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Review This Story || Author: C. A. Smith

Cow 13

Part 8

Part 8

Another pad and pen. Is this good news or bad?

It's been many weeks, probably months since the last time. I must of fucked and licked five thousand cocks and assholes since then. My cunt, mouth and tits are constantly sore. About every tenth customer hauls me into the dungeon to string me up, tie me down, flay me with whips, cane me raw or hang terrifying weights from my nipples and cunt lips that near tears them off! Usually the arrival of writing materials means something new is happening and Mr Nameless would like my reaction to it. The "something new" could be a welcome change, or it could turn out to be my worst nightmare. But at this point I'd welcome most any change.

I just got back to my cell from being banged by two brothers. ("This is my brother" was one of the two English phrases they knew. The other was, "you fucking whore.") Their brotherly thing was for both of them to do me at the same time, constantly changing holes. They kept a grueling round robin going for an hour until they had both come twice, always unloading it in my mouth so I could swallow it. Cum has become a staple of my diet here. That and rice mixed with girl meat. Oh, and don't forget piss. About one in ten clients wants me to be a toilet. There must be two hundred girls in this place. Why do the pissers always come to me?

I don't suppose I should complain too much, considering it's one of the things that's keeping me on the outside of the oven. Shit, I spread my legs often enough for Tony's clients, and that was just for the chump change Tony let me keep. After the first dozen times for money, the sex don't mean nothing. Fucking is fucking whether it's paid for or free. Sometimes I could even get an orgasm if the guy was nice to me and not too ugly.

Jesus! I hear boots clomping down the hall. They're probably coming for me. It scares the shit out of me because I feel so helpless. Whatever they got planned for me, good or bad, there ain't a fucking thing I can do about it.

Page 2

There's fourteen of us in the truck this time, including Cow 17 and two other cows I don't recognize. Mrs Q must of bought them recently off Tony. I knowed right away they're his because they've got his brand on their ass. They've also got his rings in their noses, tits and cunts. And they can't talk.

One of the girls sitting next to me in the truck told me their names are Cow 68 and Cow 72. Looks like Tony ain't had no trouble finding stray girls to haul in, turn into cows and sell. And the cows are probably only the tip of the iceberg. Knowing Tony and Eric, they probably got three or four dozen new whorehouses and out-call services in operation by now, all staffed with runaways and single moms trying to feed their families with what Tony gives 'em from working their pussies seven days a week. And once Tony gets his claws in 'em, they're too scared of his goons to try running out on him.

From what I hear being whispered around, Tony and Eric are now big time suppliers of sex slaves to buyers all over the world, including the Middle East market where white American girls are hot sellers for raping, torturing and snuffing.

It's hard to write with this fucking truck bouncing around so much, so I'll stop until we get to wherever we're going.

Page 3

The truck dropped us off at a different place than before. It's a big honkin' mansion way the fuck out in the woods with acres of lawn, lots of fountains and a high stone wall all the way around. There's already a lot of people here, all babbling in different languages, and more coming in every minute.

I'm a decoration again, thank God, but this time I'm on a great long, wide table, squatting cross-legged in the center of a huge platter surrounded by vegetables, fruits and flowers with four chains from my collar and two more from my knees locked to ring bolts in the table around the platter so's I can't stand up and can barely move. There's two other tables set up alongside mine, three tables altogether, and all set up with platters in the middle and a girl chained down to the platter. Cow 17 is in the platter on one side and Cow 72 is in the platter on the other side, with me in the middle. Both Cow 17 and 72 have their arms bound behind them with their elbows together, which forces them to thrust their tits out where the guests can pinch and twist their nipple rings. Me they did different. My wrists are cuffed and attached by chains to the table so's I can write with the pad in my lap, but I can't raise my hands high enough to fend off the guests who want to play with MY boobs (which are the most popular because they're the biggest). And I'm not talking gentle love twists! These guys love to make a girl cry. But if that's all I'm here for — to look sexy, write and get my nipples twisted by crude foreigners — it's OK by me. Could be a lot worse.

Cow 68, a pretty little brown eyed girl with a trim body and a gorgeous pair of legs, is now hanging from her ankles from a kind of scaffold on the lawn not far from what looks like a huge barbecue pit. Not good news for her! Her arms are also strapped together elbow to elbow behind her back and her legs are spread wide, so she's in the shape of a Y. This gives the guys easy access to her girl holes and ass, and believe me, they've come up with all kinds of stuff to ram into them. She's got an O ring strapped into her mouth and her head is right about crotch level so some of the cruder types can whip out their tool right in front of everyone and stick it right in there to get it hardened up. They like to shove it deep and make her gag.

There's been plenty of fruits and veggies pushed up my cunt, too, as well as the other two cows. Thing is, I can grope in there and pull most of mine out again, but they can't. God knows how full their vaginas must be of olives, radishes, cherry tomatoes, pickles, jalapinos, shrimp, sardines, baby carrots, grapes and other crap.

Five of Mrs Q's girls are on their backs on the lawn, spread eagled and staked down in a star pattern, ankle to ankle. They serve double duty, both as a decoration and a set of fuck holes. Some guys, after getting hardened up with the hanging cow, take their boner over to the star and work their way around it, fucking each girl until they get off, usually over some girl's face.

Like us cows, the girls in the star are stark naked. The six other girls are dressed in skimpy maid outfits — short black and white mini skirts, high heel pumps, braless under a short vest not quite connected in front — and are serving drinks and snacks to the guests, along with feels of tits and pussy.

There's quite a crowd here, and almost as many women as men. The women are mostly young and sexy while the guys look pretty damn tough. There's a lotta laughing going on, but I wouldn't wanna cross any of these guys. I notice none of the women complain when their man gropes them in front of his buddies, or decides to dip his weenie into one of the girls in the star cluster, or grabs a maid and pulls her into the house (where I'm sure it ain't to watch TV).

This is so much like the scenes back at Mr Thomas's estate that it's real scary! But from what I can see there'd only be room enough in that barbecue pit for one girl and Cow 68 looks like the likeliest candidate for that.

Any position you're forced to hold for hours becomes painful after a while. I've been here for hours in this forced squat and it's becoming agony. The guests are getting real drunk, too, and starting to really hurt us.

To help take my mind of the growing pain, I've been doing some figuring. These three tables are really huge! I figure the can seat at least twelve to a side and two at each end. That's twenty-eight per table. Three tables makes eighty-four. That's just about the number of party goers circulating around this place. As the alcohol flows some of the women are shedding their tops or bottoms or both, giving Mrs Q's girls competition for the men's attention.

I fight off my increasing suffering by remembering that I've endured worse. I think the most painful hour of my life so far took place in the dungeon when I was the plaything of a particularly mean client who nearly cost me my tongue. The asshole hogties me, stretches my tongue out with pliers and drills a hole in it with a fucking cordless drill. He puts a thick ring through the hole and runs a heavy fishing line through the ring, threading it over a ceiling pipe. Then he stands me up, my forearms bound together behind me, and pulls the line taut, making me stand on tiptoes to keep my tongue from being torn out. He ties off the cord on a wall cleat. The bastard makes me stay like that, my calf muscles and tongue turning to fire, while he pokes needles in me and whips me with a cat and a singletail, and hangs heavy weights from metal toothed clips biting into my nipples and cunt lips. But the pain from the clip teeth was nothing compared to the molten agony in my calves. I started dancing, hopping from the toes of one foot to the other trying to get relief. All I got, of course, was double the pain in the supporting leg and horrible cramps. This went on and on, tears streaming down my face, while the dungeon guard (who's supposed to protect the "inventory" from serious damage) is looking on and saying nothing. I guess he figured yanking the tongue out of a dumb cow who can't talk anyway is not serious. The creep! The client finally got bored with it and took me down to torture me in other ways. My tongue was so swollen up and sore it didn't work right for a long time. I couldn't even eat!

Damn! Some guys just came over to the tables and injected some milky colored stuff in all our tits with huge fucking syringes, the needles as thick as nails. Three times they stuck them in each breast! They did it on the underside, probably so the holes won't show. God! My boobs fucking hurt!! Like they're on fire!!! But I notice they're bigger and firmer than they was before, so I guess that's why they did it. I bet I've gone from size C to E!!! Jesus God! They're aching like crazy!

Oh shit. Something's going on over by Cow 68. Everyone's gathering around over there.

Oh fuck! Shit shit shit! It's what I was afraid of. I'm gonna be sick!

They've slit open her stomach and are pulling out the guts. She's wriggling like a worm on a hook. Now they've rolled out a short table. They've taken her down and draped her face down on the table, her legs hanging off one end. They've strapped her down tight. Oh fuck! Here comes the skewer. They've put the point of it in her cunt and are screwing and pushing it up through her. She's going into convulsions. They've pulled up her head and the spit is coming out her mouth, all bloody. Now they're wiring her arms behind her back and her legs to the spit. They've put a rectal bracket up her ass and bolted it to the spit so she'll turn with it. Two beefy guys have picked up each end of the spit and are carrying her off to the barbecue pit.

Page 4

I can't tell if the poor girl is dead or alive at this point. She's turning slowly over the fire while they baste her with brushes.

It don't make sense. She's just a skinny little thing, no more than five feet tall. Probably don't weigh more than a hundred pounds. She ain't got near enough meat to feed this size crowd. Unless she's just a side dish.

O God! I gotta puke. I can't watch this.

Page 5

I managed to keep from vomiting on my note pad.

But I've been thinking. One scrawny cow won't feed this many people. But three voluptuous cows will. Is that why we're on platters? Are we more than decorations?

Cow 68 has been roasting all afternoon while the party has been getting crazier. The happy drunks have been slobbering all over the girls in maid costumes and fucking the girls in the star pattern relentlessly, usually pumping jizz all over their faces. The mean drunks have been twisting my tits so hard I've fainted a couple of times. Same with the girls in the star, except their tormentors have better access to their southern parts, too.

Oh shit. A guy with a knife has just stepped up to Cow 72 on my right. She's terrified, poor thing. A crowd is gathering around her table. She's a honey blond with creamy skin, deep brown eyes and a cute face. She's a little wide in the hips, but most guys in the real world would focus in on her outstanding hooters. These guys, on the other hand, are releasing her from the chains holding her to the platter and standing her up. They've unbound her arms from behind her and are tying leather thongs around her upper arms near her shoulder, and around her thighs near her hips. O God! I've seen this before! I don't want to look, yet I can't help myself.

They bring her over to that same little table they used for Cow 72, now roasting over the fire. One no-neck brute holds her right arm on the table while another holds her body in a choke hold about a foot away from the table. A third guy with an electric saw steps in and — oh shit!!! — saws right through her arm. The tightly wrapped thongs keep the stump from bleeding.

They turn her around and do the same thing to her left arm. Then to both legs! They cauterize the stumps with a hot fry pan. Her bucking, limbless body is then plunked on the table and they take a knife to her breasts, slicing them off and cauterizing the gaping wounds the same way. Next they flip her over and carve off both her rumps, searing the wounds with the hot pan. Jesus! This is almost exactly what Tony did to Emily! The pain must be incredible!

In the meantime, the table where she has been the centerpiece until now is pulled apart in the middle. Under where the platter was is a hole split in half by the opening of the table, and under the hole a plastic bin with a wooden cone in the bottom. What's left of her body is lowered into the bin, her cunt impaled on the cone. The table is then closed together around her neck so that the only part of her showing is her head. Another split dish is brought in and closed around her neck. They decorate it with parsley and such so that it looks like her head is on a platter. But the head's alive! She'll be watching herself eaten by the guests.

Now attention is turned to Cow 17 on my left. They're doing the same to her, cutting off her arms, legs, breasts and ass. I can't bear to watch but I can hear it. And the bastards are standing around cheering! Oh Christ! There she is! Her head is on the fake platter in the center of her table, like Cow 72 on the other side. She's crying. Great wretched sobs. One of the maids has laid out a linen table cloth on the table with a cutout for Cow 17's head. Another one is setting out plates and tableware and wineglasses.

O my God! Now they're coming toward me!!! It's not fair! I done everything they asked! It's not fucking fair!!!!


Review This Story || Author: C. A. Smith
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