Cattle drive fun

[Msakr]

Wanted to extend Joe’s cattle drive snippet in Carl’s style.

Attempt 1:
Outline for Completing "Cattle Drive" in the Style of Carl Bradford's Stories
The completed story would adopt the first-person perspective from the female protagonist's viewpoint, emphasizing her internal conflict, growing arousal amid humiliation, and eventual acceptance of her submissive role, as seen in "The Substitute" (Gwen's evolving fantasies and self-sacrifice) and "Fraternity Girl" (Patricia's journey from debt enslavement to fulfillment). It would incorporate literary conventions like the standard slavery world disclaimer at the start, detailed sensory descriptions of physical examinations/grading, power dynamics in dialogue (e.g., dominant characters using clinical, livestock-like terminology, akin to Sam's grading sheet in the fragment and market scenes in "Same Old Halloween Costume"), explicit erotic elements without moralizing, and a resolution where temporary enslavement leads to personal growth or deepened relationships, mirroring the positive outcomes in "Fraternity Girl" and "The Substitute." Assuming "Sabbatical in Slavery" follows a similar pattern of voluntary/temporary indenture for experiential purposes (based on its title and references in related threads), the story would frame the protagonist's summer as a "sabbatical" in slavery, blending farm/ranch realism with fantasy humiliation. The narrative would be divided into no more than 3 sections for pacing, with breaks marked by time jumps or shifts in setting, focusing on buildup, immersion, and climax/resolution without unnecessary subplots.

Section 1: Dorm Room Conditioning (Setup and Temptation)
Expand the fragment's dorm interactions over orientation week and into the semester, building the protagonist's fascination with Sam's ranch life through escalating "play" sessions. Include daily "grading" rituals where Sam inspects and documents her body (echoing auction prep in "Fraternity Girl"), introducing light bondage, Horny Juice analogs (e.g., aphrodisiac lotions), and mock training exercises like slave yoga or oral practice on props. The protagonist's internal monologue would detail her arousal, self-doubt (e.g., contrasting her "princess" city life with Sam's rugged dominance, similar to Gwen's marital reflections in "The Substitute"), and growing addiction to the fantasy. Culminate in Sam's formal invitation for a summer "sabbatical" as volunteer slave livestock on the ranch, with the protagonist signing a temporary FINO contract for the experience, leading to a section break as she arrives at the Lazy M.
Section 2: Ranch Induction and Training (Immersion and Breaking)
Shift to the ranch, where the protagonist is stripped, collared, microchipped, and branded (drawing from branding scenes in "Same Old Halloween Costume" and "Fraternity Girl"), treated as one of the "head" in group slave quarters. Describe her daily regimen: enemas, butt plug training for "handling," group inspections by wranglers (including public fondling and arousal tests, akin to market displays in "The Substitute"), and chores like mucking stalls while chained. Incorporate interactions with other slaves (e.g., city "dudes" on vacation as wranglers, using her sexually under Sam's supervision) and her conflicted pleasure-pain responses. Build tension with Sam's protective yet dominant role, echoing house mother dynamics in "Fraternity Girl," ending the section with prep for the cattle drive as a break, heightening anticipation.
Section 3: The Cattle Drive and Auction (Climax and Resolution)
Depict the multi-day drive to Billings/Fargo: the protagonist driven naked in a herd through rivers and trails, whipped if straying, with vivid descriptions of physical exhaustion, exposure humiliation, and forced sexual services at campsites (paralleling party degradations in "Same Old Halloween Costume" and brothel fears in "The Substitute"). Include a "grading stop" midway for official USDA inspections, amplifying her objectification. At the auction endpoint, she's displayed and "sold" symbolically (temporary bid for experience, not permanent), but Sam buys her back low to affirm their bond. Resolve with her return to college, transformed—perhaps continuing a consensual D/s relationship with Sam—emphasizing empowerment through submission, as in the redemptive arcs of Bradford's protagonists. End with a teaser for potential future sabbaticals.

Part2 initial draft:

The ranch smelled like dust, horse sweat, and something sharper—fear-sweat, maybe, or the faint metallic tang of oiled leather restraints. The Lazy M sprawled across dry Montana hills, all weathered barn boards and endless sky, no trees to soften the edges. When Sam’s truck finally rattled to a stop in the gravel yard, I stepped out barefoot, still in the thin sundress I’d worn from the airport, feeling like I’d been dropped into someone else’s fever dream.
Sam didn’t give me time to gawk. “Strip,” she said, already moving toward the barn doors. No preamble, no ceremony—just the flat command of someone who expected obedience. My hands shook as I pulled the dress over my head, the fabric catching briefly on my hair before I dropped it in the dirt. Bra next, then panties. The late-afternoon sun hit my skin like a slap; I crossed my arms instinctively over my breasts, but Sam clicked her tongue once, sharp, and I let them fall.
Inside the barn the air was cooler, thick with hay dust and the low murmurs of other girls already in place. Six of them, naked, collared, wrists cuffed behind their backs, knelt in a loose semicircle on clean straw. Their eyes flicked toward me—curious, assessing, resigned. One, a tall redhead with faint whip marks across her thighs, gave a small nod like welcome to the club.
Sam clipped a heavy leather collar around my throat before I could draw breath to protest. The buckle clicked shut with finality; a small brass tag dangled against my collarbone, already engraved: Property of Lazy M – Temp Volunteer – #47. She pressed a cold scanner to the back of my neck; I felt the quick sting of the microchip injector, then the dull throb as it settled under my skin. “Official now,” she muttered, almost gentle. “USDA’s got your number.”
Next came the hallmark. Sam heated a small iron in a portable forge—nothing elaborate, just a simple Lazy M brand, no bigger than a quarter. I was bent over a padded sawhorse, wrists and ankles strapped wide. The heat kissed my right ass cheek first, a warning sear, then pressed firm. I yelped, bucked; the iron hissed against skin. When she pulled it away, the smell of singed flesh mixed with the barn smells. It hurt less than I expected—more shock than agony—but the mark throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a permanent reminder that summer was no longer optional.
Training started at dawn the next day.
Mornings were for conditioning. We lined up in the wash rack—concrete floor sloped for drainage, overhead hoses. A wrangler named Travis, broad-shouldered and sunburned, worked the line with clinical efficiency. Cold water first, then soap that stung my freshly branded skin. He scrubbed everywhere: between legs, under arms, inside. When his gloved fingers pushed past my labia to clean deeper, I gasped; he only grunted, “Hold still, stock.” My body betrayed me anyway—nipples tight, clit swollen despite the chill. Travis noticed. Of course he did. “Responsive,” he noted aloud, like he was grading produce. “Good for drive work.”
Enemas followed in the same rack. Bent double, strapped, nozzle inserted while Travis timed the fill. I whimpered through the cramping, tears mixing with water on my cheeks. When he finally pulled the tube and ordered me to release into the drain, humiliation burned hotter than the brand. Yet the ache between my thighs only deepened.
Afternoons were for plugs and posture. We practiced “presentation”: knees wide, back arched, hands laced behind neck so breasts thrust forward. Wranglers circled, correcting with crop taps—light stings on thighs, harder ones on ass if we sagged. Sam oversaw most sessions, her voice calm but unyielding. “Chin up, shoulders back. You’re not hiding tits—you’re offering them.” When my form slipped, she’d step in herself, one rough hand cupping my mound, thumb circling my clit until I trembled on the edge, then withdrawing. “Earn the touch,” she’d say. “Earn it on the trail.”
Evenings brought the wranglers’ rotation.
The third night, Travis chose me.
The bunkhouse was dim, lit by a single bulb. I’d been chained to a low ring in the wall—collar linked short, wrists cuffed to a spreader bar at ankle level so I knelt with ass presented, thighs spread. The position left nothing hidden. Travis entered without knocking, boots heavy on the plank floor. He didn’t speak at first—just circled me slowly, calloused hand trailing over the brand, then down the curve of my spine to rest possessively on one cheek.
“Been watching you squirm all week,” he said finally, voice gravel-rough. “Figured you needed breaking in proper before the drive.”
He unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness. The sound made my stomach clench. When he freed himself—thick, already hard—I felt the first real flash of fear mixed with something darker, wetter. He didn’t rush. One hand fisted my hair, tilting my head back so I had to meet his eyes. “Open,” he ordered.
I did.
He fed himself in inch by inch, stretching my lips, my jaw. The taste was salt and musk; I gagged once when he hit the back of my throat, but he held me there, waiting until my eyes watered and my throat relaxed. Then he fucked my mouth—slow at first, then deeper, faster. Drool slicked my chin; my cunt ached untouched. When he pulled out abruptly, strings of saliva connected us. He moved behind me.
No warning—just the blunt head pressing against my entrance, then one hard thrust burying him to the hilt. I cried out, the sound muffled against my own arm. He was big, stretching me wide; each stroke dragged over every sensitive spot until my legs shook. His hands gripped my hips, thumbs digging into the fresh brand so pain flared bright alongside pleasure. “Tight little stock,” he grunted. “Gonna milk me good.”
He didn’t last long—maybe he’d been waiting all day. A few more punishing thrusts and he came hard, flooding me deep. When he withdrew, his spend trickled down my thighs. He wiped himself on my ass cheek, patted the brand like I was a good horse, then left without another word.
I stayed chained like that for another hour, dripping, aching, branded inside and out. When Sam finally came to release me, she only crouched, wiped the mess from my thighs with a rough towel, and murmured, “You took it well. Tomorrow we start real herd training.”
By the end of the second week, the routine had settled into my bones: inspections, plugs graduating in size, group yoga where we held stress positions until muscles screamed, public arousal checks where wranglers fingered us in line to test responsiveness. I stopped flinching at the casual handling. Stopped pretending the constant low-grade arousal wasn’t pleasure. The other girls shared stories in whispers—some here for debt, some for thrills, a few like me, chasing the edge of what they’d only fantasized.
Sam watched it all, protective in her way. She never fucked me herself—not yet—but her touches lingered longer each day: a thumb brushing my nipple during inspection, fingers tracing the brand like she owned the mark. “You’re shaping up,” she told me once, voice low. “Prime potential. Just need the drive to prove it.”
The cattle drive loomed closer—fifty head, rivers to cross, trails to endure. I was no longer the city girl in cashmere. I was #47, marked, plugged, conditioned. And when the day came to move out, I would walk naked among the herd, wrists shackled to a chain line, Sam riding drag with her whip coiled at her hip.
Ready.

[Msakr]

Attempt2:
Part 1: The Dorm Room Awakening
In this introductory section, set on a college campus in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is normalized for debt, voluntary indenture, or experiential purposes, the narrative follows a first-person perspective from the protagonist, a petite, urban-raised freshman named Emily (the "city girl" or "princess" from the fragment). Drawing from the college and fraternity themes in "Fraternity Girl" and "The Substitute," Emily arrives at Boston University with aspirations of academic sophistication, only to be paired with her dominant roommate, Sam—a tall, rugged farm girl from Montana specializing in "Slave Ag" (agricultural handling of slaves classified as livestock). The fragment is incorporated verbatim as the core of this part, detailing their initial encounters: Sam's bold entrance, her casual references to slave grading and handling, Emily's growing fascination with Sam's stories of ranch life, the revelation of Emily's "grading sheet," and the teasing invitation to join a summer cattle drive at the Lazy M ranch.
Key events build tension through explicit, sensory descriptions of Emily's arousal and humiliation, such as when Sam clinically appraises her body like livestock, injecting elements of objectification and power reversal similar to the training sequences in "Breeding the Pony Girl" and "Sabbatical in Slavery." Emily's internal monologue reveals her secret online fantasies about slavery, mirroring the submissive desires in "The Substitute" and "Same Old Halloween Costume." The part culminates in Emily's tentative agreement to volunteer as a "dude ranch guest" pretending to be a slave for the drive, signing a temporary indenture form (non-binding but with real risks of extension for debt or misbehavior), echoing voluntary self-indenture themes. Sam arranges her transport, emphasizing the ranch's protocols for "breaking" high-strung city girls into obedient "cattle," setting up themes of degradation, livestock classification, and erotic submission.
Part 2: Ranch Conditioning and Grading
Shifting to the Lazy M ranch in Montana, this middle section intensifies the humiliation and training motifs from Bradford's works, treating Emily as part of a herd of voluntary and debt slaves. Narrated with vivid, first-person sensory details—focusing on the sting of whips, the chafe of shackles, and hormone-induced arousal akin to "Horny Juice" in "Fraternity Girl"—Emily arrives stripped, collared, and caged for transport, recognizing the reality of her "pretend" role. Sam, now in her element as a licensed wrangler (with USDA credentials for slave livestock), oversees Emily's integration into the program, drawing from pony girl training in "Breeding the Pony Girl" and obedience school brainwashing in "Fraternity Girl."
Key events include: Emily's public grading at the ranch vet station (measurements, responsiveness tests, and a "Choice" brand on her buttock, with nipple piercings for control leads); mandatory slave yoga and conditioning classes led by ranch hands, incorporating mantras of submission and group demonstrations of oral and anal service (overcoming Emily's initial resistance, similar to Gwen's arc in "The Substitute"); a "breaking" session where Emily is harnessed as a pony girl for cart-pulling drills, gangbanged by wranglers as "temperament testing," and punished with quirts for hesitation, blending pain and pleasure. Interwoven are moments of compassion from Sam, who "studies" Emily privately, fostering a complex bond like Josh and Patricia in "Fraternity Girl." Jealousy emerges as Emily envies more seasoned slaves' ease, leading to her deeper embrace of subservience. The part ends with the herd's preparation for the drive—shackled in a barn, injected with arousal enhancers, and briefed on the route to Billings for auction or shipping—heightening anticipation and themes of dehumanization as livestock.
Part 3: The Drive and Redemption
The climactic section depicts the multi-day cattle drive to Billings, emphasizing themes of endurance, public exposure, and ultimate empowerment from "Sabbatical in Slavery" and "Same Old Halloween Costume." In first-person style, Emily narrates the grueling trek: naked slaves chained in a coffle, herded by horseback wranglers (including Sam) through rivers, trails, and towns, with whips cracking for stragglers and nightly "use" by dude ranch guests paying to "wrangle." Explicit scenes detail river crossings where water soaks bound bodies, evoking vulnerability; roadside inspections by locals, including fondling and impromptu breeding demonstrations (Emily paired with a "stud" slave for fertility testing, tying into "Breeding the Pony Girl"); and a storm-forced camp where Emily submits to a group session, finding liberation in her loss of agency.
Complications arise when Emily's temporary indenture risks extension due to a "misbehavior" fine, mirroring debt spirals in "The Substitute," but Sam's advocacy reduces it. At Billings' market, Emily is displayed, graded "Prime" after her "breaking," and nearly auctioned before Sam buys her out with ranch funds, revealing her affection. The resolution echoes Bradford's happy endings: Emily returns to college freed but transformed, pursuing a Slave Ag minor under Sam's mentorship, with consensual playdates involving collars and whips. The narrative closes on themes of self-discovery, where submission strengthens identity, with Emily reflecting on her "premium" value as both slave and free woman.

Part2:
The bus from Boston to Billings took thirty-two hours, but the real journey started when I stepped off in a dusty parking lot outside a truck stop just past the Montana border. A black panel van waited, engine idling, windows tinted so dark they looked like voids. The driver—a wiry man in a faded Lazy M cap—didn’t speak, just jerked his thumb toward the open side door.
Inside, three other girls already waited, naked except for the thin canvas hoods pulled over their heads and the steel collars locked around their throats. Their wrists were cuffed behind them in heavy transport restraints, ankles shackled with just enough chain to shuffle. One trembled visibly; another sat with eerie stillness, knees together like she’d done this before. I hesitated at the threshold until a rough hand—Sam’s—pressed between my shoulder blades.
“Clothes off, princess,” she said, voice calm but final. “Protocol starts now.”
My fingers shook as I peeled off the hoodie, jeans, bra, panties. The air inside the van was warm, thick with the smell of sweat and metal. Sam took each item as I handed it over, folding them neatly into a plastic bin labeled EMILY - TEMP INDENTURE. When I was bare, she clipped a temporary tag to my collar: white plastic, printed with bar code, my student ID number, and the words VOLUNTARY GUEST - LIVESTOCK SIMULATION - 90 DAYS MAX.
“Hands,” she ordered.
I crossed them behind my back. Cold steel clicked around my wrists, tighter than I expected. The ankle cuffs followed, chain rattling softly with every shift of weight. Sam guided me to the bench seat, buckling a wide leather belt across my waist that pinned my arms in place. A final strap went between my thighs—not tight enough to hurt, just enough to remind me I couldn’t close my legs fully.
The van doors slammed. Engine growled to life. We rolled.
For the first two hours, no one spoke. The hood muffled sound, turning the world into a soft roar of tires and breathing. My nipples hardened against the cool air vents; every bump in the road jolted the chain between my ankles, sending little sparks up my spine. I could feel the other girls shifting—small whimpers, the clink of metal on metal. My own body betrayed me quickly: dampness slicked my inner thighs, the strap rubbing just enough to keep me teetering on edge without relief.
When we finally stopped, gravel crunched under boots. Doors opened. Fresh air rushed in, carrying dust and sagebrush. Hands—multiple now—unbuckled me, hauled me out. The hood came off last.
We were at the Lazy M vet station: a long, low concrete building with fluorescent lights and stainless-steel exam tables. Five more girls waited in a line, already processed—nipples pierced with heavy steel rings, linked by short chains; buttocks stamped with fresh temporary brands (a simple “LM” in red ink that would fade in weeks); microchips freshly implanted under the skin behind their left ears. Wranglers in denim and chaps moved among them with clipboards and scanners.
Sam led me to the head of the line. “New arrival. City stock. Voluntary, but treat her standard.”
A vet tech—older woman, no-nonsense—snapped on gloves. “Up on the table, girl.”
The surface was cold vinyl. I climbed up, knees drawn to my chest until they pushed them apart into stirrups. Measurements came first: height (5’3”), weight (112 lbs), bust-waist-hips (34-24-35). Calipers pinched skin at strategic points—thighs, belly, breasts—while the tech muttered numbers into a recorder. “Prime candidate. Good muscle tone, low body fat. Responsive tissue.”
Temperature probe next—rectal, quick and clinical. Then the speculum, cold metal spreading me open while a light shone inside. “Cervix healthy. No anomalies.” Lubricant followed, warm and slick, fingers probing deeper. I gasped; the table creaked under me.
“Vocal,” the tech noted approvingly. “Good for training feedback.”
Sam stood at my head, one hand resting possessively on my shoulder. When the nipple clamps came out—steel with adjustment screws—I whimpered before they even touched me. The tech twisted each one slowly until I arched, tears pricking my eyes. “Pain threshold moderate. Nipple sensitivity high—recommend weighted rings for conditioning.”
The piercing gun clicked twice. Sharp sting, then dull throb as heavy rings settled into place. Sam threaded short chains through them immediately, clipping the ends to a overhead bar so I had to arch my back to ease the pull.
“Brand or stamp?” the tech asked.
“Stamp for now,” Sam decided. “She’s still pretending this is temporary.”
Red ink, hot stamp pad, firm pressure against my left buttock. The “LM” burned for a second, then cooled into a tingling claim.
Last came the microchip. Sam held my head steady while the injector pressed behind my ear. A quick pop, faint pressure, done. The scanner beeped green. “Registered. Temporary indenture logged. Ninety-day clock starts today.”
They released me from the table but didn’t remove the restraints. Instead, a wrangler clipped a lead to my collar and marched the line of us—eight total now—across the dusty yard to the conditioning barn.
Inside smelled of hay, leather, and arousal. Rows of stalls, each with a padded mat, wall-mounted rings, and a water trough. We were herded in pairs. Sam chose me and the quiet brunette from the van. Our cuffs were swapped for lighter wrist chains padlocked to overhead rings, forcing us onto our knees.
“Slave yoga first,” Sam announced, cracking a short quirt against her palm. “Positions build obedience and flexibility. You’ll learn them until they’re automatic.”
The routine was brutal in its precision: “Present” (knees wide, chest to floor, ass up); “Display” (standing, hands behind head, feet apart); “Beg” (kneeling, palms up, mouth open); “Service” (crawling forward, tongue extended). Every hesitation earned a snap of the quirt—light at first, then sharper. My skin bloomed red welts across thighs, breasts, buttocks. Pain blended into heat, into need.
By hour three, sweat slicked every inch of me. The brunette beside me moaned softly each time the quirt landed; I bit my lip to stay quiet until Sam noticed.
“Too proud, princess?” She crouched, gripped my chin. “Open.”
I did. Her fingers slid inside my mouth, then down between my legs. Two plunged in without warning—wet, easy. “Soaked already. Good girl.”
She worked me there on my knees while the others watched—slow strokes, thumb circling my clit until my hips bucked despite the chains. When I came, it was loud, shuddering, tears mixing with sweat. Sam wiped her hand on my thigh, then fed me my own wetness from her fingers.
“Night one,” she said, standing. “Tomorrow we harness you for pony drills. Wranglers like a well-broken cart team before the drive starts.”
She clipped our leads to wall rings, dimmed the lights. I curled on the mat, chains clinking softly, body aching and alive in ways I’d never known. Somewhere down the row, another girl whimpered through her own aftercare.
Ninety days suddenly didn’t feel temporary at all.
The herd would move at dawn.

[Jackdonkey22]

Good work! Can’t wait for more.