Author's note: This story is a spin-off of The Education of Roman's Fresh Meat, a gay erotic novel about breaking young male slaves on a breeding ranch. The main story is M/M: two owners, Roman Wolfe and Victor Kane, systematically destroy beautiful young men through shame, false tenderness, and calculated cruelty. Roman is the engineer: cold-eyed, ideological, who breaks boys through humiliation and ritual. Victor is the warm knife: boyish, tactile, who breaks them through intimacy and its withdrawal. They are lovers, co-owners, and two very different breeds of predator. In the original novel they buy a wench, not for her sake, but as a psychological weapon against their male slaves: a girl whose body the boys will learn to worship and never be allowed to keep. I extracted her story as a standalone piece because the wench's perspective demanded its own space. If the world pulls you in, the full novel goes much deeper into the breaking of young men. You can find The Education of Roman's Fresh Meat on my profile.
Chapter 1: Wench on the Block
The Market
The dust rose in pale curtains off the auction road, coating everything in a fine mineral grit that tasted of chalk and old blood. Roman Wolfe stood at the edge of the viewing gallery with his arms loosely crossed, gray eyes tracking the stream of collared bodies being herded toward the morning lots. Behind him, Victor Kane leaned against a sun-warmed pillar, peeling the label off a cold bottle of beer with his thumbnail and squinting at the lines of naked flesh below.
"I don't get it," Victor said, tipping the bottle toward the wench pens. "We've got thirty-eight head of stud on the ranch, balls to the walls, cocks that don't quit. Why the fuck are we shopping for cunt?"
Roman didn't turn. His gaze had already locked onto a cluster of fresh intakes being processed at the far gate: girls stripped raw, hosed down, shivering in the morning heat while overseers chalked lot numbers on their hips. Most had the glazed, thousand-yard stare of livestock that hadn't yet understood the chute only goes one direction.
"Because cunt is the most efficient tool I own," Roman said, voice flat and certain the way it always was when he was engineering something. "Think about the bucks. The Soldier Boy and the Pain Colt, good stock, responsive, already leaking at every inspection. But they've plateaued. Their shame only goes so deep when all they've got is each other and a whip."
Victor took a long pull of beer. "So?"
"So I introduce a wench. A fresh, virgin, fire-sensitive little bitch with tight cunt and nipples that get hard when you breathe on them." Roman's lips barely moved. "I assign the bucks to tease her: tongues, fingers, edging, night after night. They learn every fold, every twitch, every rhythm that makes her come. They become her experts. They fall in love with the cunt they serve." He paused. "And then I breed her. The Pain Colt's cock, not the Soldier Boy's. The Soldier Boy watches. He directs. He holds the cock that goes where his never will."
Victor whistled low, dimples deepening. He stepped closer, hip bumping Roman's, fingers hooking casually into the waistband of Roman's trousers and tugging once, a lazy, familiar gesture, half affection, half ownership. "Cruel, bro. That's my man." He pressed his shoulder into Roman's arm and grinned up at him. "But those two are fun. More fun than my field pup, honestly. I like that we started training them together, watching the Soldier Boy's face when the Pain Colt leaks..." His hand slid from Roman's waistband to the small of his back, fingers tracing lazy circles through the linen. "That's better than any cunt."
"You're not wrong," Roman said, and something in his voice softened a fraction, the way it only did for Victor. "Cunt by itself is boring, they just lie there and leak. And raw cunt is dangerous. You mount a fresh wench without thinking, your seed takes, and suddenly you've got a pregnant slave carrying your bloodline. That's a liability, not a fuck." He let that land, then continued, voice shifting into the flat precision of a man who'd already solved the equation. "But that's exactly why you breed her first: stud seed, not ours. One fresh wench, fifteen, twenty thousand drahm at most for a small-tit virgin with no premium build, and I get three months of the deepest breaking those boys will ever experience. And once the stud knocks her up, she's safe. A pregnant cunt is a free cunt: we mount her as much as we want for two, three months, proper bed service, both holes, a broken grateful bitch who can't get any more pregnant than she already is. Then maternity. Then the cycle repeats with a new girl." Roman finally turned, and the sun caught the steel of his watch. "The wench is disposable. What she does to the boys is permanent."
Victor considered this, rolling the beer bottle between his palms. His blue eyes tracked a redhead being led past in chains, heavy tits swinging, cunt freshly shaved and glistening with the antiseptic wash they hosed them down with. He reached out absently, hooked a finger under her collar, tilted her chin up. She flinched. Her nipples stiffened in the hot air.
"Boring," Victor said, releasing her. He turned back to Roman and bumped his fist lightly against Roman's chest, the small, private gesture of a man who touches his lover constantly and doesn't think about it. "Cunt's never done it for me, you know that. But if it fucks with their heads..." He grinned. "Alright, let's go shopping. What are we looking for?"
Roman was already walking. "Young. Virgin. Small tits, I want responsive, not decorative. Good clit sensitivity, fast arousal reflex. Clean skin for tattooing later. And cheap. I'm not wasting stud money on a breeding hole with a three-month shelf life."
"How cheap?"
"Under twenty. At a proper breeding house a fresh virgin goes for thirty, but the morning lots here clear at field prices. She's a tool, not an investment."
They descended the gallery stairs toward the holding pens, boots crunching on packed earth, Victor's hand brushing Roman's elbow on the narrow steps, half guidance, half excuse to touch, passing overseers who straightened instinctively and buyers who stepped aside. Roman Wolfe moved through a slave market the way a surgeon moves through a ward: calm, clinical, already knowing what he was going to cut.
The Pens
The holding pens stank of piss, fear-sweat, and the sour chemical tang of the antiseptic hose-down baked into raw concrete under the climbing sun. Lana huddled in the corner with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped tight around her naked body, shivering despite the heat, every muscle clenched against the exposure. Three endless days since the raid, soldiers dragging her screaming from the village square, the collar snapping around her throat with a sound like a bone breaking, her clothes ripped away and tossed into a fire pit like they had never mattered at all. Her name was supposed to be gone; they called her "wench" now, "fresh cunt," "prime breeding stock," but in the dark she still whispered Lana to herself, clinging to it like a shield. She was nineteen years old and still virgin, her body untouched until the first rough inspection in the intake bay, when a bored overseer had pried her legs apart with callused hands, shoved two thick fingers up her tight pink slit, and laughed when she cried and clenched around them.
Why me? I was free three days ago — walking to the market with my basket, laughing with my sister about the boy who sells melons. She was bragging about kissing him behind the stall, her cheeks going pink, and I was teasing her, calling her shameless — god, she blushed so hard she hid her face in my shoulder. She's still there. Walking those same streets, carrying that same basket. She looks just like me. Same face, same body, maybe prettier. The thought cracked something open inside Lana's chest, a fissure of ice-cold dread. If they came for me, they can come for her. They know where the village is. They have the maps. Tears burned her eyes, but she swallowed them down like bile. My sister. Don't go to the square. Don't go anywhere. Hide. Monsters. Scum. Filthy, rotten scum — every single one of them.
The other girls in the pen, some younger, one barely seventeen with bruises blooming across her ribs, whispered in the dark. A bruised redhead with heavy, low-hanging udders rocked back and forth against the wall, her raw nipples scraping concrete: "They'll finger us on the block. Spread us open for the whole yard. Check if we're still tight. Don't fight. Fighting gets you whipped, or worse, sent to the mines where they fuck you in the dark until your cunt tears and nobody stitches it." Another girl, dark-haired and skeletal, hissed through cracked lips: "I hate them. All of them. But my body's already turning traitor. Yesterday the overseer pinched my nipples for the third time and I... I leaked. I leaked like a bitch in heat, right in front of him. He smelled his fingers and laughed."
Lana pressed her thighs tighter together until the muscles ached. Her breasts throbbed from the cold, the nipples peaked into hard, aching points that wouldn't flatten no matter how hard she pressed her arms against them. In the thin light leaking through the pen slats she could still see it on her own skin: the pale ghost of her dress, tan lines cutting crisp across her shoulders where the straps had sat, the white crescents of her breasts against the sun-darkened skin of her chest, the sharp hem-line across her hips where the fabric used to end. Three days naked and her body was still a map of the girl who wore clothes. My sister has the same tan lines. Same dress, same straps, same pale stripe across the hips. If they take her, her body will draw the same ghost. Between her legs, her virgin cunt pulsed with phantom shame, and yesterday's hose-down had blasted ice-cold water straight into her, the pressure stretching her entrance, flushing her out like livestock at a processing plant while three overseers watched and rated her reactions. I'm not a cow. Not a hole. These bastards — these gutter monsters — stripped me and hosed me like an animal and my clit twitched when the water hit it. Why does my body warm when they stare? Why do I get wet when I'm scared? Maybe if I go completely still, like dead, they'll look past me. Pick someone else. Someone whose body screams louder. Maybe if I don't react at all — not a twitch, not a flinch — they'll chalk me as defective and throw me to the field pens. Field pens I can survive. Field pens don't have fingers.
Sleep came in fits, shattered by the clang of chains and distant whip-cracks and the wet, rhythmic slapping that drifted from the breeding sheds across the yard, some girl being mounted, her muffled screams swallowed by a gag.
The Block
Dawn brought the march. Overseers, collared slaves themselves, leather shorts straining over heavy bulges, whips coiled at their hips like sleeping snakes, yanked them to their feet with practiced brutality. "Up, fresh cunts! Platform time. Arch those backs, tits out, smiles on. Anyone who covers her cunt gets the hose again, up your hole this time, not just the outside." Lana stumbled naked through the corridors, the steel collar biting into her throat with every step, her breasts jiggling with each shove from behind, her freshly shaved mound exposed to the draft that swept through the tunnel and licked between her legs like a cold tongue. The other fresh wenches pressed close, ten girls in all, young and collared, bodies bruised purple and yellow from capture, their bare feet slapping the wet concrete in unison. One girl sobbed openly, her enormous udders swaying low and heavy with every heave of her chest; another tried to cup her mound until a whip cracked across her ass with a sound like a pistol shot, striping the flesh bright red, and she ripped her hands behind her head with a strangled yelp.
They were herded onto the rough wooden auction platform and the world opened up like a wound. Sunlight slammed down from a flat, white sky, blinding Lana instantly, and the noise hit next: a roar of male voices, laughter, the crack of whips from the demonstration pen, the wet slap of a girl being tested on the far block, the clinking of chains and the scrape of boots on packed earth. The platform reeked of old wood soaked in decades of sweat, cum, and piss, baked by the sun into a dark, resinous stink that coated the inside of her nose and wouldn't leave. Flies buzzed in lazy circles around the drainage gutter that ran along the platform's edge, a channel stained nearly black with fluids she didn't want to name. Buyers milled below, men in clean shirts with hard eyes and calloused hands, some with overseers at their heels carrying measuring tapes and inspection gloves. A fat one at the front rail was already groping a girl from the previous lot, fingers buried wrist-deep in her spread cunt while she stared at the sky and shuddered.
"Legs wide! Hands behind heads! Arch those backs! Show the goods, bitches!" The overseer's whip cracked the air above their skulls and Lana snapped into position, cheeks flaming crimson, thighs spread wide enough that the morning air kissed her exposed slit, her tits thrust forward with the nipples standing out like swollen pink bullets, her virgin cunt parting slightly in the gap between her legs, the tender inner lips wet with the involuntary heat she couldn't control. The girls beside her shivered in the same degrading pose — heavy udders heaving, cunts dripping, one already leaking a thin trail of clear arousal down the inside of her thigh, another's clit visibly swollen and twitching. Whispers hissed down the line: "They'll check our teeth, our holes... some get bought for breeding pens, some for beds, some for the mines..." She felt her entrance clench on nothing, a spasm of terror that sent another bead of wetness oozing down toward her knee. Please, not me. Or if me — let it be quick. Not the mines. Not the fingers that never stop. Please.
Inspection
Roman Wolfe and Victor Kane came up the platform steps late morning, moving through the crowd the way wolves move through a flock: slow, unhurried, certain of what they would eat. Roman, tall and solid in simple khakis and a white linen shirt, gray eyes scanning the line of trembling girls with the flat appraisal of a breeder sorting livestock, missing nothing: the quality of skin, the hang of breasts, the involuntary clench of exposed cunts under his gaze. Victor trailed a half-step behind, jeans slung low on his hips, blond hair tousled by the hot wind, one hand looped around Roman's bicep with the easy possessiveness of a man who has slept tangled in those arms a thousand times. "Oh man, look at the rack on number four. Those udders could feed a fucking village." He squeezed Roman's arm and pointed with his beer. "Are we sure we don't want volume? Because volume is right there."
Roman glanced where Victor pointed, then back. "We're not here for entertainment. We're here for a tool."
"You're always here for a tool, bro. I'm here for the circus." Victor let go of Roman's arm, grabbed a beer from a tray that a collared serving boy carried past, cracked it against his thigh, and handed the first one to Roman with a grin, the automatic gesture of a couple who split everything without asking. Roman took it without looking, drank, passed it back. Victor finished it. "Alright, alright. Small tits, hot clit, cheap. Where's our girl?"
They stopped at the inspection row: six wooden spreading chairs bolted to the platform in a neat line, each one a crude gynecological nightmare: high-backed, armless, with stirrup brackets welded to the sides and leather ankle straps dangling from the footrests. The seats were tilted back at a shallow angle, polished dark by years of naked skin and sweat, drainage grooves carved into the wood beneath the crotch cutout.
Roman nodded to the overseer: "Load them up. Full access."
Four from the lot had already been sold off the standing block; the remaining six were shoved toward the inspection chairs. Most of them had never seen the contraption before, and the girl ahead of Lana froze at the sight of the stirrups, mouth working soundlessly, until an overseer cracked the cane across her thighs and barked "Mount, cunt!" She scrambled up, bare feet slipping on the smooth wood, fumbling with the height of the seat, unable to figure out where her legs went until the overseer grabbed her ankle, jammed her foot into the left stirrup, then the right, and yanked the leather straps tight. Her thighs splayed wide, knees bent and locked open, cunt fully exposed through the cutout, pink and quivering and dripping arousal that pooled in the drainage groove below.
Lana was next. The chair was too high; she had to jump, grabbing the backrest, her tits swinging as she hauled herself up, the wood cold and slick against her bare ass. An overseer caught her left ankle before she could pull it in and rammed it into the stirrup with a practiced shove. Then the right. The straps cinched tight around her ankles, biting the skin, and suddenly her legs were spread wider than she'd ever spread them in her life — knees splayed at shoulder width, cunt gaping open through the cut in the seat, every fold and crease of her virgin sex exposed to the sun and the eyes of every buyer cruising past below. She couldn't close her legs. She couldn't even shift her hips. The chair held her pinned open like a specimen on a board.
All six wenches sat in a row now: six spread cunts, six pairs of quivering thighs, six faces burning with identical heat. Some of the girls were crying silently, tears tracking through the dust on their cheeks; one had her eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so hard the tendons in her neck stood out like cables. The heavy-breasted redhead three chairs down was leaking openly, a steady thin stream of arousal running down the drainage groove and dripping off the edge of the platform.
Roman walked the row slowly, hands clasped behind his back, studying the displayed cunts the way a jeweler studies stones in a tray. Victor followed half a step behind, close enough that his shoulder grazed Roman's arm every few strides, and Lana watched them come, chair by chair, body by body, her stomach dropping another inch with every step they took.
At the first chair Roman stopped, looked, and moved on without touching. The girl exhaled, a tiny, shuddering release that was louder than a scream.
At the second he paused, cupped the girl's breast, squeezed once, released. "Tissue's soft. She'll sag in a year." Victor leaned past him, squinting. "Yeah, no structure. Next." His hand found the back of Roman's neck and rested there, fingers curling loosely into the short hair, the kind of touch that says I know exactly where you are in the room, always.
At the third Roman leaned in, thumbed her clit, and the girl's hips bucked hard off the seat, a choked moan ripping out of her throat, her cheeks flooding crimson as her entrance visibly clenched and a thread of slick drooled from her entrance. Roman watched the reaction for three full seconds, then shook his head. "Responsive, but she's already broken. No fight in those eyes. I need fire, not just reflex." He wiped his thumb on his trousers and stepped away. The girl in the chair stared at the place where his hand had been and her chin trembled.
The fourth was too old. Roman didn't even slow down.
The fifth was the redhead, heavy stock, breeding build, tits that hung like ripe fruit. Victor tilted his head, genuinely considering. "She'd look incredible on the bench. Those udders bouncing while the Pain Colt—"
"Volume, not sensitivity," Roman said. "I want responsive. Not volume." He tapped Victor's hip with two fingers, a small, intimate redirect. Victor grinned, conceding.
Lana watched from chair six, the end of the row, the last to be reached, every inspection, every touch, every discarded girl tightening the wire in her chest until she could barely breathe. Maybe he'll find what he wants before he gets to me. Maybe the redhead. Maybe someone else. Maybe he won't even look. Her thighs were shaking against the stirrup straps, her exposed folds already slick with the involuntary wet heat she couldn't stop, and she hated herself for it, hated the traitorous slick, hated the pulse between her legs, hated that her body was already performing for a man who hadn't touched her yet. Stop. Go still. Don't react. Dead meat doesn't get picked. Dead meat goes to the fields.
He reached her chair, number six, the end of the row. His palm cupped her left breast, a pert firm handful with the nipple already peaked and aching in the sun, and he rolled the bud between thumb and forefinger, pinching lightly at first, then harder, twisting until Lana gasped through clenched teeth and a hot flush spread from her chest down her belly and pooled between her legs. "Responsive. Excellent sensitivity, swells under pressure, color darkens fast." His other hand took the right breast and squeezed both together, thumbs pressing the nipples inward, watching them spring back. "Good elasticity. These will take rings well."
Victor leaned in over Roman's shoulder, breath smelling of hops, and pinched her right nipple himself, harder than Roman, pulling it until she whimpered and arched involuntarily into the touch. "Perky little tits. Get hard the second you look at them. Skin's like silk, not a scar, not a mark. Perfect canvas, bro." He glanced at Roman with a grin that was half professional assessment, half the bright-eyed excitement of a man who just found exactly the right thing in the store. "Don't worry, sweetheart," he said to her, blue eyes sparkling with casual cruelty. "We're gonna make you real pretty." His free hand found Roman's waist and squeezed — this one, this one, I can feel it — and Roman gave the faintest nod without looking at him, the silent language of two people who've been choosing things together for years.
Roman's hand trailed lower, palm gliding over her flat belly, feeling the muscle clench under his fingers, skating across her hips and thighs and testing the firmness of the flesh. "Good tone. No stretch marks. Young skin." His thumb traced the tan line across her hip, the clean divide between sun-darkened thigh and the untouched white of her belly, and Lana felt the exposure cut deeper there, because he was touching the exact border where her skirt used to end. "Fresh capture," Roman murmured. "Three, four days. The lines haven't faded." He pried her mouth open with two fingers, turning her head left, then right. "Teeth clean, straight. Healthy gums. No disease." Lana tasted leather and the salt of his skin, cheeks blazing with humiliation as he inspected her like a horse at a fair.
Then he went lower. Roman's fingers moved between her thighs, spreading her wider with a gentle but irresistible pressure. His thumb stroked along her outer lips, parting them, and the morning air hit her exposed inner folds, pink, wet, desperately clenching. "Cunt condition — tight, pink, no tears or scarring. Labia healthy." He pressed two fingers along her folds, parting them fully, and circled her entrance with a slow, deliberate fingertip. Lana felt her body betray her: the arousal that had been building all morning surged, coating his finger, and her clit twitched hard against the pad of his thumb. Oh god, no. Not now. Not in front of everyone. I'm dripping for the man who's buying me like a cow. My sister — you'd look away. You'd scream. You'd bite his hand and they'd kill you for it. Don't ever come here. Never. Roman felt the pulse. Lana watched his eyes register the slickness, the clench, the involuntary flood of her arousal. "Virgin confirmed, seal's intact, barely any give. And the clit..." He pressed the pad of his thumb against it, rolling once, and her hips jerked forward despite every screaming thought in her head. "Swells under minimal contact, immediate arousal reflex. This one will break fast."
Victor crouched beside her, peering between her legs with the frank curiosity of a man examining a mechanism he already knows he wants to buy. "Damn, she's dripping already. Look at that little clit standing up, it's practically begging. And you've barely touched her." He reached up and flicked it once with the tip of his finger. Her whole body jolted, a strangled moan escaping her throat before she could clamp her jaw shut. Victor's grin widened and he looked up at Roman — the look they shared was quick, private, delighted: we found it. "Yeah. She's the one."
They moved back along the row of chairs, checking two more, the heavy-breasted blonde, the dark-skinned wench with wide hips, but kept drifting back to chair number six, voices carrying loud enough for all six mounted girls to hear, deliberate and casual and devastating. "This one won't go straight to our beds," Roman said, jerking his chin toward her gaping slit. "Too fresh. First, a couple of young bucks open her properly: fingers, tongues, edging, night after night until she's a soaking, quivering mess who comes on their hands and begs for more. Then the chems: Nipple-Whore Drops to make those tits ache like they're on fire, a low-dose Breed-Shot variant to push her into permanent heat until her cunt drips on command and she humps anything that touches her. Build her until she's crawling for cock."
Victor nodded, leaning against the backrest of the next chair where the blonde sat trembling with her cunt spread wide. He slung one arm around Roman's shoulders, casual as breathing, two men planning a project, finishing each other's sentences. "How long before she's ready for the bench?"
"Weeks, not months. Her clit is already wired: the bucks will have her soaking in a week, crawling in two." Roman glanced back at her exposed sex, still wet on the chair. "The real payoff isn't the cunt. It's the look on the Soldier Boy's face when the girl he spent weeks learning to please gets mounted by someone else's cock — and he has to hold it in place."
The words hit Lana like fists to the stomach. Bucks. Fingers. Tongues. Night after night. Chems — my tits, my cunt, dripping on command. Crawling for cock. And some boy holding it in place. These scum — these soulless, rotten bastards — are talking about breeding me the way my sister and I used to talk about breeding goats. Which buck, which wench, how many weeks. Her virgin entrance clenched visibly, a thick bead of arousal rolling down her inner thigh, and her clit throbbed with a sick, hot pulse that had no right to exist. I'm wet. Why am I wet. They're planning how to destroy me and my body is lining up to help. Traitor. Stupid, filthy traitor-body. The girls around her shifted in their chairs, some leaking harder, thighs quaking against the stirrup straps, others staring at the ground with tears cutting pale streaks through the dust on their cheeks. The redhead three chairs down was openly shaking, nipples stone-hard, a dark trail of wetness running down the drainage groove beneath her spread cunt.
Roman circled back. His hand cupped her cunt fully, palm pressing her mound, fingers curling along her soaking folds, the heel of his hand grinding once against her swollen clit. She whimpered, hips rocking involuntarily into his grip, her entrance clenching greedily around nothing, slick coating his fingers. He held the grip for five full seconds while she died inside, then withdrew and inspected his glistening hand in the sunlight.
"This one," he said. "Perfect for teasing and future rings. Flawless skin for tattooing. Virgin cunt, instant arousal reflex. She'll break beautifully."
Victor drained his beer and tossed the bottle to a serving slave. "What are we paying?"
Roman looked at the lot clerk, a free man in a sweat-stained linen shirt, ledger tucked under his arm. "What's the ask on lot nine?"
"Eighteen thousand drahm, sir. Young, virgin, clean. No premium build, no outstanding features, but the hymen's intact and the sensitivity checks scored high."
"Fifteen thousand," Roman said.
The clerk didn't even negotiate. "Sold."
Victor slapped her ass once, hard enough to leave a handprint blooming pink across the flesh. "Welcome to the ranch, fresh cunt. You're gonna have fun." He caught Roman's eye and winked — the satisfied, conspiratorial look of a man leaving a store with exactly the right purchase — and Roman's mouth twitched: the closest he ever came to a grin.
Lana's legs went liquid the moment the word "sold" hit the air — knees buckling, thighs trembling so hard the stirrup straps creaked, her stomach dropping through the floor of her body like a stone into black water. An overseer unstrapped her ankles, grabbed her upper arm, and hauled her off the chair. She slid down the wood on a streak of her own slick, bare feet hitting the platform boards, and her cunt clenched once — hard, involuntary, a spasm that sent a fresh bead of arousal rolling down the inside of her thigh as if her body was already answering to the men who had just bought it. The overseer dragged her off the platform by the arm and down the wooden steps, bare feet sliding in the wet gutter, her naked body shaking in the full glare of the sun, the purchase price of fifteen thousand drahm, less than Victor's pickup, less than a week's feed bill at the ranch, already fading from the auctioneer's ledger.
Lana. My name is Lana. The desperate thought was already burning away under the reality of what she was now. I cost less than his truck. They're going to stretch me, drug me, breed me, fuck me, and throw me away. And my cunt is still wet. My clit is still throbbing. My body is already theirs.
I'm their wench now. Their slave. The tears came then, hot, silent, burning tracks down her dust-caked cheeks, dripping off her jaw and running down her bare chest, past her stiffened nipples, down her belly toward the slick still cooling between her thighs. She couldn't wipe them. She couldn't cover herself. She walked naked through the market crowd with her cunt still throbbing from a stranger's thumb and her face crumpling like wet paper, and not a single person looked twice — just another sold bitch leaking tears and juice on her way to the loading pens.
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