Cow 13

Part 5

"I'm tired of livin' and scared of dyin' . . ."

Funny how some words stick in your mind. Those go back three years to 8 ^th grade, my last year in school before I run away, when they put me in an old fashioned musical play about a boat and a bunch of slaves. Now I'm the slave, and I feel the same way. Tired of living, scared of dying.

I wrote all that earlier stuff in one day riding in that SUV with windows so black I could hardly see out. Cow 17 wrote for a few minutes, too, after Mr Nameless gave her a pad and pen, but I guess she don't have much to say.

The SUV part of the trip ended in another warehouse. Cow 17 and me was brung to the middle of the warehouse where they had a table and a bucket waiting. Right there in front of a bunch of warehouse workers they bend us over the table and give us three enemas, the men standing around grinning at the show. They must've put in 3 gallons at a time, until we was crying and on the verge of exploding! We shit ourselves empty into the bucket till nothing comes out but the soapy water they put in. Well, I thought to myself, at least I won't be shitting myself during this trip. In fact, I might not poop for a week!

After that, we was cleaned up, tied up, and laid out in long wooden boxes. They lashed me down so tight I couldn't even wiggle. It was awful, like being put into your coffin while you're still alive! I guess I was kinda wild-eyed. I know I was shaking bad. So one of them puts a blindfold on me so I can't see where I am before they nail the lid on. It helped a lot. I don't think I would of been sane at the end of the trip if he hadn't done that. At least we didn't have to be gagged, us having no voice box and all.

It was a long, long trip. Some of it was in a truck I guess, because we bounced along all hot and stuffy. Some of it was in airplanes where it was icy cold and it sometimes felt like we was falling off a cliff. The whole time we got nothing to eat or drink, just like when Tony grabbed us after the trial. Only then I was sure he was gonna torture us in the most horrible way he could think of and then kill us. Now I didn't know what to think. I know they're gonna kill me sooner or later, but maybe it'll be later. It's what they might do to me in between that makes my skin crawl

When they finally pried open my box, lifted me out and took off the blindfold, I found myself in still another warehouse. This time there was no truck inside, just lots and lots of boxes of all sizes, stacked up all over. The door to the warehouse was open and it was dark outside. And hot inside! Both Cow 17 and me was staggering, barely able to stand up after what seemed like days in those boxes, unable to move, except to wiggle our fingers and toes. A couple of men — big, swarthy guys — helped us stumble around in circles, keeping one arm around us (and both hands on our tits) until we could walk proper again.

Then they called in warehouse workers from other parts of the building, spread out a dirty blanket on the floor, laid us down on it side by side and proceeded to organize a fuckfest. They was all laughing and pointing and talking in a foreign language which I later find out is Spanish. I didn't understand a word, but it was pretty obvious they was trash talking us like guys do everywhere when they gang bang a couple of whores. I had boners in both my southern channels as well as in my mouth. By the time they ran out of spunk and had to get back to work, I had sperm all over my face, boobs, belly and thighs. My handler was careful to take a rag and wash all the most obvious cum crust off my body, although the stuff kept drooling out of my pussy and down the inside of my leg as they cuffed my hands behind me and led me out of the warehouse by the tit leash. He loved that leash and kept yanking on it to see me wince and lurch forward to keep up.

Cow 17 and me were led along the side of a very long building, sometimes on tarmac and sometimes on a gravelly dirt surface that hurt like hell on my bare feet. The men seemed to take great pleasure in making us trot faster on the pebbles and sharp bits of rock. It was dark, but you could see it was an airport. I could make out the shapes of aircraft beyond the dim lighting at the side of the building. It was plenty hot and humid, too. I began to sweat from the excursion and pain. Remember, I'd been standing and lying around "tenderizing" for weeks. The amazing thing was, we went by lots of people, and although some gawked, nobody questioned why two naked, handcuffed girls was being dragged along by a leash attached to their tits. Wherever this was, it sure wasn't America. Not even Florida.

Eventually we come to a white panel truck. They slid the door open and pushed Cow 17 and me in, leaving the leashes to drag at our feet. The inside was bare metal except for a wooden bench along each side. The door slammed shut behind us, leaving us in pitch blackness. I heard the lock click. We found each other in the dark and sidled over to one of the benches, sitting down and pressing close together for comfort and physical support. I think that was the moment it really struck me just how cruel it is to deliberately destroy a person's voice. There was so much we wanted to say to each other facing that terrible unknown, and yet we couldn't utter a word. We just held hands behind our backs as the truck rolled out and began the last dark leg of our journey.

This time it didn't take all that long. Twenty minutes maybe. When the truck stopped and the door slid open, two guys jumped in and quick as lightning wrapped blindfolds around our eyes. I don't know why. Where the hell was we gonna run? Painful tugs on the fucking tit leash got me off the bench and out of the truck.

Thank God the driveway was asphalt because my feet was raw from the last walk.

I only had the feel of the surface under my sore feet to clue me in as to where we was being taken. The harsh asphalt surface turned to smooth, cool concrete, then to wood and finally to carpet. Men kept yelling things at me, but I didn't understand them, so they would yank and twist at my tit leash and slap my face. Someone touched me with something that was almost as painful as the branding, so I knew it must be a cattle prod. I jumped and wept and hopped in circles, totally frightened and frustrated, until finally someone grabbed both my upper arms and pulled me backward up against a rail of some kind and lashed my cuffed wrists to the rail. Then they left me alone.

Other things were happening at the rail and in the room around me, but they hadn't removed the blindfold and the jabbering was incomprehensible, so I just stood there and hoped someone wasn't about to cut my throat.

Finally the blindfold was whipped off. I looked around, amazed! There was a whole row of us tied to that rail — all girls around my age or maybe a bit older, I'd guess fifteen to twenty years old. Some looked defiant. Others looked scared shitless.

Then she comes in. Mrs Q. herself. Cool and haughty that one. She walks along the whole row of us, holding a clipboard that she's tapping with a riding crop. Some men are following her. She goes back to the beginning of the row, looks at the first girl, appraising her closely, and says something in Spanish to the men. They release the girl from the rail and hustle her off. God knows where!

She does the same to the next girl. And the next.

Then she comes to me.

"Cow 13," she says to the men. One of them writes something. She says something else and they turn me roughly to look at my brand. They laugh and make another note. One of them uses a finger to see how deep it's burned. She says something else and they raise an eyebrow, looking at each other. Suddenly she hauls back and whips me hard across the breasts with that riding crop. I open my mouth to scream but only a whoosh of breath comes out. The men nod appreciatively. Then smile. I know what they're thinking. We can torture this bitch and no one will hear . She says something else and two men behind them step up, untie me from the rail, grab my tit leash and lead me away.

They lead me down a corridor to the door at the end. It opens into a long corridor lined with doors made of heavy wire, like a hurricane fence, or fencing at a zoo. I got the impression of being in a kennel. Behind each door is a cell, some empty, others filled with naked young women. Mostly they're sitting or lying on mats that take up most of the tiny space in the cells, staring at us as we parade by. Some are asleep. Others are lounging at their cage door. A few are squatting on toilets. The toilets have got no seats. Just a bowl. One of the inmates is scooping water with her hands from the toilet and drinking it. Another is propped up against a wall eating something from a small bowl, fishing it out with her fingers. I notice there's a slot at the bottom of each cell door just large enough to slip a bowl through. I also notice that there's a plaque beside each door with a number, and under it a bracket with a name hand wrote on an insert card. Some of the doors are standing open with no one inside.

We reach an open door and my escort (guard? handler? whatever he is) brings me to a stop. The plaque tells me this is cell number 147. Under it the name "Cow 13" is on the insert card. The guard unclips my tit leash, takes off the cuffs and shoves me into the cell. The door slams shut behind me.

The first thing I notice is this pad of paper and a pen laying on the mat. The second thing I notice is how clean the cell is. I can smell soap and disinfectant.

I test the mat with my foot. It's softer than the cement floor, but just barely. Still, it's a lot better than straw on a cow stall floor. It reminds me of like the mats they used in gym class for tumbling at school. The best thing is I won't have to stick my head in a stanchion. Gotta look on the bright side.

I sat down on the mat cross legged and thought about things. On the one hand I was happy to be upgraded from barn animal to sex slave. I've been fucked hard both with and without permission for as long as I can remember, so forced whoredom is no big deal. On the other hand it's only a temporary reprieve from being meat. I definitely don't look forward to being slaughtered or, worse, roasted alive. Maybe, I decided, there's a way out of this if I just stick it out long enough. Hope springs eternal, even in Hell.

So I picked up the pen and paper and began to write. But now I'm sleepy. It's not like I was able to sleep nailed in a wooden box. Maybe I'll wake up and it'll all have been a fucking dream. Or I'll be dead.