Cattle Drive
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Jackdonkey22
- Commenter
- Posts: 8
- Joined: Wed Apr 30, 2025 9:30 am
Cattle Drive
A fun idea came to me for a story set in a legal slavery universe. Since slaves are often talked about like livestock, what if a ranch or resort offered a reenactment of a cattle drive except with slaves instead? Essentially, it would be a few days or weeks of a group of free people riding horses and herding a group of slaves for miles during the day and camping at night. Naturally, they would use crops, whips, canes and what have you to keep the slaves motivated, while having the slaves entertain them whenever they want. Of course, a safety net would be in place.
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imreadonly2
- Platinum Member
- Posts: 495
- Joined: Sun Oct 27, 2019 3:44 pm
- Gender: Male
Re: Cattle Drive
Ask, and you shall receive:
Sam never knocked. That was the first thing I learned about her—that and the fact she smelled like pine resin and worn leather The door banged open on the third day of orientation week, and there she stood, six feet of muscled farm girl, her work boots tracking mud across the dorm floor like she owned it.
"Christ, you're tiny," Sam said, dropping her duffel bag with a thud that shook my desk. She didn't wait for me to react—just strode right past my half-unpacked suitcases to the window, yanking the blinds up with one calloused hand. "Hope you don't mind daylight. Barns don't got curtains."
I froze mid-fold with a sweater in my hands, suddenly hyperaware of how my clothes—carefully selected for their ‘sophisticated academic’ aesthetic—must look to someone who wore faded Carhartts as casual wear. Sam’s gaze swept over my neat stacks of sweaters and my color-coded textbooks, her mouth quirking. "Damn, princess. Aren't you the precious, delicate little thing."
The sweater in my hands suddenly felt ridiculous—cashmere, bought to impress professors who’d never see my dorm room. Sam’s eyes lingered on it, then traveled down to my ballet flats. I resisted the urge to tuck my feet under the chair.
Sam exhaled sharply through her nose—almost a laugh, but not quite—and started unpacking her duffel with the efficiency of someone used to living out of trucks and bunkhouses. Out came a pair of rope-wrapped leather gloves, a dog-eared copy of *Livestock Handling and Transport*, and what looked like a hand-forged hoof pick. Each item landed on her bed with a decisive thump that made my sweater-folding feel absurdly dainty.
The third time Sam walked in on me changing—deliberately, I was starting to suspect—I didn’t yank my shirt down like before. Instead, I let her see the way my breath hitched when her gaze dragged over my bare stomach. "You grade livestock too?" I asked, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. My voice came out breathy, like I’d been caught doing something filthy.
Sam’s grin was slow, deliberate. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her biceps straining against the rolled sleeves of her flannel. "Grading’s half instinct, half measurements," she said, her voice low and rough like she was explaining something sacred. "But you? If by livestock, you mean slave pussy, yeah, that's what my specialty is. Slave Ag." Her eyes darkened as they traced the line of my collarbone. "Little things like you—high-strung, pretty—they fetch a premium if you break ‘em right."
The silence after her words stretched taut between us, thick with something electric. Sam didn’t move from the doorway, didn’t blink—just watched me like I was a yearling she was deciding whether to halter or let run. The buzzing light flickered once—just long enough for Sam’s grin to widen in the sudden darkness before the glow returned. She pushed off the doorframe, her boots heavy on the thin carpet, and I didn’t realize I was backing up until my calves hit the edge of my bed.
The bedframe dug into my thighs as I sat down hard, my pulse hammering in places I hadn’t known could feel so alive. Sam didn’t move closer—just hooked her thumbs in her belt loops and tilted her head, studying me the way she might a skittish mare. "You ever been handled, city girl?" The question wasn’t lewd, just clinical, like she was asking about my vaccination history.
My mouth went dry. The question hung between us, so much heavier than it should’ve been. I should’ve laughed it off, should’ve rolled my eyes and called her ridiculous. But the truth curled hot in my stomach—I’d spent nights imagining hands rougher than hers on me, whispers about my worth in someone else’s mouth. My fingers twisted in the bedsheet. The slave stories on the Internet had led to many nights of pleasured. "You mean, like slave handled?" I finally admitted, the words barely audible. The words sounded stupidly obvious as soon as they left my mouth.
Sam didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached into her back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She flicked it open with one practiced motion, and I caught a glimpse of handwritten notes before she turned it toward me. "Your Grading sheet," she said, tapping a line near the top. "For market-ready girls. You score high on aesthetics—skin tone, symmetry, muscle definition." Her thumb dragged down the page, leaving a smudge near the bottom. "But temperament? That’s where you’d get docked. Too jumpy. Too many questions."
The grading sheet trembled slightly in my hands—not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of how *seen* I felt. Sam's handwriting was unexpectedly neat for someone who handled livestock, each notation precise: *"Hip-to-waist ratio ideal for breeding." "Nipples responsive to temperature shifts."* I swallowed hard when I reached the underlined section at the bottom: *"Recommend conditioning before auction. High potential but requires discipline. Current grade, choice, but could be Prime with proper training."*
The paper crinkled as my fingers clenched tighter around it. "You've been... documenting me?" My voice cracked on the last word, but not from outrage—from something far more dangerous. Heat pooled low in my belly at the realization that Sam had been cataloging my body with the same detached precision she'd use for livestock.
Sam plucked the grading sheet from my fingers with a soft snort. "Documenting?" She folded the paper back into her pocket with the same care someone might give a winning lottery ticket. "Girl, I've been *studying* you." Her calloused thumb brushed my chin as she tucked the paper away, the touch lingering just long enough to make my knees weak. "Question is—you gonna let me put that data to use?"
The overhead light buzzed again—a persistent, electric hum that matched the pulse between my thighs. Sam’s thumb still hovered near my jawline, her callouses rough against my skin in a way that sent shivers down my spine. I could’ve pulled away. Should’ve, maybe. But the part of me that had spent nights imagining calloused hands pinning mine to the mattress won out. My tongue darted out to wet my lips. "What kind of... use?"
Sam's thumb traced the line of my jawbone, rough enough to scrape but light enough to tease. "Summer's coming up," she said, her voice dropping into that slow, deliberate cadence that made my stomach clench. "I'm working the Lazy M ranch back home. We do slave training there. It's also sort of a dude ranch for city folks who wanna know what being a slave wrangler feels like."
The overhead light flickered again, casting her face in shadow as she leaned in. I could smell leather and hay on her, something earthy beneath the sharpness of pine resin. Her breath warmed my ear as she continued, "Twice a month, we take fifty head up to Billings in a cattle drive. Some for grading—some for auction, some just for paperwork before they ship out." A chuckle rumbled deep in her chest. "Fargo first, then parts unknown. Moo-moo, Hee-haw" she chuckled.
The bedsprings creaked as I shifted, my thighs pressing together under the thin fabric of my skirt. Sam’s casual mention of livestock grading shouldn’t have sent heat licking up my spine, but the way her thumb had lingered on my grading sheet—like I was already hers to appraise—left me dizzy. "What kind of paperwork?" I asked, aiming for academic curiosity and landing somewhere closer to breathless anticipation.
Sam’s grin widened, her teeth flashing white in the dim light. She hooked a boot around the leg of my desk chair and dragged it closer, the screech of metal against linoleum making me jump. "Bill of sale, mostly." She dropped into the chair backwards, her thighs straddling the seat with easy dominance. "Health certificates, breeding records if applicable." Her eyes raked over me, slow and deliberate. "Girls get microchipped, and hallmarked", she added with a twinkle in her eye.
The word *microchipped* shouldn’t have made my pulse throb, but the image—Sam’s rough hands holding me still while some ranch-hand pressed a scanner to my skin—sent a traitorous shiver through me. I crossed my legs tightly, fabric pulling against damp thighs. "You ever done that?" I whispered. "The—the microchipping?"
Her chuckle was low, smoky. "Twice right before I left for BU." She leaned forward, her flannel gaping to reveal a sun-darkened collarbone. "Little brunette from Vassar last week squirmed so much I had to sit on her." Her gaze dropped to my lap, where my fingers were knotting in the fabric of my skirt. "You’d squirm worse, wouldn’t you, princess? I'd bet you'd squeal like a little piggy!"
I exhaled sharply—half-laugh, half-moan—and Sam’s eyes darkened. She reached into her breast pocket and pulled out a dog-eared notebook, flipping it open to a page marked with a leather strap. "Here," she said, sliding it across the desk toward me. "Market reports from last season’s auctions. Page twelve’s got your type."
The paper smelled like hay and diesel. Column after column of neat script listed prices, weights, grades—*"Lot #114: Female, 22yo, 5’4”, 118lbs. Prime. Sold to—"* My breath caught. The numbers were dizzying—five digits, sometimes six. Sam’s finger tapped a line near the bottom. "See that? That’s what a girl like you goes for after proper training."
The bedsprings creaked as I shifted, suddenly aware of how my skirt rode up when I leaned forward. Sam’s gaze followed the movement like a predator tracking prey. "Tell me about the cattle drive," I said softly.
Sam’s laugh rolled through the dorm room like a coming storm. She leaned back in the chair, the front legs lifting off the floor as she hooked her boots over the edge of my desk—*my* desk, the one with the organized highlighters and Post-it notes. The wood groaned under her weight. "You ever seen fifty head of prime slave meat moving through a river crossing, princess?" Her voice dropped into a storyteller’s rhythm, rough and rhythmic. "Wranglers on horseback with lassos and whips, in case any tried to bolt. Water up to their tits, some of ‘em shivering so hard their ankle shackles sounded like wind chimes."
"So the slave girls are really treated like cattle?" I said, struggling to process the image. Driven naked through the countryside?"
Sam's boot heels thudded against the desk drawers as she leaned further back, the chair teetering dangerously. "Not *like* cattle," she corrected, her voice dropping into that instructional tone she used when explaining farm equipment. "*Are* cattle. Legally speaking, once those papers get signed." She reached into her wallet—always with the damn pockets—and produced a laminated card. When she tossed it onto my lap, I recognized the USDA logo. "I'm a licensed livestock handler. Montana ayn't Boston, city girl. Slave girls are classified as livestock."
The USDA card lay heavy on my thigh, its laminated surface cool against my skin despite the heat pooling between my legs. I picked it up with trembling fingers, tracing the embossed seal with my thumb. Sam's photo glared up at me—unsmiling, authoritative, the kind of face that could stop a runaway heifer with just a look. My breath hitched when I noticed the classification stamp in the corner: *Livestock Handling - Cattle, Sheep, Slave Specialty).*
"So you can sign up to work as a slave wrangler, and go on a real slave drive?" I asked. "What sort of people do that for their vacation?"
Sam's grin turned wolfish as she snatched the USDA card back, tucking it into her breast pocket with a pat that made the fabric strain across her chest. "Rich assholes, mostly," she said, stretching her arms behind her head in a way that pulled her flannel taut over her biceps. "Doctors, lawyers—folks who spend fifty weeks a year being polite." The chair creaked as she rocked forward, her boots hitting the floor with a thud that made my pencil cup rattle. "Ever seen a hedge fund manager crack a whip? Shit's hilarious."
"I don't know if I could crack a whip," I said, nervously biting my lip as I tried to shift my fantasy to a situation where I'd have more power.
Sam snorted, leaning forward until her elbows rested on her knees—close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her otherwise dark eyes. "Nobody expects you to crack a whip, princess," she said, her voice dipping into that rough timbre that made my thighs press together. "A girl like you... you'd get a different sort of training."
Sam never knocked. That was the first thing I learned about her—that and the fact she smelled like pine resin and worn leather The door banged open on the third day of orientation week, and there she stood, six feet of muscled farm girl, her work boots tracking mud across the dorm floor like she owned it.
"Christ, you're tiny," Sam said, dropping her duffel bag with a thud that shook my desk. She didn't wait for me to react—just strode right past my half-unpacked suitcases to the window, yanking the blinds up with one calloused hand. "Hope you don't mind daylight. Barns don't got curtains."
I froze mid-fold with a sweater in my hands, suddenly hyperaware of how my clothes—carefully selected for their ‘sophisticated academic’ aesthetic—must look to someone who wore faded Carhartts as casual wear. Sam’s gaze swept over my neat stacks of sweaters and my color-coded textbooks, her mouth quirking. "Damn, princess. Aren't you the precious, delicate little thing."
The sweater in my hands suddenly felt ridiculous—cashmere, bought to impress professors who’d never see my dorm room. Sam’s eyes lingered on it, then traveled down to my ballet flats. I resisted the urge to tuck my feet under the chair.
Sam exhaled sharply through her nose—almost a laugh, but not quite—and started unpacking her duffel with the efficiency of someone used to living out of trucks and bunkhouses. Out came a pair of rope-wrapped leather gloves, a dog-eared copy of *Livestock Handling and Transport*, and what looked like a hand-forged hoof pick. Each item landed on her bed with a decisive thump that made my sweater-folding feel absurdly dainty.
The third time Sam walked in on me changing—deliberately, I was starting to suspect—I didn’t yank my shirt down like before. Instead, I let her see the way my breath hitched when her gaze dragged over my bare stomach. "You grade livestock too?" I asked, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. My voice came out breathy, like I’d been caught doing something filthy.
Sam’s grin was slow, deliberate. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her biceps straining against the rolled sleeves of her flannel. "Grading’s half instinct, half measurements," she said, her voice low and rough like she was explaining something sacred. "But you? If by livestock, you mean slave pussy, yeah, that's what my specialty is. Slave Ag." Her eyes darkened as they traced the line of my collarbone. "Little things like you—high-strung, pretty—they fetch a premium if you break ‘em right."
The silence after her words stretched taut between us, thick with something electric. Sam didn’t move from the doorway, didn’t blink—just watched me like I was a yearling she was deciding whether to halter or let run. The buzzing light flickered once—just long enough for Sam’s grin to widen in the sudden darkness before the glow returned. She pushed off the doorframe, her boots heavy on the thin carpet, and I didn’t realize I was backing up until my calves hit the edge of my bed.
The bedframe dug into my thighs as I sat down hard, my pulse hammering in places I hadn’t known could feel so alive. Sam didn’t move closer—just hooked her thumbs in her belt loops and tilted her head, studying me the way she might a skittish mare. "You ever been handled, city girl?" The question wasn’t lewd, just clinical, like she was asking about my vaccination history.
My mouth went dry. The question hung between us, so much heavier than it should’ve been. I should’ve laughed it off, should’ve rolled my eyes and called her ridiculous. But the truth curled hot in my stomach—I’d spent nights imagining hands rougher than hers on me, whispers about my worth in someone else’s mouth. My fingers twisted in the bedsheet. The slave stories on the Internet had led to many nights of pleasured. "You mean, like slave handled?" I finally admitted, the words barely audible. The words sounded stupidly obvious as soon as they left my mouth.
Sam didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached into her back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She flicked it open with one practiced motion, and I caught a glimpse of handwritten notes before she turned it toward me. "Your Grading sheet," she said, tapping a line near the top. "For market-ready girls. You score high on aesthetics—skin tone, symmetry, muscle definition." Her thumb dragged down the page, leaving a smudge near the bottom. "But temperament? That’s where you’d get docked. Too jumpy. Too many questions."
The grading sheet trembled slightly in my hands—not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of how *seen* I felt. Sam's handwriting was unexpectedly neat for someone who handled livestock, each notation precise: *"Hip-to-waist ratio ideal for breeding." "Nipples responsive to temperature shifts."* I swallowed hard when I reached the underlined section at the bottom: *"Recommend conditioning before auction. High potential but requires discipline. Current grade, choice, but could be Prime with proper training."*
The paper crinkled as my fingers clenched tighter around it. "You've been... documenting me?" My voice cracked on the last word, but not from outrage—from something far more dangerous. Heat pooled low in my belly at the realization that Sam had been cataloging my body with the same detached precision she'd use for livestock.
Sam plucked the grading sheet from my fingers with a soft snort. "Documenting?" She folded the paper back into her pocket with the same care someone might give a winning lottery ticket. "Girl, I've been *studying* you." Her calloused thumb brushed my chin as she tucked the paper away, the touch lingering just long enough to make my knees weak. "Question is—you gonna let me put that data to use?"
The overhead light buzzed again—a persistent, electric hum that matched the pulse between my thighs. Sam’s thumb still hovered near my jawline, her callouses rough against my skin in a way that sent shivers down my spine. I could’ve pulled away. Should’ve, maybe. But the part of me that had spent nights imagining calloused hands pinning mine to the mattress won out. My tongue darted out to wet my lips. "What kind of... use?"
Sam's thumb traced the line of my jawbone, rough enough to scrape but light enough to tease. "Summer's coming up," she said, her voice dropping into that slow, deliberate cadence that made my stomach clench. "I'm working the Lazy M ranch back home. We do slave training there. It's also sort of a dude ranch for city folks who wanna know what being a slave wrangler feels like."
The overhead light flickered again, casting her face in shadow as she leaned in. I could smell leather and hay on her, something earthy beneath the sharpness of pine resin. Her breath warmed my ear as she continued, "Twice a month, we take fifty head up to Billings in a cattle drive. Some for grading—some for auction, some just for paperwork before they ship out." A chuckle rumbled deep in her chest. "Fargo first, then parts unknown. Moo-moo, Hee-haw" she chuckled.
The bedsprings creaked as I shifted, my thighs pressing together under the thin fabric of my skirt. Sam’s casual mention of livestock grading shouldn’t have sent heat licking up my spine, but the way her thumb had lingered on my grading sheet—like I was already hers to appraise—left me dizzy. "What kind of paperwork?" I asked, aiming for academic curiosity and landing somewhere closer to breathless anticipation.
Sam’s grin widened, her teeth flashing white in the dim light. She hooked a boot around the leg of my desk chair and dragged it closer, the screech of metal against linoleum making me jump. "Bill of sale, mostly." She dropped into the chair backwards, her thighs straddling the seat with easy dominance. "Health certificates, breeding records if applicable." Her eyes raked over me, slow and deliberate. "Girls get microchipped, and hallmarked", she added with a twinkle in her eye.
The word *microchipped* shouldn’t have made my pulse throb, but the image—Sam’s rough hands holding me still while some ranch-hand pressed a scanner to my skin—sent a traitorous shiver through me. I crossed my legs tightly, fabric pulling against damp thighs. "You ever done that?" I whispered. "The—the microchipping?"
Her chuckle was low, smoky. "Twice right before I left for BU." She leaned forward, her flannel gaping to reveal a sun-darkened collarbone. "Little brunette from Vassar last week squirmed so much I had to sit on her." Her gaze dropped to my lap, where my fingers were knotting in the fabric of my skirt. "You’d squirm worse, wouldn’t you, princess? I'd bet you'd squeal like a little piggy!"
I exhaled sharply—half-laugh, half-moan—and Sam’s eyes darkened. She reached into her breast pocket and pulled out a dog-eared notebook, flipping it open to a page marked with a leather strap. "Here," she said, sliding it across the desk toward me. "Market reports from last season’s auctions. Page twelve’s got your type."
The paper smelled like hay and diesel. Column after column of neat script listed prices, weights, grades—*"Lot #114: Female, 22yo, 5’4”, 118lbs. Prime. Sold to—"* My breath caught. The numbers were dizzying—five digits, sometimes six. Sam’s finger tapped a line near the bottom. "See that? That’s what a girl like you goes for after proper training."
The bedsprings creaked as I shifted, suddenly aware of how my skirt rode up when I leaned forward. Sam’s gaze followed the movement like a predator tracking prey. "Tell me about the cattle drive," I said softly.
Sam’s laugh rolled through the dorm room like a coming storm. She leaned back in the chair, the front legs lifting off the floor as she hooked her boots over the edge of my desk—*my* desk, the one with the organized highlighters and Post-it notes. The wood groaned under her weight. "You ever seen fifty head of prime slave meat moving through a river crossing, princess?" Her voice dropped into a storyteller’s rhythm, rough and rhythmic. "Wranglers on horseback with lassos and whips, in case any tried to bolt. Water up to their tits, some of ‘em shivering so hard their ankle shackles sounded like wind chimes."
"So the slave girls are really treated like cattle?" I said, struggling to process the image. Driven naked through the countryside?"
Sam's boot heels thudded against the desk drawers as she leaned further back, the chair teetering dangerously. "Not *like* cattle," she corrected, her voice dropping into that instructional tone she used when explaining farm equipment. "*Are* cattle. Legally speaking, once those papers get signed." She reached into her wallet—always with the damn pockets—and produced a laminated card. When she tossed it onto my lap, I recognized the USDA logo. "I'm a licensed livestock handler. Montana ayn't Boston, city girl. Slave girls are classified as livestock."
The USDA card lay heavy on my thigh, its laminated surface cool against my skin despite the heat pooling between my legs. I picked it up with trembling fingers, tracing the embossed seal with my thumb. Sam's photo glared up at me—unsmiling, authoritative, the kind of face that could stop a runaway heifer with just a look. My breath hitched when I noticed the classification stamp in the corner: *Livestock Handling - Cattle, Sheep, Slave Specialty).*
"So you can sign up to work as a slave wrangler, and go on a real slave drive?" I asked. "What sort of people do that for their vacation?"
Sam's grin turned wolfish as she snatched the USDA card back, tucking it into her breast pocket with a pat that made the fabric strain across her chest. "Rich assholes, mostly," she said, stretching her arms behind her head in a way that pulled her flannel taut over her biceps. "Doctors, lawyers—folks who spend fifty weeks a year being polite." The chair creaked as she rocked forward, her boots hitting the floor with a thud that made my pencil cup rattle. "Ever seen a hedge fund manager crack a whip? Shit's hilarious."
"I don't know if I could crack a whip," I said, nervously biting my lip as I tried to shift my fantasy to a situation where I'd have more power.
Sam snorted, leaning forward until her elbows rested on her knees—close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her otherwise dark eyes. "Nobody expects you to crack a whip, princess," she said, her voice dipping into that rough timbre that made my thighs press together. "A girl like you... you'd get a different sort of training."