Chapter 14: What’s with penises?

The straw clung to everything. Piglet’s hair. The welts on her ass. The drying cum crusted across her cheeks and chin.

She pushed herself up on shaky arms, and the hay pricked at her raw skin like tiny needles. Scratchy. Itchy. A bath sounded like heaven.

She looked down at the chickens. Sprawled. Limp. Mouths open. Lightweights.

A low sound drew her attention. Farmer Fred still sat on his milking stool, his shorts puddled around his ankles, his hand wrapped around his cock. The thing was massive—thicker than the new tail plug

His cock so stiff, longer than anything she’d seen on screen watching secret porn from her mothers room.

Her throat tightened just looking at it. He slowly stroke his shaft, hand stopping at the head was a glossy, purpled knob.

“Still can’t talk to me?” The question finally came with a subtle response.
He smiled when she shook her head no.

At least it was a response.

“Are you afraid of me?” His voice dropped, gentler now. Almost kind.
She paused. Shook her head no again. The gesture wasn’t convincing.

She looked down at his cock. She could have looked anywhere—the rafters, the sleeping chickens, the straw beneath her knees.

Anywhere but his eyes. Those steel-blue eyes that seemed to see straight through her skull, past the piglet persona, past the triggers, into whatever scrap of Jenny still cowered in the dark.
Yet her focus was his cock.

“Maybe if you suck on it, it’ll clear that frog in your throat.” He watched her reaction, tracking the way her pupils dilated, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

“Come on. Don’t it look tasty?”
Her body moved closer before her mind caught up.

Knees sliding through the straw. The plug shifting inside her with each shuffle forward.
He presented it to her—a big, stiff offering that seemed to grow larger as she approached.

“Good girl.”

The trigger detonated. Warmth flooded her limbs, unspooling the tension in her shoulders, the knot in her chest. Her lips parted.

Her breath came shallow.
She grabbed his dick with both hands on a top the other and a good four inches remained, the head pulsing inches from her face. The heat of it radiated against her palms, and a clear bead of fluid welled at the tip.

She licked it away. Salt and skin and something musky. The trigger had her moving like she’d done this a hundred times—her tongue tracing the ridge of his crown, exploring the sensitive underside, lapping at the thick vein that ran the length of his shaft.

Her lips stretched wide around the head, and she sucked gently, her cheeks hollowing. Fred’s breath caught. His hand left his thigh and hovered near her hair, not touching yet, just hovering.

She tried to take more. Half his length, then two-thirds, her jaw aching with the stretch. The head bumped the back of her throat, and she gagged—involuntary, convulsive—pulling back with a wet, sputtering cough.

Tears streamed from her eyes. Spit bridged from her lower lip to his cock in a glistening thread.

She dove back down, determined, and the same thing happened—gag, retreat, tears. The third time, she held herself there, throat spasming around the intrusion, her nose pressed-yet getting nowhere near his pubic bone.

Couldn’t breathe. Didn’t care. The trigger had her chasing the pleasure of his approval, and the gagging only made her wetter.

Fred’s hand settled on the back of her head. Not pushing. Just resting there, heavy and warm.

He watched this strange girl—this creature who’d pissed herself while hanging upside down, who’d come screaming chasing the chickens’ enjoy every moment of the switches, who now choked herself on his cock with a fervor of a wild child.

He’d seen conditioned pets before. Ducky was eager. Daisy was dreamy. But this one—this one had a different vibe.

Ms Baker did tell him about the video, she had watched the butchery video-now she is sucking his dick with all her might. She had a hunger in her eyes that he couldn’t fully explain-children these days.

She wasn’t just trained. This was instinct, curiosity, smart and aggressive. In Fred’s experience, made the best pets and the possible most dangerous ones.

He shot his wad without warning. Hot salt flooded her mouth, and she choked—not on his cock this time, but on the sheer volume of it.

She pulled back, coughing, he continued another rope of cum lashing across her cheek, her nose, the bridge of her brow. It dripped from her eyelashes.

She swallowed what was in her mouth and went back to sucking.
“Clean it good, pet.” His hand guided her lips back down.

He leaned his head back against the stall post. Her mouth was relentless—soft tongue, gentle suction, the occasional scrape of teeth that made his thighs tense.

“Ms. Baker calls you her prize piglet.” He could see why.

She doubled her effort, treating his spent cock like her own personal lollipop, licking the last traces of salt from the slit, nuzzling against the sensitive crown.

Fred moaned. She sucked.

“Terrific… tongue—”
“FUCK!”

He shoved her off him, nearly toppled off the stool. “What the hell—you bit me!”

“I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out, small and shaky. “Something came over me.”

He checked his cock. A tiny bead of blood welled near the frenulum, but everything was intact. He exhaled.

Piglet tasted the blood on her lips. Coppery. Warm. Her stomach growled-a bone-deep longing.

Ms. Baker had implanted the trigger. Just simple, physical hunger.

She licked her lips again.

“At least you’re talking to me.” His voice was calmer now, almost amused.

“What was that?”
She had no answer. The bite had come from somewhere deeper than thought.

He stuffed his penis back into his shorts for safekeeping, and the barn door creaked open.

Dora entered. She took one look at Piglet and stopped. “Oh my, you’re a mess.” Her gaze swept across the sleeping chickens, the scattered switches, the wet patch in the straw.

Slightly distracted before continuing “Come on, Freddy. Let’s get home.”

Fred was already walking funny, one hand hovering protectively near his groin.

“I gotta come back for the next feeding.”

Dora addressed Piglet as she nudged the chickens awake.

“Claire—I mean, Ms. Baker—wants you to come back to her exam office.”

Piglet rose. Her orange curls were a rat’s nest of straw and dried cum and who knew what else.

The spunk Fred had painted across her face was starting to crust, pulling at her skin when she moved her eyebrows.

Welts striped her ass and thighs, pink and raised, a few still stinging. Her wrists were raw from the baling twine.

She smelled of piss and sweat and sex and hay, and between her legs, she was still wet—had been wet for what felt like hours now, a low-grade arousal that never quite faded.

Her tail plug was the only clean thing on her, pink metal gleaming corkscrew between her cheeks.

Her mind was a quiet pond. No anxiety. No identity crisis. Just the pleasant thrum of being used, of being dirty, of being owned. Bliss.

She dashed out of the barn. The groggy chickens shouted something behind her—bye, piglet, bye—and then she was crossing the yard, bare feet slapping against the cool evening grass.

A pickup truck sat in the gravel drive. Its bed held a cage, the door hanging open. Empty.

She entered the farmhouse. The kitchen was silent. The hallway stretched ahead, and from behind Ms. Baker’s office door, a man’s voice rumbled—not happy, clipped and impatient.

She crept closer, pushed the door, and peeked inside.

“Mistress, have you called for me?” She tried to sound obedient. A good pet, in front of guests.

Ms. Baker looked up. Her expression flickered—surprise, then amusement, then something that might have been pride. Less than two hours of free time, and Piglet had managed to coat herself in evidence.

“Stand here and be silent while I finish with Mr. Jenkins.”

Behind Mr. Jenkins stood a boy, maybe 13-14. Naked. Hands cupped protectively over his privates. His shoulders were broad, his chest defined without bulkiness, his stomach flat and ridged with muscle. A body built for function. His face, though—his face was a study in misery. Eyes fixed on the floor. Jaw tight.

“As I was saying.” Mr Jenkins’s voice was annoyed.

Mr. Jenkins launched into his explanation. His breeding bull had lost his penis in a potato peeling accident.

Piglet let out a tiny giggle, then controlled herself.

Ms. Baker, ever the professional, asked to see the damage.
“Remove your hands for the Doctor,” Mr. Jenkins commanded.
The boy complied slowly, revealing a burnt, cauterized stump where his penis should have been.

The wound was angry red, sealed shut.

“I had to cauterize it to stop the bleeding,” Mr. Jenkins said.

Ms. Baker examined the site with clinical detachment. “He’ll need a full penectomy revision—removal of the remaining necrotic tissue, reconstruction of the urethral opening to allow urination, and a course of antibiotics to prevent sepsis. If the scarring encroaches on the pelvic floor, a perineal urethrostomy may be necessary.”

Piglet understood none of it. It was big words for big people.

“I ain’t paying for no surgery. He’s no good to me as a breeding bull. No one’s gonna buy a dickless bull.”

“At least open his urinary tract for peeing,” Ms. Baker suggested.

“I don’t care for none of that” he replied to that as well.
Finally Ms. Baker plainly asked what is it he wants her to do.

“Just give him an examination for his meat quality and certificate stamp so I can sell him at the slaughterhouse.”

Ms. Baker’s eyes flickered—calculation, assessment.

“I will give you an alternate offer. I’ll buy him. At meat market value, minus the vet cost.”

“Deal.”

Piglet’s heart leaped. Saved. She’d just watched Ms. Baker save a life—a new family member, minus the member.

The young boy looked up for the first time, confusion breaking through the shame.

“Piglet, please take our new pet to the shower out back. I need to work out the details with Mr. Jenkins.”

She reached for his hand. He flinched, then let her take it—his palm soft, his grip uncertain. Up close, he was beautiful in the way a farm animal is beautiful: strong shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, thighs thick with muscle, the kind of body that came from farm living.

His face was handsome beneath the humiliation—a strong jaw, dark eyes that couldn’t quite meet hers, a mouth that had forgotten how to smile. He stood hunched, trying to make himself smaller, his empty hands twitching toward his groin as though they could hide what was no longer there.

“Get him cleaned up, as well as yourself,” Ms. Baker said before Piglet exited. She’s such a piggy, Ms. Baker mused to herself, watching the cum-crusted curls bounce down the hallway.

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Outside, the noon air had heated up. Piglet led him to the shower station—the wooden platform, the galvanized pipe, the hand pump.

She worked the handle, and water burst from the shower head above them. Cold. Bracing.
He gasped. She laughed.
“You get used to it.” She grabbed the brown soap and worked it into a lather between her palms.

“What’s your name?”
“Thirty-Six.” His voice was flat. The number came out like a recitation.
“That’s not a name.”
“It’s what I am.”

She began washing him. Her soapy hands moved across his shoulders first—the knotted muscle, the tension that flinched beneath her touch.

Down his arms. Across his chest, where his heart hammered against his ribs. He stood rigid, unaccustomed to being touched without purpose.

“My name’s Piglet.” She worked the soap lower, across the ridges of his abdomen. “It’s not my real name either. But it’s better than a number.”

His jaw tightened. “I was a breeder. I worked out, I ate, I fucked.” The word came out harsh, a challenge.

“Now I’m—” He gestured downward and said nothing more.

Piglet’s hands stilled on his hip. “Now you’re safe.” She handed him the soap.

“Your turn. Wash me.”
He hesitated. Then his soft palms settled on her shoulders, and he worked the soap across her collarbone with clumsy, unpracticed strokes.

He washed the dried cum from her face, the straw from her hair, the sweat from the crease of her thighs. His touch was tentative—the touch of a boy who’d only ever touched bodies for breeding, never for care.

When he reached her back, his fingers traced the welts crisscrossing her ass. He paused.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m not.” She turned to face him. Water sluiced the suds down her freckle chest, her belly, between her legs.

“They’re from a game. It felt good.”
He didn’t understand. She could see it in his eyes—the way he’d been trained to perform tasks, separated from real from pleasure, to see his body only as a tool.

She kissed him.
Their lips met beneath the cold water, and for a long moment he didn’t move.

Then his mouth softened. Then it opened. His hands rose to cup her face, tentative, disbelieving, and he kissed her back like a boy who’d forgotten kissing was possible.

They broke apart, breathing hard.
“You’re free here,” she said, her voice fierce and low.

“Ms. Baker is kind. She takes care of us. There’s a cow named Daisy—she just had twins. A cow and a bull.

“Ducky’s a duck pet, she’s been here six months, she’s my best friend.”

“There are chickens who come to visit. Everyone has a purpose here, you can find your purpose to.”

He stared at her. Water dripped from his dark hair onto his cheeks.

“I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“You’ll learn.” She took his hand again, squeezing.

“We all do.”

They rinsed in silence. The pump squeaked, the water needled their skin, and by the time they were clean, his shoulders had dropped an inch.

His hands had stopped shaking. He still wouldn’t look at his own groin, but he looked at her—really looked—and something in his face had shifted from shame to something softer-hope, maybe. Or the memory of it.

Piglet grabbed a towel from the wooden cabinet and threw it at him.

She got a smile from him. She like the way he smiled.

“Let’s go meet the others.”

Come to think of it—where was Ducky?