of choice switched off the nagging voice of conscience in her mind and allowed her to enjoy the sex with him. Carla wondered if this is what had held her back from enjoying lust more all these years.
The first low buzz of the tracker jolted her back. She was late.
Carla scrambled up, grabbed the cart handles, and pushed hard, the wheels humming faster on the packed dirt.
She still had a long way to go.
Carla rolled the empty cart into the yard as the last light faded from the sky. The tracker had been buzzing its low warning for the last ten minutes, each pulse sharper than the last. She parked the cart, legs shaking, and hurried into the office.
Carla’s stomach dropped. The sybian was occupied. She felt panic rising in her. Nia was sitting on the charger. Eyes closed, breathing slow, the orange light glowing steady.
“Nia — I’m late. I need it now.”
Nia opened her eyes, startled. “I can’t get off. You know that. It’s locked until the cycle ends.”
“How long?” Carla’s voice cracked. The buzz between her legs was already climbing, urgent.
“I only just started. A few minutes ago.”
Carla spun, scanning the room. Empty. No Rafiki, no Juma, no one. “Where is everyone?”
Nia glanced toward the door. “They left for the market a while back. But the janitor might be out back.”
Carla ran off, the tracker’s buzz turning into a steady throb that promised real pain any second. She found the janitor leaning against the wall, cigarette glowing in the dusk.
“Please,” she gasped, voice cracking, “I’m late — the tracker. Switch it off. Please.”
The janitor frowned, took a slow drag on his cigarette, and looked her up and down. “That’s not how a slave talks to a free man.”
Carla’s heart lurched. She dropped to her knees on the rough gravel before him, eyes on the ground. “Please, Sir,” she tried again, voice shaking, “I’m late. The tracker — please switch it off.”
The janitor took another slow drag on his cigarette and squinted at her like she was speaking a foreign language. He scratched his chin, thinking. “You need to mount the charger in the office,” he said finally, as if imparting words of wisdom. “That’s how it stops.”
Carla’s hands clenched into fists. “Nia’s already on it! I can’t — it’s about to go off any second. Please!”
“Oh,” he said. He took one last puff, and flicked the cigarette away. “Right. Juma showed me once. I can do it from the phone.”
Carla’s heart slammed against her ribs. The buzz between her legs was already climbing, sharp and urgent.
“No panic,” he muttered. “Phone’s in my bag.” He stood calmly, stretched, and ambled toward the shed door.
Carla followed, legs shaking, sweat pouring down her back. Every second felt like a minute.
He rummaged in a dirty canvas bag, pulled out the phone, and held it to his thumb. Nothing. He wiped the screen on his shirt, tried again. Still nothing. “Damn grease,” he grumbled, squinting as he read the prompt aloud under his breath, “Password.” Then he started tapping numbers, mouthing them as he went. “One… two… three… four… five.”
The first real shock hit.
“Arrgh!” Carla doubled over, knees buckling, a strangled cry ripping out of her. Fire exploded between her legs, spreading up her spine. Her thighs clamped together involuntarily, trying to stop the next wave, but there was no stopping it. Another shock, then another, each one worse than the last. “Please, Sir! Make it arrrrgh, stop!”
“Relax, girl,” he said, fumbling with his phone. “Stings a bit, that’s all. Doesn’t do any real harm. Now where is this app, where is it…” she faintly heard him mumble, “…ah, here, ‘PainPal,’ here we go…”
She dropped to the dirt at his feet, shaking, tears mixing with sweat, barely able to breathe.
“Breathe,” he told her. “It just tingles the nerves to make you feel bad, but it doesn’t hurt you properly.”
Carla gasped for breath. Another wave of pain came, and she was helpless to stop it. The tracker was in her, out of reach.
“Ok… ‘Home Register,’ yes, that is it.” The janitor finally tapped the screen.
The buzzing stopped.
Carla stayed on the ground, chest heaving, the pain still echoing through her body. She had never felt so small, so helpless, so completely at someone else’s mercy.
“You okay now, girl?” The janitor crouched beside her, cigarette forgotten.
Carla swallowed, tasting dirt and tears. “Yes, Sir,” she whispered from the ground. “Thank you, Sir.”
Footsteps crunched on gravel. Rafiki appeared in the doorway, arms full of delivery bags, frowning at the scene. “What happened here?”
The janitor straightened, shrugging. “White girl came running. Tracker went off. Took me a minute to find the app.”
Rafiki dropped the bags and looked down at Carla curled on the dirt.
He nodded, slow and knowing. “Yeah, I knew this would happen. Those soft little white feet can’t take the long runs like our girls. Local stock keeps going. These white slaves are just too fragile.”
The janitor gave a short laugh. “Sensitive to pain too. Screamed like she was about to be cooked.”
Rafiki snorted. “I keep telling Juma he got her cheap for a reason. He can’t push her like that.”
He glanced at Carla again. “Tomorrow easier routes. She needs to recover.”
Carla had managed to push herself up to a kneeling position while they talked, breathing steadier now.
She managed a whisper. “Do I… still have to charge tonight?”
He snorted. “Battery lasts two weeks easy. Skip it. Just don’t be late again.” Rafiki waved a hand at her. “Shower. Then off to your cage.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He picked up his bags and walked off.
The janitor lit another cigarette and followed.
Carla stayed there a moment longer, breathing in the dust, before she dragged herself up and limped toward the outdoor shower.
Carla collapsed onto her thin mat, every muscle aching, the echo of the shocks still throbbing between her legs.
Tomorrow would be another long day.
But tonight, as sleep finally pulled her under, one thought pushed through the ache.
Melissa.
She had found her friend. She was not alone anymore. The smallest smile touched her lips before the darkness took her.
