Pigfarm

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I get restless sometimes—wouldn’t you? Knowing she’s out there. Cold, alone, scared…I can nearly hear the silenced whines, pitiful as she struggles, new hay irritating sensitive pink chick flesh. And I think what I would do: rip off those brief shorts, truss her with plastic digging into pale, gleaming skin, molding those chubby jiggly tits. Kittle her so she wriggles, jiggles, and squirms. Should I stir her to the shed tied, gagged? Stored for safekeeping, she’d strangle as she sits. Or do I take her for a tiny walk, towed behind the truck? So cute how she sweats and trousers and groans. Trotting to keep up, nude soles tantalized by the rocky path, strapped bosoms 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 wail when the change meets her mild skin. She can just string up by those yam-sized milk cans of hers. Fuckhole filled, suffering, helpless, exposed. Shackled in the barn. I’d muffle the loud thing—stuff cloth deep down the throat and spank those ginormous juggling breasts. Spread her wide, stretched, vulnerable. Would her muff throb and drip? Maybe fill it up, glide something right in. Then vibrate that turgid clit. She can’t resist, pitiful tiny slut. I won’t let her come—it’s more joy that way. I could lock her in the silo, iron hugging her breasts, compressing them into two tight, purple orbs. Her shrieks 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 man meat she’s pelted by sheets of rain, moaning at the groaning thunder as the lightening closes in. The image is nearly 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…