PIgFARM
I get restless sometimes—wouldn’t you? Knowing she’s out there. Cold, alone, scared…I can almost hear the muffled whines, pathetic as she struggles, fresh hay irritating soft pink girl flesh. And I think what I would do: tear off those short shorts, bind her with plastic digging into pale, gleaming skin, molding those plump fleshy tits. Tickle her so she wriggles, jiggles, and squirms. Should I move her to the shed tied, gagged? Stored for safekeeping, she’d strangle as she sits. Or do I take her for a little walk, towed behind the truck? So cute how she sweats and pants and groans. Trotting to keep up, bare feet tortured by the rocky path, bound breasts pulled taut, leading the way. I’d use her as a toilet—humiliate the pretty bitch. I contemplate the mountain, the trees far away. No one can hear her shriek when the switch meets her tender skin. She can just hang by those huge tits of hers. Hole filled, suffering, helpless, exposed. Fettered in the barn. I’d silence the noisy thing—stuff cloth deep down the throat and slap those big bouncing breasts. Spread her wide, stretched, vulnerable. Would her cunt throb and drip? Maybe fill it up, slide something right in. Then stimulate that swollen clit. She can’t resist, pitiful little slut. I won’t let her come—it’s more fun that way. I could lock her in the silo, metal hugging her breasts, compressing them into two tight, purple orbs. Her moans would echo as she hobbled on one leg. So tenacious, my sweet captive, wallowing in the dust, writhing, like she thinks she can escape. Serenaded by spring’s showers, I envision her: chained, cuffed, miserable. Soaked to the bone she’s pelted by sheets of rain, wailing at the bellowing thunder as the lightening closes in. The image is almost enough. Enough to draw me out of bed. To send me to her. To make it real. But no, make her wait. There’s always tomorrow and the next day and the next…
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