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Part 2
It was at least a week before I could eat anything solid again. Tony was human enough to understand that, even though he didn't give a shit how much pain I was in. It turns out that I was only the first of the surviving quartet to be permanently silenced. That was what the mark on my forehead was about. But it's just as well. At least I didn't have to wait my turn like the others did, knowing what was coming and helpless to do a damn thing about it.
Tony was really into the cow thing, although he set it up different from what Thomas did. I remember Mr. Thomas showing us the "stall" where he kept the girls before they were brought out for roasting. It was basically a room constructed of planks with a wooden manger. He would cover the floor with straw, cuff the girls' hands behind them and chain them by their collar to the wall. They had a pail to piss in but had to shit in a corner and kick straw over their dump. He put out a pan with water but they had to stick their face in it to drink. Same with their food. He only fed them vegetables in the manger which they had to push their face in to eat.
Tony had decided that wasn't quite cow-like and demeaning enough. He had constructed a long, barn-like room in a basement area under the restaurant. The flooring and walls was authentic, taken from some old barn somewhere, and the "stalls" ran along one side of the room. There was no walls separating us cows, but there was a pair of thick wooden upright poles on the open side of the stall row for each cow. Stanchions they called them. One of each pair of poles was hinged at the bottom so it could be opened up to put our head through, then put back vertical and locked in place so's our head was trapped between the poles. This meant we had to stay down on all four like a cow, or stand up bending over. Sleeping was a bitch because it was impossible to lay down in a comfortable position. Besides which all we had to lay down on was straw. Just to make sure we didn't manage to slip our heads out of the stanchions and get a good night's sleep, he put rings through our noses (soldered shut so they couldn't be taken out) and attached them to one of the uprights with a chain. As insurance against us escaping, he kept one ankle chained to a ring in the center of the stall floor. One good thing was, he didn't cuff our hands behind us all night like Thomas had done with his cows. The only time he did that was at feeding time. We wouldn't get any food or water unless we had our hands cuffed behind us so's we'd have to eat like animals.
At feeding time one of his regular whores would come in, cuff us and shove a pan of some disgusting gruel-like stuff on the floor where we could push our faces into it to eat. A few hours later it would be replaced by a pan of water, sometimes laced with piss if the serving whore felt like being mean. I often wondered if it ever occurred to these nitwits that they was only a whim away from joining us.
And join us they did. It was hard to keep track of time in that place but it couldn't have been more than a week before two more of his working girls found themselves locked in the same row with us original four. We couldn't ask them how they got themselves put there, of course, and they couldn't speak up themselves because Tony had cut out their voices, too.
Tony's goons used us all as fuck toys, as you might guess. Them and some other guys who were maybe customers of Tony's for all I knew. Tony never fucked us. He had plenty of ass in his regular stable of whores to keep his dick lubed. I remember from my days out there, when I was still a human, that if Tony told you to strip and spread 'em for him, that's what you did. The happier you made Tony, the bigger cut you'd get from the fees and tips you brung in. If he was driving me to an appointment with a client, I'd usually be down on the floor of the car with his gristle in my mouth for the whole trip, him squeezing my tits with one hand and steering with the other.
When he told me that slicing my voice out would complete my "conversion into a cow," I hoped he'd forgotten one other of Thomas's little cowmaking tricks. But he didn't. Maybe it just took him a while to have a branding iron made up to look like he wanted. Anyway, when he finally got around to it, there was six of us in the cow stalls and he decided to brand us all on the same day to save time. He'd also sold tickets to the show! There was a dozen guys who'd paid to watch us taken one by one from our stanchions, bent face down over a table and strapped down, legs tied to the table legs and asses up and ready. I was the third in line to be branded and the air was already filled with the smell of cooked flesh from the two girls before me. I hoped I'd faint when that red hot iron burned into me, but I didn't. He held it there against my right ass cheek as he counted off five full seconds, the longest fucking five seconds of my life! I'd never knowed such terrible pain! My body tried to scream, but only a loud raspy whisper came out, like sandpaper scraping on the end of an old tin can. Then, with the burns still fresh and us in agony, we had to get down on our hands and knees so the johns could fuck us, slapping their pelvises against our burned asses as they reamed us. Jesus Christ, did that hurt!!! It was the first time I was happy to be led back to my stall and stick my head in that fucking stanchion.
From then on Tony branded his new cows before he slit their vocal cords so he could hear them scream.
After that first branding, Tony come up with another idea. Using an awl and a block of wood, he punched holes in our nipples and cunt lips and installed rings, using solder to make them permanent (with the extra bonus of causing us horrible pain). From then on when we was taken out of our stalls, they'd clip a leash to one of the rings. It was obvious that it wouldn't take much to tear any of those rings right through the flesh, but Tony made it clear that if one got ripped out, they'd just use another, and if we managed to tear out all four, we'd be meat.
Right after we'd all been fitted out with tit and pussy rings, he decides regular names was too dignified for a herd of cows, so he gives us numbers. He didn't want to give anyone the distinction of being Cow No. 1, so he started the numbering with the first eight who'd been butchered at the Thomas estate before the trial. I happened to be fifth in line that day in the stanchions, so I come out as number thirteen. And that's what I've been called ever since. I'm just Cow 13. Lucky me.