The Livestock Auction

PROLOGUE / DISCLAIMER

This is a work of extreme, non-consensual fantasy. All characters depicted are 18+. Nothing in this story should be attempted, condoned, or replicated in real life. This novel contains graphic, brutal, and dehumanizing content meant only for mature, consenting adult readers. If this disturbs you—stop reading now. The author does not condone or support any form of real-life harm or abuse.

You might notice there are no chapters, this serves as a purpose to mentally tire you as well as Joanne.

It started like any other night.

She was tired, her feet aching in worn-out shoes, the city’s neon glow painting the puddles with broken light. Her phone was nearly dead. She could hear her own breath, shallow and uneven, as she turned onto a quieter street, halfway home.

It was raining, the kind of miserable, cold drizzle that seeped into your bones and made every shadow feel heavier. She pulled her jacket tighter, head down, ignoring the ache in her thighs and the chill worming through her clothes.

She didn’t hear the van at first. Just a faint engine whine that seemed to fade into the hiss of rain. She kept walking, keys clutched in one fist, thinking of hot tea and her warm bed.

Then—

Tires screeched. A shape lunged.

Her world fractured.

Rough hands seized her, so fast, so brutal her mind couldn’t keep up. She screamed—at least she thought she did. She felt herself being yanked backwards, legs kicking, fingernails scraping down slick metal, boots on pavement. She thrashed, tried to bite, but someone grabbed her jaw with a grip like iron. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. A cold plastic bag was shoved over her head, cinched tight at the throat.

Panic detonated. She bucked, tried to claw at the bag, tried to find air. The world became sound—muffled shouts, heavy breathing, her own heartbeat slamming in her ears.

The plastic stank of oil and sweat and something chemical. She gagged. Fought. Someone punched her hard in the stomach, folding her in half.

A voice snarled in her ear: “Stop fighting.”

Something stabbed her neck. A sharp, icy burn flooded down her veins. She tried to scream, but her voice came out tiny and broken. Her body went limp, her vision swimming with colored lights and shadows that didn’t make sense.

The hands hauled her up and tossed her like luggage into the back of the van. She hit metal, hard. The van door slammed. The engine roared. She rolled as the van pulled away, banging into walls, her world spinning. Everything felt wrong.

She heard voices—low, cold, joking. Words blurred.

“…another one for the pens…”

“…she’ll be popular, look at that skin…”

She tried to move, to scream, but her limbs were leaden, her mouth filled with the taste of copper and plastic. She sobbed, or maybe she just whimpered, her mind slipping.

The van rattled through the night. Rain drummed on the roof. She faded in and out, time blurring, the world narrowing to pain and fear.

When she woke, she was cold.

It was a numb, deep cold, the kind that lives in your bones. Her cheek was pressed to metal—corrugated, damp, reeking of old piss and disinfectant. The plastic bag was gone, but something heavier, tighter had taken its place: a thick black hood. She couldn’t see. She could barely breathe.

Her wrists burned. She tried to move them, but they were strapped tight behind her back. Her ankles too—bound together so tightly she could only flex her toes.

She listened—straining for any clue, any sign of mercy.

A distant echo. Footsteps, then a heavy metal door opening. A rush of air that smelled like bleach and cold iron.

Boots. Multiple. Close. Male, she thought—thick, deliberate, confident.

She tried to tuck her knees in, to make herself small, but the bonds wouldn’t let her.

A hand grabbed her ankle.

She screamed—a muffled, pathetic noise inside the hood.

“Shut up,” a man’s voice said. Bored. No accent, nothing human in it.

Someone yanked her upright. She staggered, her knees giving way, and would’ve fallen if not for the hands that seized her under the armpits.

Her skin crawled at their touch—cold, dry, clinical.

The hood was yanked off.

The world exploded in white.

She gasped, blinking. The light stabbed into her skull, making her squint.

A concrete room. Walls stained, patched with old brown streaks. Exposed pipes overhead. A drain in the floor, rusty and wide.

Two men in black—faces hidden behind featureless masks, gloves gleaming. A woman stood between them, tall and elegant, her latex suit white as bone, lips painted cruel red.

“Look at her,” the woman said, walking closer. “Still thinks this is a nightmare.”

The woman cupped her chin, tilting her head up.

She tried to bite, but a slap cracked her cheek, snapping her head sideways.

“Animals bite,” the woman said. “Don’t make me muzzle you already.”

Her mouth trembled, her lips parted, but no words came.

The woman turned to the men. “Strip her. Let’s see what we bought.”

The men didn’t hesitate.

Cold knives flashed—she felt her jacket sliced away, her shirt peeled off, bra snapped and yanked. Every movement brutal, impersonal. Her jeans were cut at the thighs and ripped off, panties pulled down in one vicious jerk, baring her to the freezing air.

She tried to cover herself, but her arms were jerked higher behind her back, the pain making her gasp.

They spun her around, forced her to stand on shaking legs, her feet bare on cold, damp concrete.

The woman’s eyes raked over her body, not with desire, but with ownership.

“Raise her arms,” she ordered.

A man grabbed her wrists, hauled them above her head, fastening them to a ring in the ceiling. She was stretched onto her toes, breasts thrust out, body completely exposed.

“Wider,” the woman snapped.

The men forced her ankles apart, buckled straps to a metal bar that kept her legs spread, her pussy bared to the room.

She was trembling—partly from cold, mostly from terror.

A camera flash blinded her. The woman took photos: face, body, between her legs, her branded hip.

“You’re property now,” the woman whispered in her ear. “Everything you were—gone. Everything you are—mine.”

A hiss of water.

The woman turned a firehose on her.

The shock was instant.

Icy water battered her face, made her gasp, flooded her mouth and nose. She tried to turn away, but the stream followed her, pounding her breasts, belly, legs, the slit of her pussy. The woman grinned, moving the hose slowly, making sure to blast every crevice, every fold.

Her nipples ached, her clit shriveled, her skin went red under the onslaught. She could feel her humiliation growing—no way to hide, no way to close herself off.

The water finally stopped, leaving her drenched, shivering, gasping for breath, snot running down her chin.

The woman walked up, brushing soaked hair from the Joanne’s face.

“Beautiful,” she mocked. “Let’s see if you’re as tight as you look.”

She snapped on gloves with a crack.

The men flanked her, holding her still as the woman forced her fingers between the Joanne’s legs.

The exam was deliberate—slow, cruel, fingers probing, stretching, twisting. The woman made notes as she went, calling out “depth,” “elasticity,” “wetness” to the men, who jotted it all down.

A second glove.

She felt pressure at her ass—a finger, then two, pushing in, making her whimper.

“Needs more training,” the woman said. “That will come.”

They inspected every inch—lifting her breasts, pinching her nipples, spreading her cheeks, poking at her lips, staring into her mouth. One man took swabs from between her legs, from her mouth, her ass.

She tried to retreat inside herself, to block it out, but every new violation snapped her back, forced her to feel.

A collar was buckled around her throat, thick, leather, tight enough to make her gag. The woman clipped a metal tag to it—just a number.

She was branded, fast and brutal. The iron pressed to her hip, the pain white-hot and endless, her scream echoing in the concrete cell.

They lowered her arms. She collapsed, but the men didn’t let her rest.

One held her by the hair, forcing her to kneel. Another lubed a huge, obscenely thick plug, pressing it between her ass cheeks. He pushed—hard, unyielding—until it popped inside her, stretching her, making her moan in shame.

“Get used to that,” the woman whispered. “You’ll keep it in until you learn not to leak.”

They made her crawl, shuffling on hands and knees, the plug shifting with every movement. Her face burned with shame, her body already aching.

She glimpsed other women in cages—some crying, some catatonic, one being whipped by a laughing man as she begged for mercy that never came.

They shoved her into a cage, slammed the door, locked it with a heavy click.

“Drink,” the woman said, sliding a bowl of water to her feet. “Eat when we say. Piss when we say. Everything else… not your concern.”

The door closed. The lights dimmed.

She curled on the straw, body battered, mind splintering, her only comfort the hope that she might die before morning.

Time stopped meaning anything.

The light in the ceiling hummed, casting her naked body in ugly yellow. The walls pressed in, covered in scratches, smears, old stains she tried not to think about. The straw on the floor scratched her thighs, clung to her damp skin. She sat in a corner, knees to her chest, collar tight around her throat, the tail plug still deep inside her, making every movement an ache.

She tried to count her breaths, then the lines in the wall, then the times she blinked. Anything to block out what had happened. But the pain in her hip—where they’d branded her—throbbed and burned, reminding her with every heartbeat.

Sometimes she tried to shout, to beg, to scream for help. Nobody ever came.

The water bowl sat by the door. She was so thirsty it hurt. But it was metal, low to the ground. To drink, she had to crawl, her ass up, face pressed to the floor, just like an animal. She tried to fight the urge, but her body wouldn’t listen. She crawled, every inch another humiliation, her breasts swinging, knees scraping. She dipped her mouth, slurped like a dog. The water tasted like old pennies and bleach.

There were noises, always.

Sometimes screams—raw, desperate, cut off by a slap or a boot or worse. Sometimes whimpers, gasps, the sound of flesh meeting flesh. She heard a girl sobbing for her mother, then a handler’s laughter, then nothing.

Once she saw the woman in white walk past—heels loud, eyes cold. The woman glanced in at her, met her gaze, and smiled like she was looking at a piece of meat.

She lost track of time.

She drifted in and out—memories coming in shards:

A child’s voice, a song, the scent of warm bread.

Then the present—brutal, inescapable, endless.

She tried to cover her body, to find comfort, but the plug made it impossible to close her legs, the collar pinched, the floor was always cold.

When she finally managed to sleep, it was shallow, restless, broken by nightmares of men in masks, of hands grabbing, of being paraded on a leash.

She woke to a clang.

The cage door banged open.

Two handlers—men in black, thick gloves, faces hidden—dragged her out by the collar.

“On your feet,” one barked.

Her legs buckled. One yanked her upright, the other twisted her nipple, hard, until she gasped and stood.

They shoved her down the corridor.

She tried to look for exits, for hope, but the walls were blank, doors heavy steel, cameras everywhere. She glimpsed other women—some on all fours, some strapped to tables, some limp and silent in their cages.

They brought her to a new room—smaller, but packed with gear. Chains, whips, dildos the size of fists, electric wands, clamps, bottles of lube. The smell of sex and bleach hung in the air.

The woman in white waited, snapping on fresh gloves.

“Training time,” she said, her voice amused. “You’ll learn what you are, or you’ll suffer until you do.”

The men forced her to kneel, head down. One twisted her arms behind her back, cinching her elbows together with a leather strap. Her shoulders screamed, her chest thrust out.

The woman circled her, inspecting every inch. She ran her hands over the Joanne’s breasts, squeezing, twisting her nipples until she whimpered. She pried her ass cheeks apart, checked the plug, pushed it in deeper, making her whine.

“You see, girls come here thinking they can resist,” the woman said, loud enough for the room’s cameras. “But you can’t fight what you are. You’re not people. You’re livestock. Property. Holes to be used.”

The words rang in the Joanne s skull, each one another nail in the coffin of her old life.

The woman reached into a drawer, pulled out a pair of metal nipple clamps. She snapped them onto the Joanne’s nipples, the bite sharp, cruel. She attached weights, let them dangle, pulling her nipples down, stretching the skin until she whimpered.

Next came a bar, hooked to her collar and then to her nose—forcing her to keep her head up, eyes forward, like an animal on display.

“Crawl,” the woman snapped.

She tried, but the weights bounced, the plug twisted. Every move sent fire through her nipples, her hips, her asshole. She bit back sobs, kept crawling, the men laughing as they watched her struggle.

The woman stopped her, forced her up on her knees. She held a crop, slapped it across the JOANNE’s inner thighs, leaving red marks.

“You want to cry?” she said. “Cry. The buyers like it better when you beg.”

She didn’t want to, but the pain, the shame, the hopelessness was too much. She broke—tears spilling down her face, shoulders shaking. The men cheered, one unzipped his fly and stroked himself while he watched.

The woman snapped more clamps onto her labia, attached them to the bar between her knees, so every movement pinched and tugged her open. She was splayed, exposed, nothing hidden from the room’s eyes or the camera above.

They left her like that for what felt like hours, forced to hold her posture, punished for sagging or dropping her gaze. When she couldn’t hold it anymore, the woman caned her thighs and ass, each blow harder than the last, until her skin was a riot of welts and bruises.

When the “training” ended, she was a wreck—body throbbing, face wet with tears and snot, mouth hanging open, drooling around the gag they’d buckled in for the last hour.

They unlocked her arms, unhooked the clamps and weights, leaving her raw and burning. But the collar, plug, and bar stayed on.

The men dragged her upright, half-carrying her back down the hall. Her body was limp, her mind battered. The sound of the plug sliding in her ass, the jingle of her collar, the sting of the caning—every sensation layered into her.

They threw her back in the cage, slammed the door. She curled on the floor, shaking, the camera’s red light never blinking.

The hours after her “training” passed in a haze. She drifted between sleep and panic, jerking awake whenever the collar pinched, whenever the ache in her thighs or ass throbbed too sharply to ignore.

She lost track of how many times she tried to pull out the plug, only to find her hands useless—her wrists now cuffed together in front, thick leather bands, a chain running from them to the bars of her cage. She could just reach the water bowl if she knelt and stretched.

Every movement reminded her of how far she’d fallen.

The plug shifted in her ass with every twitch, her holes stretched, stinging. Her nipples still throbbed, the memory of clamps biting deep into her flesh. Welts crisscrossed her thighs and ass. She shivered in the stale air, hating how her body betrayed her with every new ache and tremor.

She pissed on the straw when she couldn’t hold it any longer—humiliated by how natural it felt, how quickly shame could become a habit. No one came to clean her, no one even checked. The stink just became another part of her new reality.

Sometimes, she’d catch herself forgetting her own name.

She tried to remember the sound of her own voice, the feel of soft clothes, the way her mother used to hug her. But the memories slipped away like water through her fingers.

Every time she started to hope—when the corridor was quiet, when she dared believe maybe this was a mistake, a nightmare she’d wake from—someone screamed.

Someone begged for mercy, sobbed for their life, the words cutting through her fog like a blade.

Sometimes she’d see shadows flickering at the far end of the corridor—men in black, dragging someone limp or struggling, the squeal of boots and desperate shrieks echoing down the hall.

Time had no meaning. Only fear. Only pain.

Eventually, the handlers came again.

Two men, one with a leash, the other with a metal prod.

She tried to shrink away, but the collar jerked her forward. The man unlocked the chain from her cuffs, but left her wrists bound. He clipped the leash to her collar, the click echoing like a gunshot.

“Come, bitch,” he growled.

She stumbled out on all fours, the plug shifting inside her.

The prod tapped her ass—cold, threatening.

“Move. Or I’ll light you up.”

She crawled, her vision blurring. The corridor felt endless, lined with other cages. She saw faces—other women, some wide-eyed, some broken, some blank with shock.

One girl—young, blonde, eyes swollen shut—reached through the bars and grabbed her arm as she passed.

“Help me,” the girl whispered.

A boot crashed into the girl’s fingers, making her yelp and pull back.

“Touch her again and I’ll take your other eye,” the handler snapped.

They reached a set of double doors. He pressed a button and they hissed open, cold white light spilling out.

He dragged her inside.

The room beyond was different: bigger, cleaner, but no less cruel.

Metal pens lined the walls, each one filled with naked women—dozens of them, branded, collared, some plugged, some with clamps on their nipples or labia. Some sat slumped against the bars, others crouched in corners, all watched by the ever-present cameras.

In the center was a bigger pen, empty.

A low table stood at one end, piled with paddles, canes, and other instruments.

The handler yanked her in, unclipped the leash, and shoved her forward.

She landed hard, knees scraping the floor. The other women watched—some with curiosity, others with pity, a few with open hunger.

The door slammed shut behind her, locking her in.

She stayed on all fours for a long time, not daring to move.

She felt the eyes on her: some dead, some sharp, all of them weighing her up.

She tried to hide, curling into herself, but the pen was bare. There was nowhere to go.

Eventually, one of the women slithered closer.

She was older, her body marked with scars and faded brands, her eyes clear and sharp.

“Fresh meat,” she said, her voice low, almost gentle. “Don’t fight. Just do what they say. It hurts less if you don’t fight.”

The Joanne shook her head, tears spilling down her face.

The older woman reached out, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.

“It’s better if you remember who you were,” she whispered. “They’ll try to take that from you. Hold onto something. Even if it’s just your name.”

She tried to answer, but her throat was too tight.

Another woman crawled over—this one younger, her body riddled with fresh bruises, eyes huge and terrified.

“They make you watch,” the girl said, voice shaking. “Make you help. You’ll see. You’ll see what happens if you fight.”

A shriek from another pen cut her off.

They all flinched, ducking their heads.

The shriek became a moan, then a wet, choking sound, then silence.

The Joanne wanted to ask what happened, but she was too afraid.

A loudspeaker crackled.

“All livestock, prepare for inspection. Fresh meat to the front.”

The older woman nudged her.

“Go. Do what they say.”

She crawled to the front of the pen, her knees raw, the plug heavy inside her. The women made room, all of them forced to line up along the bars, knees apart, backs arched, heads down.

The door opened.

The woman in white swept in, flanked by four handlers.

She walked down the line, trailing her gloved fingers along the bars, inspecting each woman in turn. Some she ignored, some she smacked with her crop, some she made stand and turn so the handlers could see every mark, every hole.

When she reached the Joanne, she smiled—a sharp, cold thing.

“Stand,” she commanded.

The Joanne’s legs barely worked, but she managed to stagger upright, head down.

The woman ran her hands over the Joanne’s body, tracing the brand, the collar, the plug. She squeezed her breasts, pinched her nipples, forced her mouth open.

“She’ll do,” she said. “She’ll do very well.”

The handlers opened the pen, grabbed her arms, and dragged her out.

She was back in the spotlight, back in hell.

But this time, there was no fight left in her.

She was livestock now.

And the auction hadn’t even begun.

She woke to the sound of boots and the hiss of electric doors.

Her head throbbed, her mouth dry and sour. She was sprawled on filthy straw, every inch of her body aching. The collar dug into her neck, the plug still thick inside her, making her ass throb with every twitch.

She didn’t remember falling asleep. Only the numb, animal exhaustion that had pulled her under.

A rough hand grabbed her hair and yanked her up to her knees.

“Rise and shine, meat,” the handler growled, his gloved fist twisting until she cried out.

The cage door opened. Two men dragged her out—her legs shaking so badly she almost collapsed. The leash clipped to her collar, the chain short enough that she had to stay hunched, her breasts hanging, nipples raw and pink from the clamps and cold.

All around her, the other women watched. Some with pity, some with cold indifference, a few with a glint of excitement at seeing fresh suffering.

They hauled her down the corridor, past pens and cells, into a larger room she hadn’t seen before—bright lights, a mirror along one wall, a metal bench in the center. Everything gleamed with that sickening, sanitized shine. It looked almost medical, except for the stains on the floor and the racks of equipment hanging on the walls: restraints, paddles, gags, razors, shears.

A woman stood waiting.

The one in white latex, eyes as cold as knives, red lips curled in a cruel little smile.

“Number fourteen,” she said, glancing at a tablet. “Bring her in.”

The men forced Joanne onto the bench, strapping her wrists and ankles into metal cuffs. Her back was arched, her thighs spread, the plug pressed deeper inside her as she tried to squirm away.

The woman circled, tapping the tablet.

“Remove all excess,” she said to the men.

One man snapped on gloves and started with her feet—cutting her toenails down to the quick, scraping at the dirt until her toes bled. The other shaved her legs with a dull razor, scraping away every hair, not caring for nicks or stinging cuts.

The woman approached with a pair of shears. She grabbed a fistful of Joanne’s hair and yanked her head back.

“Do you know your name, girl?” she asked, mocking.

Joanne’s heart thudded. She tried to say her name, but the handler shoved a ball gag between her teeth, buckling it tight so her jaw ached. She could only make a garbled whimper.

The woman snorted. “Not anymore.”

With a few quick snips, she hacked off some of Joanne’s hair—shoulder-length locks falling in clumps, scattering on the floor. She tossed the hair aside and wiped her down with a cold, rough cloth—her cheeks, neck, armpits, every inch between her legs. They scraped under her nails, checked her teeth, plucked stray hairs from her eyebrows and pubic mound, not for beauty but for uniformity.

They took her measurements—height, weight, bust, waist, hips, even the circumference of her thighs, the depth of her mouth, the “yield” of her pussy and ass. Every measurement was called out, typed into the tablet, her value reduced to numbers.

The woman turned her attention to Joanne’s old jewelry—a small silver stud in her ear, a thin chain on her ankle. With cold precision, she snapped them off, dropped them in a bin marked DISCARD.

“Nothing personal survives,” she said. “No memories. No mementos. Only what we give you.”

One man knelt and spread her legs, inspecting her closely. He called out, “No tattoos. No brands but ours. No infections.”

The woman nodded, satisfied.

They made her stand. The men removed the plug, setting it aside slick with her shame, and replaced it with a larger, heavier one—this one with a metal tail, the weight shifting and swaying as she moved.

She nearly collapsed as it slid in, her legs trembling, humiliation burning through her like fever.

The woman pressed a barcoded tag to the collar at her throat.

“Read your number,” the woman ordered.

Joanne stared at the tag. The numbers swam, her eyes stinging with tears.

The woman slapped her, hard. “Read it!”

Joanne struggled around the gag, managed a muffled, “F-f-fourteen,” drool slipping from her lips.

The woman grinned, then held up a board—her real name written in big black letters:

JOANNE

She turned the board to show the other handlers, then looked Joanne in the eye.

“This is the last time you’ll see this name. You do not answer to it. You do not think it. You are number fourteen. Meat. Livestock. Say it.”

Joanne whimpered, sobbing behind the gag.

The woman walked to the wall, took out a thick black marker, and drew a heavy line through the name. She spun the board and showed the room:

JOANNE

(struck out)

#14

The other women in the pens were brought forward, forced to kneel in a circle around Joanne.

The woman in white snapped her fingers.

“All of you, chant her number. Make sure she remembers it.”

The women obeyed, voices trembling, faces blank:

“Fourteen. Fourteen. Fourteen.”

The chant grew louder, more frantic, echoing off the walls, drowning out Joanne’s muffled sobs. Some of the women were crying, others sneered, one or two even smirked at her pain.

The woman in white leaned close.

“Your old self is gone. You are ours now.”

The next hour blurred into a waking nightmare. Joanne was no longer just a woman—they’d made her a specimen, a thing to be used, measured, and catalogued. Her arms were wrenched high above her head, wrists locked in heavy cuffs, her ankles forced wide until her body trembled in a spread-eagled display. Cold metal pressed against the backs of her legs, the bench beneath her sticky with old sweat and disinfectant. The room seemed to shrink with every second, its lights pitiless, its mirrors throwing her shame back at her from a thousand angles.

She could feel the gaze of strangers, invisible but unmistakable—handlers, other livestock, maybe buyers behind mirrored glass. The rustle of latex gloves, the snap of clamps, the click of a camera lens zooming in on her most private places, all filled the space with an obscene, mechanical rhythm. She tried to twist away as a handler’s thick, gloved fingers pried her open, but there was nowhere to go. The speculum was cold and slick, and when it was pushed inside, Joanne’s world narrowed to that single, humiliating invasion. She whimpered and shook as the jaws were ratcheted wider, metal scraping against tender flesh. The handler barked commands—“Wider. Hold still.”—his tone flat and practiced, as if she were nothing but meat to be displayed.

Cameras buzzed and clicked. She could feel the glassy black eyes of the lenses crawling over her skin, could imagine every detail of her shame immortalized for some database or audience she would never see. The handler scraped samples from deep inside her, muttering about “yield” and “response,” each motion making her jerk in her bonds. There was a clinical coldness to it all: the swab of a cotton bud, the measurement of a ruler against the stretch of her cunt, the indifferent way a flashlight was shined inside her, turning her body into nothing but a project to be examined.

Joanne flinched as another handler forced a lubricated finger into her ass, twisting, probing deeper, then withdrew to wipe his glove and note, “tightness: average, will require training.” Each assessment stripped another layer from her mind. There was no “Joanne” here, only a body, prodded and stretched and filed away by number.

The woman in white supervised every step, her eyes sharp, her mouth twisted in a faint, cruel smile. She would occasionally nod or shake her head, make a mark on her tablet, or issue a new order. Joanne’s breasts were weighed with cold hands, her nipples pinched and rolled until she gasped, then clamped tight with metal that bit into her skin. The pain was sharp, a jolt through her chest, but it was nothing compared to the humiliation of being displayed, reduced to measurements and reactions. Everything was noted—her tears, her shuddering breaths, the way her body tried to flinch from every new touch.

Whenever Joanne’s knees started to buckle, whenever her head sagged, the handlers wasted no time. A jolt from a cattle prod, sharp and shocking, would send her arching up, drool flying from her lips as she tried and failed to stifle a scream. Laughter echoed around her. Every little rebellion, every attempt at dignity was met with a punishment designed to break her further.

They took endless photos—her face twisted in agony, her mouth open in a silent cry, her body pulled and prodded until she didn’t even recognize herself in the mirrors. There were close-ups of her pussy, stretched and wet and red from use, her ass plugged and bruised, her breasts marked with fingerprints and clamps. Every click of the shutter felt like another nail in the coffin of her old life. Joanne could feel herself slipping—her name becoming distant, her sense of self dissolving with every snap and command.

When it finally ended, she was made to kneel on the freezing tile, her head down, arms wrenched behind her back, her skin sticky with sweat and tears and the residue of too many hands. She could taste her own humiliation, bitter and raw.

The woman in white stepped forward, turning to face the camera mounted in the corner of the room. Her voice was crisp and merciless as she declared, “This is number fourteen. No history, no past, only flesh. Ready for auction.” There was no acknowledgment of the girl on the floor, shuddering and ruined, only the announcement of a product brought to market.

At the woman’s signal, a handler approached and, without warning, unzipped and began to piss on Joanne, hot liquid splattering over her shorn scalp, running down her cheeks, soaking her breasts and belly. The other women, forced to watch, reacted with flinches, averted eyes, or cold indifference. Joanne could only kneel and take it, her body shaking, the plug still throbbing in her ass, her skin stinging wherever the urine touched raw flesh. She was so far past shame she didn’t even cry out. She just shook, each breath a struggle, the taste of salt and metal on her tongue.

“You drink when we allow it. You eat when we allow it. You come when we allow it,” the woman intoned, her gaze icy. “That’s all you are now.”

Afterwards, they hosed her down again, this time with water so cold it felt like a punishment all its own, making her scream and shiver uncontrollably. They clipped a new tag to her collar—“LOT #14—LIVESTOCK”—and, as Joanne hung her head, the handlers dragged her to yet another room.

This was the obedience pen, crowded with other naked, broken women. Here, every humiliation was public. The handlers barked orders and Joanne, along with the others, was forced to line up, to kneel, to crawl, to spread herself, to present her holes to the room and the cameras. Any hesitation meant the cane, or the shock stick, or a boot between her thighs. Joanne was punished for every moment of defiance, forced to lick the floor, to beg, to obey, her voice hoarse and trembling.

She was made to watch as others were punished harder still—beaten, shocked, made to lick boots or each other, to whimper and beg for mercy that never came. The chorus of suffering was endless, a soundtrack to Joanne’s unraveling. The handlers, bored and efficient, made sure that no one forgot their place. If she hesitated, if she faltered for even a second, the women were made to chant her new number—louder, faster—“fourteen, fourteen, fourteen”—until the name Joanne felt like nothing more than a ghost at the edge of her mind.

By the end, she could barely speak. Her throat was raw, her body covered in fresh bruises and welts. She was shaking with exhaustion and humiliation, every nerve fried, every hope scraped clean. When they caged her again, she slumped to the floor, now fully processed, tagged, and broken in.

The old Joanne was gone.

Only #14 remained—ready for the auction block, body and soul.

They left her shivering and raw, dumped like garbage onto the floor of her cage. Joanne—no, she reminded herself, her name was #14 now, that was what the tag read, what the voices chanted, what the world expected—curled around herself on the cold metal, every nerve still stinging from shock, pain, and shame.

There was nothing soft or safe in her new world. The cage was barely big enough to stretch out in, the floor hard and stained, the thin layer of straw scratchy against her thighs. Every breath tasted of metal, piss, and bleach. The air hummed with the ever-present buzz of the cameras—always recording, always watching, a red light blinking in the corner just above the door.

She tried to close her eyes, tried to picture her old bedroom, her mother’s hands, the taste of coffee, sunlight through the window. But every time she managed even a moment’s peace, a scream would echo down the corridor, or a loudspeaker would bark an order and the world of before would dissolve.

She caught herself mouthing her real name, whispering it under her breath like a prayer, terrified that someone would hear, terrified that she’d forget.

Joanne. Joanne. Joanne.

But the tag on her collar was so heavy.

Fourteen. Fourteen. Fourteen.

A voice over the speakers broke her trance, hard and mechanical:

“Group obedience. All livestock to the presentation pen.”

The door to her cage buzzed, then slid open with a hiss.

A handler waited, baton in hand, eyes dead behind a mirrored visor.

Joanne crawled because there was no choice. She felt the leash snap onto her collar, and a boot nudged her forward until she was crawling down the row of cages, past the other women—some crying, some glassy-eyed, some meeting her gaze with blank, exhausted sympathy. Every movement shifted the tail plug inside her, a constant, humiliating reminder that nothing about her body belonged to her anymore.

They herded her into a wide pen already crowded with naked, battered bodies. She found herself on all fours, shoulder to shoulder with other women, all marked with numbers, all freshly shorn and tagged. The handlers stood over them, whips and shock prods in hand, bored and brutal.

“Line up!”

The order rang out and Joanne scrambled to obey, her knees and palms slipping on cold tile.

“Present!”

She was forced to kneel, knees apart, back arched, arms behind her head, head bowed. Her shame was total, but there was no way to hide it. Around her, the others did the same, some trembling, some so practiced they fell into the posture without a second thought.

One handler walked the line, his baton tapping chins up, elbows back, knees wider. When Joanne hesitated, when she flinched from the cold or the gaze of the others, the baton cracked down on her thigh, leaving a fiery welt.

“Disobedience gets you the cane, meat. You want worse?”

She shook her head, the movement automatic.

“Answer by number!”

She choked out, “Fourteen,” her voice small and strangled.

The room echoed with numbers, women barking out their labels like trained animals. No names, no past, just numbers, the chorus building as the handlers barked more commands.

They drilled them, over and over:

“Present. Crawl. Stand. Kneel. Spread. Bow.”

Every mistake brought pain—shock, slap, cane, boot. Every hesitation meant more chanting, the others forced to scream her number until her ears rang with it, until she felt her old self receding, drowned out by the relentless litany.

She saw tears on some faces, heard quiet sobs, but there was no comfort here. The older livestock looked away, practiced at hiding, at folding in on themselves. A few watched Joanne with pity, but most simply survived.

They made her crawl in circles, her ass high, tail plug bobbing, her breasts swaying, the cameras catching every angle. They forced her to tongue the floor, lick the boots of a handler, press her face to the ass of the woman in front of her and beg to be allowed to serve.

The handlers mocked her, spat on her, snapped photos with their phones, all while the speakers played a looping track of women’s voices chanting, “Fourteen. Fourteen. Fourteen,” until she felt the number pounding behind her eyes, until her own name became an ache she was sure would never heal.

Sometimes, they singled her out—dragging her to the front of the pen, forcing her to demonstrate “obedience” before the cameras. She had to kneel and crawl, to open her mouth for inspection, to spread her thighs and arch her back, to hold still while they ran hands over every inch of her skin, checked her holes, pinched her nipples and lips. Sometimes they would pause to “show” the cameras, spreading her open and making her hold the pose until her legs shook and her mind blanked out.

Any sign of resistance—tears, hesitation, a trembling limb—meant she’d get the shock stick or a caning, sometimes so harsh her skin broke and bled.

By the time they finished, she couldn’t feel her knees, couldn’t remember when she’d last been allowed to sit or close her legs. Her throat was hoarse from chanting her number, from begging, from forced apologies and promises to “serve better, take more, be obedient.”

When they finally caged her again, she didn’t fight. She collapsed on the straw, numb, her body burning, her mind a dull, grey ache.

The red light blinked overhead.

She hugged her knees, the collar pinching her neck, the tag heavy against her skin.

She tried to whisper her name, to remember the life that had been stolen.

But all she could hear—echoing in her head, in her ears, from the mouths of the others—was “Fourteen. Fourteen. Fourteen.”

The drills dragged on, every humiliation blending into the next, but Joanne’s ordeal was far from over.

At the end of the session, the woman in white called out, “Bring forward the new one. Number Fourteen. Let’s see how obedient you really are.”

Joanne was yanked to the front by the leash, made to kneel, exposed and trembling, while the rest of the livestock lined the walls, watching with glassy eyes.

The woman snapped her fingers and another handler dragged a sobbing, younger woman—another new intake, maybe only hours deeper into the nightmare than Joanne—into the center of the pen. She looked no older than twenty, her face streaked with tears, body shivering with dread.

“Number Fourteen,” the woman in white announced, “today you learn your place. Today, you help us teach her hers.”

Joanne’s mind recoiled, but the handlers gave her no chance to refuse.

A baton jabbed her ribs, a collar tug yanked her forward, and she found herself staring down at the other girl’s naked, shaking body.

“Punish her for disobedience. You will spank her. Hard. Or you both suffer.”

Joanne hesitated, shame burning so deep she thought it might choke her.

A shock—quick, sharp, at the base of her skull—made her yelp and reach for the girl’s hips. The handlers didn’t let her pause: “Harder! Until we say stop.”

She raised her hand, brought it down on bare, trembling flesh. Again, and again, her palm stinging, her mind cracking with every impact. The girl sobbed, gasped, tried to crawl away, but Joanne was made to hold her down, forced to beat her harder with every yelp of pain.

The other livestock chanted, “Fourteen! Fourteen!” as the room echoed with flesh on flesh, the humiliating chorus louder than the cries of the girl at Joanne’s knees.

When the woman in white finally signaled, Joanne was shaking, her hand numb, her face wet with tears.

But they weren’t done.

The handler seized Joanne by the hair, dragged her down between the other girl’s legs, and barked, “Lick her. Make her cum, right here. Now.”

Joanne recoiled, but there was no escape. A boot at her back, a tug on her collar, and she found herself with her face pressed between the girl’s trembling thighs, the sour taste of sweat and humiliation filling her mouth.

“Do it properly or you’ll both suffer,” the woman warned.

Joanne worked her tongue, her mind screaming in protest, but her body on autopilot. She could feel the girl’s shame, her body stiffening in forced pleasure, the sobs turning into helpless moans as the handlers watched, making notes, snapping photos.

It took forever, each second dragging like a lifetime. The room reeked of sex, sweat, and defeat.

When it was finally over, Joanne was yanked back, forced to sit on her knees, mouth smeared, chest heaving.

The other livestock were made to clap and chant her number, as if celebrating her submission, her complicity. The girl she’d just beaten and pleasured was left on the floor, sobbing and broken.

The woman in white leaned in, her voice low and poisonous.

“You’ll do whatever we say, to anyone we choose. You’re not just meat. You’re a tool. And you’re nothing without our orders.”

Joanne’s vision blurred. She tried to remember her name, her old life. But the world was a chorus of “Fourteen, Fourteen,” the red light blinking in the corner, and the taste of another woman’s shame on her tongue.

They caged her again, raw and empty, no longer innocent, no longer just a victim—now, in their eyes, a trained piece of livestock ready to obey, to perform, to break others in turn.

They left her in the cage, raw and empty, hours or maybe only minutes slipping by—time had stopped making sense. Joanne’s hand still ached from beating the girl. Her face was sticky, her mouth thick with the taste of another’s shame. The tag on her collar read “Fourteen,” and it felt like a curse.

But there was no time for rest. The corridor echoed with the sound of boots. The door to her cage opened with a mechanical buzz.

“On your knees, meat,” a handler barked.

Joanne barely had the strength to obey, but muscle memory did the work now—she crawled forward, head low, knees raw, body battered. The plug in her ass shifted with every movement, reminding her there was no comfort, not even inside herself.

The leash clipped to her collar. She was paraded through the hallway, handlers dragging her past other cages, the eyes of the broken and the new following her, some with sympathy, most with the coldness of those long past hope.

They led her into a new space—massive, bright, the air humming with anticipation and the buzz of cameras. Mirrors lined the walls. The smell of latex, sweat, and sex hit her in the face.

Rows of tables filled the center of the room, each with another girl displayed: some bound and spread, others on all fours, a few gagged or blindfolded, all marked with numbers and scars.

Buyers milled about, faces hidden behind masks—some simple, others elaborate and animalistic, beaked, or monstrous. They whispered, pointed, took notes. Joanne’s skin prickled, her body burning with the fresh humiliation of being seen.

Handlers lifted her up onto a padded bench, spreading her arms and legs and locking them in place with padded cuffs. The position was obscene, her body stretched wide, every inch offered for inspection.

A handler in a surgical mask approached, holding a shallow tray. He moved with deliberate care, putting every tool on display for the audience and the cameras.

“Number Fourteen, product testing,” he announced, his voice flat, as if reading ingredients off a label.

The crowd shifted closer.

He began by inspecting her holes, forcing her mouth open with a gloved hand, running a tongue depressor along her gums, then stretching her lips wide for the cameras to capture every tooth, every shudder.

He pinched her cheeks, tugged her head from side to side, even made her stick out her tongue, his fingers scraping saliva from her mouth and flicking it onto the tray.

They moved on to her body. A woman in red latex, her eyes hidden behind mirrored lenses, drew a thick line down Joanne’s chest with a cold marker, then another across her thighs, “measuring muscle tone,” she said. The handler lifted her breasts, squeezed, weighed, then clamped each nipple with a new set of polished steel, attached to a chain that ran up to the bench above her, pulling her nipples high and tight, stretching her chest until she gasped.

The crowd watched, murmuring, some taking photos with small, silent cameras. Others leaned in to inspect the clamps, to prod at her hips, to run fingers along the marks left by the cane and prod. Joanne tried to retreat inside herself, but every new touch snapped her back, every humiliation another slap to her battered psyche.

Then the “weirdness” began.

One of the buyers produced a heavy, silver spreader bar and with a nod from a handler, her legs were forced wider, the bar locked between her ankles. Her hips burned, the stretch leaving her open, vulnerable, obscene.

A latex sheet was draped over her body—cold and smooth, cut with precise holes for her breasts, her ass, her pussy, her mouth. She was nothing but exposed flesh, her face invisible, her body transformed into a display piece. The buyers circled, laughing, pointing, some idly stroking the latex, others tracing the outlines of her holes with blunt nails.

A man in a black jackal mask held up a small, wired device—a pair of vibrating eggs attached to a remote. The handler didn’t hesitate, pushing one deep into Joanne’s pussy, the other into her ass, twisting them until they were seated against her trembling walls.

With a click, the man activated them both. Joanne’s body jerked, her back arching, the vibrations setting her nerves alight. The crowd clapped, laughing as she struggled and whimpered, her muscles clenching helplessly around the toys.

A woman in a crimson fox mask drew nearer, holding a tray of ice cubes and clamps. She circled Joanne’s body, dragging the ice along her nipples, her clit, the crease between her ass and thigh, then snapped a clamp on each nipple, each labia. The clamps were attached to tiny bells that jingled with every tremor and moan.

The handler with the milking pump came next—two suction cups placed over her clamped nipples, the vacuum turned on. The suction was relentless, a rhythmic, wet sound filling the space as the cups drew her nipples long and taut, milkless but leaking tears and sweat down her chest.

A different guest stepped up, this one in a pig snout and pink silk suit, and slid a fat, ribbed plug into her ass beside the vibrating egg, locking it in place with a leather harness that buckled over her hips.

He attached a small, electronic leash to the harness, handing the remote to another guest with a wink.

The next humiliation was bizarre in its simplicity: Joanne’s body was used as a table. The handler balanced a tray of glasses and plates on her back, ordering her to “hold perfectly still.” Whenever anything shifted or spilled, he slapped her thigh or shocked her plug, making her squirm and cry out. The crowd found this hilarious.

A guest in a white bird mask demanded, “Make her bark.”

The handler yanked her hair, forcing her head up. “Bark for the guests, Fourteen. Louder.”

Joanne’s voice broke as she tried, forced to “woof” and “beg,” the sound echoing off the polished tile. The crowd jeered, a few throwing scraps of food onto the tray balanced on her back.

She was used as a demonstration model for a series of plugs, vibrators, dildos, and clamps. The handlers made her “present” her holes, insert and remove toys, stretch herself open with her fingers while cameras zoomed in. The crowd could pay extra for a “hands-on” test, several masked guests taking the opportunity to prod her ass, spank her, or stuff her mouth with a gag or a dildo for the cameras.

When her mouth was full, she was made to kneel up and serve as a footstool, a masked woman propping her boots on Joanne’s back, digging her heel into the raw skin of her thighs, smirking as she ground the heel against Joanne’s plug.

At one point, she and another girl were chained together—mouth to cunt, cunt to mouth—forced to lick and finger each other while handlers watched, scoring their “performance” with loud commentary, the losers promised extra punishment after the show.

Her body became a canvas for the crowd’s creativity: lipstick words scrawled across her breasts and ass, obscene doodles drawn along her thighs, a rough tally of “uses” marked in Sharpie above her cunt. They filmed every act, some guests streaming it live to private channels, others snapping selfies with Joanne’s red, ruined face as a trophy.

She lost track of time, lost track of the humiliations. The only constants were the lights, the hands, the toys, the shocks, the laughter—the red light of the camera forever recording.

By the end, Joanne was spent, drooling, body shaking, holes gaping, skin marked and smeared with sweat, spit, and everything else the crowd had demanded. The handlers unlocked her, dragging her off the table, leash taut as she stumbled, numb and broken, back to her cage.

The last thing she heard before the door slammed was the crowd’s chant, louder than ever:

“Fourteen! Fourteen! Fourteen!”

She pressed her face to the cold metal floor, the echoes of laughter and shame ringing in her ears.

She tried to whisper her name, but nothing came. Only #14 remained.

Somewhere between the hands and toys, the lights and shocks, her world became a collage of sensation and shame. Her jaw ached from forced gags, her arms shook from holding impossible poses, her cunt and ass throbbed with the aftershocks of violation and vibration. Whenever her mind began to drift—fleeing into numbness or memory—a sharp slap or an electric prod yanked her back.

She thought it was over when the handlers dragged her from the bench, her limbs barely working, her head spinning with exhaustion and humiliation. But the display was only beginning.

They led her to a low platform in the center of the room. The floor was covered in plush red velvet, already stained from other girls’ use.

A handler pushed Joanne to her knees, unhooked her collar, and replaced it with a wide, high posture collar—so stiff she couldn’t lower her chin.

He clipped her wrists together behind her back, arching her chest out for the crowd.

A masked woman in a gold cat mask stepped forward, balancing a heavy metal tray in her hands.

She placed the tray on Joanne’s back, then began piling items on top: wine glasses, fruit, small bowls of sweets. The handler barked, “Don’t move, Fourteen. If you spill anything, you’ll be punished.”

The guests lined up, laughing and taking photos, some resting their drinks on Joanne’s spine, others dropping sticky candy onto her shorn scalp.

A man in a dog mask crouched behind her and traced a riding crop along the backs of her thighs.

“Let’s see if the table can hold still,” he teased, then lashed her twice across the ass—hard enough to make her flinch.

A glass toppled.

The guests howled with laughter.

The handler stepped in immediately, shocking her plug and yanking her leash until she whimpered.

He forced her mouth open, pressing his fingers past her lips, stretching her jaw until it ached.

A woman with long, sharp nails approached, stroking Joanne’s cheek almost lovingly before pinching her nostrils shut.

Joanne had to open wider, gasping for air, her tongue lolling, drool spilling down her chin as the guests took more photos.

They made her bark again, louder, longer, the sound broken and humiliating.

“Sloppier,” the handler barked. “More animal. Show them what you are.”

Her face flushed with humiliation, Joanne did as she was told—barking, panting, her knees slipping on the velvet, tears mixing with drool as she tried to hold still.

A guest dropped a cracker into her mouth, another poured a splash of wine over her head, laughing as it dripped down her back.

Next came the “obedience games.”

A handler pressed a remote into the hand of a masked buyer, a heavyset man with a wolf mask and gold chains.

“Watch this,” the handler said to the crowd, and pressed the button.

The vibrators inside Joanne buzzed to life again, stronger and more erratic this time—one deep inside her cunt, another filling her ass with pulsing shocks that made her whole body spasm.

“Present,” barked the handler, and Joanne was made to crawl in a slow, humiliating circle, the crowd cheering, some slapping her ass as she passed, others tossing chips and bills onto her back.

The wolf-masked guest upped the power on the remote, and Joanne felt her legs buckle as a forced orgasm threatened to overwhelm her.

The handlers barked, “Hold it in! No cumming unless you’re told!”

Each time she lost control—a shudder, a moan, her cunt twitching helplessly—she was punished: shocked, slapped, made to bark louder.

When she finally broke—her body jerking, the orgasm tearing through her without consent—the crowd cheered.

A guest stepped forward and wiped her inner thigh with a cocktail napkin, holding it up for all to see before tucking it into his pocket with a smirk.

The next act was even more surreal.

Handlers unhooked her wrists and guided her to stand, the posture collar still locking her head in place.

She was positioned beside a low, clear display box—inside was another girl, curled and motionless, her skin painted in swirling colors, a plug in her ass, clamps on her nipples, her eyes vacant and staring.

“Performance time,” the handler announced. “Fourteen, get inside.”

Joanne hesitated—just a heartbeat too long.

The shock prod caught her across the ribs, the pain sending her stumbling forward, folding herself into the cramped box.

A handler arranged her limbs, making sure her knees were open, her head back, her lips parted. The lid closed above her.

From inside, the world was a fog of lights and sounds, glass pressing against her skin, sweat making her slide and stick. The air grew hot, stale.

She heard the handler encouraging the guests: “Take a closer look. They can hold this pose for hours. But the first one to drop gets punished.”

A guest tapped the glass, grinning, then unzipped and pressed his cock against the clear panel, stroking himself as Joanne tried not to flinch.

Another woman painted words across the glass—“USE ME,” “PROPERTY,” “HOLE”—each letter looming over Joanne’s naked, huddled form.

When the box was finally opened, Joanne was dizzy, her vision swimming.

They pulled her out and forced her onto her hands and knees beside the other girl, then clipped their collars together, making them crawl in a slow, humiliating parade around the hall, licking the floor, the walls, each other’s bodies as the crowd jeered.

One masked guest knelt, unzipped, and made Joanne lick his cock while the handlers shocked her plug for every gag or pause.

When he finished, he wiped himself on her face, leaving her sticky and shamed.

A handler made her kneel at the foot of the platform, chin raised, while buyers took turns slapping her, spitting on her, marking her with lipstick and sharpies.

They wrote her number on her cheeks, her breasts, her thighs, even across her open mouth:

“FOURTEEN” in black, permanent ink.

Joanne was never allowed to forget who—or what—she was.

At last, her body shaking, her mind broken, she was unclipped from the other girl, dragged back to her cage, and tossed onto the floor like garbage.

The lights stayed on, the cameras always watching.

The taste of shame, sweat, and stranger’s flesh clung to her tongue.

She tried to remember her name, but all she could see—on her skin, in her mind, echoing in her ears—was “Fourteen. Fourteen. Fourteen.”

Joanne didn’t get to rest. The handlers returned almost immediately, opening her cage with a clang that made her flinch. “Fourteen, front and center,” barked one, snapping the leash onto her collar. She crawled as ordered, feeling every eye on her—both handlers and the other livestock, some pitying, some numb, some already broken.

This time, she was led onto an even higher platform, surrounded on all sides by masked buyers and leering staff. The lights above seemed hotter, brighter, as if they’d been turned up just for her.

On the table in front of her were trays lined with strange, cold tools: polished steel, glass, and heavy medical devices. There were speculums of increasing size, gleaming rods, large rubber rings, and a set of thick, intimidating dildos laid out in a row—each bigger than the last.

The lead handler raised his voice so all could hear. “Now presenting Lot Fourteen’s elasticity and endurance. Step up if you wish to participate.” There was a low ripple of interest through the crowd. Joanne tried to shrink into herself, but her ankles were already strapped wide, wrists fixed to the bench so she couldn’t flinch away.

A handler in medical gloves took center stage, holding up the smallest speculum for the crowd to see, narrating each step like a circus master. He pressed it between Joanne’s trembling thighs, lubricating and inserting it with cold efficiency, then slowly, methodically, began to crank it open. The click of each ratchet echoed through the room.

At first it was just cold and humiliating—another violation in a long, endless line. But as the speculum was exchanged for a bigger one, and then another, Joanne felt the real pain begin: the cold metal forcing her open, the deliberate slowness with which the handler widened her, showing off each stage to the audience.

The crowd leaned in, murmuring, some with phones out, filming or snapping close-ups. A masked buyer stepped forward and paid for the privilege of “testing her limits,” taking over the controls and stretching her even wider, holding her open for a good, long look. Joanne tried to hold still, gritting her teeth as the handler gently pressed on her thighs, narrating every centimeter. “Very good. See how easily she takes it—nearly eight now. Who wants to see more?”

More hands went up.

A thick, polished rod was slowly pushed inside her, stretching her further, the handler working it in and out as if showing off a new toy. A woman in an elaborate gold mask painted a measuring line on Joanne’s inner thigh, the coldness of the ink mixing with the deeper, burning ache inside her.

The guests egged each other on, bidding for who would get the next turn—some pushing the rod deeper, others simply enjoying the spectacle. The handler sometimes pulled the rod free, letting Joanne’s hole stay open and exposed, before pressing in the next size up, working her wider, making sure everyone could see just how far she could go.

At the height of the show, Joanne was stretched so wide she could feel air on places that had never been exposed. Her whole body shook, sweat running down her temples, the strain making her vision blur. She heard laughter, the snap of photos, comments about her “usefulness” and “potential,” and the lead handler promising, “If she can take this tonight, just imagine what she’ll do after a week with the right owner.”

One guest pressed a gloved finger inside alongside the rod, feeling how much space was left, and grinned for the cameras. Another traced her stretched lips with the tip of a feather, making Joanne twitch and whimper, the sensitivity turning to humiliation.

Finally, the handler removed the speculum and rods, but not before holding them up—slick, warm, glistening—to show the audience the evidence of Joanne’s “training.” Her hole remained parted, exposed and aching, and the handler finished by marking her with a thick black pen: “#14” circled right above her pubic mound for the cameras.

As the crowd applauded and the buyers placed new bets, Joanne was left splayed and exposed, her entire body on display, her pussy sore and slow to close, the evidence of her ordeal shining beneath the hot lights.

She wasn’t Joanne anymore. She was a product—a showpiece for sale, for use, for anything they wanted.

Joanne’s legs were still splayed and raw from the relentless stretching, every muscle shaking as the handlers unclipped her ankles from the stirrups. She thought—hoped, maybe—that they’d finally be finished with her, that she’d get to crawl back to her cage and just curl up in the dark. But the handlers weren’t finished. The show was only getting started.

The auctioneer’s voice rang out: “Let’s see if our little showpiece has any more surprises left in her.” He gestured for the handlers to bring out a new prop—an oversized, industrial vibrator, shiny and cruel, its surface wiped clean for the cameras. The handler in blue latex gloves snapped the device on, the hum vibrating in Joanne’s bones before it even touched her.

“Now, pay close attention, folks,” the handler announced. “Let’s see how responsive she really is.”

Joanne was barely able to process what was happening. She was strapped on her back, legs still trembling, pussy aching and wide open. When the wand touched her clit, it was like electricity—her body recoiled, but the straps held her firm. The crowd drew closer, masks glinting, all eyes on her twitching body.

The handler didn’t go gentle. She pressed the wand directly into Joanne’s most sensitive flesh, the vibration deep and merciless. The cold, clinical power of it made her arch off the bench. Every nerve ending felt flayed, her whole lower body alive with a sensation that was neither pleasure nor pain, just raw, overwhelming stimulus.

The auctioneer called out to the crowd, “Wagers? How long until our product makes a mess of the stage?” Bets were placed, hands waved, money flashed as the crowd jeered and cheered.

Joanne tried to hold herself back, tried to lock herself inside her head. But the handler had no mercy—she moved the wand in tight, punishing circles, sometimes easing off just to drag it out, sometimes digging in harder, laughing as Joanne’s hips bucked, as her toes curled and her mouth fell open in a gasp. Sweat poured down her temples, tears tracked the sides of her face, but nothing stopped the relentless buzz.

“Don’t hold back, Fourteen,” the handler taunted, leaning close. “Show them what you’re good for.”

And then it happened: a jolt deep inside, a building pressure, and then her body gave in—an involuntary, gushing release, clear and hot, spraying out from between her legs. The first squirt hit the handler’s gloves, splattering onto the metal tray beneath her, running down her thighs and pooling on the stage. The crowd erupted in laughter, applause, and lewd commentary.

But it didn’t stop. The handler kept the vibrator pressed hard, working her mercilessly through the aftershocks. Another gush hit the floor, mixing with the mess already beneath her, her legs shaking uncontrollably. Cameras flashed and whirred, guests elbowed for a better view, some shouting requests:

“Make her do it again!”

“Bet she could soak the whole table!”

“Who wants a souvenir?”

The handler egged the crowd on, displaying her sticky, gloved hands, letting the buyers touch and smear the wetness on Joanne’s breasts, her face, even in her hair. One masked woman daintily dipped her finger in the puddle and painted “TOY” across Joanne’s stomach, taking a photo for her private collection.

Just as Joanne thought she might pass out from shame and sensory overload, the woman in white strode onto the platform, commanding instant silence. She looked down at Joanne—sweating, gasping, pussy still twitching and leaking.

“Nothing is off limits,” the auctioneer said, nodding to the woman. “After all, property has no rights.”

With practiced ease, the woman in white unzipped her trousers and, with all the showmanship of a ringmaster, squatted above Joanne’s chest. The handlers forced Joanne’s head up, holding her by the jaw so she couldn’t look away, her mouth open, eyes wide.

A hot, steady stream of piss sprayed out, splattering Joanne’s bare chest, running down her breasts, trickling over her collarbone and onto her face. The first splash caught her in the mouth; the taste was bitter, shameful, instantly overwhelming. The woman in white didn’t rush, making a spectacle of her control, letting the stream pool and soak until Joanne was dripping, humiliated, skin burning with humiliation.

The crowd howled—some clapping, others whistling, a few snapping selfies with Joanne’s pissed-on face as the backdrop. Someone threw a towel at her feet, another tossed coins onto her belly. A handler pressed the vibrator back to her clit, forcing another involuntary shudder from her exhausted body, more liquid joining the puddle on the stage.

“Look at her, buyers! She does whatever she’s told. Clean, obedient, entertaining—a perfect specimen!”

A masked guest, emboldened by the act, stepped forward, unzipped, and pissed on her legs for good measure, the yellow warmth running down her thighs to mingle with everything else on the table.

When the act was over, Joanne was left sprawled and filthy, her body dripping with piss and squirt, her skin red with embarrassment and exposure, the marks of her value scrawled across her belly and thighs.

They left her like that for a long moment—so the crowd could take pictures, so the cameras could record every inch of her shame, so she could feel her humanity slip away one hot drop at a time.

Finally, the handlers released her, yanking her upright by the collar and parading her, still sticky and wet, through the buyers and back toward her cage.

Joanne was left kneeling in her cage, her body still slick with piss and her own fluids, her chest heaving with every breath. The echoes of laughter and camera shutters still rang in her ears, but the display hall was quiet now, most of the buyers having moved on to fresher amusements or new lots to inspect.

She could barely sit upright, her knees pressed into the dirty straw, the weight of the collar dragging her head down. Her mind spun with humiliation, exhaustion, and a need for some kind of answer—any answer at all.

The handlers passed by her cage, discussing the next “demonstration,” talking about her as if she wasn’t even there. Joanne felt her voice break free, soft and desperate, the words raw in her throat:

“When does this end?” she whispered. “Please… how long until it’s over?”

One of the handlers paused—maybe the only moment of real acknowledgment she’d gotten since her arrival. He turned, eyes cold behind his mask, and stared straight through the bars at her. For a moment, she thought maybe he’d show some kindness. Maybe there was mercy left in the world.

But his answer was sharp, flat, and final:

“Never,” he said. “Not unless someone pays for you. You’ll stay here—used, displayed, punished—until you’re sold. Maybe someone’ll buy you to use. Maybe someone’ll buy you to free you. Doesn’t matter. Until then, this is all you are. This is all you have.”

He shrugged, as if explaining a simple truth to a child. “You’re property, Fourteen. That’s it. Best hope someone likes you enough to take you away.”

Joanne’s hope guttered out like a candle in a storm.

The words echoed in her mind—never, never, never—and the weight of her new reality settled like a chain around her neck.

The other girls in the cages heard her plea. One just shook her head, looking away, unwilling to meet Joanne’s eyes. Another hugged her knees to her chest, rocking gently, lips moving in a silent prayer for escape that would never come.

Joanne pressed her forehead to the bars, her breath fogging the cold metal.

All she could hear was the handler’s voice: Never. Until someone buys you. Never.

Joanne huddled at the edge of her cage, her skin still sticky with dried piss and her own squirt, the cold reality of the handler’s words—never, not unless you’re bought—echoing in her head. Her body throbbed with exhaustion, but her humiliation was only beginning.

The corridor outside the cages was busier now, the energy of the freak show lingering in the air. She heard voices, footsteps, laughter—some buyers lingering for another look, some handlers with nothing better to do than amuse themselves with the “merchandise.”

A pair of handlers paused in front of her cage, eyes settling on her filthy, used body. One smirked, then slid open a special panel at the back of the cage, just big enough for Joanne’s hips and ass to fit through.

“Come on, Fourteen,” he called, slapping the bars. “Ass out. Let’s see if you’re still stretched enough for us.”

She hesitated—a flicker of resistance, pride, something desperate and dying inside her—but the threat of the prod made her shuffle forward, crawling until her face pressed into the dirty straw, her knees wide, her ass and dripping pussy exposed through the bars for all to see.

The handler didn’t bother with lube or warning. He spat on her, wiped it with his thumb, then lined up and shoved himself inside her with a single, brutal thrust.

Joanne cried out, her hands clawing at the floor, the cold metal biting into her hips as he used her with hard, unforgiving strokes. Each movement pushed her hips tighter against the bars, grinding her clit against the cold steel.

Another man stepped up beside him, pulling out his cock and stroking it as he watched his friend fuck her.

The first handler finished quickly—his grip bruising her ass, his body slamming into her with every thrust—then pulled out and let his cum spatter across her back and the bars. He didn’t even glance at her face as he tucked himself away, already laughing with his friend about “breaking in the new girl.”

The second man didn’t hesitate, shoving himself into her gaping, sore cunt, using her like nothing more than a wet, broken toy.

He pushed her harder against the bars, making her arch and gasp, her legs shaking with fatigue. The crowd gathered—buyers and staff, some with phones recording, some just enjoying the spectacle, the line of cocks growing as the word spread: Fourteen’s open, come have a go.

Each new man brought a different cruelty. One grabbed her hair, yanking her head back so she had to stare down the corridor, forced to make eye contact with the next man in line. Another slapped her ass, leaving red handprints across her cheeks, before shoving himself inside her with a grunt.

Some took their time, fucking her slow and deep, making her feel every inch, every violation. Others were quick, brutal, just wanting to get off and move on.

None bothered to ask her name, to speak to her as anything but a hole.

Every time one finished, he’d either cum inside her, hot and slick, or pull out and spurt across her ass, her back, sometimes her face if he could reach.

The sticky mess dripped down her skin, pooling between her thighs, matting the straw beneath her.

A few buyers couldn’t get enough—one knelt and shoved his cock between the bars, smearing her lips with precum, making her lick him clean before shoving her face back into the straw.

“Don’t swallow it all,” he taunted, pulling out just as he finished, strings of cum splattering her cheek, oozing down to her chin.

The laughter never stopped. The cameras never stopped. Every act was filmed, catalogued, shared. Some buyers took selfies with Joanne’s used body, flashing peace signs, her eyes hollow and dead in the background.

The worst part was the monotony—the routine of being used, over and over, each new cock just another violation, another reminder that she was no longer Joanne, no longer human, just a commodity, a thing to be fucked and marked and left to stew in her own filth.

As the night dragged on, she lost track of how many men used her. The voices blurred together. The pain in her hips and thighs became dull and endless. Her mind slipped, tried to find a safe place, but every new slap, every sticky load across her skin dragged her back.

At one point, a group of buyers took turns cumming on her—across her ass, her pussy lips, her back, even reaching between the bars to jerk off on her hair and face.

One man made her hold his cock in her mouth while another finished inside her pussy. Cum dripped down her chin, onto her chest, pooling on the straw.

No one stopped them. No one cared.

Eventually, the handlers slammed the panel shut, locking her back in. Joanne collapsed onto the filthy straw, every inch of her coated in cum, sweat, and shame. Her thighs were sticky, her holes stretched, her body claimed by a parade of strangers.

The lights in the corridor dimmed, but the red camera light never blinked.

She curled in on herself, barely able to move, barely able to think. The word “never” echoed in her head, the final nail in her coffin.

Joanne didn’t wake so much as bolt upright, heart slamming in her chest.

The noise was gut-wrenching: a woman’s scream, echoing down the corridor, raw and hoarse and full of pure animal panic. For a second, Joanne thought she was dreaming again. But the pain in her muscles and the filth caked on her skin told her she was still trapped in this waking nightmare.

The light was always too bright in the cages, but somehow now it seemed even harsher, illuminating every patch of dried cum, every sticky streak across her thighs, every bruise and bite and mark left by last night’s “use.” She blinked through tears, her body cramped and sore from sleeping curled on straw soaked in sweat and her own piss.

The scream came again, closer this time. Joanne’s bladder gave way, a hot rush spilling out beneath her as she lost control, terror and humiliation flooding her at once. She could smell it instantly—bitter ammonia layered over all the other stinks of this place: the shit and sex, the rot and bleach, the unwashed flesh of dozens of women packed in too tight, never cleaned, never cared for.

She wanted to cover herself, to shrink back into the furthest corner, but there was nowhere to hide. The stench was inescapable. The straw beneath her hips was already soaked. Every breath burned her throat.

A shadow blocked the bars of her cage.

She looked up, blinking against the overhead glare.

Two handlers had a girl by the hair—naked, battered, her body streaked with bruises and filth, knees scraping the concrete as they dragged her. Her face was slack with pain and fear, her breasts hanging, her legs trembling so badly she could barely keep upright. The handlers didn’t care. One yanked her upright by the hair, shoving her forward so she landed on all fours in the open space between the cages.

Joanne’s door buzzed open.

She flinched, but the handlers were already on her, grabbing her by the collar and dragging her from the straw.

Her legs barely worked, her feet slipping in the filth.

She saw the other girls in their cages, some hiding their faces, some watching with dead eyes, a few covering their ears as if that could block out the horror.

The handler pulled Joanne down until she was face to face with the other girl’s ass—dirty, raw, still streaked with old shit and sweat.

“On your knees, Fourteen,” he barked, voice sharp as a slap. “Face in, now.”

He forced her head forward, fingers twisted in her shorn hair. Joanne’s nose was pressed between the cheeks of the sobbing girl, the smell so strong she gagged. She tried to pull back, but a hand slammed between her shoulder blades, holding her still.

“Eat her out,” the handler ordered, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “Lick her clean. Use your tongue like a good piece of livestock.”

For a second, Joanne froze—every cell in her body screaming in protest. But the threat of the prod was always there, humming in the background, and she could feel the girl above her shaking with fear, her whole body taut, waiting for pain.

The handler’s grip tightened, forcing Joanne’s mouth open.

She began to lick, the taste and texture making her stomach lurch. She tried to be gentle, tried to avoid the worst of it, but the handler wasn’t having it.

“Get in there,” he snapped. “You’re not half-assing it, or you both get the stick.”

Joanne forced herself to push her tongue deeper, licking through the grime, the taste making her retch and shudder, but she didn’t stop. The other girl sobbed above her, whispering broken apologies—“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry”—as Joanne licked and sucked, trying to clean her, trying not to think about what she was doing.

She could feel every inch—the sting of old welts on the girl’s thighs, the clench of muscles as she flinched from shame, the heat of her body. The room stank of sweat, fear, and humiliation. Every few seconds, a handler would bark a new order:

“Get your tongue in, Fourteen. Clean it. Make her moan.”

“Open her up—show us how well you can use your mouth.”

“Good girl, now spit on it, then lick it all up again.”

The crowd grew: other handlers, a few buyers, even some of the other livestock forced to watch.

Some jeered, a few snapped photos, others simply watched with cold indifference.

Joanne’s tongue grew numb, her jaw aching. Every time she slowed, the handler shoved her face deeper, his grip unrelenting. The other girl’s body shook with sobs, sometimes letting out little whimpers when Joanne’s tongue found a sore spot or an old wound.

Finally, a handler knelt down next to Joanne’s ear, his breath hot and cruel.

“You better get used to this, Fourteen. This is your life now. You’re a hole, a tongue, nothing more. If you’re lucky, maybe we’ll make a whole line of you bitches—mouth to ass, mouth to cunt, all night long. A proper centipede. Think you could handle that?”

He laughed, the sound echoing in the concrete and steel.

Joanne closed her eyes, licking and sucking, the taste of filth and defeat coating her tongue.

She could hear the other girls crying, the handlers laughing, the endless hum of the cameras recording every second.

her mouth still coated with the taste of another girl’s filth, when the handlers grabbed her by the collar and yanked her up to her knees. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, but the stink clung to her, mingling with sweat and piss, her own juices, and the endless parade of strangers’ cum that seemed to soak her skin.

The handlers didn’t bother with words—one just jerked her leash hard, dragging her from the row of cages and into the center of the holding pen. The other livestock watched, silent and wide-eyed, huddled against the bars or pressed flat to the floor. Joanne stumbled, her legs weak, knees scraped and bruised from the concrete.

In the middle of the pen, a metal frame waited, thick steel legs bolted to the floor, blackened with old scorch marks and charred flesh. She saw the bucket of ice water, the towels, the branding iron glowing cherry red in a bed of coals.

The buyers and handlers circled in, some with phones up, others murmuring with anticipation.

The lead handler pulled Joanne’s arms behind her, locking her wrists in padded cuffs attached to the frame. Another forced her to kneel, splaying her legs, so her ass and hip were perfectly exposed.

One handler pressed a rag to her mouth, muffling any scream. The heat from the iron made her skin prickle, the smell already thick and metallic in the air.

The lead handler turned to the crowd.

“Time to make her official. Fourteen—livestock, property, nothing more.”

He pressed the iron against her hip, right where her thigh met the soft curve of her ass. The pain was blinding—white-hot, a scream tearing from her throat even through the rag. The hiss of burning flesh filled the room, the scent unmistakable: seared meat, cooked skin, animal fear.

She thrashed, but the cuffs held her tight. The handler twisted the iron for a moment, just enough to make the shape clear—a number, a symbol, maybe the house crest—then pulled it away, the wound already blistering and red.

The crowd applauded. Someone tossed a handful of coins at her feet, others snapped photos of the smoking, raw mark.

One handler doused the burn with cold water, making her jerk and sob, then slapped her ass hard, making sure everyone saw how she shook and broke.

“Get used to it, Fourteen,” one handler sneered. “That mark’s never coming off. You’re ours—forever.”

They unlocked her, dragging her back to her knees, forcing her to bow low so everyone could see the brand: red, angry, ugly—a permanent reminder of her place.

The other girls in the cages looked away, some trembling, a few silently mouthing prayers.

Joanne barely felt the floor as they locked her back up, the pain radiating from her hip through her whole body.

She slumped against the bars, the pen stank of misery. But there was a new note tonight—a sharp edge of fear cutting through the air. Something was about to happen.

A commotion broke out three cages down—a low, guttural moan, then the unmistakable sound of a boot slamming into flesh.

She twisted, pressing her face to the bars. Through the gloom, she saw the handlers dragging a girl out—Number Twenty-Two, a small, wiry thing with close-cropped brown hair and eyes still blazing with defiance.

Twenty-Two didn’t go quietly. She kicked, bit, screamed curses, raking her nails across a handler’s forearm as they wrestled her to the ground.

Joanne couldn’t look away. The other livestock watched too—some in terror, some in awe, some with a dead, defeated blankness. It was rare for anyone to fight back at this point.

The handlers dragged Twenty-Two to the center of the pen, right under the harshest light. They wasted no time—one of them slammed her face-first into the concrete, another pinned her arms, a third wrenched her legs apart. The lead handler—a thick-necked brute with a jaw like concrete—barked orders:

“Hold her still. Strip her down.”

They tore off the shreds of her uniform, exposing skin already marked with old scars and new bruises. Twenty-Two spat at them, snarling, still trying to twist free.

The lead handler pulled a club from his belt—a thick, black baton—raised it, and brought it down hard across her thighs. The crack of bone and muscle echoed through the pen. Twenty-Two screamed, raw and animal, but didn’t beg.

He struck again.

Again.

Welts sprang up, red and swelling.

She jerked, gasped, tried to bite the handler’s arm as he grabbed her by the hair.

Blood welled on her cheek where her face hit the floor.

Her feet kicked, her heels thudded on the concrete, but the other handlers held her fast.

One of the men produced a long, gleaming knife.

Joanne’s heart pounded so hard she felt dizzy.

The man ran the knife along Twenty-Two’s back, not deep, but enough to score the skin, to draw thin lines of blood that wept and pooled.

Twenty-Two sobbed through gritted teeth. She was still trying to fight, but the energy was fading.

The handler knelt at her head, grabbing her jaw, making her look up at the rest of the cages.

“You see this?” he shouted to the pen. “This is what happens when you forget your place!”

He nodded to his partner, who knelt beside him with a tattoo gun in hand, already loaded with ink.

The man pressed the needle to the raw, bleeding skin over Twenty-Two’s lower back, just above the curve of her ass, and began to work—harsh, jerky strokes, spelling out a word that Joanne couldn’t see from her angle.

The buzz of the tattoo gun mixed with the girl’s whimpers and the handler’s laughter.

It took forever. The man was deliberately rough, digging the needle deep, drawing out every second.

By the time he finished, blood and ink mingled on the girl’s skin, the flesh swollen and red.

He spat on the wound and wiped it with his glove, showing off the angry black letters now etched in her flesh.

The handler barked, “Get the cover!”

One of the men brought out a heavy cloth bag—canvas, stained, with a metal ring at the throat.

He slammed it over Twenty-Two’s head, cinching it tight. Her screams were muffled, turning into frantic, animal sounds.

She thrashed, but her struggles were weak now. Her legs buckled, her arms went limp.

The handlers dragged her away by the ankles, the bag still over her head. The canvas twisted, her body leaving a smear of blood and ink on the floor.

The other livestock shrank away from the bars, some crying, some covering their ears.

Joanne stared, her guts churning, her breath shallow.

She caught a glimpse of the word carved into Twenty-Two’s back: PROPERTY—branded, inked, cut, and claimed for good.

As Twenty-Two disappeared into the darkness, the lead handler looked around, eyes landing on Joanne’s cage. He grinned—a cold, knowing smile.

He turned to the other handlers and pointed at Joanne.

“Let’s remind the rest what happens if they get ideas.”

Joanne began to piss herself when a handler appeared at the bars with a little paper cup. “Drink,” he barked. She almost refused—but the prod was already at her ribs, and fear won out

Joanne felt herself slipping away before she even understood what was happening. The bitter liquid from the paper cup stung her tongue, left a chemical aftertaste she couldn’t place. She tried to spit it out, but a handler’s hand was already clamped over her mouth, forcing her to swallow. Her vision tunneled, the world swimming, voices turning to muffled echoes.

She tried to count her breaths, to anchor herself to the here and now—but the floor spun under her, the bars of the cage grew soft and distant, and her own body felt strange, sluggish, not quite her own.

Then—nothing.

A howling, velvet blackness, broken only by distant sounds:

Boots on concrete.

Raucous laughter.

A woman’s sob, a slap, the wet slap of flesh, the mindless grunting of men.

Joanne floated, lost and weightless, caught in some feverish dream where time had no meaning. Her mind wandered: flashes of her old bedroom, a cup of coffee, her name whispered in the dark. Then, suddenly, reality snapped back with a vengeance.

She was flat on her back, harsh light burning her eyes. She blinked, but her vision wouldn’t focus. Every muscle ached.

Hands gripped her ankles, spreading her wide.

Her collar was tight, the tag digging into her throat.

Her skin was slick—sweat, cum, something else—her brand throbbing like an ember in her hip.

She tried to move but her limbs responded slowly, as if underwater.

She tried to speak, but her mouth was instantly filled—a cock, thick and rough, shoved between her lips, someone holding her by the jaw and forcing her open.

“Look who’s awake!”

“She’s back! Plug her holes before she squirms.”

A roar of laughter. Joanne gagged, choking on the cock, the taste of sweat, latex, and urine filling her mouth.

Another hand clamped around her waist, yanking her hips up. Something thick and slippery was shoved into her pussy—then another, harder, deeper, grinding against her battered walls. Her ass was already plugged, the pressure a dull, constant ache. Someone’s fingers slid in beside the plug, twisting, probing.

The drug left everything blurry but raw. Every sensation was cranked up: the scrape of teeth on her nipple as someone bit down, the slap of a palm across her cheek, the burn of her brand as someone licked the number and laughed. The noise was overwhelming—cheers, catcalls, barking orders, the electric hum of vibrators, the buzz of cameras.

She realized with slow horror that she was in the center of the pen, surrounded by dozens of naked, used bodies—other girls, handlers, buyers. The “livestock” was being paraded, tested, shared. Joanne was nothing but another hole, another object in the pile.

A handler yanked her hair back, forcing her to see herself in a mirrored panel overhead.

She didn’t recognize the woman staring back: mascara smeared, cheeks streaked with tears and spit, mouth full, her thighs parted wide, every inch of skin marked with handprints, bruises, cum, and streaks of pink and red lipstick. The fresh brand on her hip was angry and wet, a line of cum tracing the number.

They rolled her onto her hands and knees, knees scraping rough straw and filth.

A cock pushed into her from behind, hard and deep, the rhythm relentless.

Another man knelt in front of her, jerking himself off onto her face, marking her cheeks, her eyes, even into her hair.

“Show us what you can do, Fourteen!”

“Let’s see how much she’ll swallow!”

Someone forced her mouth open, smearing cum across her lips, shoving two fingers in, making her gag and drool. Another girl was pushed beneath her, tongue lapping at the mess leaking from Joanne’s pussy, the two of them chained together—mouth to cunt, cunt to mouth, like animals in a pen.

She lost track of whose hands were on her—there were too many, everywhere at once. Fingers pried her ass apart, someone pinched her clit, another pinched her nipples and twisted until she cried out.

A plug was yanked from her ass, replaced by a thick cock, then a fist, stretching her wide, making her tremble and bite her lip until she tasted blood.

Every time someone finished inside her, they laughed, pulling out and smearing the cum across her brand, her tits, her face. Some dripped it into her open mouth, holding her nose so she had to swallow or choke.

Buyers snapped pictures, handlers cheered, other girls were made to crawl over and lick her clean, only to be used the same way seconds later.

At one point, Joanne was on her back, knees pressed to her chest, two cocks fighting for space in her holes while another man straddled her face, slapping his cock across her tongue and lips, making her lick and suck while she moaned in exhausted, drugged confusion.

Someone poured a drink onto her chest, ice cold, laughing as the liquid mixed with cum and sweat, running down to pool in her navel. A tongue lapped it up, biting her side.

A plug was shoved into her, then replaced with a toy, then a cock, the cycle never ending.

The handlers paraded her through the crowd, bent over, showing off her gaping holes, making her crawl from one buyer to the next, each man and woman taking a turn—fucking her, fingering her, making her lick their boots, their asses, their cocks, their cunts.

No part of her was spared—her face, her brand, her holes, her pride.

All around her, other girls were chained together, mouth to ass, crawling in circles, used as human centipedes while the buyers laughed and placed bets on who would pass out first, who would cum the most, who would beg for mercy.

Joanne lost all sense of time. Sometimes she blacked out—when she came back, she was in a new position, new hands, new cocks, new voices. At one point, she was made to kneel in the center, surrounded by buyers jerking off onto her body, aiming for her face, her tits, the raw burn of her brand.

She sobbed, but the tears were lost in the mess, her voice drowned out by the orgy’s chaos.

No one cared. No one stopped. No one even called her by her name.

By the time it was over, Joanne was on her side, body covered in cum, hair plastered to her face, her hip still pulsing with the fresh burn of the brand. The handlers forced her upright, wiping her mouth with a rough towel, only to parade her in front of the crowd one last time.

Cameras flashed. Coins were thrown. The audience cheered.

A handler grabbed her jaw, forcing her to look up as the auctioneer called to the crowd:

“Tested. Broken. Ready for sale. Lot Fourteen—who will own her tonight?”

The orgy faded, replaced by the harsh buzz of the auctioneer’s microphone, the bright spotlights cutting through the filthy air. Joanne was dragged upright by her collar, cum and sweat streaked across her battered skin, her hair plastered to her cheeks, the fresh burn of the brand an angry beacon on her hip.

The handlers paraded her onto the auction platform, forcing her to kneel, thighs wide, arms behind her back so the crowd could see every mark, every bruise, every gaping hole. The tag around her neck read simply:

LOT #14—TESTED. BROKEN. READY FOR SALE.

The crowd shifted—men in suits, women in silks, masked and unmasked, their eyes glittering with hunger and greed. The bidding started fast and ugly, voices shouting over each other:

“One hundred thousand!”

“Two-fifty!”

“Half a million, right here!”

“A million!”

“One point five—she’s a squirter and a fighter, I’ll pay double for that cunt!”

The numbers climbed higher, each new bid sparking laughter, lewd jokes, and more flashbulbs from the press gallery. Joanne’s head spun, the drug still muddying her thoughts, the handlers holding her upright as she sagged under the weight of her new reality.

Finally, the auctioneer slammed his gavel.

“Sold! To the gentleman in the box—Mr. Remy, your new property awaits.”

A ripple of excitement ran through the crowd.

Joanne was yanked to her feet, half-dragged off the stage and down a side corridor, where a trio of handlers stripped the last remnants of filth from her skin.

She was shoved under a freezing cold shower, water blasting her raw skin, her hair tangled and tugged as they scrubbed the worst of the night’s use away.

No one spoke to her. No one even looked her in the eye.

They dressed her only in a clean collar and a thin silk robe—barely long enough to cover her thighs, the fresh brand visible, red and glistening.

The handlers marched her, still barefoot and shivering, to the loading dock behind the auction house.

A long, black limousine idled there, engine rumbling.

The back door opened, and a tall man in a tailored suit stepped out, flanked by a thick-necked usher in black leather gloves. The man’s face was handsome, cruel, and impossibly calm—a smile that never reached his eyes.

He looked Joanne up and down, one eyebrow raised in obvious amusement.

“So this is the famous Fourteen. I hope you were worth every penny.”

He didn’t speak to her directly; he simply nodded to the usher.

The usher lifted Joanne as easily as a child—one hand gripping her bare thigh, the other clamped around her collar, holding her steady as he walked her to the back of the limo.

The trunk popped open with a soft click. The usher shoved Joanne inside, the felt lining cold against her skin, the darkness pressing in close.

She tried to speak, but her voice failed—her throat was raw, her mind broken, her body aching in a dozen places.

The millionaire leaned over, his face filling the trunk’s opening. His smile widened, cold and wolfish.

“You think your time was rough in there?” he said softly, running a finger down the line of her fresh brand. “You just wait until you see what you’re in for now. That place was kindergarten compared to what I have planned for you.”

He let the trunk slam shut, plunging Joanne into darkness, her heart pounding with fresh terror and a hopeless certainty that her ordeal was only just beginning.

The engine roared to life, and the limousine rolled away, carrying her toward a fate worse than anything she’d yet endured.