A Pig in a Poe

Chapter Two

Integration

I shivered uncontrollably as I knelt there, the concrete grating my knees. My reaction was partly from the cold, and partly from the prospect and fear of being branded. I had no idea what this was going to be like, and had I known at the time, I would have been twice as frightened.

Finally, after what seemed like an age, the southern man returned, another man in tow. "That's the one?" The other asked as he inspected me, dripping on the floor.

"This 'un's the sow the boss was talkin' about yesterday." The man seemed to remind him, as though the knowledge held some relevance. The second man wore an odd costume, draping him in leather, a heavy apron falling to his knees in front, like some sort of heavy metal blacksmith.

"It don't look so special to me." The blacksmith said, his voice gravelly and almost scary with its primal tone.

"It ain't. It's just a sow." My original tormentor responded, lowering me with his debasing comment. "You saw it in the sty a tad back. Ya' know, the one gittin' pig-fucked."

I uttered a low groan, involuntarily, as though I could sink any lower. They were both watching as that animal fucked me from behind. I imagined what they must think of me. Either one would have given their left nut to have their way with me two days before. Now, I was nothing but a sow. Sympathetically, I ran a hand over my skull, reminding myself how hideous I must be.

"Well, drag her over and I'll get this over with. What's her number?" He asked, reminding me in no uncertain terms what was about to happen.

"Fifty-seven. Least, that's what the boss said." The collar pulled me up as the leash was yanked, sending me scurrying over the concrete, my knees the least of my worries.

I had to laugh, but all I could think about was Heinz 57 sauce, having seen it on the shelves at the market. Now, I was going to wear that number for the rest of my life. Morbidly, I imagined someone using it as they poured it copiously over a hank of meat sliced from my ass. That couldn't be what they had in mind, could it?

A more sobering thought crossed my mind. Vanessa's number was fifty-four. That meant two more women had been put through this between Vanessa and me. I wondered if they had been in the pen with me that morning. Fifty-seven. Was that all my life would boil down to, a number? A sobering thought, indeed.

As we rounded the corner of the barn, a small shack came into view, a line of black smoke rising from a single stack that rose from the corrugated roof. For the first time, real panic raced through me, and I began to resist.

"Ain't no gittin' outta this, piggy. Harlon! Sow's finally showin' some spirit." The man emerged from the shack and circled around behind me. Between southern man yanking on my leash and the blacksmith with his gloved fingers gripping me between my cunt and asshole, I was carried bodily into the shack, where a door was slammed shut behind me.

The only light in the place came from a blazing hearth, bathing the otherwise dingy room in an orange glow. "We're gonna need the head gate." The blacksmith bellowed as he wiped my juices from his glove on his trousers. Southern man pulled as hard as he dared, dragging me until my head squeezed between two upright poles. There was the sound of scraping metal, and I felt my neck lock down tight.

For a second, I thought they had cut off my head, imagining some sort of guillotine. Then I realized that my head was still quite attached but held fast by the contraption they had employed. I tried pulling free, but even bald, my skull was far too large to fit back through the restriction.

"Y'all ain't goin' nowheres." I was told, as I felt a hand running over my butt cheek. "The boss said tit." Southern man warned.

"I decide where the brand goes, last time I checked, shithead." The blacksmith uttered. "This one's getting it on the ass, opposite the meat mark."

All the imagining that I could ever muster wouldn't prepare me for what was about to happen, in hindsight. Vanessa's description was vague as she had passed out as soon as the glowing iron was placed on her breast. I wondered if I would be so lucky.

I heard the bellows being pumped, and the unmistakable odor of metal heated to unbearable temperatures. I picked that moment to piss myself, the urine pouring out onto the floor between my knees.

"Hold the sow, it's ready." I felt arms wrap around my middle, and the full weight of a man laid over my back. That's when it came. I tried to imagine anything hurting that much, but my thoughts were scrambled by the pain impulses racing into my addled brain. I immediately vomited, the floor too close to my face to prevent some of it from splashing back.

"Ohhh, Fuuccckk!!!" I screamed. Those were my only words since my abduction, but they were screamed rather than spoken. The pain was beyond pain. It was beyond anything imaginable. I prayed that I would pass out, but it never happened. Just wave after excruciating wave of unbearable pain.

"Damned if the sow isn't still conscious." The blacksmith chuckled. "That's a first."

I cursed my stoicism and my inbred pain tolerance. I got it from my mother, and her from hers. What I wouldn't give to be just a tad weaker, just a little more of a sissy. Then there was the smell. The smell of my own flesh burning was putrid and foul, and I wondered if everyone's flesh burned with such a stench. Were my gut not already empty, I would have puked some more.

"Sow's hide certainly stinks like a rich bitch." The blacksmith complained.

"Oh, it was. That's why the boss wanted 'er. That's why he sent 54..."

"Shut up, you idiot!" The blacksmith must have hit southern guy, because I heard him hit the floor next to me. Through the fog of my agony, I tried to make sense of what I had just heard. They had sent Vanessa after me? A setup?

I felt the metal brace being lifted from my neck, and I quickly backed out of the device, the collar still firmly attached to the leash and leash now wielded by the blacksmith. "You'd do well to forget what you heard, 57." He growled. "It won't do you no good anyway. You're here, and that's that." He dragged me over to the door, leaving southern man knocked out on the floor.

I tried to ignore the pain emanating from my bottom. Fortunately, the rain had picked up again and was at least some relief as it ran over the freshly burned flesh. Once we reached my stall, he rubbed something greasy over the brand, saying that it would help some. Initially, all it did was exacerbate the pain, but after an hour or so, the throbbing ebbed to a dull ache.

Truth is Stranger Than Fiction

The next few days were spent in solitude. My stall had been mucked out, and the bedding replaced with fresh, clean straw. At least there was that. A guy who professed to be a vet of some sort visited me each morning, inspecting the brand and administering a shot, which I presumed was an antibiotic.

I spoke for only the second time, relaying that I was allergic to penicillin, to which he replied he was well aware of my medical history. I was uneasy as he tallied off a list of medical procedures I'd had performed, not leaving out three cosmetic surgeries. A lot of good they would do me now, I mused. They knew everything about me, and that was what should have concerned me.

The slop that I had eaten that day in the trough, was brought to my stall in a bucket. As disgusting as it was, I realized that it was all I would be offered to eat, that and what appeared to be clean water. I tried to keep my business over in one corner, which the man who cleaned out my stall every other day, seemed to appreciate.

After what I was told was a week, the vet declared that my brand was sufficiently healed to rejoin my normal activities. To be honest, I had no idea what my normal activities might entail.

A short time later, southern man appeared again, and I was reminded of what he had said to earn the shiner he now sported. "Lookit y'all, so clean and pink." He chuckled. "Time fer ya to get dirty agin, 57."

I assumed he meant I was being put back in with the other pigs in the pen. I would eventually be proven right, but a stop had to be made before. It was back out into the courtyard, and once again it was raining. 'Did the sun ever shine around here,' I asked myself. Then I remembered the sun baking the mud to my back that first day in the sty, so apparently, it did.

To my surprise, I was led up to what was once a large farmhouse, converted into a modern representation of one. Lots of glass and redwood, something that I would have been comfortable in, once. Now, as I was led onto the immaculate hardwood floor, I felt utterly out of place. My stall was clean, but I was far from being so myself. I reeked of my own shit and piss, and the dirt that had begun to stain my skin was ever-present.

"Ah, there she is now." A gentleman's voice echoed from an adjacent room. There was a clatter of heels and footsteps before a group of four emerged to gaze at me. I tried not to look, but noticed there were two men and two women, all impeccably dressed.

"Can you believe the transformation?" One of the women declared, walking up beside me, and retreating. "And, she stinks."

"Yes, my dear. Pigs do stink, as a rule." The gentleman pointed out.

"Her hair." The other woman laughed. "It's positively... well, it's gone isn't it." She corrected.

"Yes. It's one of the first things we do when they get here. Shave it, you know." The other man stated, matter-of-factly.

"I just cannot believe that's who you say it is." The first woman chortled. "Claire, darling, that cannot be you. You men are lying through your teeth, I must say."

It was at that moment that I realized that this person was someone who knew me; someone who traveled in the same circles I once did. I wanted to die. I wanted to crawl away and disappear, but the damned leash held me firmly to an eyebolt specifically designed for the purpose.

"I assure you, darling, the creature kneeling before you was once the very Claire Madison Jones you profess to know so well." The man seemed almost annoyed, but not scolding.

"But... that's... oh my goodness..., Claire? Is that you, my dear?" The voice was very familiar, and as I looked up to meet her eyes, my suspicions were confirmed. I didn't know her well, but we had toasted a few at various galas and events together. Marion Pettyjohn. All I could do was nod, my voice escaping me at that moment.

"I think that's enough. You may take her back to the sty." The gentleman demanded, as the other escorted the two women back out of sight. Surely this woman would tell someone of my plight. But then again, hadn't I come here in exchange for them leaving my husband's finances alone? This was my choice, and I had to live with it.

The sty was even more muddy than the last time, although the bodies in it seemed to be washed clean of their coating by the rain. Now we were obviously humans, masquerading as pigs. Having eaten my fill of the slop that morning, I avoided the trough, seeking one person in particular. It didn't take me long to find her.

"Vanessa, how could you?" I asked as I crawled up next to her. The birthmark on her arm was a dead giveaway, even if her number was hidden by the mud. Her head had been freshly shaved and I wondered if she had returned of her own volition. "You set me up?"

"I had no choice. They would have done things to me; awful things." She spewed, the rain dripping off her nose as she spoke.

I crawled around so we were facing each other; so I could look her in the eye. She quickly averted her vision to avoid my rage. "Look at me. Look what they've done to me." I seethed.

"To me, you look the same as all the other pigs in here." Vanessa sighed, shaking her head.

The 'Ol' boy', as southern man referred to him, chose that moment to mount me again. My anger did nothing to ease his entry, but he forced his way inside me, anyway. Vanessa met my eyes then and kept them, as the pig slammed into me over and over. Again, I did nothing to dissuade his attention, but his timing was atrocious.

I was forced to exhibit my lust, indifferent as it may have been, before my friend, who seemed amused at my being pig-fucked in front of her. Eventually, my body won out, and I began to meet his thrusts, backing into him as his member erupted into my cunt. We came together, my own ecstasy mixed with shame as I was forced to meet Vanessa's stare. At least I wasn't buried in the mud this time.

"I used to be his favorite, once." Vanessa mused. "Seems like he's found a new one."

"Am I to be fucked every time I'm brought in here?" I asked, indignantly. "Christ, I'll be pregnant before long."

"I seriously doubt that." Vanessa giggled, indicating the rear end of my new fuck-mate. "Look."

I turned my head, amused to see a shriveled sack where his testicles should have been. "He's been castrated?" I asked, amazed. "But how does he..."

"Hormones. Apparently, they shoot him up every few weeks to keep up his... well, to keep him hard." Vanessa smirked.

"Well, at least there's that." I sighed. "I'll never forgive you for this, you know." I shamed.

"I don't expect you will. But seeing as neither of us is going to see the light of day again, I hardly think it matters." She turned, wallowing into the mud deliberately, coating herself in it, and from the look on her face, enjoying it too.

Change is Good?

This went on for weeks. Each morning I was brought to the sty, where I was pig-fucked by 26. To be honest, it got to the point where I actually looked forward to his persistent attention. Knowing that there was no way I could ever get pregnant by him was reassuring, and allowed me to relax for him. I knew he was stretching me out, and could feel my cunt-flaps sag a little more each day. I failed to see how anything mattered at that point. Sexual pleasure was about the only thing I was still afforded.

One morning, having primed myself for 26, I was saddened by a change of plans. I was brought around to the other barn, which I learned was for hu-cows. Unlike us, these women were milked each day, serving as human cows. I had yet to figure out what our purpose was, other than to amuse people with our repugnant odor and disgusting behavior. Maybe that's all that was expected of us.

Once in the barn, I was hosed down and brought round to an unfamiliar room. The lights were bright and it had a very medical feel to it. Before I could read too much into it, the 'veterinarian' appeared.

"Good morning, 57." He said, flatly. "I've been told to... well, you're going to be having a few alterations."

Now, I hadn't spoken a word since my spat with 54, but I knew I needed to speak up now. "What..." I cleared my throat. "What sort of... alterations."

"There's no need to worry yourself about it, 57. They're going to be done, and that's that. You don't have much of a say in the matter." He was quick. The pain in my arm was a needle, and whatever was in it, knocked me for a loop.

I was still conscious, but there was nothing I could do about anything. It was as though every muscle in my body was useless. The vet hoisted me onto a table and flipped me onto my back. My eyes were open so he must have known I was still awake. I certainly hoped he wasn't going to do anything until I was asleep.

My worst fears realized, he slipped a tube down my throat and attached it to a machine that seemed to be breathing for me. Then he began to poke around in my mouth, injecting something into my upper and lower jaw that stung like crazy. Fortunately, it turned out to be Novocain or something, the numbness familiar to me. Fear suddenly ran through me as I saw him wielding a menacing set of pliers. He was going to pull my teeth out!

I couldn't even close my eyes as I saw the first tooth exit my mouth, falling with a chink into a metal bowl. I wanted to scream. I wanted to kill him. Again, he went inside and came back out with yet another tooth. I so desperately wanted to close my eyes. If I could only do that, at least I would be spared the anguish of watching.

After all my front teeth had been extracted, he removed the metal bowl, replacing it with a more vicious-looking machine. It looked like a drill, but not like any dentist drill I'd ever seen in my life. Doomed to watch his actions, like a petrified spectator at a coliseum, he began to drill. Had I not been numb, I was certain I'd be withering in pain.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. I watched as he meticulously sutured whatever he had done. At that point, I wished I could move my tongue, but it too was rendered useless.

His attention then settled on my chest, more specifically my breasts. Don't mess with those, wanted to warn him, I paid a fortune for them. He seemed to be looking for something and nodded his head when he found it. My vision was limited to what I could see around the tube, but he was paying an awful lot of attention to where my implants had been inserted. Surely not.

The same syringe he had used for the Novocain reappeared and I felt that same stinging, only this time at the base of my left breast. Fear reared its head once again as he repeated the injection on the right. I saw him lift a scalpel from the tray and I would have panicked were I able. Still paralyzed, all I could do was watch.

I realized I could see what he was doing reflected in his visor, so I concentrated on that. He had made an incision and was working with something inside. Satisfied with that, he turned on a pump of sorts and inserted the business end into the opening. I felt something give against my ribs and watched, horrified, as my left breast slowly deflated.

I knew what he was going to do, but the reality of seeing it happen was utterly degrading. He began pulling, and it was the first time I felt any real pain. In the visor, I could see the empty implant being extracted through the hole he had made. Once it was out, he immediately began working on the right. The imbalance of seeing my full, voluptuous breast in contrast to the sagging skin of the opposite side, seemed ridiculous. Now I just wanted it to be over with.

Again, I had to watch as the pump evacuated the liquid inside the implant, and my right breast flattened like the other. There was not as much pain this time as he removed the implant, or perhaps I was just indifferent to it at that point. I wasn't sure. He'd pulled my teeth and essentially removed my breasts. I was done. To my surprise I found I could finally close my eyes. Whatever he gave me must have been wearing off.

When I woke up, I found myself in a bed, of all things. I'd forgotten how comfortable a bed could be, having been confined in a stall at night for weeks. Still stiff, I found that I could at least move. I had to see what had been done. There was a mirror over a small sink in the corner of the room, but I hesitated. I had yet to see myself since my arrival there. Was I prepared for this?

I reached up, finding my head had been freshly shaved, and not the stubble the clippers had left either. This had been done with a razor, the glass-smooth surface almost pleasant to the touch. I simply had to see.

Quietly, I slipped my legs over the side of the bed and stood, pleased that they could still support me after so much crawling around. The mirror loomed large on the wall, and I knew that it was silly to procrastinate.

The thing staring back at me from the other side of the mirror could not have been me. My bald head was bulbous and ugly, and my ears stood out from the sides of my head like two clamshells glued there for comic relief. Looking down, my once glorious breasts were gone. In their place was a pair of sagging bags, the nipples pointing upwards from the center of a fold of fat at their base. They were completely empty, the implants that once filled them to plumpness having stretched the skin that much.