Chapter 1-- Back To The Farm
Rachel’s eyes were fixed. She was staring down at her nude body, slowly tracing a
course with her eyes from her seemingly permanently erect nipples down through the shadows
cast by her 38-C tits, across the mound of also seemingly permanent belly fat, ignoring
the ‘love handles’ on her hips, past the tiny tuft of pubic hair that beggared a homing
device. On, down her ample thighs, ignoring the folds of excess fat and skin peeping from
the crevice where thigh joined body. On, past her almost skinny knees, down her slim, trim
shins to stop at the band of polished chrome that fit like a second skin around her
ankle.
A curious chain ended at the band. The end link was definitely iron. She had no idea
what the other links were made of, but it was the single link that time and again was the
center of her attention. The iron link lay flat on the chrome band, in no way fixed to it,
except by invisible waves of magnetic energy.
Rachel said a very dirty word, a very unladylike word, aloud.
"Shit!"
Frustrated and bored, she shifted her gaze back to her nipples and started the course
again, like a skier sliding down a steep mountain. She had been doing this for more than
an hour, horribly frustrated because she wanted so desperately to abuse her nipples as the
prelude to a long slow session fingering her clit and impaling herself on two or three of
her long flexible fingers.
Just thinking about pinching the granite nubs between the squared ends of her nails,
twisting them almost into a knot had her aroused and panting. She looked up at the
unblinking camera that automatically recorded her every move. She swore again.
"Bastards!"
Her fluttering fingers scraped the flesh of her back. The ankle band was easily
visible, at a glance. She couldn’t see them, but she could feel the tight handcuffs that
held her wrists immobile, a few inches apart, behind her back.
She had peered at the band, a score of times, unable to find a seam or joint. She had
fought the band a score of times, grasping the chain awkwardly behind her back in both
hands and pulling until her hands hurt and the band pressed painfully into her ankle. The
iron link didn’t so much as move. She had nothing within reach to pry with, already
convinced that it would be useless anyway. The iron link might as well be welded to the
band.
The handcuffs were another matter. She was used to them, used to being helpless for
days on end. Just like her nakedness, she had experienced it all, as she and her husband
were enthusiastic practitioners of the art of bondage and discipline. She had an exact
matching pair of cuffs at home, hinged metal that made escape an impossible dream.
One of her favorite erotic day dreams as she fingered herself was imagining the
torturous punishments her husband would employ to flay her for a futile escape attempt.
Picturing herself, lying at his feet in chains, begging for mercy as he pronounced her
sentence, that was enough to put her over the edge in grand style. Up to now, she never
had the nerve to tell him her fantasies. She had a feeling that would change.
Working the two halves of the cuffs impotently against the hinge, it reminded her of a
classic session that was especially memorable. She had refused when her husband suggested
she get her nipples pierced for rings. He linked her right wrist to her left ankle and
kept her in her cage like that for three days and nights until she finally agreed to the
piercing. His hourly floggings had punished her for ‘conduct unbecoming a slave.’
Her first visit to the Fat Farm had been an eye opener. She started to protest when an
Attendant walked up to her with a hood and handcuffs in one hand and the ankle band in the
other. He cut her short.
"This is not a Spa. This is a program designed to eliminate the extra fat you are
carrying. To do this, we will keep you handcuffed and chained, so that you can’t stuff
your pig face. Try to share food with another patient and you both will wear punishment
helmets for the rest of your stay. You are here for one purpose, to lose weight. No
vacations, no weekends, no snacks, no nothing."
She had almost refused her husband’s announced intention to send her back to the Fat
Farm a second, and finally a third time. A guided tour of the display of pain devices that
he intended to use if she didn’t go, changed her mind. She knew some of what she would
face on a return visit to the Farm, but the ordeals she feared the most were those that
nobody talked about. The surprises at the Farm were almost always the most painful, or the
most humiliating, or both.
A key rattled loudly in the room door. Rachel thought of it as a cell door, imprisoning
her. That and the chain. The staff was anything if not redundant in maintaining their
control. She had overheard two Attendants talking, referring to the inmate rooms as cells.
They easily fit the description in a bizarre way, small, windowless, mirrors on every flat
surface but the floor.
She rebelled, resolutely making herself remain seated on the bed, strictly against
orders. Despite her intent to passively resist, somehow, of their own volition her legs
lifted her, then knelt her, facing the mirrored wall. Her unwillingness to submit would
have been costly.
The Attendant, standing in the doorway, automatically blocking her lone escape route,
grinned as he saw the shudders coursing up and down her flanks. He liked his charges
scared. His eyes flashed to her ankle, then to her wrists, making sure she wasn’t by some
miracle loose from her bonds.
Darrel had watched her on the monitor outside her room. He’d seen her delay kneeling
until the last possible second. He intended to punish her for that, but first some fun.
Darrel knew Rachel, from before. He even had been in charge of her several times. She
hadn’t changed - with one exception . Radiant red hair and an angelic face topped a body
worth writing home about, except that the last time he saw her she had been trimmed down
to almost pure muscle. Now she was back, and so was the belly. If he hadn’t seen her
medical reports he would have guessed she was six months pregnant.
His job at the moment was to feed her, and make sure her strength was up to what was
planned for her. She didn’t know yet that in a few moments she would be encased in straps
from head to foot, her feet shod with miniature horseshoes.
Darrel was surprised to learn that she had absolutely no knowledge of the Pony Farm,
which was a major part of the Institute for Weights and Measures, better known to the
staff as the Fat Farm. It was inconceivable that a ‘patient’ would be unaware of this key
byproduct of the Institute.
Those who knew Rachel would not be surprised by her lack of knowledge. She was aloof,
made few, almost no, friends. This was her third trip to the Farm. She only vaguely
recalled that there were some special provisions in the contract she signed, directly
affecting her if she failed to maintain the weight loss won during her initial visit.
There were other papers her husband had signed, as if she was being committed to a mental
institution. Now, the fine print was about to come home to roost.
"Pig, are you ready to eat?"
"Yes, Sir!"
"What will my next order be?"
"Sir, you will order, ‘Open my pants,’ Sir."
"Why?"
"Sir, because this pig is 25 pounds above her required weight and needs to be fed.
"All right, open my pants."
"Thank you, Sir!"
She shuffled forward on her knees. Her graceful hands found his zipper and pulled it
down.
"Sir, because this pig is 25 pounds overweight, she wishes to remove your cock from
your pants."
"Permission granted." He stood, looking down at her as she reached in, untangling his
rigid cock from his shorts. When she had it pointing over her head she asked,
"Sir, because this pig is 25 pounds overweight, she wishes to suck your cock."
"Why don’t I just stick it in your pussy? That way you can drain it out, without
gaining any more disgusting weight."
"Sir, because this pig is 25 pounds overweight, she needs to have you spend in her
mouth, as she will have nothing else to eat."
Darrel laughed at her plight, enjoying to the fullest making Rachel abase herself.
"Permission granted."
Rachel leaned forward quickly, engulfing his cock almost to the hilt.
"Hold it piggy! Nobody told you to hurry. You do it slowly. Very slowly. You show my
cock the respect it deserves. You do everything in your power to please it - and me. Now,
start over. Kiss my cock head reverently, then you ask permission every time you want to
take it in your mouth. You’ve got two black points against you already. You’ve been here
before. You know what happens to big fat slobs with three or more black marks."
Rachel did know. She’d racked up points like a drunken driver on her first visit. She
found they had a dungeon in the basement, complete with several oubliettes dug under the
floor. Her claustrophobia made her stay in the tiny chamber a nightmare that she had no
intention of repeating, but she couldn’t stop her love of eating.
On her second visit when she screwed up they had locked a collar on her neck with a
short chain to the wall, in the main corridor of the building. She had to announce to
every person passing by that she was - at that time - 19 pounds overweight.
She had just finished the blow job and got his thoroughly cleaned cock back in his
pants when an attendant she didn’t know walked in with an armload of straps.
"Rachel, under the terms of your contract, your status has changed, because this is
your third visit. We have to take more stringent measures to get your weight off and keep
it off. This is ahead of schedule, but I have a family emergency and will be gone
tomorrow."
He pointed to the pile of plastic and rubber straps he had dropped on the floor.
"That’s your uniform. Starting tomorrow morning at 5 a.m., you are a pony."
"A pony, Sir?"
"A pony. Not a pony girl, a pony. You’ve been here twice before. Don’t tell me you
don’t know there’s a pony training farm here!"
"No, Sir! This pig never heard of it. No idea. Training?"
"You will be trained as a pony, trained to pull a buggy or a cart."
"OhmyGod!" Rachel broke into tears. "You can’t do that. This pig won’t eat. This pig
will take the weight off."
"Three strikes and out. Now get over here and let me get you into your harness. Darrel,
will you help?"
"Sure. She’s a snob that deserves it." He looked at Rachel’s frightened face and
chuckled.
The pile of straps quickly became a web tightly buckled around Rachel, from head to
toe. Rachel’s mouth, tits and pussy were surrounded by straps, but remained uncovered,
along with her nose. She continued to sob.
Finished, Maynard walked slowly around her, tightening several straps. Satisfied he
walked in front of her and faced her.
"Knees."
"Thank me. I’m sure you know that much at least."
Awkwardly, Rachel knelt, unnerved by the tight straps.
"Sir, since this pig is 25 pounds overweight, she needs to thank you for dressing her
and as payment for your hard work, this pig asks permission to suck your cock."
Maynard grinned at her, knowing exactly how her repeated reference to her weight
humiliated her.
"Permission granted."
Rachel went through the full routine, finally permitted to kiss the head of Maynard’s
cock. She was warned again to take it slow and easy.
Maynard made small talk as her tongue circled and swirled around his shaft.
"I usually have the thin ones do this. Never had a pig do it before. Which do you
prefer?"
Darrel laughed. "Either one. Fortunately all the blubber is on her belly and hips, so
it doesn’t interfere with her mouth." He put his hand on her head and twisted it, to look
at her face, then slapped her ass with his open hand, "She does have some chubby cheeks
though."
Rachel worked up a sweat doing the blow job. She was helpless to avoid hearing the digs
and jibes that both attendants traded as she labored. She had learned bitter lessons
during her first two visits and was intent on giving him the world’s best blow job, to
avoid those things promised, and those left unsaid as threats.
She was disappointed when Maynard finally shot his load, one spurt. That would never
keep her hunger pangs at bay.
She longed for a session with her husband, who could produce almost a cupful at a time.
She vividly remembered the first time she gave him head, totally inexperienced and not
expecting such a volume. Despite hastily clamping her lips around his throbbing cock, more
of it dripped down her chin and onto her tits than went down her throat. Her ass cheeks
wriggled as she remembered the spanking she earned, that never seemed to end.
Now, she sat back, licking her lips to make sure she hadn’t missed a precious drop. A
puzzled look crossed her face.
"Sir, what happens when this pig is...... trained?"
"We’ll sell you back to your husband, or to someone else who wants a pony."
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