Chapter 37: Pig Farm Slave: Part 2

Wafati’s eyes narrowed as she scrutinized Sylvia’s degrading maid outfit, the thin corset barely concealing her waist while leaving the rest of her body utterly exposed. Sylvia’s full breasts, flushed and swollen, hung heavily without support, her bare nipples stiffening against the cool air. Her soft, vulnerable crotch was left fully visible, the light catching the faint curve of her pubic area. Her plump buttocks, equally on display, added to the mortifying sense of exposure. The warmth of the midday sun streaming through the open window only deepened her discomfort, casting sharp, unforgiving shadows over her skin, emphasizing her shame. She kept her head bowing as her cheeks flushed with humiliation. Wafati’s expression briefly softened, but her voice remained clipped and stern.

“Wait. I got more for you to wear.” She disappeared behind a door, leaving Sylvia to flounder in a brief flare of hope. Could it be something more decent this time? Would she finally be spared from this humiliation?

When Wafati returned, her thick arms were laden with more clothing—a pair of stockings and a pair of high heels. The hope within Sylvia crumbled like ashes; there was nothing here to shield her further. The stockings, dark and sheer, slid smoothly over her legs, a disorienting reminder of something once elegant but now cruelly misplaced. She pulled the stockings up with trembling hands, feeling the thin material hug her legs, the high heels stiff and foreign on her feet, elevating her slightly yet serving no purpose but to underline her helplessness. Her quiet tears welled up, a silent protest lost on the empty room.

“Go on now. Fati waitin’ for you outside,” Wafati ordered with a dismissive wave, turning back without a second glance.

Sylvia steadied herself, her heart racing as she tiptoed out into the open, feeling the heat of the day on her skin. She spotted Fati, Wafati’s son, heading toward the barn nearest the house, his steps heavy and deliberate. With no choice but to follow, she moved after him, feeling the weight of her new humiliating attire with every step.

The barn door swung open, and Sylvia’s stomach twisted as she glimpsed the group gathered inside. Five men and one woman, all of them weathered, their skin a deep, dark shade, their clothes rough and tattered from hard work. They sat around in a loose circle, some cross-legged, others leaning against the hay-strewn floor, all digging into plates piled with their midday meal. The scent of their food, a mix of spiced grains and roasted meats, filled the air, blending with the earthy, stale smell of the barn.

As Sylvia stepped into the dim barn light, their chatter fell silent, each of their gazes snapping toward her, lingering over her exposed skin with a familiarity that made her stomach churn. She recognized them; they had been there that day, witnesses to her most unimaginable degradation, present as she was forced into the pig-breeding harness, tied up, and made to endure the pig’s violation—its tongue invading her vagina, then her anus, before the ultimate horror: being raped by the animal. Their faces now bore a shadow of memory, glinting with detached curiosity, which only deepened Sylvia’s overwhelming shame.

They made no effort to mask their scrutiny, their eyes tracing the contours of her barely-clothed form with an unnerving intimacy. The woman amongst them, whose harsh face was softened only by a scar running across her cheek, offered no sympathy. Her gaze was as sharp and unyielding as the men’s, and she exchanged a brief look with Fati, a silent understanding passing between them.

Sylvia’s breath hitched, and she forced herself to stand still, every instinct within her screaming to flee, yet knowing there was nowhere to run.

Sylvia instinctively crossed her arms, one across her chest and the other shielding her exposed crotch. Her face burned with humiliation, her entire body trembling with the weight of their eyes on her. She could feel every inch of her skin under their gaze, and her hands were her only defense against the unbearable exposure. Fati, his expression half amused, half impatient, swiftly swatted her hands away, leaving her vulnerable and exposed again. His voice was sharp and demanding.

“Don’ be shy now. You gon’ introduce yourself, tell dem your name.”

Sylvia’s throat tightened, her mouth dry as she stuttered out her name, her voice barely audible.

“S-Sylvia ... Sylvia Elsworth...”

Fati didn’t seem satisfied with just that. He leaned in, a mocking smile creeping across his face, as he ordered her to tell her story—the story she had just shared with his family earlier, recounting how she, a humanitarian aid worker, had ended up in this degrading situation.

“Tell them. How you went from workin’ wit’ dat fancy aid organization to bein’ naked, forced to show yourself in de market. What was it dat scared you? Hmm? Speak up.”

Sylvia’s heart pounded in her chest, her words faltering as she tried to recount the series of humiliations that led her here. Her voice was weak, hollow, devoid of passion or detail—after all, telling her story had done nothing to soften the hearts of Fati’s family. She had no reason to believe it would sway these workers either. The helplessness in her voice betrayed her.

“I ... I didn’t want to ... I was ... so scared...”

Fati interrupted, chuckling as though her fear was the punchline of some dark joke.

“So you was scared of Omari, huh? Just a boy, your neighbor. Scared of him because of what?”

Sylvia’s lips quivered, her voice barely a whisper as she tried to answer.

“Because ... because when I disobey him, he ... he canes me...”

Fati’s smirk deepened, and before she could finish, his twin sister Fatima cut in, her voice sharp and taunting.

“Where he cane you? Say it.”

Sylvia’s eyes filled with tears, her shame choking her words.

“ ... My ... my crotch...”

Fatima laughed loudly, shaking her head with mock disbelief.

“She, this grown white woman, lets da youmg boy whip her pussy! Imagine dat!” she jeered, looking at the workers for their reactions.

The men around them, the five workers seated with their plates of food, exchanged amused glances, murmuring among themselves. One of them leaned forward, his voice thick with an African accent, filled with mock sympathy.

“So she not a whore, huh? A humanitarian worker, came here to help us? I feel bad ... man.”

For a brief moment, Sylvia’s heart flickered with hope that they might believe her. But it was dashed just as quickly as Fatima jumped in, her tone filled with contempt.

“Ya, we almost got fooled too. But thank God for our motha. If she was forced, like she claims, den how come she came? Ya all saw it, she came twice jus’ from the pig! She was squirting, peed all over when dat pig’s tongue was in her asshole, and don’t forget, she even climaxed when de pig fucked her! She was totally turned on. Ain’t no normal woman gets turned on by a pig. She’s a whore. A perverted whore.”

The workers murmured again, their voices low but filled with agreement. One of them, a man with a scarred cheek, spoke up, his voice unsure.

“But I do see how it could be true. Her cryin’, beggin’, all dat seemed real. Didn’t look like she wanted dat.”

Fatima scoffed, shaking her head, her hands on her hips as she replied.

“She claims her body ain’t hers, says she got some disease or somethin’. Total bullshit. Our motha figured it out. Wise woman, she is. Her body is a whore’s body, so she’s a whore. Simple as dat.”

Sylvia stood there, tears streaming silently down her pale cheeks, her body trembling with shame. Eight pairs of eyes were on her—Fati, Fatima, and the six workers—dark-skinned and hardened by the life they lived on the pig farm. She was the lone white woman among them, dressed, or more accurately, barely dressed, like a maid. Her hands hung limp at her sides, the effort to shield herself stripped away. The humiliation, the degradation, it was all too much, and yet she had no choice but to stand there, crying in shame as they laughed at her, reducing her to something less than human.

Sylvia’s heart sank as Fati smirked, gesturing toward the length of the barn with a lazy wave of his hand. He leaned back against a wooden beam, his posture relaxed, but his eyes gleamed with cruel amusement.

“Now, you gon’ walk, like dem fashion models you see on TV. Go on, show us how you walk.”

Sylvia’s feet felt like lead. Every muscle in her body resisted the order, but she knew disobedience would only lead to more punishment. With her head bowed and tears still stinging her eyes, she took a hesitant step forward, her high heels sinking slightly into the dirt floor of the barn. The uneven surface made her stumble, but she quickly steadied herself, knowing that falling would only make things worse.

As she moved, the eyes of the workers burned into her skin. They watched her every step, their gazes lingering on her bare breasts, her exposed hips, and the soft bounce of her flesh with each reluctant stride. She could feel their judgment, their laughter barely contained as she paraded in front of them like some twisted showpiece. Her humiliation only deepened as Fati’s mocking voice cut through the air.

“Turn around now. Show dem your ass.”

Sylvia’s hands twitched at her sides, instinctively wanting to cover herself, but she knew better. She turned slowly, feeling the heat of their stares on her back as she exposed her round buttocks to them. Her pale skin contrasted starkly against the rough, dark walls of the barn, and the workers leaned in, their eyes glued to the sight.

“Jiggle dem cheeks,” Fati ordered, his voice dripping with mockery.

A fresh wave of shame coursed through Sylvia’s body, but she had no choice. With a shaky breath, she bent her knees slightly and gave the smallest bounce, feeling the mortifying jiggle of her own flesh. The men in the barn erupted into laughter, their coarse voices filling the space as her body betrayed her.

“She look like she enjoyin’ it, huh?” one of the workers joked, his words met with more laughter.

Sylvia’s face burned red, tears blurring her vision as she tried to block out their voices. Her body moved on autopilot, doing whatever was demanded of her. Fati’s voice came again, cutting through her haze of shame.

“Keep walkin’. Shake dem tits while you at it.”

Her chest felt heavy, both from the weight of her large breasts and the unbearable embarrassment of what she was being forced to do. As she took another reluctant step, she moved her arms, making her breasts sway and jiggle with each movement. She could feel her nipples, bare and exposed, hardening against the cool air of the barn. The men’s laughter grew louder, their eyes focused intently on the bounce of her chest, the sway of her hips, the unwilling way her body moved for their entertainment.

Sylvia’s tears flowed freely now, silent but unstoppable, her face wet with the shame she could no longer hold back. Every step, every turn, every humiliating shake of her breasts and buttocks felt like a new layer of degradation being peeled away, leaving her utterly exposed in front of these strangers. She could feel their enjoyment, their pleasure at seeing her humiliated like this, and it crushed what little dignity she had left.

“Dat’s it, girl. Keep movin’. Keep jigglin’,” Fati’s voice prodded, his amusement clear as Sylvia continued her forced parade up and down the barn.

With each passing moment, the weight of their laughter bore down on her, suffocating her with its cruelty. She felt like an object, a toy for them to ridicule, her body nothing more than a spectacle for their amusement. And yet, she had no choice but to keep walking, her every movement dictated by the commands of the boy standing behind her.

The lone female worker, a dark-skinned, thin woman with sharp features and tired eyes, stood up from her place on the floor, collecting the dirty dishes that lay scattered around. She moved with the slow, deliberate pace of someone accustomed to hard labor. Sylvia, still trembling from the humiliating display she had just endured, watched her through her lowered gaze, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone. But before the woman could begin to clean, Fati’s voice rang out, cutting through the barn’s stillness like a whip.

“Hey, Auntie, no need to clean today. Let’s let our new white maid handle it for ya.”

Sylvia’s heart sank even further, her body stiffening as the reality of her situation settled in again. Maid. That’s what she had become in their eyes. A servant—or, less than that. A plaything to be used and humiliated, and now, a maid for them to mock. Her feet moved of their own accord, the instinct to obey pushing her forward. Without a word, she knelt by the pile of dishes, the clattering sound of metal plates and cutlery filling the barn as she gathered them in her hands.

The sight of the leftover food hit her like a punch in the gut. The rich smell of roasted pig meat wafted up, intoxicating her senses. It had been days since she’d eaten, and now, the sharp scent of grease and charred flesh made her stomach twist with hunger. The workers had feasted on the pig that had been slaughtered just two days prior—an event rare enough for them but common for Fati’s family, who enjoyed the luxury of fresh meat daily. Her mouth watered instinctively, and despite herself, she swallowed, her throat dry and aching. The movement was visible, and Fati noticed.

“Oh, ya haven’t had anything to eat for two days, huh?” he sneered. “Ya fainted after fuckin’ the pig and slept for two days straight.”

Sylvia’s chest tightened. It was true she hadn’t eaten in two days, but the real truth was far worse. She hadn’t had a proper meal in more than three days. Ever since Omari had shown up at her cabin that Saturday morning, taking her to the market and parading her in front of the townspeople, she hadn’t had a single bite. The last meal she’d eaten had been breakfast, that distant Saturday morning before her world had spiraled further into this nightmare.

Fati’s eyes gleamed with mock pity, an almost playful cruelty in his tone.

“Alright then. Put all the leftovers in one of the bowls. You can eat dat when you’re done cleanin’.”

Sylvia’s heart lurched with a strange mix of shame and gratitude. The shame was undeniable—she, a white woman from Australia, reduced to cleaning dishes for the lowest of the low, pig farm laborers in the impoverished Aprico Island. She would have to eat their leftovers, food touched by their hands, food they had discarded. But she was so hungry, her mouth watering despite the humiliation. Even the scraps left on the dirty plates seemed like a feast to her.

She gathered the rest of the dishes and shuffled to the corner of the barn where a water hose hung loosely on the wall. Squatting down on the rough ground, she began washing each dish as fast as she could, her fingers shaking with both hunger and anxiety. The cold water splashed up against her legs, but she ignored the discomfort. All she could focus on was the ache in her stomach, the gnawing hunger that clouded her thoughts.

Behind her, the workers leaned back, smoking and talking among themselves, their voices low and filled with the easy laughter of men who had no worries. She could hear their conversations, hear the murmur of their voices as they noticed her bent-over form, her large, round buttocks exposed and on full display as she squatted. She could feel their eyes on her, scanning the curves of her body, lingering on the softness of her skin.

One of the men, his voice thick with amusement, couldn’t help but comment, his words vulgar and direct.

“Wow, I’d like to have my big dick in between dem asses.”

The others burst out laughing, their voices filling the barn with crude humor. Sylvia’s hands shook as she scrubbed the plates harder, faster, as if somehow cleaning the dishes quicker would make the comments stop, make their eyes turn away from her exposed flesh. But the laughter only grew.

Fati, always quick to seize an opportunity for more mockery, chimed in.

“Maybe my fatha will let ya, if ya breed lots of piglets and make him happy. Ya, everyone work hard, my fatha might let ya fuck dat white woman all ya want.”

The men laughed even harder, their jokes spiraling into a cruel, unrelenting rhythm. Sylvia’s breath hitched as she tried to block out their words, focusing only on the task in front of her. The sound of water splashing against the dirty dishes was the only thing grounding her in that moment, the only thing keeping her from breaking down entirely.

Fatima, Fati’s twin sister, joined in, her voice teasing and sharp.

“Hey, bratha, dat’s YOUR sex toy.”

Fati’s grin widened as he shrugged.

“Ah, right, she’s mine. But still, whoever breeds de most piglets this month gets dat white ass.”

The workers roared with laughter, their voices echoing through the barn as Sylvia squatted there, her fingers raw from scrubbing, her body trembling with shame. She pretended not to hear them, not to understand their words, but each comment stung, each laugh cut deeper. Her hunger gnawed at her, but so did the humiliation of her situation.

She kept washing, kept scrubbing, her tears mixing with the water that splashed onto the ground. Her hands moved faster, her heart pounding, as the reality of her existence closed in around her once more.

After Sylvia finished washing the last of the dishes, she straightened up, her back aching from all the squatting and scrubbing. Her hands were pruned and raw from the cold water, and her stomach twisted in knots from both hunger and nerves. As she turned, her eyes fell on a small, knee-high stool near the center of the barn. On top of it was a bowl of leftovers—the remnants of the workers’ meal, a mixture of pig meat, half-eaten bread, and vegetables. Disgusting scraps that belonged in the garbage, the kind of food one would never willingly eat. Yet, her mouth watered instinctively, her body craving sustenance, and for a brief moment, a flicker of gratitude washed over her.

But just as quickly, her relief turned to dread as Fati’s voice sliced through the air, his tone commanding and full of cruel amusement.

“Now, bend over and eat like de pig ya are. No hands. Show us.”

Sylvia froze, her breath catching in her throat. Her eyes darted to the bowl, the only source of food she’d seen in days, and then back to Fati. The realization sank in. She hesitated, her body trembling with a mix of hunger and shame. Every fiber of her being recoiled at the thought of what she was being asked to do, but the gnawing emptiness in her stomach, the sharp ache of starvation, pushed her forward.

Her legs felt heavy as she slowly made her way toward the stool, each step a battle between her pride and her desperate need to eat. Once in front of the bowl, Sylvia lowered herself onto her hands and knees, her face flushing red with humiliation. She felt like an animal, reduced to crawling on the dirt floor of a barn, surrounded by people who watched her with amusement and judgment. Her hands hovered over the ground as she prepared to lower her head toward the bowl, just wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible.

But Fati wasn’t done.

“No, not like dat,” he barked, his voice filled with impatience. “Get on ya feet, bend down like ya bowing deep. Ass toward us.”

Sylvia’s heart sank even further. The position he demanded was even worse than being on all fours. Bowing, with her feet planted and her body bent at the waist, her bare ass fully exposed to the leering eyes of the workers behind her. Her entire body stiffened at the thought, and her cheeks burned with a fresh wave of embarrassment. But she had no choice. The hunger, the fear of what might happen if she disobeyed, drove her to comply.

Slowly, painfully, she rose to her feet, turning her back toward them as instructed. She bent forward, her arms dangling helplessly by her sides, her ass lifted high and fully on display. The cool air of the barn brushed against her skin, amplifying the vulnerability she felt. Her legs trembled as she bent lower, the position making her feel even more like an object—something to be ogled and ridiculed.

But the worst was yet to come.

Fati’s voice, sharper than before, cut through the tense air.

“Now reach back and spread dem buttocks. Jus’ like ya showed everyone at de market. Show us dat asshole. Spread ‘em.”

Sylvia’s breath hitched, her entire body frozen in place as the shame crashed over her in waves. It didn’t matter how many times she had been forced to do this before—each time was as excruciating as the first. She was a naturally modest woman, her body something she had always kept private, and now here she was, being made to expose herself in the most degrading way imaginable. The thought of reaching back, of baring herself completely to them, made her stomach twist in knots.

But the fear of what might happen if she refused, combined with her overwhelming hunger, forced her to comply.

With trembling hands, Sylvia slowly reached behind her, her fingers brushing against the soft skin of her buttocks. Her heart pounded in her chest, the humiliation suffocating her as she grasped her cheeks and pulled them apart. The feeling was indescribable—a level of shame so deep it was almost unbearable. She could feel the air against her most private parts, and she knew they were staring, their eyes focused on her exposed body as if she were nothing more than a spectacle.

“Good. Now start eatin’,” Fati commanded, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

Tears welled up in Sylvia’s eyes, but she did as she was told. She bent her head toward the bowl, her lips trembling as she lowered herself toward the food. The smell of the greasy leftovers hit her nose, and her stomach growled loudly, reminding her of the gnawing emptiness inside. With no other choice, she opened her mouth and began to eat, biting into the cold, greasy chunks of meat without using her hands. The taste was bitter, but her body craved it, and she chewed mechanically, the humiliation nearly choking her as she tried to swallow.

Behind her, the workers giggled and whispered, their voices filled with cruel amusement as they watched her eat like an animal.

“Look at dat. She eatin’ like a pig,” one of the men snickered.

“Ya, spreadin’ her ass like dat. Bet she enjoyin’ dis more than we are,” another added, his voice thick with amusement.

Sylvia’s tears fell freely now, dripping onto the stool and mixing with the food in the bowl. Her body burned with shame, every muscle tense as she struggled to keep going, to finish the meal as quickly as she could. But no matter how fast she ate, no matter how desperately she tried to block out their words, the humiliation was unbearable. She had never felt so low, so degraded, as she did at that moment, bent over with her ass exposed, eating like a pig in front of these men who found nothing but amusement in her suffering.

And yet, despite it all, she kept going—because hunger, fear, and shame had left her with no other choice.

A couple of agonizing minutes passed as Sylvia remained bent over, her face inches from the bowl, her mouth working through the greasy, cold remnants of the workers’ meal. Her hands remained where Fati had commanded, pulling her buttocks apart, fully exposing her most private areas—her anus and vulva laid bare to the group behind her. The position was unbearable, her body stiff with tension and shame, but she had no choice. Tears threatened to spill as she continued eating, the salty taste of humiliation mixing with the bitterness of the food in her mouth.

Suddenly, a searing, stinging pain shot through Sylvia’s vulva, catching her so off-guard that her whole body jerked in agony. She let out a choked gasp, her knees giving way slightly as her hands flew instinctively between her legs. Trembling, she pressed her fingers against her vulva, rubbing in a desperate, instinctual attempt to soothe the piercing ache. The pain radiated in waves, sharp and relentless, making her eyes water as she struggled to catch her breath. She turned, her face twisted in shock and confusion, desperate to understand what had just happened. Her gaze landed on Fati, standing several meters away, a twisted grin spread across his face as he held a slingshot, its rubber still taut. Her heart pounded harder as she realized what he’d done, her body recoiling in both pain and humiliation.

On Aprico Island, the slingshot was more than just a toy; it was a rite of passage for every boy growing up in the harsh, rugged environment. From an early age, boys learned to craft their own slingshots. It was a symbol of their transition from childhood into adolescence, and they practiced for hours, perfecting their aim, occasionally hunting small birds and animals. As their skill grew, so did the targets. What began with sparrows soon became larger game, and the slingshot was often replaced by bows and arrows or even stronger versions of the weapon for more serious hunting. The boys took pride in their accuracy, boasting about their kills and the size of the game they could take down.

Her face, smeared with greasy food from her awkward attempts to eat without using her hands, reflected her horror and disbelief. The memory of Omari and his friends resurfaced with chilling clarity. It had been two weeks since they had tormented her in her cabin, using their slingshots to hit her exposed anus repeatedly. But back then, they had used the rubber part of the slingshot itself, the part meant to hold the pebbles. The pain had been excruciating, but now Fati had taken it a step further. He was actually shooting rubber pebbles at her from about 10 meters away, aiming with precision.

“Oops, sorry, Sylvia,” Fati said mockingly, his apology laced with insincerity. “Shoulda warned ya, huh? My bad.” His lips twisted into a grin that made it clear he wasn’t sorry at all. He raised the slingshot again, preparing for another shot. “Now, get back to eatin’. Bend over and spread your fat ass cheeks. Since you’ve been warned, if you get up again before that bowl’s spotless, you’ll get fifty pussy whacks. And I want it clean—licked clean.”

Sylvia’s blood ran cold. Her voice came out as a trembling plea, the words barely coherent as her terror took over. “Please, Fati ... I ... I can’t ... I can’t eat all of this, not like this ... Please...”

Her eyes darted back to the bowl, still filled with far more food than she could possibly eat under normal circumstances, let alone while being assaulted with rubber pebbles. The remnants were enough for two or three people, a nauseating mixture of pig meat scraps and greasy vegetables. How could she possibly finish it all with Fati’s slingshot aimed at her most sensitive areas? She felt a wave of panic rising inside her, her mind racing as she tried to think of a way out.

But Fati wasn’t moved by her fear. His grin only widened, his tone darkening with a new threat. “You better finish it, girl. Refuse, and it’s a hundred pussy whacks and sex with pigs. You hear me? Better move fast before I change my mind and start with the pigs first, then pussy whacking, and then the eating.”

Sylvia’s heart felt like it might stop at the mention of the pigs. Her legs began to tremble violently, the memory of her previous ordeal with the animals rushing back, making her feel sick with fear. She had no choice. If she disobeyed, if she even hesitated, the punishment would be far worse than what she was enduring now.

With no other option, Sylvia reluctantly bent forward again, her hands shaking as they moved back to spread her buttocks, exposing her anus once more. Tears welled in her eyes as she lowered her face toward the bowl, her mouth hovering above the cold, unappetizing food. Her body was shaking so violently now—both from hunger and the unbearable shame—that she could barely steady herself.

She opened her mouth and began to eat, her head dipping deeper into the bowl as she forced down the greasy scraps. Her stomach churned with each bite, but the fear of what Fati would do if she stopped kept her going. The workers behind her giggled and whispered, their laughter a constant reminder of her degradation.

“Look at her shake,” one of them muttered between smirks. “She’s really scared, huh?”

Fati, ever cruel, chuckled and let another pebble fly. This time it hit her right in the cleft of her buttocks, close enough to sting but not enough to let her scream. The pain shot through her again, and she flinched, but she didn’t dare rise. Her hands remained in place, pulling herself apart as she continued eating, her tears now falling freely into the bowl, mixing with the disgusting leftovers.