Filth Ch 03 1

For Emma P.

Deep down, I was silently scared shitless. I admit it!

The fact was, laying caged in the back of Georgina's van on the way in to Monkswood Farm -- naked, filthy and drenched in sweat -- I had been forced to accept that, having utterly failed to foresee any of what was happening to me, I really had no idea what the Farm's management had planned; my only certainty being that they clearly intended to make full use of the right I had given them to use and abuse me as they pleased and that, consequently, I really would be spending the next fortnight living as an animal.

I was on my way to becoming a Monkswood Farm pig and that was that -- just a sow with tits and three pokable holes; entirely dependent on the Farm's staff for even my most basic needs and helplessly at their mercy.

Of course, I knew I was free to quit and leave at any time. But Georgina had been right when she said my pride would never allow me to contemplate such a cowardly surrender. My word is my bond and all that! And, for better or for worse, I had given my word that I would see this through to the end.

So what could I do? I realised then that the only freedom I had left was the freedom to choose either to try to make the most of whatever came my way, or to spend the next two weeks being miserable. Unsurprisingly, I chose not to be miserable.

That was when I promised myself that I would live only in the moment; savouring life breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat; facing each new challenge as it arose; no longer trying to predict my future; no longer judging whatever transpired as 'good' or 'bad'; accepting my fate as simply an experience to be milked of every last drop of sensuality that I could possibly wring out of it.

No point in worrying! It wasn't going to change anything.

Che sarà sarà

! Whatever will be, will be!

"Fear is the enemy, the destroyer of dreams," I chanted silently in my head. "Listen to your body. Dare to be happy. Dare to be yourself."

My tits ached with anticipation. My clit tingled its approval.

Unfortunately, though a stickler for keeping promises made to others, I confess my honour has never been good at keeping promises made to myself. What can I say? I thought I was doing rather well on the whole -- until about a nanosecond after hearing that I was to be examined by the Farm's resident 'veterinarian'.

I just couldn't help myself! The truth is, I have always hated anything medical being done to me -- another of my childhood demons. Moreover, I had seen enough documentaries to know that farm vets were anything but renowned for their gentle bedside manner, and had seen and read enough porn to know that, under the circumstances, if I was lucky, I might get off with nothing worse than having my entire body sexually assaulted. If not, I would most likely be subjected to the most fiendish tortures imaginable. And I am not good with pain!

In short, as Georgina led me across the farmyard, crawling naked on my hands and knees at the end of a rope, the two pints of cider I had consumed earlier having finally worked their way down to my bladder, I was close to wetting myself, trying to imagine and so prepare for the horrendous ordeal I felt sure was to be my fate.

* * *

Despite my trepidation, I was actually relieved to be finally led through the half-rotted, green door with 'VET' scrawled across it in white chalk.

The morning's clear blue sky had clouded over, leaving a chill in the air, and my knees were killing me; my arms and legs literally shaking as moving demanded an ever greater act of will in the battle between my soft extremities and the yard's uneven, unyielding cobblestones. Indeed, had it not been for Georgina's patient encouragement, I doubt that I would have made it as far as I did; the little taps she gave me with a stick being more to steer than to goad me on.

Not that the brick floor of the 'clinic' was any softer than the cobblestones of the yard. But at least it was flat and strewn with enough sawdust and straw to offer my poor bruised knees and scuffed feet some respite.

I say 'clinic' but, in reality, I found myself in one end of the Farm's Victorian stables -- I think originally the tack room, extended and partitioned off from the rest of the solidly built, brick edifice by a floor-to-ceiling palisade of rough wooden slats, spaced in such a way that I couldn't help feeling as though I had been led into another cage. Indeed, illuminated only by a solitary, bare lightbulb and a barred fanlight so dirty it admitted no more than a wintry glow, my immediate impression was not of a clinic but of a dungeon.

"And what have we here, Mrs Farmer?"

Startled, my heart stuttered seeing the tiny, wizened stick of a woman in her early sixties emerge from the shadows; her green wellies strangely at odds with the smart brown woollen skirt and stylish, lilac cardigan she wore beneath a somewhat less than white lab coat.

"Oh hello Jen... I mean doctor. It's our newest pig, Squelch," Georgina fizzed. "I know it's late but hubby... I mean Mr Farmer, asked if you could possibly check her over so we can get her settled in before dinnertime."

"Of course! I've nearly finished unpacking. And thanks for offering to help tomorrow. Not as young as I used to be," Jenny shrugged.

"How is retirement treating you?" Georgina enquired, as though chatting astride a naked woman was the most natural thing in the world.

"Oh I'm not completely retired," Jenny laughed. "Just left the NHS so I could claim my pension. A bit too long in the tooth for all the running around that goes with being a District Nurse, you know?

"I'm with an agency now. Back at the hospital next week as a Midwife, as it happens. They can't get the staff, you see. Hardly surprising since some 'Brain of Britain' thought it clever to cut back on the training programme. Fucking bean counters!

"But let me go through this sow's paperwork while you get her ready," Jenny muttered distractedly, flipping through and snapping the sheaf of papers Georgina had handed her onto her clipboard.

"Right then... registration number NF02A0601V. Remind me... NF?"

"Female no-limits sub, doctor," Georgina grinned. "Actually a rather posh humiliation slut, but a volunteer so hub... I mean, Mr Farmer, said to give her the works... bearing in mind that our daughter will probably want her for the cowshed once she claps eyes on this sow's udders. You know how Charlotte just loves big tits."

Jenny laughed: "I'm still amazed she has turned into such a kinky little minx given how careful you and George were to shield her from all this. She was such an angel as a toddler too. I think George and his first wife, God rest her soul, must have shared some sort of 'kinky gene' and passed it on.

"Seeing those beautifully tuggable nipples though, I think you're right about Charlotte wanting this one for her herd."

"Just wait until you see her cunt," Georgina cackled. "Let me put it this way, you'll be glad of your rubber gloves and, if I were you, I would wear your rubber apron! She's dripping! It's why we named her 'Squelch'.

"Gorgeously lippy as well. Her cunt actually reminds me of an alien-looking tropical blossom I once saw in Kew Gardens -- deliciously succulent! Quite beautiful, in fact. And while she herself is a bit on the shy side, there's nothing shy about her clit. I don't think I've ever seen one this brazen, and she has barely been touched!"

I felt as though my cheeks were on fire and wished the floor would open up and swallow me whole. Of course, I had overheard men discussing my body before as though I wasn't there, but having my most secret parts described in such graphic detail -- and by another woman -- shocked me to my core.

Degraded? Utterly, for that was when I realised my body had become just a piece of raw meat, to be examined and appraised like a pork chop being purchased from a butcher -- 'that one is too thick, too thin, too fatty, too lean; this one looks tasty, I'll take it'.

But there was more to it than that. My cunt really doesn't look anything like the neat 'designer vaginas' I have seen in photographs of other women. To my eyes, it really did look like a deformed, alien growth. How anyone could find it beautiful was beyond my comprehension, yet that was how Georgina had described it -- as a thing of beauty, like some rare and exotic flower.

And with that, I felt something shift, deep within me -- a feeling I had never experienced before. I felt as though my everyday self had suddenly fallen away and that, for the first time in my life, I was accepted, not for how closely I came to some ideal of perfection, but simply for being me; 'warts and all'.

I think that is why I didn't resist when Georgina unhooked what I had mistakenly thought to be horse trappings from the wall and began locking stout leather cuffs onto my ankles and wrists; the iron O-rings and buckles jingling as each little brass padlock snapped shut.

These were no toys. Obviously custom-made, they were heavy, no nonsense jobs, clearly designed for the sole purpose of restraining the wearer whether they liked it or not.

As though in a trance, I actually co-operated with the fitting of a matching posture collar and remember flushing when I realised I had been rendered incapable of following Georgina with my eyes as she circled around me; my ability to move my head having been limited to that of a real pig.

I remember her smiling as she unplaited my hair; brushing it out almost lovingly and binding it into a neatly practical top-knot, before gently wiping my face clean of all make-up -- like a mother preparing her child for her first day at school.

Even the leather bridle, with its hard rubber ring forcing my mouth open, a tongue-clamp to render speech impossible and little hooks inserted into my nostrils to distort my nose into something like a pig's snout, seemed somehow natural -- something done, not out of malice, but as an act of practical animal husbandry. The words Georgina had spoken in the van echoed through my mind: "You are a pig and Monkswood Farm takes good care of its livestock."

"Okay!" Jenny announced, snapping me from my reverie. "No allergies... No pre-existing medical conditions... And I see the sow was tested for STDs only last week and scanned clear, so that will save me calling in favours from the hospital's lab.

"Let's get her up on the stage. Would you mind filling in the forms for me, Mrs F? Quicker if I don't have to keep stopping to write everything down."

I can't think why I hadn't noticed it before. Too dark? Too distracted? Who knows? But once the dazzlingly bright spotlights came on, there was no missing it, for the 'stage' was clearly the clinic's focal point -- a rectangular brick and concrete plinth the size of a good sized dining table, with a wooden ramp up which I was made to crawl until I reached an assembly of scaffold poles similar to the asymmetric bars on which gymnasts perform.

I was still trying to work the thing out when Georgina and Jenny grabbed me and manhandled me into position -- my wrists pulled back and secured to the high bar so I was forced to bend over the lower bar while my ankles where tethered to leave me posed as though attempting a grotesque swan-dive on tiptoe; my tits hanging free and my legs splayed to leave my cunt and arsehole obscenely exposed.

"I assume Mr Farmer wants her bald? Perhaps you could take care of that while I sort myself out," Jenny smiled. "Don't worry sow! We're talking about your pudenda, not your head."

Nonetheless, my mouth became a desert seeing Jenny don a long rubber apron and a pair of heavy-duty rubber gauntlets. I found myself fighting the urge to hyperventilate, only for my panting to morph into a breathless whimper as my clit reacted to the vibrations emanating from the electric clippers Georgina was using to denude my cunt.

I think I would have climaxed had my need to pee not been made all the more urgent by the pole pressing against my tummy. Instead, trying not to sob, knowing my precious 'flower' was now more open and exposed than ever, my bladder's growing discomfort was all I could think about and I began to wriggle, desperately wanting to press my thighs together.

"Don't you dare ask to go to the lavatory," Georgina hissed, yet again reading my mind. "Pigs don't use lavatories. If you want to go, just go! Why do you think the floor is covered in sawdust?"

"Does she need to pee?" Jenny asked quite casually. "I need a urine sample so if you can catch a bit? You'll find some paper cups on my desk."

I just wanted to cry! Up until then, I thought being naked and forced to display my bare tits and now fully exposed cunt like a porn star was the ultimate in humiliation, but to now be expected to piss myself before an audience of near strangers was beyond even my worst nightmare.

"Fear is the enemy. Listen to... No, don't! Hold it! Oh fuck! Hold..."

I bit down on the rubber ring in my mouth to distract myself, but it was no use. Once Jenny began pressing on my bladder, I felt my screaming muscles weakening, until an involuntary dribble turned into a trickle that I managed to stem for less than a minute before I lost all control and sprayed a ragged fountain of hot piss into the cup Georgina was holding, causing her to jump back to avoid getting more than her hand drenched.

I just couldn't stop. Or rather, I knew I should but the feeling of blessed relief won that argument so I just carried on; the last few squirts overflowing the puddle between my legs so it dripped off the side of the stage and ramp, pitter-pattering onto the floor.

"Methinks you should have been the one wearing gloves and an apron, Mrs Farmer," Jenny laughed, applauding me as though I had just performed some deeply entertaining party trick.

I didn't mean to cry. I just felt so ashamed and remember the taste of silent tears streaming down my cheeks. I flinched when Georgina's hair brushed my shoulder as she leaned over to whisper: "No tears! No shame in being a good little piggie and doing what pigs do. Now be brave! Jenny really is a medical professional. She knows what she's doing."

And Georgina was right! Other than being naked and bound, what followed was a thoroughly professional medical examination. My blood pressure was taken. My pulse was checked. My ears, eyes and throat were inspected. My heart and lungs were listened to and my abdomen expertly palpated. Even the examination of my breasts was entirely, dispassionately clinical. Only the taking of my temperature was odd -- with a thermometer up my arse and another in my cunt.

"She's fine, Mrs F," Jenny concluded. "Healthier than either of us."

"According to her Medical Questionnaire, she menstruates," Georgina called from somewhere behind me. "Twenty-eight day cycle... Pretty regular... Due on sometime next week if I've got my sums right. Oh and she's on the pill. I left them on your desk.

"So is she fit for breeding, doctor?"

"Let's see, shall we?" Jenny mumbled, drizzling ice-cold lubricant into my bum-crack and massaging it into my still tender sphincter.

Bred?!!! I felt sick, cursing myself for having been so flustered by having had to divulge the most intimate details of my periods that I hadn't even thought to ask about contraception. I had simply assumed. My brain turned somersaults, trying to remember the caveats to my 'no limits' legal waiver -- no harm, no permanent physical modification. Of course, I had taken it as read that I would be severely fucked at some point during my stay -- probably (hopefully) repeatedly. But bred?!!! Surely pregnancy wasn't part of the deal!

"Monkswood Farm takes care of its livestock," I reminded myself in a desperate effort to convince my bowels not to turn to water on the spot. I was just being stupid, I told myself, and could rely on the management's common sense. "Trust! Fear is the enemy, the destroyer of dreams!"

And yet, as I imagined myself being forcibly pumped full of some stranger's hot semen, I felt a primal yearning stir in my womb and heard the ape within me whispering: "You want this. You need this. Listen to your body."

I shivered at the thought, but before I could so much as grunt my concerns, Georgina returned and began pushing a soft latex dildo into my mouth; pressing it in deeper and deeper until my jaw ached and I gagged.

"Oral depth, thirteen centimetres, doctor," she reported flatly.

Then, as swiftly as it had gone in, the dildo was withdrawn, leaving me retching and gasping for air; my laboured breathing becoming a groan as Georgina began working on my nipples, eventually actually suckling until they were so impossibly hard I felt as though my tits would explode.

"Teats, fully erect... diameter about twelve millimetres and... Oh gosh! Length two centimetres, doctor!"

"Then Charlotte is in for a treat," Jenny chortled. "And I see what you mean about her vulva. Not that unusual though and certainly not abnormal."

I winced feeling a bony, gloved finger wiggle its way inside me like an inquisitive worm -- first into my cunt and then into my tight little bum-hole; clearly exploring with no intent to arouse. Then I grunted, eyes wide as saucers, feeling Jenny's fingers unexpectedly replaced by some sort of hard, cold phallus being pushed deep into each of my holes until I squealed.

"Anal depth... say sixteen centimetres", Jenny droned. "Vaginal depth... she's tense so... call it ten centimetres, which means she should easily take twenty when fully aroused. Maybe more."

More?!!! My head was still spinning when I felt the first cold steel speculum go in -- wiggled awkwardly into my arsehole, closely followed by one that slid into my cunt without resistance. I tried to relax, knowing that was the only way to ease my discomfort, but it didn't help. By the time Jenny had fully dilated both orifices, I felt fit to split.

"Come and hold the inspection lamp for me, Mrs Farmer," Jenny commanded, cranking my cunt open another notch.

"What's that little hole?" I heard Georgina ask.

"That? That's her urethra," Jenny replied, poking my pee hole with something cold and metallic. "Or did you mean the one at the end? That's her cervix.

"All nice and healthy though so I am happy to pass her as fit for whatever you want. You can finish her off if you wouldn't mind, Mrs F, while I tidy up her paperwork and sign her off."

* * *

This I know is going to sound utterly pathetic, but it happens to be true. I am no lesbian. In fact, despite having 'performed' with other women, I don't even consider myself truly bisexual. I mean, I know gorgeous when I see it, but the fact is the female form alone just doesn't get my juices going and that's just how it is.

Unsurprisingly, therefore, finding Georgina mauling my tits and fingering my cunt with serious sexual intent, inwardly I recoiled out of habit and struggled to escape her attentions, but my bonds made any meaningful resistance impossible. I was the rope in a tug-o-war between my mind and my body -- my mind saying 'no'; my body telling my mind to shut the fuck up!

How to explain? To describe the events on the Farm as my first ever 'lesbian experience' would not be entirely accurate. My best and only friend at school had touched me once, after we had both got a bit tiddly on smuggled-in cider and she decided to teach me how to masturbate properly. I objected then but not for long. "Fingers, lips and tongues have no gender," she said. "Either they know how to give pleasure or they don't." Suffice to say that Georgina's fingers, lips and tongue knew how in spades!

I remember the first orgasm she coaxed out of me. I remember it coming out of nowhere and hitting me like a runaway train. I vaguely remember the second, a few minutes later and how my entire body convulsed with such violence that the scaffolding to which I was secured rattled and shook with me. I remember hearing what sounded to me like a wounded animal, howling and screaming somewhere in the distance and realising only later that animal had been me.