Stories

A Brief Mercy on the Road to Our New Masters

 

It’s the taste of mud I dream about when I sleep, and when I wake, it’s always waiting for me. The stream’s cool bite against my cracked lips, the way silt grits between my teeth, the green slime that floats on top and sticks to my tongue. I dig both hands into the water, scoop and slurp like a wild dog.

 

We’re not allowed to drink unless told. We’re not allowed to piss unless told. Sometimes they line us up by the creek and let us go together, easier to hose us down after. Daisy’s got it bad today, I can smell the piss running down her leg as she drinks. 

It’s sharp and hot, mixing with the river stink, but I don’t care. I keep drinking, keep gulping, because there’s no knowing when we’ll get another chance.

 

There’s maybe a dozen of us here, a new shipment, all girls, all marked and chained and bent double like us. Some are crying but most just stare, not at the men watching from the bridge, not at each other. Just at the water, or their own hands, or the dirt. We’re all muddy, some of us more bruise than skin, nipples purpled and swollen from the clamps, cunts still gaping from the buyer’s inspection. They make us squat and spread on the auction block, sometimes stick a whole hand inside just to show off how “stretched and ready” we are. Daisy’s slit is so wide you could drive a fist through it. The men laughed at that. Some even placed bets.

 

I run my tongue over my teeth and try to remember what it was like to not be thirsty. I can’t. Even when we’re locked in our cage for the night, tongues swell and stick to the roof of your mouth, the air so dry it rasps the back of your throat. They say we sweat more than free women because we work harder. Maybe that’s true. They never let us shave, and the stench of our pits is a kind of marker. Daisy’s are thick and black and always wet, and sometimes when the masters are drunk, they make her lick her own armpits for a show. She does it, no hesitation. She’ll do anything to keep them off her back for a night.

 

The iron isn’t just heavy—it’s smart. Wrist irons, but the chain’s so short you can’t wipe your own ass. Collars that choke if you try to run. Ankles raw from the constant chafing. They keep refitting us, every time we lose a pound or two, just to make sure there’s no slack, no hope. My collar’s so tight I can feel my pulse in my ears. If I breathe too hard, it cuts off the air. Once, a girl passed out and toppled face-first into the stream. She didn’t drown, but her face was blue for a week, and the men had to fuck her through the cage bars, because she couldn’t open her jaw for days. That’s the kind of thing that makes them laugh, the kind of thing they tell stories about.

 

The cold of the water creeps up my arms, numbs the burns on my wrists. It’s a good feeling, almost clean, and I want to stay here, squatting, forever. But I know it won’t last.

We don’t talk. We’re not allowed to, but even if we were, what would we say? The other mare's been chained her whole life, same as me. We’re not sisters, not even friends, but when I see her tits swinging in the sun, the way her skin glows under the bruises, I get this ache between my legs that’s worse than hunger. I think maybe she feels it too.

 

The men line us up, make us bend over, hands on our knees. They walk behind, inspecting, poking, sometimes slapping our asses with a stick. “Show ’em what they’re buying,” one says, and I feel a finger hook in my cunt, spreading me for the crowd. It hurts, but I don’t make a sound.

 

“Which one you want, Rob?” one of the buyers says, and the man with the stick points straight at other slave. “That one’s got the best holes. Bred for it. She’ll drag a plow all day and still fuck like a bitch at night.” She doesn’t look up, just stares at her feet, breathing fast, blood and snot dripping from her chin.

 

They march us up the bank, mud sucking at our toes. I smell shit and sweat and old blood, the perfume of slave life.

 

We huddle at the top of the hill, waiting for the next order. The sun burns my scalp, and I taste the river still, metallic and thick. It doesn’t last. It never does. But I drink it in anyway, every drop, every second. Because sometimes, that’s all there is.

 

"Thirst, Iron and Desire" photo gallery

 

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