BDSM Library - Story: Cow 13, Chapter: Part 4

Part 4

The woman who bought me is dusky with big round dark eyes and black hair, and she's definitely not Asian. I don't speak no languages but English (although now I can't even speak that!) but I've come to recognize Spanish when I hear it. She also bought Cow #17 who's about three inches taller than me and lovely with green eyes and long brown hair, but not as much in the tit department. The two of us was loaded into a black van with windows tinted so dark you can't see in. We was chained to the seats by our ankles, wrists and around our bellies.

A nice looking man sits down next to me. He's what you'd call swarthy with black hair and eyes that make your clit tingle. 'Course I don't know at that point what they're gonna do to me, so I'm swinging through a series of moods, from anger to despair to straight out scared shitless.

"Are you comfortable?" he asks.

No one's come close to asking me that since the trial. I figure he's being sarcastic, that it's just a way to slide into some kind of sadistic way of making me miserable, but what can I do? Frustrated by fear and helplessness I bust into tears and nod yes at the same time. Then an amazing thing happens. He pats my hand.

"Don't be afraid," he says. "We're not going to hurt you. Not unless you cause us trouble. We're just taking you to your new home. Are you going to be a good girl?"

I nodded vigorously, eager to ward off whatever punishments they dealt out to their newly purchased girls.

"That's all we ask," he said. "Can you read and write?"

I glanced at him, feeling a flicker of anger at the implied insult. But I looked away quickly, hoping he don't see it, and nodded.

He laughed. "Many of the girls we buy can't, you know. So you can, and that's all the better for you. If I unlock your wrists and give you a pen and pad, will you write something for me?"

I peered over at him carefully, trying to decide what kind of trap this was. I had been a cow for so long, being treated like a human felt all wrong. But there was no question of answering No to any demand. I nodded again, cautiously.

He began unlocking my wrists. "Here's what I want you to do. I want you to write about how you got into this predicament. How you got to be Cow 13. What it feels like no longer being human, just an animal to be used for profit."

I gave him a "what? are you kidding?" look.

He just laughed. He finished freeing my hands and puts a spiral notebook and pen in my lap. It's cold against my naked thighs. "Go ahead. Show me you can write."

So the first thing I write is the thought that's been foremost in my head since I went up on the auction block.

He read it and laughed. "Of course. But not until you've worked off your purchase price and turned a decent profit. In fact, as long as you're more of a money maker alive — a cash cow, so to speak — I'm sure Mrs Q. will keep you in stock. It's just business."

<It's my LIFE!>

"But that's of no consequence to Mrs Q. You're her property. She can do with you what she pleases."

"Your owner."

<No, I mean . . .>

He clamped a hand over mine, a surprisingly gentle hand. "She's your owner. That's all you need to know. You will do whatever she wishes or suffer the consequences."

"I am your handler and work for Mrs Q. If I report to her that you are insubordinate and troublesome, she will simply sell you to a snuff club."

"Certainly not. Not for parties. It's far too risky. She sticks with sex. The authorities are easy to buy off in the sex industry. The drug lords handle things like snuffs and girl roasts. That's what they do best — torture and killing."

"Because Tony is reliable and druggies and goons are not. Tony's a businessman and the men he works with are pros. The girls his men grab are runaways and prostitutes. They aren't even missed till it's far too late to track them down. Besides, at the moment Mrs Q is interested only in his cows. They're muted, branded and tenderized. Her meat clients love that. Regular girls she can buy cheaper elsewhere. Tony's cows can be used in a brothel for three or four years, clear a three, four hundred thousand dollar profit, then be sold for meat at special barbecue parties."

"Or a week. Depends."

"On Mrs Q. She's a business woman. While she can make money off you, she will. But if you're worth more to her for some other specific purpose, say to buy favor from a powerful official who has requested you for his next girl roast . . ." He waved a hand, dismissing my sorry ass.

"She listens to my advice. This is a project that could prove profitable for her."

"Among other things."

I bit my lower lip and looked away.

"What's the big problem?"

<I'm afraid>

"Of what?"

"What do you mean?"

"Not at all. I want to read your perspective on what has happened to you. On what's happening now. Write what's true. No punishment. I promise."

"I'm not Tony. I have a use for your thoughts. I count them as valuable."

"A special cow. A cow who is more or less literate."

I sat for a while, afraid to continue this conversation. But it felt so good to be able to communicate with someone again, and he was so kind looking, I wrote in small letters:

<I'm still scared you'll hurt me if I write what I'm really feeling and thinking. Why would you want me to do that if you don't plan to punish me?>

"Okay, let me be perfectly frank. I'm going to publish a novel on the internet about a girl like you who's been turned into a cow waiting for slaughter. I'll edit your material and fix the spelling, take out anything libelous or legally problematical. It will appear to be only a story. Fiction. But if you're any good at all as a writer, it should be riveting and sell a bundle."

<I CAN spell!> I wrote indignantly. <I won a spelling bee in the 7 ^th grade>

"All right." He patted my hand. "That will make it easier."

"Certainly not. You'll be dead and eaten by then, so why would you care?"

"No one. I promise. Of course if you just write condescending shit, I'll simply tear it up and throw it away. I want raw truth. Otherwise, I'll take away your writing materials and you'll be mute again."

As I thought about it, I realized I wanted to tell my story more than I wanted to live another three or four miserable years, even if no one ever read it but this man beside me. But I had to try one more attempt to bargain for my life.

He hesitated. "Maybe. But as I said, Mrs Q makes that decision."

"That's right. She does. But she also makes the final decision, and it won't be based on how much she likes your writing, but, rather, on whether you're worth more to her as a writer or as meat at a banquet."

I knew I was beaten.

<OK>

"Okay what?"

<I'll do whatever you want. You and Mrs Q.>

"Of course you will. You're a good cow, Number 13. Docile and compliant." He put his left hand on my pussy and slipped a finger inside. His right hand wound up on my nearest tit. "And these like to be milked." He began gently rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, making it harder so that it jut out even more than usual. Soon he had my clit tingling and everything in there real slippery and I stopped caring about how much longer before I'm snuffed or who will do the honors or how.

And that is how this recollection of my days as a cow got started. I've been writing non-stop while this SUV bounces along to God-knows-where. After bringing me off about ten times, Mr ? (I don't even know his name!) got up and started talking to Cow 17. Probably making her the same offer. But who gives a shit? I'll probably never get to read this stuff anyway when and if he ever does publish it in his book. I'll be long gone — cooked and digested.

But it don't matter. Even if it's all just a trick to give my new owner an excuse to punish me, it makes me feel better to be writing this stuff down, to be able to talk, if only with a fucking pen. It helps me remember that once I was human.