The last of the afternoon merciless Brazilian sun turned the cornfields into a sea of gold, swaying slightly as if restless for the coming night. Luiz wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, the leather of his whip creaking softly against his palm.
Eighty slaves moved in a tired shuffle toward the barn, their bare feet dragging lines in the dirt. To Luiz, they blurred into a single mass of bowed heads, identical rusty collars, and dust-streaked skin, impossible to tell apart except as numbers in his uncle’s inventory. "Move," he said, not raising his voice. The crack of the whip against the air did the talking for him.
The barn loomed ahead, its weathered planks warped from years of sun and rain. Luiz watched as the first of the slaves hesitated at the threshold—some habit of lingering, even for a second, before surrendering to the cage. He didn't wait. The whip snapped against the nearest back, and the line jolted forward like a single organism.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of sweat and straw. The slaves peeled off their loincloths without being told, dropping them into a growing pile beside the cage door. Sixty of them would fit inside. The rest would have to press themselves into the gaps, limbs tangled, skin against skin. He'd seen them wake with bruises from elbows and knees, but his uncle—the proprietor of the fazenda and owner of the slaves—didn't pay for extra space during the harvest season.
"Quotas," Luiz said, thumbing through the ledger. Six numbers. He read them aloud, slow, ignoring the way shoulders tensed. No one spoke. No one ever did. The first was a slave with a scar across its ribs—#3472. It stepped forward, eyes on the dirt floor. Luiz hooked the rope around its ankle, hoisting it upside down with practiced ease. The others followed, one by one, until six naked bodies hung like strange fruit from the rafters.
The whip didn't ask questions. Luiz let it sing, counting each stripe under his breath. Ten for #3472. Ten for #3093, a muscular older slave with a crooked finger. Ten for #3568, a young slave that couldn't have been more than eighteen. The last whip stroke landed with a wet crack against #3320's wiry thigh, and Luiz exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulder to ease the tension. The six slaves swayed slightly in the dimming light, their breathing uneven. He coiled the whip back into his palm, the leather still warm from use. They'd hang there until dawn, their bodies stiffening in the stagnant air, their collars digging into their throats if they shifted wrong. His uncle insisted on the punishment being visible—a reminder to the others what happened when harvesting quotas weren't met. His uncle's property, his uncle's rules.
The barn door groaned shut behind Luiz, the iron latch clanking into place. He didn't look back. The path to his cabin was short, flanked by overgrown hibiscus bushes that drooped with the weight of their own blooms. Their scent clashed with the sweat still clinging to his skin.
The cabin door stood slightly ajar, the glow of lamplight spilling onto the wooden porch. Inside, the air smelled of roasted meat and sweetened rice—his dinner, already laid out on the low table. Two figures knelt beside it, their heads bowed, their hands behind the back, their collars gleaming in the firelight. His uncle's gift: twin slaves, blond and smooth-skinned, their chastity cages polished to a dull sheen. They didn't raise their eyes as he entered, though their shoulders tensed just slightly, anticipating his touch or his command.
Luiz snorted, tossing his whip onto the bench by the door. The field slaves were calloused things, all ropey muscle and sunburnt skin, their collars rusted from sweat and rain. These two were untouched by labor, their hands soft, their bodies kept pliant and clean. His uncle had them trained before gifting them—they knew how to serve, how to kneel, how to take his nephew's cock without complaint.
Luiz ate in silence, the only sounds the scrape of his knife against the plate and the soft, measured breaths of the slaves at his feet. When he finished, he leaned back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Bath," he said, and the two slaves raised at once, their bare feet padding across the floorboards toward the copper tub in the corner.
The slaves moved with the quiet efficiency of those which knew their bodies were not their own. Their fingers undid Luiz's belt buckle, the leather sliding free like a sigh. #412 knelt to untie his boots while the other, #413, worked the buttons of his shirt open, his palms brushing against Luiz's chest in slow, deliberate strokes. Their touches were meant to soothe, not excite—not yet. Luiz stepped into the tub without a word, the heat seeping into his naked muscles as the twins set to work with soap and rough cloth, scrubbing the day's sweat and dust from his skin. Their hands lingered just long enough to knead the tension from his shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots along his spine.
When the water cooled, they toweled him dry with linen so soft it must have been stolen from his uncle's own household. Their movements were unhurried—#412 drying his legs while #413 ran the cloth down his back, letting it catch teasingly on the curve of his ass. By the time they reached his hips, Luiz was half-hard, the slaves' ministrations as calculated as any harvest quota. #413 dropped to its knees without prompting, its tongue flicking out to trace the length of Luiz's cock before taking him fully into its mouth. #412 pressed against Luiz's back, its lips grazing low between his buttocks as its hands slid around to stroke his legs.
Luiz didn't bother with the bed at first—just pushed #413 onto its hands and knees right there on the rug, the slave's back arching in silent invitation. #412 handed him the oil without being asked. #413 took its owner's cock without a sound, his body trembling slightly as Luiz set a punishing rhythm, his fingers digging into the slave's hips hard enough to bruise. When he tired of that, he flipped #412 onto its back, spreading its legs wide, and fucked it deep and slow, savoring the way its breath came in ragged gasps.
Luiz came with a grunt, his fingers tightening in #412's hair as he emptied himself inside its body. The slave shuddered beneath him but made no sound—only the rapid flutter of its lashes against its cheeks betrayed any reaction at all. Luiz pulled out with a sigh, wiping himself absently on #412's thigh before pushing it aside. The slaves licked him clean before retreating to their designated pallet by the hearth, their collars clinking softly against the floorboards as they settled.
Luiz fell asleep naked and sprawled across the wide bed, his muscular limbs heavy with exhaustion and satisfaction. The night sounds of the fazenda floated around him—the distant creak of the barn's rusty hinges as the wind shifted, the occasional muffled groan from the slaves hanging from the rafters, the chirp of cicadas in the hibiscus bushes outside his window. His last thought before sleep took him was of tomorrow's harvest—the quotas, the whip, the way the sun would bake the cornfields into submission.
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