Terminal Farm

by slavegirl x

Daddy

This is the way I like them best. Mindless, oblivious, walking sex. Of course, part of the charm is that they won't last long. If I had to live with someone like this for any length of time it would be exasperating. A week in her case, that's all the time she has left. Then she'll be finished. There's something incredibly sexy about turning boys into girls and girls into meat.

From this distance, you'd be hard-pressed to recognize that she wasn't a natural born girl. Even stark-naked. If she was wearing so much as the skimpy string bikini she was wearing when I brought her here to the farm you wouldn't guess. But there it is, between her legs, the tell-tale evidence of her past. A tiny little external clittie, hairless, hardly bigger than a boneless pinkie. Beneath it—nothing. A smooth, pink, slick of skin. No testicles. I'd had them harvested a long time ago. Had her make meatballs out of them. When she'd recovered from the surgery, she stood in the kitchen wearing only an apron and high heels. She rolled her chilled testicles in egg wash and spiced breadcrumbs and fried them in a pan on the stove. Then she served them to me with her own dainty fingers. One at a time. I bit each in half first, chewed slowly. She was sitting on my lap. I kissed her, forcing some of the meat into her mouth with my tongue. Made her chew. Then told her to pass the well-masticated paste back into my mouth. Whereupon I swallowed. The whole time I played with her nipples, which were pierced, and her breasts, which hormones and implants had made nothing short of—well, you can see for yourself—spectacular.

I could have had her made into a functional girl. The surgery they can perform nowadays is remarkable. You'd need to be a gynecologist to tell the difference between a real cunt and the manmade variety. But why do it? What would be the point? There are plenty of perfectly good girls out there already. The world hardly needs another. But creatures like her? They're still rare as hen's teeth. Maybe it's true that only God can make a tree or a girl, I like to say, but only the perverted mind of man can make a smoking-hot sissygirl fucktoy like kimmi.

Listen, I'm a smart guy. I like a little clever repartee with my fucks. There's nothing like looking across the table at the beginning of the evening and knowing by the end of it  you're going to turn that intelligent girl you've taken to dinner into an upturned ass with her dripping wet cunt in the air and her face buried in the pillow begging for your cock. But, let's face it, a too-smart girl or too clever girly boy can be a real drag on the libido after that first conquest. It's sadly inevitable. They want to talk more and more and fuck less and less. I don't want to have a debate before every blow job, you know what I mean? A pretty mouth is best for one thing and one thing only and it's not a critique of the basis of Heidegger's metaphysics. So a nice, dumb, docile fuck-pet is a refreshing change. The real kick, though, the true pleasure, is the slow delicious process of dumbing them down.

Drugs, of course, are a main factor. Brainwashing, torture of the psychological as well as physical variety, sexual stimulation and deprivation, fear, hypnosis—in my former capacity as a—well, my former capacity is classified—let's just say I'm well-versed in all the arts of persuasion, gentle and otherwise. That poor meat sissygirl wandering around out there in that sunny field of grass used to be one very bright chap, though you wouldn't know it to look at her now, mooning around in the sun, all but oblivious to the fact that in seven days time she'll be gutted, stuffed, slathered in cooking oil, and mounted on a sit to turn roasting over a fire to be devoured to the naked bones by a bunch of sadistic cannibals.

Even if you were to walk up and tell her as much, she wouldn't be able to process it. There might be a wide look of alarm in her pretty, kohl-lined eyes, a touch of panic, but that would soon be replaced by confusion, stupor, acceptance and, ultimately, forgetfulness. Because she's learned only one lesson—the only lesson she's capable of learning: that concepts too big for her diminished brain to encompass are best dropped. She's learned, in other words, to let others do their thinking for them. Specifically, to let me do her thinking for her.

Daddy always knows best.

*     *     *

Technology is driven by necessity and what is most necessary is is often determined by the rich and powerful. During the wars in the Middle East, a necessity arose for a technology of advanced interrogation. The result was a special recording chip that could be surreptitiously implanted in the brains of captured terror suspects. Unobtrusive and undetectable, they recorded and transcribed the thoughts of prisoners 24/7, including during interrogation sessions. The resulting texts could be downloaded to a computer and studied by specially trained CIA analysts. Daddy, in one of his many former capacities, has access to this latest technology and had a device implanted into slave Kimmi. Thus we have access to the following texts that are direct transcriptions of her inner thoughts—such as they are—of what she experienced in her last days as a fuck-cow. Enjoy=

*     *     *

Kimmi

What am I doing here? Why am I naked? In a field…the grass is so green and smells so pretty. It feels so fresh and clean under my bare feet. My toes look so cute. I'm glad I got a fresh pedicure. Oh, the sky is so blue. Its warm, thank goodness, or I'd be cold, naked as I am. Where are my clothes? Daddy brought me here. I remember that. Well—do I remember that or do I just assume it? How else would I have gotten here if it weren't for Daddy? Daddy brings me everywhere. I can't go anywhere without Daddy.

There are people over there. On the patio, near the pool. I don't think I want to go over there right now. They poke and prod at me. Grope and grab. I guess it's natural enough. I'm naked and they are fully clothed and it looks like I'm there to be molested. Why else would I be naked? A man will reach over casually, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, and twist one of my nipples. Or a woman will give my sissystick a nasty tug and laugh. I don't know why but sometimes they seem so mean, to take pleasure in hurting me. I always feel like apologizing. But apologizing for what? I'm not sure. For being naked, for not knowing why I'm here?

Sometimes a man will come walking out to where I'm standing, staring off into the clouds. I can see him unzipping his pants as he approaches and I know what he's going to want. By the time he's reached me, his gnarly cock is already out, fully erect in his hand. I know what he wants but I don't know where he wants to put it. Sometimes he'll reach under my collar and yank me down to my knees. He shoves his cock into my face and I know to take it into my mouth and suck him off until his thick man's cream pulses down my throat. Other times, a man will spin me around, bend me over, and mount me without a word. I lie there stupidly, my face in the sweet-smelling grass, as he forces himself inside me, grunting and pushing, until he shoots his tight wad into my sissyvagina.

This is how my days pass. I'm not even sure how many of them have passed. How long will I be here? When will I be able to come home? Daddy is here sometimes to visit. I run up to him when I see it's him coming across the field. I run up to him all smiles and hellos and he pets me like a good little girl and then he fucks me. Sometimes he'll ask how I am and I tell him I'm okay but I miss him I want to come home. He laughs and pets me some more. "When can I come home Daddy?" I ask, when he seems like he's in a good mood and wouldn't mind me asking a question or two. Daddy just says not to worry about it. That I'm on vacation here at the farm. That I should just enjoy myself while I'm on vacation. His words make me feel good for a little while, but after he's gone I start to worry all over again. What doest he mean? What doesn't he answer? When am I coming home?

But then I seem to forget all my questions and I move through a warm, scented, soft-focussed haze, all the hard edges of the world blunted. I lie down in the cool grass in the shadow of a big tree and nap, lulled to sleep by the buzzing of the bees in a nearby patch of wildflowers. What am I worried about? Why am I so anxious to leave? It's really not so bad here at the farm.

*     *     *

Brandon Kerr, Operations Manager, Terminal Farm

Upon her arrival at Terminal Farm, Kimmi was fitted with a special collar. This collar will emit a shock if she strays beyond the perimeter of the farm, which is marked by an electrified fence, beyond which is an ordinary wooden fence such as you'd find surrounding any farm in the country. This double-security system is largely unnecessary as by the time a meat girl is transferred here, she is pretty much beyond the point of forming anything so complicated as a plan to escape. In fact, her brain has all but shut down to anything beyond the essential, momentary concerns of physical comfort. It's true that they will occasionally experience moments of panic and anxiety as memories flash through their diminished minds, or they form a suspicion of the plans being made for the feast at which they will be featured, but these fears are generally fleeting and quelled by additional doses of drugs as well as special counselors employed by the farm to help livestock accept their fate and successfully negotiate the crucial and often difficult psychological transition from girl to meat. Our goal at Terminal Farm is to marry our love of extreme cruelty with the most humane treatment possible of our helpless victims. The practice of ethical sadism is a keynote of our operation at Terminal Farm.

*     *     *

Christine Riggio, Terminal Farm Counselor

I try to treat each girl as an individual, at least initially, as I guide them to the acceptance that in reality, once they've been collared, tagged, and admitted to the farm, they are really just anonymous meat. Kimmi, for instance, presented herself at our first session as quiet, docile, and accepting of her fate. Actually, I would say she seemed oblivious to her fate. However, after questioning her for several minutes, I uncovered a great deal of fear and apprehension just under the surface. But not for the reasons that one might expect. She seemed perfectly accepting that she was go be slaughtered and served up as a meal for her Daddy's guests, but what troubled her was that the process would be painful and humiliating, that somehow she would fail in her final role, and that, ultimately, she would be treated as an object of disdain and ridicule. I'm summarizing here, of course, but this will give you the gist of her feelings. What would her life matter? Who would remember her? Where would her remains lie? It seems absurd for an animal to think this way, but you must remember that Kimmi, at this stage, is not quite an animal. It's my job to relieve her of these human concerns. Over the course of several sessions, our last taking place the night before she's slaughtered, I reassure her that the process will be as pain-free as possible.

"I won't lie. There will be some discomfort. That's unavoidable. But the goal is to make the experience as erotic as possible. Primarily for the guests, it's true. They are our first concern. However, you will benefit as well."

Kimmi considers this. She is naked, of course, physically, but also psychologically. The nakedness helps accelerate the therapy. These sessions are always powerfully transformative.

"What will happen to me…afterwards?"

She's weeping now, the poor girl, and while I feel a certain sympathy it's the same sympathy I'd feel for any whimpering animal.

"There won't be much left of you. Probably just a pile of bones. They will be gathered together and ground in a machine. Perhaps one of the children will take a toe or fingerbone as a souvenir. But for the most part you will be all but atomized. Dust to dust."

"I'm so afraid."

I reach over and pat her on the knee. "It's okay to be afraid. It's only natural. But there is nothing to be afraid of. Your Daddy has planned everything and it will be okay. Here have a chocolate."

She takes the small treat from my palm and lets it melt in her mouth.

"I want to look pretty when they do me."

"You will look pretty sweetheart. You look pretty right now. You're a very pretty sissy meat girl?

"Really?" she says, brightening a little.

"Really. You look absolutely delicious and once they've dressed you for dinner everyone is going to be salivating over you."

"I want that more than anything."

"I know you do, honey."

She's coming right along, our little Kimmi. This session is over. We've accomplished enough for one afternoon.

*     *    *

They are quite addicted to these candies. The chocolate, of course, is a natural endorphin releaser, but they are additionally laced with sedatives. Their high-fat and caloric count ensures that none of the girls lose weight at the farm while they are being processes for slaughter. We don't want stress and anxiety causing them to shed pounds. Just the opposite. During the last weeks of their lives, we look to increase their weight anywhere between five and ten pounds and that is before they are stuffed.  They will lose a certain amount of weight during their purging, but that is not meat-weight. So it's important that the scale is constantly tipping upwards virtually to the day of their slaughter.

*     *     *

[to be continued]

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