Chapter 38: Pig Farm Slave: Part 3

Wafati:

Wafati leaned against the kitchen door, squinting out toward the barn where Fati and Fatima had led Sylvia, the white woman, not too long ago. She was curious—wondering what they could possibly be doing with her. A hundred thoughts swirled in her mind as she kept glancing out the window, imagining the scene. It was a complex feeling: part curiosity, part irritation, and perhaps a strange satisfaction, too.

She couldn’t help but replay Sylvia’s earlier, timid expressions in her mind. The young woman had looked like a startled rabbit when she stood naked in front of them, eyes darting everywhere but forward, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. No, she didn’t seem like the “crazy whore” the police had said had been found parading herself in the marketplace. No doubt, Wafati had sensed an innocence—maybe even a fragility—in Sylvia’s demeanor. That shy, hesitant way she moved, as if every step required courage. Her uneasy, forced obedience stirred something faint in Wafati, something like sympathy, but only for a brief moment.

That flicker of sympathy quickly turned to resentment, however, as she thought about the broader picture, the history woven into her family’s life. Wafati’s parents had been born into servitude, forced to labor under white colonial masters who saw themselves as rulers and superior beings. Even after independence, even after they were no longer slaves in name, the shadow of that time remained. Those stories—gritted teeth and bitter tales shared in hushed tones during evening meals—were the foundations of Wafati’s view of the world. As she grew up, every wealthy white tourist flaunting money on the island, every foreigner strutting into Aprico as though it were theirs, fed a deepening well of bitterness in her heart.

So now, here was Sylvia, with her alabaster skin and timid beauty, clearly well-bred, with features that seemed a universe away from the world Wafati knew. Wafati could see that Sylvia had lived a life of comfort, perhaps even luxury, before ending up here in their world. And what was she now? Here, on their farm, Wafati could finally have a white woman under her authority. For Wafati, it wasn’t enough to merely be Sylvia’s employer or caretaker; she wanted to see Sylvia at her lowest, to bring her to heel, to make her understand what true servitude felt like. It wasn’t enough for Wafati to merely have her working the fields—she wanted Sylvia to serve her in every way, to feel humbled and diminished.

Fati and Fatima were still nowhere in sight, and her gaze lingered, tracing the edges of the barn, curious and a touch impatient.

Wafati’s eyes narrowed as she spotted her husband, Fatu, sprawled across Sylvia’s bed, his heavy frame sinking into the thin mattress. The bed itself was hardly a luxury—just a basic cot she’d dragged into the corner of the living room for Sylvia. It had been a matter of pride for Wafati to insist Sylvia sleep there, where anyone could see her at any hour. Privacy, after all, was a privilege that Sylvia didn’t deserve, not here. And Fati, her son, had offered to share his room with Sylvia, feigning generosity, though his intentions were transparent. Wafati had dismissed that idea immediately, determined that Sylvia wouldn’t be given even the illusion of comfort or privacy under their roof.

Watching Fatu now, lazily taking his nap on that very bed, she felt a flash of irritation. She cleared her throat sharply and then, with a bite in her voice, called out, “Shouldn’t you go check on Fati and Fatima? I don’t see no workers movin’ ‘round workin’. All of ‘em must be in the barn. Who knows what they be doin’ with the poor white woman?”

Fatu stirred, rubbing his eyes and blinking up at her with a dismissive grunt. “So now you care ‘bout de white whore?” he drawled, his voice thick with sleep.

Wafati scoffed, folding her arms tightly. “No, I’m remindin’ you dat your workers might not be workin’. Mebbe dey all in dere, havin’ fun wit de white whore,” she retorted, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

That did the trick. Fatu’s expression shifted as he straightened, a spark of awareness lighting his eyes. He knew all too well that the workers needed to stay on task, tending to the pigs, not lazing around or getting distracted. With a groan, he hoisted himself off the bed, and together they began the walk toward the barn.

Their boots crunched over the packed dirt as they made their way toward the closest of their six barn houses, the one housing both the workers’ quarters and their most prized breeding pigs. Five stout, burly boars rested on one side of the barn, their bulk filling the stalls, while the workers occupied the cramped rooms on the opposite side. The pigs were valuable—a fact both Wafati and Fatu knew well. And while they valued the pigs, there was a different thrill in knowing Sylvia was somewhere within that barn, subject to whatever whims might be awaiting her.

As they neared the barn doors, Wafati could feel a prickling sense of anticipation, a mix of satisfaction and curiosity, wondering what scene might unfold within.

As Wafati and Fatu stepped into the barn, their eyes adjusted to the dim, dusty light filtering through the broken wooden slats above. The room stretched wide before them, with six rickety beds lining the walls, their mattresses sunken and worn, personal belongings cluttered around each—dirty clothes, empty bottles, and small, battered boxes holding what little the workers owned. The air was thick with the mingling scents of earth, straw, and the faint metallic tang of sweat.

In the center of the barn, in the open space between the beds, lay Sylvia, her pale body stark against the dull, grimy floor. She was positioned in a way that looked both uncomfortable and strange: her back arched sharply, shoulder blades pressing against the rough ground, pushing her hips upward toward the ceiling. Her arms were stretched out wide to either side, wrists pinned down firmly by two men who gripped her tightly, their rough hands digging into her skin.

Her legs were parted wide, each ankle clutched and held in place by two other men. They held her firmly, restraining any movement and keeping her exposed in this vulnerable, suspended position, her hips jutting upward helplessly. Her body trembled slightly with the strain of being held this way, the curve of her spine tense, her skin flushed under the dim light.

A few feet away, Fatima stood, her eyes fixed on the scene, arms crossed, her gaze sharp and assessing. Beside her, an older male worker watched with an expression of quiet satisfaction, while a female worker, face hardened, looked on with a faint smirk.

At the center of it all, Fati loomed behind Sylvia’s lifted hips, holding a wooden paddle in his hands. He twirled it lazily, a grin playing on his face as he seemed to consider his next move. Sylvia’s position made every part of her exposed and vulnerable, her pale skin a stark contrast to the weathered surroundings, and there was a tension in the barn—a silence charged with unspoken anticipation.

Absorbed in their actions, none of them noticed Wafati and Fatu standing at the doorway, watching the scene unfold with expressions unreadable in the low light.

“Dat was nine, right?” Fati asked, a grin stretching across his face as he held the narrow paddle above Sylvia, its edge hovering ominously over her trembling form.

Fatima rolled her eyes, crossing her arms with an irritated sigh. “No, dummy. You don’t even know how to count? Dat was thirteen, ya got two more to go,” she shot back, her tone sharp and condescending.

Fati looked down, unfazed, and replied, “Nah, I ain’t countin’ de ones dat didn’t hit her fat pussy ‘cause she keep squirm’ her hips away. Dis here be pussy whackin’, ain’t count if it hit her thighs.”

A muffled protest escaped Sylvia’s lips, “Ummmmummmu,” her voice stifled by the thick rag that had been forced deep into her mouth, stretching her lips painfully. Her cheeks bulged around it, her muffled sounds barely audible in the cavernous barn.

From the doorway, Fatu and Wafati took in the scene, their expressions unreadable as they glanced down at Sylvia’s face. Her dark hair lay splayed messily on the ground, the strands tangled and dusty from the barn floor. Her eyes—large, fearful, and wet—were fixed on Fati’s raised arm, her gaze wide with terror as she watched the paddle poised to strike down again. Even from their position, they could see the desperation and silent pleading in her expression, her brows knitted, mouth stretched wide around the gag that silenced her.

Her body lay exposed and helpless, held down with brutal precision. Her hips were thrust upward, legs spread wide, her thighs quivering from the strain and from each sharp sting of the wooden paddle. She was being held in place by two men gripping her wrists, pressing them hard into the ground, while two others restrained her ankles, ensuring her legs stayed parted. Fati had been aiming carefully, determined to strike her vulnerable center each time, dismissing any blows that landed on her thighs as unsatisfactory.

The tension in the barn was thick, charged with Sylvia’s silent desperation, the amusement of those watching, and Fati’s twisted focus on delivering each calculated hit. Wafati noted every detail—the way Sylvia’s hips jerked slightly in reflex, the way her eyes widened in helpless terror, her body powerless to escape as Fati’s arm swung down again.

Swiiish—TWACK! The sharp, unforgiving crack of the narrow paddle meeting Sylvia’s exposed, swollen vulva echoed through the cavernous barn, followed by her muffled scream, “Ummmmmmmm!” The cry, trapped behind the dirty rag stuffed into her mouth, was pitiful and raw. Her body jerked instinctively against the restraining hands, but the four pig farm workers holding her in place did not let her budge an inch. Her desperation was clear in the frantic heaving of her chest and the helpless twitching of her bound limbs.

Wafati stood in the doorway, her arms folded, watching the scene with a strange sense of satisfaction she couldn’t entirely explain. The sound of Sylvia’s gagged screams stirred something deep within her—a memory from her childhood. She remembered standing in the shadow of the plantation house, watching her mother, bent low and trembling, as the white lord’s wife struck her again and again with a cane, her cries piercing the air. That scene had etched itself into Wafati’s soul, filling her with a hatred that simmered for years.

But now, here was her son, Fati—her mother’s grandson—delivering what felt like poetic justice. The white woman’s cries mirrored her mother’s, though they didn’t fill the barn quite the same way, muffled as they were by the filthy gag. It felt ... right. The weight of history seemed to shift in this moment, and Wafati’s chest swelled with pride at her son’s unflinching hand.

Sylvia squirmed beneath the harsh grip of the workers, but they held her firmly. Her shoulders and arms were pinned flat against the dusty barn floor, her back arching sharply, forcing her hips upward. Her legs were bent and spread, her ankles held wide apart by two of the men, leaving her fully exposed. The tension in her body was evident, every muscle straining, her pale skin trembling under the barn’s dim light. Her vulva, already pink and swollen, stood out starkly against her alabaster skin, an unmissable target for the paddle Fati wielded with practiced intent.

“What a sight,” Wafati thought to herself, her lips curling into a small, satisfied smirk.

“Nine,” Fati said casually, his voice breaking the heavy silence between the strikes.

Sylvia whimpered behind her gag, her muffled cries growing weaker as exhaustion began to take hold, though the humiliation burned brightly in her tear-filled eyes. Fati raised the paddle again, his grin widening as he surveyed his trembling target. From where Wafati stood, the woman’s desperation was palpable, her hips thrust upward helplessly, as though offering herself to the punishment she could not avoid.

“Ummmmmmmmm!” came another muffled scream, Sylvia’s body shaking as the paddle landed with another resounding TWACK! on her already throbbing, vulnerable center. The workers chuckled amongst themselves, exchanging glances, while Fatima watched from the side, her arms crossed and her face stoic.

Wafati’s gaze didn’t waver. This was a moment she wanted to remember—a moment where, for once, history seemed to tip in her favor.

Fatu stepped forward, his face darkening as he took in the scene before him. The workers lounging about, the white woman sprawled out in the center of the barn, and the raised paddle in his son’s hand—it all filled him with irritation. His voice, rough with authority, rumbled low, “Why dem men ain’t workin’? Pigs don’ feed demselves.”

But Wafati reached out, her hand firm on his forearm. Her eyes held a determined glint as she said, “Let Fati finish.” Her voice was steady, a mixture of command and something deeper—satisfaction. Fatu paused, studying her for a moment, before a slow smirk spread across his face. He stepped back, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned against the doorframe, his irritation melting into amusement.

The barn fell silent again, save for Sylvia’s ragged breathing and the occasional shuffle of the workers shifting their weight. The air was heavy with tension, dust motes dancing in the pale shafts of light filtering through the slats above. Fati adjusted his grip on the narrow paddle, stepping closer to Sylvia’s upturned hips, the wood gleaming faintly from the sweat dampening her flushed skin.

“Ten,” Fati announced, his tone almost casual.

Swiiish—TWACK!

The paddle struck directly across Sylvia’s swollen vulva, and her body jolted as though an electric current had run through her. “Ummmmmmmmmm!” Her scream, muffled by the filthy rag forced deep into her mouth, was a guttural, anguished sound that vibrated through the barn. Her bound wrists strained against the iron grip of the two men holding her down, but she was utterly powerless. Tears streamed from her wide, pleading eyes, carving glistening trails down her flushed cheeks.

The workers laughed quietly amongst themselves, exchanging smirks and murmured comments. “See how she jumpin’? Like a fish outta water!” one said, nudging his companion with an elbow. Fatima, standing with her arms crossed and her face impassive, let a faint, crooked smile curl her lips.

Sylvia’s hips twitched involuntarily, the pain radiating from her core in sharp, unbearable waves. Her pale skin was slick with sweat, her body trembling under the combined strain of humiliation, agony, and exhaustion. The swollen pinkness of her vulva deepened with each strike, the tender flesh clearly throbbing from the repeated punishment.