Chapter 36: Pig Farm Slave: Part 1

At this point, let’s uncover the names of the family responsible for the most unimaginable cruelty toward Sylvia—a family whose actions have crossed lines that even after all Sylvia has endured, seem impossible to believe. And considering what she’s already been through, that’s saying a lot.

Fatu was a massive man, his sheer size a symbol of wealth and pride for him and his family. His round belly protruded like a monument, his limbs thick and sturdy. His wife, Wafati, matched him in size and confidence, her wide hips and heavyset figure showing the same well-fed prosperity. Their children, Fati and Fatina, were much the same—plump, content, and unapologetically proud of their bodies, seeing their size as a mark of affluence in their village. The larger they were, the more it represented that they were not just surviving—they were thriving.

Fatu had not always known the luxury his family now enjoyed. He had begun life as a poor pig farmer, struggling in the mud with barely enough to provide for his family. But everything changed when his father invented a breeding apparatus designed to restrain female pigs during mating. The device revolutionized pig farming in their region, making the process efficient and highly profitable. Now, Fatu and his family had discovered, to their twisted delight, that it worked just as effectively on humans—at least on this woman. Unfortunately for them, human women couldn’t bear pig offspring. Otherwise, they might have kept her strapped in that harness, serving their male pigs indefinitely...

It was pure coincidence that, just two days ago, Fatu and his family had been laughing together over a meal, joking about the useless pig they were preparing to slaughter. The pig was an odd creature—donated by the white woman, who had raised it after her husband claimed the pig saw itself as human. Her husband had even told them a bizarre story about how one day, as his wife stepped out of the shower, the pig knocked her down, mounted her, and began humping her. The pig, raised inside by this white couple, had lost its natural instincts and refused to mate with any female pigs on the farm. No matter what they tried, it wouldn’t engage. Fati, Fatu’s son, had burst out laughing and said, “Dis one, eh, it die a virgin! No mate for dis foolish pig—we need a white woman around here!”

They chuckled, never taking the matter too seriously. The white woman had been responsible for raising the pig, and Fatu grumbled about whatever strange thing she must have done to make it so reluctant. In their laughter, they threw out wild jokes, each more outrageous than the last. At some point, someone had joked that if a pig couldn’t find a mate, well, perhaps a white woman could do the job.

The joke had been crude, nothing more than drunken banter. But things took a strange turn later that day when Fatu, true to his habit, got drunk at the local bar. His wife, Wafati, was used to bailing him out whenever he found himself in trouble. It was no big deal for a family with their kind of money in the impoverished island nation. That night, however, Fatu did something none of them had expected.

When Fatu stumbled back home, slumped in the back of a police pickup truck with Sergeant Mwanga and Officer Emeka, he wasn’t alone. Behind him, disheveled and trembling, stood a naked white woman. She desperately resisted as the two policemen dragged her toward the barn, her voice trembling as she begged them to stop. It was clear she knew what was about to happen to her, her bare feet digging into the dirt as she struggled to break free from their grip, but the men dragged her forward without hesitation.

“Fatu, what you bring here, eh?” Wafti’s deep voice rumbled, her hands on her wide hips. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the woman.

“Ah, she was my cellmate in jail last night,” Fatu slurred, barely holding himself upright. “Have ya heard of the humanitarian aid worker left behind by the aid organization? It’s this one. She a whore now, got arrested for public indecency. Ya see, these policemen didn’t strip her naked. She was already naked in the market, showin’ her body, tryin’ to sell herself. Policemen here agreed to interrogate her here—it’s all part of my release bargain, you know.”

Sergeant Mwanga nodded, confirming with a serious tone, “Yes, your husband, Fat man, is in charge now. We’re just observing and helping him here.”

Fatu chuckled darkly and continued, “She go make de joke real, ya know what I mean?”

Fati and Fatina exchanged glances, the laughter from the morning gone from their faces.

Now that it was done, their grotesque joke had morphed into a chilling reality. Fatu and his family had actually witnessed the unthinkable—this beautiful white woman, her alabaster skin shining under the dim light, mating with the pig. Everything felt surreal, like a twisted nightmare they couldn’t wake up from. What had once been crude laughter over a meal had now turned into something far more disturbing, and the sight of it hung heavily in the air.

Fatu, barely processing the scene that had just unfolded, barked his orders with an unsettling calmness. “Bring her inside,” he commanded, his voice gruff but steady. Two of his men stepped forward without hesitation, grabbing the woman by her arms and draping them over their shoulders. She was barely conscious, her head lolling to the side, her naked body swaying slightly between them as they dragged her toward the house.

Fati, his son, stood transfixed, his eyes wide with fascination as he watched the woman being hauled closer. He could hardly believe his eyes—she was beyond beautiful, prettier than any movie actress he had ever seen, with breasts that were bigger than those of any porno star he had ogled in secret. Her massive, round breasts bounced softly with each step, her wide hips curving perfectly into her plump ass. Even her vulva, fully exposed in her unconscious state, was fuller than he had imagined possible. Her alabaster skin was flawless, smooth and almost glowing in the faint light, making her seem unreal—like a fantasy come to life. Fati had never seen anything like her, not in his wildest dreams.

“Bring her to my room, my bed!” Fati blurted out, his voice trembling with excitement. He rushed to his father, practically begging. “Please, Father, let me keep her, ya? Please, ya? Common, ya?” His eyes were wide and desperate as he looked up at Fatu, pleading like a child for a toy he couldn’t bear to be without. “She’s prettier than any movie actress, ya? And her tits, bigger than any porno star I’ve ever seen. Please, let me keep her, Father!”

Fatu glanced at his son, a mix of pride and unease stirring within him. Fati’s eagerness was undeniable, and though Fatu rarely indulged his son’s whims, there was something about the desperation in his voice that made him pause.

Fatina stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with newfound interest. “Okay, I change my mind,” she announced, her voice insistent. “I want her as my servant. Aren’t we one of the richest families on Aprico Island, Dad? I’m a princess, and I deserve a white servant, don’t I?”

Fatina’s sudden shift was jarring. Just moments before, she had scoffed at the woman, calling her an animal after witnessing her squirting and urinating uncontrollably during the horrific ordeal with the pig. She had no idea the woman suffered from Hyper-Libido Disorder, nor did she care. To Fatina, the woman was too filthy even to be considered human, let alone fit for a servant.

But now, the thought of owning a white servant, one she could flaunt in front of her friends, sparked a different desire. Her voice took on a pleading tone. “Imagine how jealous everyone would be if I had a white slave! Please, Papa, please ... I want her. Let me have her!”

She clasped her hands together, her large figure trembling with anticipation, her face bright with the possibility of owning this woman, a twisted trophy to show off to the world.

Even Fatu’s wife, Wafati, joined the conversation, her voice deep and filled with a mix of pride and vengeance. “I don’t mind havin’ a white slave girl,” she said, her wide arms folded across her massive chest. Her eyes narrowed as she recalled her family’s painful past. “What better revenge for my father and mother, both born slaves to white colonialists, eh? Common, Fatu, let’s keep her.”

Fatu scratched his chin, glancing at the policemen standing nearby. “Hey, it’s not up to me, Wafati. She belong to the policemen here,” he said, gesturing toward Sergeant Mwanga and Officer Emeka.

Mwanga, sensing an opportunity, chimed in with a sly grin. “Perhaps we can work something out,” he said, his voice thick with the local accent. “But it’s gonna cost ya more pigs though. Are ya up for it?”

Fatu, always the shrewd negotiator, considered the offer. A white slave would be a prize, but he wasn’t about to part with too much of his livestock. The two men huddled together, discussing the terms. Voices low, the back-and-forth bartering filled the air as the family watched closely.

Finally, Fatu and Mwanga came to an agreement. “Fifteen more piglets,” Fatu grumbled, his thick hands clenched into fists. “But then I own her, right? If she escapes, you go find her and bring her back. If anyone else claims her, you police say she belongs to me, right?”

Mwanga nodded, the corners of his lips curling into a satisfied smile. “Yup,” he confirmed, nodding. He laid out the twisted logic of their plan, speaking slowly and with finality. “After interrogation, we find her guilty. Not guilty enough for prison, but guilty enough to declare fifteen piglets as penalty. You pay the penalty for her, so until she pays you back fifteen piglets, she belongs to you. And since you’re the only pig seller around here, and you won’t sell her any piglets, she can’t ever repay the debt. So, she’ll be your slave—forever—until you decide to sell her off.”

Fatu grinned, the dark agreement settling over him like a comfortable cloak. It was twisted logic, certainly, but it was perfectly legal on Aprico Island. There, the law bent easily, and what seemed absurd to others was simply another way of doing business. Wafati smiled broadly, already envisioning the day she would parade her new white slave in front of the other women.

Officer Emeka, who had been quietly standing to the side so far, finally spoke up. His voice was more hesitant compared to his senior, Sergeant Mwanga, but there was a certain eagerness behind his words. “Hey, the only thing is ... we still got two more days with her, ya know? Interrogation, right? I was planning to have some fun with her over those next two days ... ya know...” He chuckled awkwardly, his eyes darting toward the white woman. “I don’t get to interrogate a white woman too often—hehe, never, actually. This is my only chance.”

He pointed toward the truck, a glint of excitement in his eyes as he motioned toward a device in the back. “I even brought the ‘electric dance machine.’ Was hopin’ to see her dance for me again.”

Fatu glanced at the truck and then back at Officer Emeka. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Officer. You can come back any time, even tomorrow, to play with her. We need to train her properly to be a good slave anyhow. Ya, why don’t you bring that electric shocker again? I missed the show yesterday,” he said with a chuckle, scratching his head. “I was drunk and slept through it.”

Emeka’s face lit up at Fatu’s words, his grin spreading wide. “Ya, Sergeant, are you up for that?” he asked eagerly, turning toward Mwanga with hopeful eyes.

Mwanga shrugged, the faintest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Ya, I’m up for that,” he said, his voice steady, knowing full well that this twisted game was far from over.

With that, another dark chapter in Sylvia’s ordeal began to unfold. If she had thought the torments from Matumbo and Omari were unbearable, she was about to learn that there was a whole other level of cruelty awaiting her. What lay ahead was a nightmare unlike anything she had experienced before—new hands, new tortures, and a descent into something even more sinister.

Meanwhile, Sylvia had been asleep for nearly twenty-four hours, her body and mind desperately clinging to the rare opportunity for rest. Saturday had started out so peacefully, it was almost disorienting. Matumbo, her usual tormentor, would sometimes leave her alone for days, and occasionally for longer periods—sometimes as long as a week or even two—for reasons she couldn’t understand. His motives remained unknown to her, but in reality, he had carefully timed his assaults on the white woman, knowing that if he pushed her too far, she could suffer a complete mental and physical breakdown, as his former girlfriend once had. He didn’t want that—not yet. He wanted her to endure.

Unaware of his twisted calculation, Sylvia cherished those quiet moments when her tormentors left her alone. It was these small pockets of relief that gave her hope, however fleeting, that maybe—just maybe—her torment was nearing its end. This time, the silence had stretched longer than usual, and she began to believe that perhaps her final moments of peace had arrived. Perhaps she could live in relative normalcy, as much as a white woman left behind on this African island could, waiting for the foreigner travel ban to be lifted. Maybe they had tired of her, and she could somehow exist in the shadows without drawing their attention again.

But by Saturday, that fragile hope was shattered with a casual visit from Omari, her neighbor’s son and one of her usual tormentors. The day took a swift and dark turn when he arrived at her door. Omari wasted no time forcing her into yet another round of humiliating tasks. That morning had been one of her worst yet—not for its brutality but for the extreme shame he imposed on her. He had led her to the open market, where she was made to work naked, serving food at a stall. But that wasn’t enough. He had inserted a flashing butt plug, the bright light gleaming from between her spread buttocks for all to see, forcing her to climb onto a table and spread herself in front of the entire marketplace.

It was a spectacle of humiliation, the worst kind, stripping her of whatever shred of dignity she had left. Yet despite the extreme embarrassment, there had been no physical pain involved. And for that reason, Sylvia complied. She didn’t resist, didn’t try to run. She had learned long ago that running only made things worse. She endured the shame, knowing that pain would be far worse than the humiliation she faced.

But as the morning went on, everything took an even darker turn. She was arrested by two officers—names she would soon learn to remember well—Sergeant Mwanga and Officer Emeka. They had arrested her for public lewd behavior, a charge she couldn’t argue against. If she had been a police officer, she would have arrested someone too for standing on top of a table, naked, reaching back, and spreading their own buttocks to show off a flashing butt plug. But with the arrest, her world quickly spiraled into a hellish nightmare. What began as another moment of deep humiliation soon became something far worse. It was clear from the look in their eyes that this was no ordinary arrest.

Sylvia was taken to an unfamiliar town, a place where she was a complete stranger. Here, no one knew her, and she knew no one. In her own town, although the people never intervened to help her when the bullies tormented her, they at least recognized her. They knew her as the humanitarian aid worker who had once helped their families, even if they chose to turn a blind eye to her suffering. But here, in this new town, she was nothing more than a rumor—a forgotten white woman, left behind by the humanitarian organization. They hadn’t seen her kindness or her gentle nature, hadn’t known her as the most shy and friendly woman they could meet. Instead, they only knew her as the pervert who had been arrested for walking naked in the marketplace with a flashing butt plug.

They had already given her a cruel nickname—”butt-spreader”—mocking the shameful display she had been forced into, and that was all she was to them. A disgrace. An object of ridicule.

The nightmare only deepened from there. She was dragged to the police station, her body trembling with fear as she was placed on an interrogation podium, exposed for all to see. The men surrounding her were not interested in her story, her truth, or her innocence. All they saw was a spectacle—an opportunity to break her down further. They attached electrodes to her body, and then the torture began. Sylvia could hardly comprehend what was happening as electricity surged through her, forcing her limbs to jerk and spasm uncontrollably.

She danced—if it could even be called dancing. Her legs buckled and bent, moving awkwardly as she ran in place, bow-legged, her body no longer her own. Her hips thrust forward and backward in obscene movements, her breasts shook violently, her arms flailing. She could feel her body betraying her, twisting and writhing as the electricity took control of her muscles. She wasn’t sure if she was moving or if the electricity was making her move—everything was a blur of pain and humiliation.

But one thing she remembered with perfect clarity was the agony. Every jolt felt like fire ripping through her body, burning her from the inside out. Her skin tingled and stung, her nerves felt as if they were being torn apart. And the shame—the utter humiliation of being forced to perform like that, a twisted puppet for their amusement—was almost worse than the physical pain.

The torture continued for nearly two hours. They pushed her body to its limits, driving her deeper into despair until, finally, her mind and body could take no more. She passed out, collapsing on the podium, the last thing she felt being the overwhelming sense of defeat as darkness consumed her.

Sylvia awoke slowly, her body aching all over, only to find herself trapped in a small outdoor jail cell—a crude cage made of splintered wooden bars. The air was thick with the scent of dirt and sweat, and as her vision cleared, her heart froze in terror. Inside the cage, sharing the cramped space with her, was the fat man. Earlier, he had been nearly passed out from drunkenness when they shoved him inside, but now he was fully awake and sober.

Before Sylvia could fully register the situation or even attempt to defend herself, the fat man moved in on her. His massive form loomed over her, blocking out the light from the outside. He didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. Sylvia’s body was still too weak, too drained from the electric shocks and the humiliation she had already endured. She tried to move, but her limbs barely responded, her body betraying her as she lay there helplessly.

And then he was on her.

With no mercy, he raped her, his hands roughly groping her pale skin, his weight pressing her down into the cold metal bars. She squirmed beneath him, the pain sharp and immediate, but her cries were nothing more than hoarse, pitiful sounds. Outside the cage, just within her line of sight, stood Sergeant Mwanga and Officer Emeka. They watched with cold, detached expressions, doing nothing to stop what was happening. Their silence cut into her as deeply as the physical violation.

The fat man finished with a grunt, standing up and adjusting himself as if he had merely completed a task. The policemen gave him a nod of acknowledgment, then left as if for them, it was just another day.

Night fell, and Sylvia lay there in the dirt, her body curled up in a feeble attempt to protect herself. She thought perhaps it was over. The fat man, who had already violated her, lay snoring beside her, and the policemen had left. But in the middle of the night, the fat man stirred and woke up. Her heart sank as she realized he wasn’t done.

This time, it was even more degrading. He forced her onto her stomach, her face pressed into the gritty dirt floor of the cage as he sodomized her. The sensation was overwhelming, unfamiliar, and deeply unsettling. As the fat man’s weight bore down on her, Sylvia’s eyes caught movement outside the cage. Three young men from the town stood nearby, watching. They did nothing to intervene—no words, no attempt to stop what was happening. Instead, they stood there, shamelessly masturbating, their eyes fixed on her suffering. The humiliation deepened as she realized they were masturbating to the sight of her being violated. The night surrounded her, but even in the darkness, there was no escape from their gaze, no refuge from the twisted spectacle she had become.

By the time he finished, she was left shattered, her body broken and bruised. She lay there, motionless, unable to process the depth of her violation. The hours crawled by in a haze of pain and humiliation, her mind too numb to fully grasp the horrors of what had happened.

When the morning finally came, Sylvia was pulled out of the cage, her body stiff and sore from the abuse. Her stomach churned painfully from the diarrhea caused by the electric shocks she had endured the day before. She was dragged into the open, her legs shaking, her bow-legged stance betraying the discomfort still coursing through her body. The cramps hit her hard, but she wasn’t allowed the dignity of fully squatting. Instead, she was forced to remain in a humiliating, half-knee-bent position, bow-legged, as they ordered her to relieve herself in front of everyone.

Unable to hold back, diarrhea ran down her legs in full view of the onlookers. The deep shame of being forced to defecate in such a demeaning posture, exposed to the watching crowd, only heightened her humiliation as she stood trembling, completely powerless.

There was no sympathy, no humanity in the faces of those who watched. She was handed a bucket and rag, forced to clean her own mess in front of everyone, her humiliation complete as she wiped the ground, her own body still trembling from the agony of the night.

Sylvia was dragged to the pig farm, a squalid, nightmarish place where the air was thick with the stench of mud and animal waste. As they pulled her toward the breeding apparatus, her heart pounded in her chest, and dread filled her entire being. The apparatus was crudely constructed from wood, built with the purpose of restraining pigs for mating. It had a front end where a pig’s snout would fit through, and now, in a horrifying twist of fate, her neck was forced into that same slot. Her thighs were spread and tied to the apparatus, her legs bound firmly, leaving her completely exposed.

There were no restraints for the front legs—pigs didn’t need them. But in her case, they didn’t bind her arms either. Instead, they ordered her to reach behind herself. Her trembling hands were forced to spread her own buttocks wide, exposing her most intimate areas for Pig, the farm’s massive boar. The weight of the situation crushed her spirit, the sheer humiliation choking her as she complied, hands shaking with dread.

Pig approached, his hot breath and snout close, smelling and licking her as she lay trapped in that degrading position, helpless. The unimaginable soon became reality as the pig violated her, first licking, then mounting her, his snout invading her, and soon, the unspeakable began as he penetrated her both vaginally and anally. The shock of it all—the degradation, the absolute inhumanity of it—left her mind spinning in a cloud of horror.

But the cruelest betrayal came from her own body. Despite the utter degradation, despite every ounce of her will begging for it to stop, her body responded with unwanted arousal. Through every torment, every violation, her body had turned against her, and now was no different. The orgasm ripped through her like a twisted curse, leaving her shaking as it concluded in the most humiliating way imaginable—squirting and urinating uncontrollably as Pig continued his assault.

The disgust and shame that washed over her were unbearable. She wanted to disappear, to die in that moment rather than endure the weight of what was happening. Yet even in her dreams, the humiliation followed her. In her dream, she stood helpless, her body once again betraying her, pissing herself while faceless figures looked on and laughed, mocking her degradation. It was as if her entire existence had become a cycle of humiliation that she could neither escape nor wake from.

And then, she woke up, her body trembling violently, her mind shattered beyond repair, unable to tell whether the nightmare was truly over or if the real horror had just begun.

Sylvia fluttered her eyes open, her mind groggy as she tried to gather her bearings. “She woke up!” Fati shouted excitedly. Two large, heavyset women immediately ran toward the bed, their ample bodies swaying with every step. Wafati and Fatina had been sitting on the other side of the large, open space—part living room, part dining room, and kitchen, all in one large, rustic room. They had just risen from the meal they were enjoying when they rushed over to her bedside. Fatu, who had been just outside, walked in behind them, his round belly jiggling with each step.

“We thought you were dead, although you kept breathing,” Wafati explained, her voice thick with a deep African accent. “We even called da witch doctor. He rubbed magic oil all ova ya body. He tell me, don’t wake her, so we waited.”

Fatina chimed in, her voice equally laden with the accent. “Ya, I touched ya few times, made sure ya still here. Witch doctor say you good as new, if we rub da oil twice a day and wait.”

“You slept for almost two days, girl,” Fati added. “It’s Tuesday morning now.”

Sylvia blinked, her thoughts slowly piecing together. The last thing she remembered was collapsing in the pig breeding harness.

“Where ... where am I?” she asked, her voice weak.

“This is ya room,” Fati gestured around. “That’s my room, and dat’s my fada and mada’s room. That one ovah dere is my sista Fatina’s room. Now, come on, sit up! Get ya barings. Look around.”

Sylvia’s eyes took in the room. The place was rudimentary, with thick wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling and rough stone walls, aged and weathered by years of use. The sparse furniture, mostly handmade and worn from use, reflected the family’s humble, work-centered lifestyle. The house smelled of wood, earth, and faintly of pigs—an odor that clung to the air no matter how far she was from the farm.

In the far corner, where the family had been eating, was a large wooden dining table cluttered with worn dishes and clay pots. The same pots littered various shelves along the walls, sharing space with farming tools, baskets, and household clutter. A small bed sat tucked into one corner of the living room, and it suddenly dawned on Sylvia that this was her bed.

She swallowed hard, dread creeping up her spine. My room? she thought, eyes wide as she realized what they meant. The bed wasn’t in a separate room; it was right there in the living room, exposed, offering no privacy.

That’s when Sylvia became fully aware of her nakedness. She gasped softly, quickly pulling at the worn blanket that had been thrown over her. Her skin prickled with a mixture of embarrassment and fear, and she curled in on herself, trying to cover as much of her exposed body as possible.

Fatu’s father had become a wealthy man by mastering the art of breeding Guga’s indigenous pigs, a breed notorious for being difficult to domesticate and even harder to breed. His techniques had earned him a fortune, yet despite his newfound wealth, he refused to leave the family’s old, humble home. Instead, he chose to expand it, adding a few rooms over time. Fatu followed in his father’s footsteps, not just in pig farming but in maintaining the house and lifestyle that had raised them. The house was old and simple, but the family didn’t mind. In fact, they seemed to relish in their identity as pig farmers—rich, yes, but still bound by their dirty clothes, their smelly, sweat-soaked skin, and their layers of fat, which seemed almost a badge of honor. None of them bathed often, and the pungent smell of animals and sweat clung to them like a second skin, a scent they didn’t just tolerate but embraced.

They had more than enough money to live in luxury, but they were content with their pig farm, their grime, and their simple lives. Their wealth allowed them to employ six farmhands who lived in a barn adjacent to the house, tending to the pigs and helping with daily chores. Among them was a woman who worked as their house servant. But when the family decided they wanted a new kind of servant—a white woman, no less—to live under their roof, they didn’t even bother building another room. Instead, they dragged a spare bed from the workers’ barn and set it up in the middle of their living room. It was practical to them, another example of their indifference toward comfort or privacy.