The Milk Farmer

by Mark Andrews

  He sat on an ornate chair (like a throne) set on a small stepped dais that projected from the wall at one end of the room and around the walls were more chairs interspersed with low tables. They were empty but Mabuchi sat on his ‘throne’ watching us intently as we were led into the room to stand in a line a few feet back from the dais.

  I fidgeted uncomfortably for a few moments while Mabuchi’s black eyes bored into me, searching up and down my body, no doubt assessing my worth to him - for what purpose I had no idea at that time ... It was almost as bad as his eyes moved to the next girl, the black and they seemed to actually devour her as they traversed up and down her slender frame. And it was the same with the others, the two other girls and the two boys.

  Then he rose from his seat, slowly, gracefully, like a Chinese mandarin from ages past and glided down to stand right in front of me. Behind me, I sensed one of his guards, all of whom were huge, muscular men who breathed venom with every breath.

  “Phillipa Strong,” he said at last, in that guttural way the Japanese have of speaking English.

  “Who are you?” I said boldly. “And what the hell am I doing here?”

  There were two responses to my audacity. The first was a massive back-hander across my face from Mabuchi. He didn’t even seem to move but then I felt the awful pain and the shock of the blow and staggered back a little. Then I felt the second response. At first it was just a prick through my track-suit and running shorts and panties to my left cheek - but then there was this awful shock!

  He had thrust the sharpened tines of a cattle prodder into me! I leapt into the air and screamed blue murder.

  Mabuchi’s face was as if carved in stone. It was quite emotionless but his voice wasn’t. It betrayed his anger and I quailed under the attack: “Slaves will be silent!” he said, softly enough but with a menace that was very, very apparent. “Slaves will speak only when addressed by me or one of my staff. Next time a slave speaks uninvited, he or she will have his or her tongue pulled out by its roots!”

  We all stared at him uncomprehendingly for a few moments. Could we have heard right? But then he nodded to one of his men and he went out, to return a short time later leading a naked girl. I gulped as I looked at her. She was naked all right. Totally so and quite hairless on her body - she didn’t even have any pubic hair to cover her genitals! I also saw a mark on her left cheek; a mark that I realised were three numbers. But they weren’t tattoos. My God! She had been branded!

  Even worse than that though, the guard muttered something to her and she opened her mouth, her face indicating her fear of the man beside her. Again I quailed as I saw she had no tongue. She would never talk again, I realised. Her guard spun her around and marched her out of the room while the six of us clamped our jaws shut. No way would any of us be saying anything if that was the result.

  Mabuchi smiled. His short sharp first lesson had been successful. Now he would test us again. “All slaves will undress - all the way. Everything off! Bodies to be totally naked. Clothes behind slaves, jewellery and other accessories in front. Begin! Now!”

  I hesitated only a second. The memory of that girl with her tongue-less mouth had imprinted indelibly on my mind the result of disobedience in this terrible place. I ripped off the top of my track-suit, folded it and placed it on the floor behind me, then stepped out of the pants. I was now only wearing my brief, halter-like athletic top, silk running shorts, my panties, socks and walking shoes.

  I took off the shoes and socks first, aware that beside me, the other three girls and the two boys were doing the same with the same urgency I now felt, each of us stripping whatever clothing we had on as if our very lives depended on it. I was to find out later they did, for Mabuchi tolerated nothing less that complete and total obedience to his will by us slaves.

  I stripped down the silk shorts and then removed the top, leaving me in nothing but the tiny silk panties I indulged myself with, aware of their miniscule size and feeling very naughty every time I thought of them. Now, they covered only the triangle of my sex - and not even that to much of a degree - and a small part of my rear.

  Mabuchi grinned sourly as he stared at me standing in the almost useless garment and so I threw caution to the winds and pushed them down off my hips and stepped out of them, folding them and placing them on the small pile of clothes behind me. My only jewellery was my watch and a tiny gold chain with a cross on it that I never removed from around my neck. It was the one gift I valued from my mother but it joined my watch on the floor in front of me as I stood up, now stark naked, alongside the other three girls and the two boys, themselves all now naked as well.

  A pair of his guards now went along the line, one in front, gathering up our jewellery and trinkets while the other passed behind, collecting our clothing. Both took them away and so we were now stark naked and without a single possession to our names.

  I cringed under Mabuchi’s implacable gaze as his eyes now devoured the six of us in turn. He had returned to his chair as we had begun to strip but now he rose again and descended to come up to me, standing a foot in front of me, staring into my eyes while his hands came out and began to feel me. Yes, really! It was as if I was an animal. A mare he was considering buying for her racing qualities, perhaps.

  He spent a lot of time on my breasts, cupping them first, as if weighing them in his two hands then he squeezed them, as if assessing their quality. He even bent down and sucked on my nipples while I stared down at him in mystification. None of my boyfriends had ever done this! What the hell was he up to, I wondered?

  But it wasn’t just my breasts. He stroked my shoulders, rather muscular from my athletics training, my arms, belly, thighs and butt, checking every part of me out for fitness and muscle tone but for what purpose I still had no idea.

  One of his men brought over a low stool and he sat on it while he checked out my vagina. His eyes were now on a level with it and he spend a lot of time delving into it, feeling around, peering in, toying with my clit until I came, gushing all over his now rubber-coated finger (since he had donned a pair of surgical gloves for this part of our examinations), while I fidgeted in shame and humiliation, aware the other five slaves were all watching me in awe as well as some sympathy. It was to get worse.

  Now I had to turn around, bend over, spread my legs and pull my cheeks apart so he could examine my anus, poking his surgically-gloved finger inside and working it around while I moaned in pain and shame.

  But then he moved to the black girl next to me. The Japanese are a race of xenophobes, disliking or hating all foreigners but their most virulent hatred is for the black races of the world. They really believe they are less than human, I think, and Dana now felt the brunt of that hatred, his face assuming an even more malevolent look. He slapped her face, hard. Not that she had done anything. It was just to show her he could do anything he liked to her.

  Dana was a very, very beautiful girl and her body was even more athletically muscled than mine while her dark-chocolate skin gleamed with good health. I had felt an instant rapport with the dark girl who came from the Caribbean (Jamaica, actually) and knew that if it were possible, we would be friends.

  She came in for the same mauling of her breasts, which were bigger than mine and while he showed his disdain for her black skin, he seemed to be pleased at the size of her breasts. She too was examined thoroughly and then he moved on to the blonde girl (Helga, from Sweden), giving her the same indecent and penetrating examination as he had me and Dana, and finally moving to Piam, the slender and exquisitely beautiful Thai girl.

  He spent less time with the boys but each was fingered very indecently and his cock manipulated to a full erection and discharged which one of his men caught in a small vial, sealed and took away.

  I was as mystified as at the beginning of this weird inspection. What did he want of us? I was to find out, but not for a while. First, we were to be depi
lated, we girls of our under-arm, leg and pubic hair, the boys of their beards and chest hair as well.

  It was utterly horrible.

  Being Australian, I know what a sheep dip is. It is used to treat the sheep for various infections and is comprised of a narrow pool with sloping ramps at either end. The sheep are forced into the race that leads to the dip and the pressure of their fellows behind them, drives them down the ramp into the liquid through which they have to swim before finding their feet at the other end and scramble up the ramp to emerge, shaking their woolly coats as they join the others that have gone before them.

  What we faced was similar. We were issued with special helmets that would protect our head hair, eyebrows and lashes and then pushed into the race leading to the tank. In it was a heavy, viscous material through which we had to force our bodies and in the middle, a grating sloped down above our heads, right under the surface of the liquid, forcing us to dip our heads right down so that all of our bodies were immersed in the horrible stuff for a time. This meant the boys’ beards were treated.

  The liquid was very hot. Far more so than I would comfortably set the temperature of my shower and so I struggled through the dip as fast as I could, only to find I had to go around again - and again - and again ... over and over until they were satisfied every last hair on our bodies had been treated.

  They told us the process was permanent and I was pleased at that for I had always hated having to shave my underarms and legs, although I was less than happy about having my sexual organs now so openly displayed, especially to the leering Japanese guards who seemed to delight in our bodies, yes, even the boys’ and I shuddered as I thought they would probably soon be the object of the guards’ sexual attentions.

  When we were finally finished, after dozens of cycles through the hot dip and had showered to clean the last of the thick viscous stuff from our skins, I stared at the others in some pleasure. I hadn’t realised just how much body hair detracts from our appearance, probably the reason we girls go to such lengths to remove it, or most of it anyway, but even with the boys, as I stared now at their naked - so naked - bodies, I knew they looked so much more sexy without the ugly hair around their genital organs, and even on their bellies and chests ... It showed off their fine musculatures quite wonderfully.

  But our introduction to Mabuchi’s milk farm had only just begun. We had yet to face the branding, the fitting of our collars and then the medical examination and the first of our hormone suppositories ...

  First the branding.

  Have you ever been burned? It’s utterly horrible, isn’t it, even if the burn is only superficial and the touch of the hot metal, fleeting. Imagine having a real branding iron deliberately pressed into your flesh for a full five seconds? Count it out using your watch - and imagine you are holding a red-hot poker all the time. Horrible thought, isn’t it?

  Well, that’s what they did to us. The branding irons were electric. There were two of them so that while the number elements in one were replaced after use and the new numbers allowed to heat up, the other one could be used. We were lined up against the wall of the little room used for this purpose and had to stand with our feet apart and our hands clasped up behind our heads.

  So that we all understood precisely how effective the electronic prodders were, one of the guards now moved towards me holding the charged instrument out pointing at my middle actually and now, grinning evilly at me, he thrust the two prongs - rather like those on a carving fork - into the soft flesh of my vulva - at which I screamed, or rather howled in my agony and leapt ten feet into the air - well, it seemed like it at the time.

  I came down clutching my sex with both hands, trying to assuage the awful pain of that shock and with tears now streaming down my face. It really had hurt a million. He stepped back, still grinning hugely, then moved one pace to his right so that he was in front of Dana, standing on my left. I could sense her fear as he waited for the instrument to recharge and then she got it too, aping me in the noise she made and in her actions as well.

  After her the other two girls, Helga and Piam, and following them, Mikate, the boy from Ghana and Supaya, the Malayan, were all prodded, the boys in their testicles which was as bad or worse than for us girls having our vulvas attacked. The point was though, that they had demonstrated to us at first hand how bad the prodders were. Later, when we had our collars fitted and the prodders became superfluous, we realised they enjoyed torturing us, although I suppose it did underline the message that we had to be obedient and docile at all times.

  We were. Now, as the others watched, quite quietly, one of the technicians moved up to me, holding the branding iron out in front of him. The numbers were glowing with a dull cherry-red hue and I knew they were very, very hot. I stood there in a blue funk wanting desperately to turn and run but transfixed by fear of reprisal. The girl who had been shown to us was ever present in my mind. I could hardly imagine that humans could do such things to others but there was the evidence.

  I was pulled out of the line and stretched with my face and belly against an upright board, sort of like a rack standing on its end. They locked my ankles into two brackets at the foot and then, climbing up a step fixed on either side of the board, did the same with my wrists so that I was stretched out tight. A metal belt, hinged on one side, went over the small of my back completing my immobilisation and then the tech holding the iron came up close.

  I could now feel the heat of the iron against my left cheek - and then it hit!

  The pain was instantaneous and absolutely excruciating. It seared into my very consciousness and the pain seemed to envelop my whole body, not just my butt. It raged up and down my body and I’m sure I screamed from the moment it touched until long after they released me from the board and walked me back to my place, now collecting Dana to take my place on the board.

  I watched in a sort of dazed trance as she was affixed to it just as I had been while the tech removed the third number (mine was 367 and the digit seven was now removed and a nine inserted in the slot in its place). He put that iron down on its rest to heat up again and took up the other one, in which the numbers 3, 6 and 8 were already glowing, and moved up to Dana’s back, eyeing off her delightful rear lecherously.

  As well he might for as I’ve already described her body, she really was the most athletically built female I have ever seen but that athleticism didn’t take away from her beauty one iota. On the contrary, it seemed to add to it. She certainly was no body-builder, her features as fine as any world-class model; it was just that the lithe muscularity of her body added to that beauty and her butt, boyishly rounded with a marked hollow on each outside cheek, capped that stunning beauty.

  Now, the tech slowly, agonisingly slowly, pushed the glowing numbers against the left cheek ... She reacted as I had, screaming out her pain and every muscle in her body went into strictures of agony, straining, writhing and cording and now I understood the necessity for the tight bonds and the metal belt pressing our bellies close into the board. Without them, we would have moved and blurred the brand.

  When, after about four or five seconds he pulled the iron back I saw with horror the awful marks the red-hot metal had made and I felt, all over again, my own pain. It had not gone away much at all and was still throbbing and very painful and it was all I could do to stand there. But I did. The guards were there with their awful prodders and I knew they wouldn’t hesitate to use them on me if I so much as moved a muscle when I wasn’t supposed to.

  They released Dana and then it was Helga’s and Piam’s turn. They were followed by the two boys and they made just as much noise as we girls had as their beautifully muscled backsides were also branded. We now sported the numbers 367, 368, 369, 370, 371 and 372 respectively on each of our left curves. They were quite large, about two inches high, I guessed and when the wounds healed they would be easily read from quite a distance.

  Eac
h of us was in great pain. As I said before, imagine holding a red-hot poker for five seconds and deal with that pain! But we were also very abashed. Mabuchi knew his onions all right. This short sharp introduction to his island had us instantly docile. Certainly, if I had ever had a thought to resist, after that first slap to my face followed by the prodder to my backside - and then what had followed close on its heels, I certainly wasn’t thinking of it now.

  They now fitted us with our collars.

  These were inhuman devices that were matched to the numbers now permanently marking our rears. They were not at all ugly. Indeed they were crafted beautifully, being oval in cross-section, about half an inch high and a quarter thick and a perfect fit around each of our necks. They were made of stainless steel with the insulated electrodes that were the reason for their existence on either side of our necks. On the outside, they were engraved with our numbers at front and back and elsewhere were adorned with little whorls and curlicues all over their outer surface. As I said, they were quite beautiful - in appearance.

  They weren’t at all beautiful in function, as they now proceeded to demonstrate.

  “This is a controller,” Mabuchi now explained pointing to the item set on the belt on his trousers. “With it, I can programme your number, thus ...” and he fingered three of the numbers on the pad. “I can then press either of three coloured buttons, green, yellow or red.

  “The green button causes only a mild pain. It acts as an attention-getter or a warning that you are going off the straight and narrow - like this ...”

  He pressed the button and I felt a small but still quite painful tingle on either side of my neck. It stopped after a couple of seconds.

  “But then there is the yellow button. First a number ...” and we all watched apprehensively, wondering whose number he had punched in this time. He was so expert he was very quick in doing it and none of us were able to work out whose it was.