StripSearch

48. The Milk Bar Shift

Simba’s Milk Hut buzzed with the hum of Grabesian men. Their laughter echoed off the wooden walls as lanterns cast a warm glow overhead. Melissa moved swiftly between tables as her bare feet padded across the rough floorboards with a tray of empty glasses balanced in her hands. Her collar sat heavy against her neck, a cold reminder of her place, but she kept her face blank, and the training at The Slave Academy kept her movements precise. Nadine worked nearby, wiping down the bar. Her pale skin was a stark contrast to the ten Grabesian girls bustling around them—black, young, and slim. Their naked bodies were well-trained and healthy, their long braided hair swayed as they served drinks, entertained guests, or offered themselves for inspection with practiced ease. Melissa and Nadine were the only white slaves in the lineup. Their difference drew stares from the patrons of the venue. The air carried the sweet scent of coconut milk cookies and mango sticky rice bites, small treats displayed on the counter alongside spiced plantain fritters. Their savory aroma mingled with the bar’s offerings of milk drinks, both fresh and bottled, to tempt the patrons’ appetites.



A stocky Grabesian near the bar counter raised a finger. His gravelly voice cut through the lively hum of the room. “Fresh milk drink—make it quick! And a plate of those plantain fritters to go with it!” The barman, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, nodded sharply to the girls, his tone clipped. “Fresh order—line up!”

Melissa set down her tray. Her stomach twisted as she exchanged a glance with Nadine, whose pale face tightened with dread. They moved to the side of the bar to join the Grabesian girls in a neat line before the customer. Each girl fetched an electric breast pump from a shelf. The devices were small but heavy. A suction cup was attached to an integrated collection cup for the milk. Melissa knelt on the floorboards, her knees dug into the rough wooden floor with the lineup stretching out in full view of the customer. His gaze raked over her, drinking in her naked body, and she felt her collar like a vice, a reminder of her role—bare, a tool for their profit. She pressed the suction cup to her right nipple, and the machine hummed to life with a low buzz, and squeezed.

The pull was sharp, and a deep ache radiated through her swollen breast as milk streamed into the container, white and steady. She kept her face blank, but her jaw clenched as fury simmered beneath her skin. I’m not your damn cow, she thought. Her hands trembled slightly as she pumped under the customer’s stare. She switched the cup to her left nipple and the ache flared anew. But the milk flowed faster now, steadily filling the cup. The Grabesian girls worked beside her. Their movements were mechanical, while Nadine’s breaths came shallow. Her own pump hummed as milk dripped into her container.

The container had a demarcated line, a quota each girl had to meet, and the thought of falling short, of being singled out before the others, sent a jolt of panic through Melissa. She pumped again, her nipples throbbing, and glanced at the cup with worry. Relief washed over her as the milk level crept past the line, and the white liquid finally kissed the mark. She switched off the pump, and disconnected the suction cup from her nipple. Her relief was immediate as the pressure eased, and she held the bowl before her, in an unspoken offer to the barman as was protocol.

The barman paced the line, his eyes sharp, and stopped at each girl. He poured their milk into a single cup with a practiced tilt. When he reached Melissa, he nodded curtly, and emptied her bowl into the cup, the milk swirling with the others’. He moved to Nadine, then down the line, the cup filling steadily until he poured it into a whisky glass, the white liquid gleaming under the lantern light. He handed it to the customer, who grinned, lifting the glass in a mock toast before taking a long sip and biting into a fritter. The spiced plantain paired perfectly with the creamy milk.

Melissa’s hands fell to her thighs. Her nipples throbbed from the pump’s relentless pull. The customer’s gaze lingered with a satisfied smirk and made her skin crawl with discomfort. She turned her head slightly to avoid his stare. Some drinks used pre-milked bottles, also called Farmyield Milk on the menu, cooled and stored, sourced from the farm girls at Coconut Grove. But fresh orders like this demanded the spectacle. It proved the milk was straight from healthy females, a guarantee of quality that made Melissa’s skin crawl. Other drinks like cocktails or coffees, might use the bottled milk, but the process for fresh orders never changed: the girls lined up, exposed, their milking a public act to satisfy the bar’s clientele.

—



The shift dragged on, with more orders coming in, some fresh, some bottled, until the bar settled into a steady rhythm of clinking glasses and murmured conversations. Melissa wiped down a table. Her muscles ached from the earlier milking, when two Grabesian men at a nearby table caught her attention. Their faces were lined with the discerning scrutiny of milk foodies. Their tunics were marked with the dust of travel, and they waved the manager over. Their voices carried the refined curiosity of connoisseurs. The taller man leaned forward, his tone was measured, swirling an empty glass in his hand.

"We’ve savored the milk from your black farm girls for years—a robust depth, a full body, always a reliable finish. These white girls are a new addition, yes? We’re curious about their profile—does their milk carry the same richness, or does it offer a different character?"

The shorter man nodded, his eyes flicking to Melissa and Nadine as they worked nearby, his voice smooth but probing.

"Indeed, we value consistency in our tastings. Might their milk differ in quality, given their… unconventional provenance?"

The manager, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, inclined his head with the polished deference of a high-class waiter, his tone warm and accommodating.

"Gentlemen, I appreciate your discerning palates, and I’m certain you’ll find the white girls’ milk a delightful complement to your usual fare. They’re kept at The Slave Academy, an institution renowned for its care—its slaves are nourished with the finest fresh produce and hearty grains, a diet far superior to that of many work slaves in these parts. Their milk reflects this quality, though it may offer a unique nuance to your tasting experience."

He gestured with a flourish, his smile attentive. "Shall we arrange a comparison tasting to satisfy your curiosity? I’m confident you’ll find it most enlightening."

The two men shared a look, their interest piqued, and the taller one nodded. "A tasting would be splendid! Let’s explore the distinction."

The manager turned to the girls, his voice sharp. "Melissa, Nadine—line up! Farm girls, you too! We’re doing a comparison order. Two cups, one from the white girls, one from the black girls."

Melissa’s stomach churned as she set down her cloth, exchanging a glance with Nadine, whose pale eyes widened with dread. They stepped forward, and the farm girls joined them with their usual efficiency. The crowd’s attention shifted to the spectacle.

Melissa fetched her pump from the shelf, and it hummed to life with a low buzz as she pressed the suction cup to her right nipple, the rhythmic tug drawing a sharp ache through her swollen breasts. Nadine mirrored her, her hands trembling as she worked, the hum of their pumps blending with the farm girls’ steady rhythm.

The barman collected Melissa and Nadine’s milk into one cup, and pooled the white girls’ yield, while the farm girls’ milk filled a second cup, their darker hands moving with mechanical precision.

Melissa and Nadine stood close enough to overhear the discussion, their naked bodies exposed under the patrons’ scrutiny, the weight of their collars heavier than ever. As the manager spoke, Melissa’s gaze darted to Nadine, her throat tightening with a mix of shame and rage about how they were being discussed like livestock.

Nadine’s lips quivered, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, and she whispered, "They’re talking about us like we’re some kind of cattle—I can’t stand this."

Melissa’s jaw clenched, her voice a hissed reply, "I know—it’s awful, just keep going, we’ll get through this." Her fingers tightened around the pump, her knuckles whitening, as the humiliation burned deeper, stripping away another layer of her dignity.

The manager handed the cups to the two patrons, who swirled the milk with the scrutiny of connoisseurs.

The taller man sipped from the farm girls’ cup first, nodding appreciatively. "Savory, as always—rich, earthy, just how I like it." He then tasted the white girls’ cup, his brow furrowing before a slow smile spread across his face. "This… it’s less flavorful, almost neutral, but the texture—it’s creamier, smoother. I like that."

The shorter man agreed, taking his own sips. "The black girls’ milk has more depth, but the white girls’ creaminess is nice—different, but good."

The manager shrugged, leaning against the bar. "Could be their conditions. The white girls are kept at The Slave Academy, not the farm. Their diet’s different—better in some ways, but it might affect the taste."

The taller patron set down his cup, satisfied. "Interesting experience—thanks for the test. I’ll take a bottle of Nadine’s milk with some mango sticky rice bites."

The shorter man nodded, adding, "And I’ll have a bottle of Melissa’s milk with a coconut milk cookie—let’s see how that pairs."

—

Just as Melissa and Nadine returned to their tasks, the door swung open, and a Grabesian man in a crisp tunic stepped inside, a tablet tucked under his arm and a badge gleaming on his chest. His sharp eyes scanned the bar, taking in the lingering patrons and the slaves at work, his presence commanding immediate attention. Near the entrance, a framed certificate caught the lantern light, its seal proclaiming Simba’s Milk Hut’s compliance with Grabesian health standards—a voluntary stamp of approval for customers seeking assurance of quality. The manager hurried over, his expression shifting from exhaustion to nervous deference as he recognized the insignia of a voluntary certification inspector—a service Simba’s Milk Hut paid for to earn that seal through unannounced visits.

The inspector raised a hand, his tone clipped but professional. "Evening, manager. I’m here for an unannounced inspection—standard procedure. I’ll need to verify the health compliance of your slave girls. Line them up, please."

The manager nodded quickly, wiping his hands on his apron as he called out, "Girls—line up, now! Inspection time!"

His heart raced as he watched the girls assemble. The weight of the certification pressed on him. That voluntary seal near the entrance was a stamp of approval. It reassured customers that the raw breastmilk, unpasteurized and unhomogenized as it was, was safe despite its risk of spoilage in Grabesh’s tropical heat. It drew discerning drinkers, justified higher prices, and any lapse could spark doubts about the milk’s quality, driving customers elsewhere.

Melissa’s heart sank. Her body was already weary from the night’s ordeals. She and Nadine joined the farm girls in a neat row near the bar, exposing their naked bodies under the inspector’s scrutinizing gaze. The patrons quieted, and watched the process with mild curiosity.

The inspector started at the far end, and worked his way down the line with mechanical efficiency. He scanned each farm girl’s chip with his tablet—a device embedded between their shoulder blades, logged at Coconut Grove Farm. He cross-checked their ear tags, to ensure the IDs matched. Then he reviewed their health files with a critical eye. The farm girls stood still. Their expressions were blank. They were accustomed to such checks.

When he reached Melissa, his gaze narrowed as he held up the tablet.

"Step forward, girl—name?"

Melissa’s throat tightened, her voice low. "Melissa, sir."

He scanned the chip between her shoulder blades. The tablet beeped softly as it registered her ID.

"Come closer," he ordered in a brisk tone. She shuffled forward. Her cheeks burned as he tilted her head to inspect the yellow tag in her right ear, the metal pin glinting under the lantern light. The IDs matched, and he pulled up her file. His brow furrowed as he scrolled through the records.

Melissa’s stomach churned as she stood under the inspector’s gaze. The inspection was not for her but to ensure the quality of her milk was safe for human consumption in hospitality.

She glanced at Nadine, whose pale eyes mirrored her own hollow shock, and Nadine whispered, "We’re just milk machines to them, aren’t we? All that matters is that their precious drinks are safe!" her voice barely audible as Melissa’s hands trembled with the urge to cover herself.

He turned to the manager, his voice firm. "This one—Melissa—her milk hasn’t been lab-checked for quality and safety. That’s a requirement for certification."

The manager’s face paled, his hands fidgeting as he stepped closer. "I… I apologize, sir. She’s not part of the Coconut Grove Herd—we’re trialing her and the other white girl here. We sourced them from The Slave Academy. I was assured they’re in good health."

The inspector’s expression softened slightly, his tone measured. "I see. Her file shows she’s been checked by the Health Office and has indeed been attested good health overall, so it’s unlikely there’s an issue with her milk. I’ll issue a fix-it notice for now and let it slide. But this needs to be addressed within fourteen days."

The manager bowed his head, relief flickering across his face as he thought, Thank the stars, he was letting this slide. He couldn’t afford doubts about the milk’s safety, it would hurt the bar’s reputation. "Thank you, sir. I’ll speak with her handlers at The Slave Academy immediately to ensure it’s done."

The inspector nodded, then turned to Nadine. "Next—name?"

Nadine’s voice trembled as she stepped forward. "Nadine, sir."

He raised the tablet to scan her, but after several passes, his tablet beeped in error, and he frowned. "No chip detected. Let me see your ear tag."

Nadine froze, her hands twitching at her sides as he tilted her head, inspecting both ears.

"No tag either," he muttered, his tone growing stern. He waved the manager over again, his voice sharp. "Manager, this slave has identification markers. That’s a direct violation of the certification standards—identification and health compliance are required for certification."

The manager’s face flushed with panic, his voice quick and apologetic as his mind raced, another violation—the bar couldn’t afford any doubts about the safety of their beverages. "I’m so sorry, sir—I’ve never looked into this myself. The Coconut Grove Farm has always handled the slaves’ compliance, but these two are from The Slave Academy. I’ll speak with their handlers immediately and ensure they’re brought up to standard. I promise this will be fixed."

The inspector stepped back. His gaze shifted to the bar counter. "Before I conclude, I’ll need to see your bottled milk storage. Let’s ensure proper handling."

The manager nodded, and lead him to a refrigerated unit behind the bar. Its glass door was fogged with cold. The inspector opened it, revealing rows of bottles, each labeled with a slave girl’s name, ID, milking date, and expiration date.

He checked a few at random, nodding as he confirmed the dates hadn’t passed. "Properly cooled, labeled, and within date—good," he said, closing the door with a satisfied nod.

The inspector sighed. His expression softened as he glanced at Nadine. He noted her pale but otherwise healthy appearance. "Both girls appear healthy, so I won’t deny your provisional certificate tonight. But these issues—Melissa’s milk check and this one’s lack of identification—must be resolved within 14 days, or you risk losing certification entirely. Understood?"

The manager nodded vigorously, his voice tight with gratitude at the grace period he had been given, his thoughts a whirlwind of relief, Fourteen days—he could fix this, keep the seal, keep the customers coming. "Yes, sir—thank you for your understanding. I’ll ensure everything is addressed by then, I swear."

The inspector gave a curt nod, his tone formal. "I appreciate your cooperation. See that it’s done."

He tucked the tablet under his arm, thanked the manager for his understanding, and left, the door swinging shut behind him.

The taller milk foodie from earlier nodded approvingly, muttering to his companion, "Good—they take quality seriously here," his tone carrying a note of reassurance as he sipped his drink.

—

They returned to their drinks, and the bar’s hum resumed as Melissa and Nadine stood silently. They exhaled in shaky relief as the surreal experience of the quality of their breastmilk being debated faded, a scenario they had never dreamed possible.

A Grabesian customer at a nearby table raised a hand. His voice carried over the bar’s chatter.

"I’d like a milk drink—stored milk, please," he said, opting for the cheaper option that most patrons favored, the bottles cooled and stored for convenience. But as the manager approached to take his order, the customer hesitated, his gaze flicking to Nadine as she wiped down a table nearby. "Hold on—I’ve always had the farm girls’ milk, but I see you’ve got white girls now. I’m curious about the taste. Can I try a sample of hers?" He nodded toward Nadine, his tone laced with intrigue.

The manager, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, offered a polite smile, his demeanor accommodating. "Of course, sir—a fine choice to explore the difference." He beckoned Nadine with a sharp gesture. "Nadine, fetch your milking device and come here. The gentleman would like a sample."

Nadine’s stomach dropped, her hands pausing mid-wipe as she set down her cloth, her cheeks flushing with a familiar dread. She retrieved her handheld electric pump from the shelf, and approached the customer, her bare feet scuffing the floorboards. She knelt before him, her knees pressing into the rough wood, the crowd’s eyes a heavy weight as she positioned the suction cup over her right nipple. The device hummed to life with a low buzz and the pump’s rhythmic tug drew a sharp ache through her swollen breast, milk streaming into the container with a soft, steady drip. She didn’t aim for the demarcated line of a full drink, but the manager watched closely, stopping her after a small amount had collected in her container. "That’s enough for a sample," he said, his tone brisk.

Nadine switched off the pump, disconnected the container, and handed it to the manager, her hands trembling slightly as she avoided the customer’s gaze. The manager poured the small yield into a whiskey glass, the white liquid gleaming under the lantern light, and handed it to the customer with a slight bow. "Here you are, sir—a fresh sample of Nadine’s milk."

The customer swirled the glass, inspecting the milk with a discerning eye, then took a slow sip, his brow furrowing in thought. A smile spread across his face as he savored the taste. "Interesting… it’s creamier than the farm girls’ milk, with a subtle novelty I quite enjoy. I think it’d pair well with a shot of Tia Maria." He set the glass down, nodding decisively. "I’ll take a glass of her bottled milk with a shot of Tia Maria, please."

The manager’s smile widened, his tone warm with approval. "An excellent choice, sir—your taste is impeccable." He turned to Nadine, his voice firm but encouraging. "Nadine, behind the bar—prepare the gentleman’s drink. A glass of your bottled milk with a shot of Tia Maria."

Nadine rose. Her movements were stiff as she walked to the bar. She retrieved a labeled bottle of her pre-milked milk from the refrigerator. She poured a glass, and added a shot of Tia Maria with careful precision. The dark liqueur swirled into the white liquid, and she returned to serve it to the customer. The manager handed it over with a flourish, and watched as the customer took a sip, his nod of satisfaction a small victory for the bar’s reputation.

—

Hours later, the night’s bustle faded. The last patrons trickled out as the barman called closing time. Melissa’s muscles ached as she stood. Her knees were stiff from kneeling during the milking, her body weary from hours of serving and cleaning. Nadine rose beside her. Their movements were sluggish as they wiped down the last tables. The bar was quiet now save for the faint clink of glasses.

Dmitri appeared at the door. His lanky frame cast a shadow across the floorboards. He held a bundle of chains in his hand.

“Time to move, slaves,” he said, his smirk sharp as he cuffed Melissa’s wrists behind her back, the steel biting into her skin. Nadine followed, her own cuffs clinking, and Dmitri locked their collars into a coffle chain, the metal glinting in the moonlight. He tugged them outside, their bare feet scuffing the dirt as Dmitri led them along the path to The Slave Academy.

The ten farm girls, their long braids swaying, were locked into a different coffle chain and herded into a livestock trailer. Their chains rattled as the cage door slammed shut, and the buggy rumbled off toward the Coconut Grove Farm.

Confusion surged through Melissa as she walked behind Dmitri, the chain tugging at her collar with every step.

“Why aren’t we going to Markus’s?” she demanded, her voice sharp despite the risk, the steel cuffs biting into her wrists as she strained against them. “I’m supposed to be with him—three days, that’s the deal!”

Dmitri glanced back, his smirk widening, his teenage curiosity lighting up his eyes. “Oh, didn’t you hear, princess? Markus had some kind of emergency—so it looks like you’ll get to spend more time with me! Having some trouble at home?”

His tone was teasing, almost gleeful, as he gave the chain a playful tug.

Melissa’s chest tightened, fury igniting hot and fast as she stumbled forward, the chain a cruel tether. She wasn’t in the mood for his childish probing. Her body ached from the night’s humiliations, and her wrists were raw from the cuffs.

“He got into a fight with a friend,” she snapped, her voice edged with outrage, immediately regretting giving him even that much. “Is that why Markus changed the plans for me—because of some stupid fight?” Her words hung in the air, a mix of frustration and confusion, as she glared at Dmitri, unwilling to say more.

Dmitri chuckled. His smirk grew as he yanked the chain again to keep her moving. “Ooh, a fight? Looks like there’s some serious drama in your owner’s life, princess—guess Markus isn’t as boring as he looks!” His tone dripped with amusement. His eyes glinted with the thrill of gossip as he led them along the dirt path to The Slave Academy.

Melissa glared at the passing dirt road. Her hands jerked uselessly against the cuffs, and the chain pulled her forward as Nadine shuffled silently beside her. The unfairness of it burned. Markus’s drama had stolen her brief reprieve, dragging her back to the Academy’s hell. Her jaw clenched, but a bitter resolve settled in: She’d survive this, but she’d never forgive Markus for abandoning her to this fate.

49. Off to New Beginnings

Markus sat on the edge of his bed in the rented hut, the morning sun slanting through the slatted window, casting harsh lines across his bruised face. His jaw throbbed where Arbek’s fist had landed, a dull ache that pulsed with every heartbeat, and a faint purple bruise bloomed on his cheek. He touched his nose gingerly, the memory of blood trickling down his chin still fresh from yesterday’s clash. The fight had rattled him—not just the pain, but what it meant. He’d relied on the police to handle Arbek, just as he had before when Arbek had tried to free Melissa, and it hit him now like a cold wave: he couldn’t keep doing that. He couldn’t always lean on others to fight his battles.

He stood, pacing the small room, the wooden floor creaking under his sandals. Arbek’s rage, his fists, the way he’d lunged without hesitation—it had exposed Markus’s physical weakness. Back when Arbek tried to free Melissa, Markus had dropped the charges, hoping it would smooth things over, maybe even win her over with kindness. What a fool he’d been. That choice had only emboldened Arbek, freed him to come back and take another swing—literally. Markus rubbed his jaw, a bitter taste in his mouth. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. This time, Arbek could rot in his cell.

The thought of Melissa stirred a deeper ache, one that wasn’t physical. He had bought her to be with her, poured his savings into keeping her from being sold off, all because he thought she would learn to love him eventually. He had been so naive, picturing her softening over time, her water-blue eyes warming to him despite Arbek’s pull. But Arbek and his friends had always been there, a constant threat, and Markus had enabled it—dropping those charges had let Arbek back into their lives, free to stir trouble. Now he looked at where it had landed them: Arbek in jail again, Melissa still defiant, and Markus nursing bruises and a bruised ego.

He stopped pacing, his hands clenched into fists. This mess couldn’t ruin his life. He hadn’t started it—he didn’t bring Melissa to Grabesh or enslaved her. He had stepped in to keep her from being sold off, lost forever in the Grabesian slave system. If he sold her now, it would be as if he had never intervened. No one would have blamed him for walking away back then, so he concluded that selling her now would be morally neutral.

He thought of their nights together, the way her body yielded under him, the raw pleasure of owning her. Those moments of closeness had been precious to him—better than anything he had known—but they were hollow. Her eyes had never held love, only resentment, sometimes even outright disdain. He wanted more than that now, a woman who wanted him back, who would look at him with desire, not duty. Melissa’s lack of feelings made her less special. There were plenty of women who didn’t love him—he could rent one from Mutual Mastery anytime, just like Horst and Werner were doing. Why cling to her?

Sadness tugged at him, a quiet ache for what could have been. He wished he could have made it work out with Melissa. She had been his first great love, her soft blonde hair and melodic voice had haunted him since he had met her back in England. But in the end, he had never managed to win her heart, never gotten her to reciprocate his feelings, and even now, she probably despised him. He had to face it—he would never be the man she loved, nor the master she respected.

But she would always hold a special place in his heart. Yet, his feelings kept him from being the hard, rule-setting master she needed. She deserved a better master, one unburdened by the inhibitions of love, and his attachment stopped him from being the master she needed.

Grabesh had taught him a hard lesson. He needed to become strong and powerful, to learn to fight and stand up for himself. Only then could he command the respect of those beneath him, be the master he was meant to be. Maybe Melissa wasn’t his destination, just a temporary companion on his journey, a stepping stone to this realization. She would be a good slave for someone—but not for him.

He made his decision. For now, he would leave her at The Slave Academy to finish her training, then send her to the Coconut Grove Farm full-time. It would be profitable—her milk had already proven its value, and the farm’s rental fees would line his pockets. Her record was clear now, the character-building work atoning for her past deeds, and her training at the Academy, plus her milk production, had raised her value. He could sell her eventually, but not here—not where Tariq, Amina, or Arbek might find her and try to free her. If he sold her, it would be in a different part of Grabesh, far from Ngalawa Bay, somewhere her friends wouldn’t find her. That would keep him safe from legal trouble back home.

Because the heart of the matter was that he couldn’t free her. If he did, she would run to the authorities in England, and he would face prosecution for trafficking her. Melissa might promise not to report him, but once free, she could change her mind, and he’d have no way to stop her. It was unacceptable for his life to be ruined over this. He hadn’t started this mess, but he’d be damned if it ended him.

He sat back down, the ache in his jaw a reminder of the man he needed to become. Grabesh had changed him, and he would carry the lessons he had learned here forever.

50. At the Farm

Markus sat in the dim light of his hut. The air was heavy with the scent of salt and the distant hum of waves beyond Ngalawa Bay. His bags were packed, a single duffel resting by the door, ready for his permanent return to Switzerland. The chaos of Arbek’s assault still weighed on him. He had a bruise on his jaw and a sharper edge to his thoughts. He couldn’t keep Melissa with him, not now, not with his life shifting like this. He picked up his phone, and dialed Victor’s number with a steady hand, his voice firm but tired.

“Victor, it’s Markus,” he said, the line crackling faintly. “I’m too busy to pick Melissa up this week. Can she do more shifts at Simba’s Milk Hut instead?”

Victor’s reply came quickly, his Russian accent rolling through the speaker. “No problem. We’ll keep her on the roster. More shifts at the bar, and she’ll stay at Coconut Grove Farm between them. It’s a good arrangement.”

Markus nodded to himself. He felt a weight lifting from his spirit. “Thanks, Victor. I’ll be in touch.” He hung up, his gaze drifting to the empty space where Melissa used to kneel. She’d be fine—better there than dragging him into more trouble. Switzerland awaited, a new chapter, and he needed to leave this one behind.

—

Melissa and Nadine worked regular shifts at Simba’s Milk Hut. Their days were a blur of serving drinks, wiping tables, and enduring the stares of Grabesian patrons. The bar buzzed with activity. The bar’s lanterns cast a golden glow over the wooden tables. The air was thick with chatter and the clink of glasses. Melissa moved swiftly. Her bare feet padded across the rough floorboards, while balancing a tray of empty glasses in her hands. Nadine worked nearby clearing a table. Her pale skin was a stark contrast to the ten Grabesian milk girls bustling around them.

One evening, after the milk bar closed, the barman dimmed the lanterns, and the hum of the night settled over the empty space. Melissa’s muscles ached as she wiped down the last table. Her knees were stiff from hours on her feet, and her body was weary from serving and cleaning. Nadine stood beside her, stacking glasses. Their movements were sluggish in the quiet bar. The faint clink of glass was the only sound.

As the last glass was stacked, the farmhand’s boots announced his arrival. The farmhand, a lanky Grabesian with a clipboard tucked under his arm, stepped inside. His boots scuffed the floorboards as he spoke casually to the barman. He pulled a chain from his belt, and gestured to the milk girls.

“Line!”

The slave girls lined up. Their collars snapped to the coffle chain with sharp clicks as the farmhand locked them together. Melissa exchanged a glance with Nadine. Her stomach sank as the farmhand reached them, and locked their collars to the chain as well. Her bare skin prickled under the farmhand’s indifferent gaze. His eyes flicked over her naked body as if she were livestock.

She wanted to protest, she was supposed to go to Markus’s, not the farm, but the farmhand’s conversation with the barman held her silent. A slave couldn’t interrupt free people; The Slave Academy had drilled that into her, the threat of punishment made her hold her tongue. Her chest tightened as the chain pulled taut, forcing her to shuffle forward with the others. Her bare feet dragged in the dust with Nadine beside her.

The livestock trailer waited outside. Its metal cage gleamed under the moonlight. The bars looked cold and unyielding. The farmhand opened the cage door, and the slaves stepped in. Their bodies pressed close in the cramped space. Melissa squeezed in beside Nadine. Their bare skin was slick with sweat, with the cool metal floor under their soles, as they struggled to find balance in the confined space. The air was heavy with the musk of their bodies packed tightly together. The faint tang of rust and metal mingled with the sharp edge of their anxiety. The farmhand slammed the door shut, and locked it with a sharp click. Then he stepped back and waited for the driver.

Melissa leaned forward and grabbed the bars. Her fingers wrapped around the cool steel. The unyielding bars keeping her in the cage were a cruel reminder of her captivity.

Her voice broke through, sharp with indignation, unable to hold back any longer. “Why am I being taken to the farm?”

The farmhand glanced up and checked his clipboard. His expression was indifferent, his voice flat and tinged with impatience, as if her question was a pointless interruption. “The farm is renting you.”

Melissa’s hands clenched into fists around the bars, her mind reeling as she grasped for clarity. The farmhand’s curt reply offered nothing to anchor her swirling confusion.

“For how long?” she demanded with a trembling voice.

The farmhand shrugged, his tone clipped, his eyes flicking back to his clipboard with a dismissive grunt, as if her fate were a mere footnote in his tasks. “I don’t know.”

She pressed further, her voice rising, a desperate edge creeping in as she realized no one owed her an explanation, her status as property rendering her questions irrelevant. “Then who would know?”

The farmhand’s eyes narrowed slightly, his reply curt, his indifference a fresh wound to her already battered sense of agency. “Ask your master.”

Melissa’s chest tightened. She felt rage flare up in her, mingled with a sharp pang of betrayal. Markus had abandoned her to this, without a word, without a chance to prepare. Her fate was decided by others while she was left to be shuttled around in chains.

“I can’t ask my master, I’m being taken to the farm!” she cried, her voice breaking, the words echoing in the cramped trailer, a desperate plea swallowed by the night. Melissa’s heart pounded, as she felt like she was treated like a piece of furniture that could be moved at will, with no one needing to explain anything to her.

Nadine’s grip on her arm tightened. Her wide eyes reflected the same fear and helplessness, a shared understanding of their powerlessness passing between them in the dim moonlight. Melissa’s heart pounded. Her naked body trembled against the cold bars. The weight of the coffle chain pulled at her collar, the irremovable sign of her enslavement.

The farmhand turned back to his clipboard, dismissing her with a wave. “Then ask your master when you see him.”

The trailer rumbled to life. The motion jarred her against the bars. Her bare skin scraped against the metal, another reminder of her utter lack of control as they were carried into the unknown.

She knelt beside Nadine, gripping the bars, her gaze fixed on the passing landscape through the lattice of steel. The road wound through Ngalawa Bay’s outskirts. The air was thick with the scent of salt and earth, until the silhouette of coconut groves came into view under the fading twilight. Melissa’s breath caught, exhaustion weighing on her like a stone, her mind too clouded with rage and fatigue to register the landscape beyond the bars. She had been on a trailer like this before, her first journey to Ngalawa Bay, but the memory was a blur, her body too drained then and now to hold onto such details.

—



The farm’s sprawling fields were dotted with coconut trees, the mud-brick barns weathered by time, their red-brown walls cracked under the tropical sun. Livestock pens stretched out beside the barns, chickens scratching in the dirt, cows lowing softly, their sounds mingling with the rustle of palm fronds in the evening breeze. Beyond the pens, rows of yams and taro grew in neat patches, tended by slaves whose bare skin glistened with sweat, their collars glinting as they worked.

The trailer jolted to a stop at the barn entrance. The sky was now dark, with stars piercing through the twilight. The farmhand’s boots scuffed the earth as he opened the cage door. The air was cool against Melissa’s bare skin. He reached inside, his fingers deft as he unlocked the coffle chain from its anchor point on the trailer cage. The sharp click of the padlock echoed in the quiet evening. The chain, still linking the slaves’ collars, hung heavy in his hand as he stepped back, giving it a firm tug to signal them to move. She and Nadine shuffled out, their bare feet sinking into the soft soil, the chain pulling taut between them and the other milk bar slaves, their collars glinting in the moonlight as they moved as a unit, forced to follow the farmhand’s lead.

The farmhand led them by the coffle chain toward the barn. His grip was steady as he pulled them along, their bare feet padding against the cool earth in the evening stillness. Melissa’s eyes darted around, curiosity flickering despite her exhaustion as her first glimpses of Coconut Grove Farm unfolded under the starry sky. She caught sight of sprawling fields dotted with coconut trees, their fronds swaying gently in the breeze, and livestock pens where chickens scratched in the dirt, their faint clucks mixing with the distant lowing of cows. Mud-brick structures loomed in the darkness, their shapes barely discernible, a faint glow of lantern light spilling from within. But the chain tugged relentlessly, forcing her to keep pace with the coffle, her steps hurried and uneven, unable to stop and look closer, the farmhand’s steady stride dictating their path as they approached the barn’s entrance.



The barn loomed ahead, a sprawling mud-brick structure with a slanted roof, its interior a mix of animal pens and a large caged section along one wall for the slave girls. Cows, sheep, and goats occupied the pens, their soft bleats and moos filling the air, while the caged section, a grid of steel bars with a single barred door, stood ready to house the human livestock. An automated scanner was mounted beside the door. Its light blinked red as the farmhand ushered them forward. He stopped at the entrance, turned to the coffle with a grunt, and unchained the slaves one by one. He started at the front and unlocked each collar with a sharp click. As the chain fell away each girl stepped forward into the cage. The scanner beeped as each girl passed through the open door, logging their chips to make sure none was missing.

When he reached Melissa, the padlock on her collar snapped open, and the weight of the chain lifted, though the steel collar remained heavy around her neck.

When Melissa stepped through, an error beep sounded, sharp and jarring. The farmhand frowned, flipping through his clipboard under the faint glow of a lantern.

“They didn’t get your details into the system yet,” he muttered to Melissa. “This was too sudden.”

Nadine followed, her own collar released with a final click, the farmhand coiling the chain as he motioned them inside. The scanner made no sound, indicating she hadn’t been chipped yet. The farmhand’s brow furrowed slightly in annoyance, but he made no comment.

The light turned green once all the slaves were accounted for, signaling that the door could be locked for the night.

—

Inside the caged section, the air was thick with the scent of straw and livestock. The dim lantern light cast long shadows across the wooden walls. Melissa’s heart pounded, a wave of shock crashing over her as she took in the reality of her new prison, a cage within a barn, surrounded by animals. She turned to Nadine, their eyes meeting in a shared moment of incredulity. Their naked bodies were exposed in the faint light and Nadine’s pale face mirrored Melissa’s own turmoil, her wide eyes reflecting the same disbelief. Instinctively, Melissa reached for Nadine’s hand. Their fingers interlocked for comfort, the warmth of the touch was a small anchor in the cold, unyielding space they found themselves in.

They stood close, their shoulders brushing, as they apprehensively explored the caged area, their bare feet scuffing the straw-covered floor. Melissa’s free hand trailed along the steel bars, her fingers brushing the cold metal, testing its strength. She gripped a bar, pushed and pulled, and felt the unyielding steel keeping her trapped. Nadine mirrored her, her own hands wrapping around the bars, her breaths shallow as she tugged futilely, the cage refusing to yield. The realization settled heavily in Melissa’s chest, a suffocating weight, they were trapped, caged like livestock in a barn, not unlike the cows and goats in the pens beyond.

Melissa’s gaze swept the barn, taking in the animals in their pens, the cows lowing softly, the sheep huddled together, their presence a cruel parallel to her own. Humiliation burned through her, a deep, gnawing ache, as she realized how the Grabesians saw her, nothing more than livestock, a commodity to be milked and worked. She glanced at Nadine, seeing the same shame etched in her friend’s tense expression.

A group of farm slaves watched from the far end. Their bodies were marked by the toll of constant lactation, their expressions were a mix of curiosity and wariness. Melissa’s eyes lingered on them, noting their age, older than the girls she’d seen at the milk bar. Their swollen breasts indicated they were milked here at the farm. She wondered if the farm only rented out the younger, prettier slaves to places like Simba’s Milk Hut, leaving these women to labor here, their bodies used for production in the fields and barns.

After a moment, one woman stepped closer, her dark eyes sharp with recognition. Her steady gaze cut through the barn’s quiet.

“You,” she said, her voice low but clear, addressing Melissa. “I know you, you’re the white girl from the bus I saw a while ago. Never thought I’d see you here.”

Melissa froze, her grip on Nadine’s hand tightening, the woman’s words piercing through her haze of shock. At first, her mind struggled to place the face, but then a faint memory stirred, hazy at first but growing clearer, a moment from that first journey to Ngalawa Bay.

The woman’s expression softened. Her voice was gentle as she stepped closer. Her hands were clasped in front of her.

“I’m Talia,” she said, offering a small nod. Her tone was polite despite the harsh surroundings. “I was on that bus with you, heading to Ngalawa Bay. It’s not often we see white girls like you here.”

“Oh, I remember now!” she said, her voice soft but tinged with realization. “Yes, I noticed you in the trailer cage back then with me.”

She remembered how she had been caged on her trip from Zawadi to Ngalawa Bay. Her body had been aching from the heat, and she had noticed the lactating woman in the cage with her. The sight of her swollen breasts and the faint, yeasty scent of breast milk had been in the air, a mystery that had sparked her curiosity back then.

Her breath caught as the realization deepened, that this woman was before her now. Melissa understood the woman was a milk slave. Her body was used for production, just as Melissa’s was now. The memory flooded back, sharp and vivid, and with it came a wave of despair. She was one of them now. Her own body had become a tool for profit. The weight of that truth settled over her, a bitter reminder of how far she had fallen, her fate now intertwined with this woman’s in a way she never could have imagined.

Melissa swallowed, her throat tight, but she managed a nod in return, the gesture feeling foreign in her state of shock.

“I’m Melissa,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She glanced at Nadine, who took a shaky breath before speaking.

“And I’m Nadine,” she added, her voice trembling but clear, her hand still gripping Melissa’s for comfort.

The other farm slaves followed, their voices a quiet murmur as they shared their names, a small act of courtesy in the cold barn, though Melissa’s mind was too overwhelmed to hold onto the new names.

The day had drained them all, the relentless labor of the milk bar and the journey to the farm leaving their bodies heavy with exhaustion. The farm slaves moved to woven mats laid out along the straw-covered floor, their movements slow and weary, their bodies sinking into the makeshift beds. Melissa and Nadine followed, their steps hesitant, as they found a mat near the edge of the group. They lay down together, their naked bodies close for warmth, the straw prickling against their skin, the cage’s steel bars looming above them in the dim lantern light.

Melissa stared at the barn’s ceiling, her mind racing despite her fatigue, thoughts tumbling in a chaotic swirl. The reality of their situation pressed down on her, a suffocating weight, she was helpless, naked, caged in a barn like an animal, her freedom stripped away, her body a tool for Grabesh’s profit. She glanced at Nadine, whose eyes were wide open, reflecting the same restless fear, their shared vulnerability a silent bond in the darkness. The sounds of the barn surrounded them, the soft bleats of sheep and the lowing of cows in the barn with them. Melissa’s jaw tightened, a quiet humiliation simmering beneath her exhaustion, the knowledge that to the Grabeshians, they were no different from the animals in the pens, penned and controlled, their humanity erased. Nadine shifted closer, her breath uneven, and Melissa squeezed her hand, a small gesture of reassurance in the face of their entrapment, as they both lay awake, staring through the bars of their cage.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook them. Their thoughts faded into the haze of sleep. The mats offered little comfort against the hard floor, and the barn’s oppressive air wrapped around them like a damp cloak.

—

The next morning, the farmhand returned at dawn. He slid open the barred door. The scanner’s light blinked red as the slaves exited. He led them to the fields for the day’s work. The sun was already climbing, and its heat soaked into Melissa’s bare skin as they reached a patch of yams. The soil was rich and dark beneath the green leaves.

The farmhand gestured to the rows, his voice gruff. “All of you, harvest these yams. Dig them up, clean them off, and stack them by the barn. Keep moving, no slacking.”

Talia and the other farm slaves cast concerned glances at Melissa and Nadine. Their expressions were a mix of worry and doubt, as if questioning whether the two new girls could endure the day’s labor under Grabesh’s unrelenting sun. Melissa noticed the furrowed brows and tightened lips, the silent apprehension in their eyes, and felt a flicker of determination beneath her fatigue. She had partly acclimatized to Grabesh’s harsh climate over the weeks. Her body had adapted to the heat and labor, and the discipline instilled by The Slave Academy, the endless drills under Zuri’s whip, had forged a resilience in her, a strength to push through exhaustion. Nadine, however, looked pale and uncertain. Her time in Grabesh had been shorter. Her body was less accustomed to the grueling conditions.

—



The slaves worked as a unit, their bare feet sinking into the soil, hands digging into the earth to unearth the yams. Melissa knelt beside Nadine, her fingers deft as she pulled the roots free, brushing off the dirt with steady motions, her movements honed by the Academy’s relentless training. The sun beat down, and sweat beaded on her tanned skin, but she pressed on with unyielding endurance. Each yam was a small victory against the day’s demands. Nadine struggled beside her. Her hands trembled as she dug, her breaths came in short gasps, the heat and labor taking a heavier toll. Melissa glanced at her, and saw the strain in her friend’s face. She shifted closer, her voice soft but firm. “I’ve got you,” she whispered, reaching into Nadine’s patch to help unearth a stubborn yam, supporting her as they worked together.

As the sun climbed higher, nearing midday, the farmhand’s voice rang out, calling the slaves in groups of five for a scheduled veterinary checkup. Melissa, Nadine, and three other milk girls followed him back toward the barn, their bare feet padding against the earth.

Inside the barn, the farmhand directed them to a corner where a hose hung from the wall, its nozzle dripping with water. One by one, he hosed them off. The cold water blasted against Melissa’s bare skin, washing away the sweat and dirt from the morning’s labor. She shivered under the spray, her body tensing as the farmhand moved to Nadine, the water sluicing over her pale skin, her gasps echoing in the barn’s quiet.

The farmhand then led them outside to a shaded area under a cluster of palm trees. Their wide fronds cast a cool, dappled shadow over the ground. Melissa exhaled in relief. The coolness of the shade was a welcome reprieve from the relentless sun. Her skin prickled with the contrast as she stood on the soft earth. Nadine settled beside her. Her shoulders relaxed as she leaned against the palm’s trunk. The break from work was a small mercy after the morning’s toil.

Coconut Grove Farm had a monthly visit from a veterinarian to look after the milk girls, and today was his scheduled visit.

The elderly man approached. His weathered face was set in a frown, and a medical bag was slung over his shoulder. Beside him walked a familiar figure: Nala, her dark eyes scanning the group until they landed on Melissa.

The farmhand led Melissa, Nadine, and several other milk girls to a row of restraining pillories lined up on the ground under the palm trees. Their metal frames gleamed coldly. Their curved plates and hinges were poised to clamp limbs into the examination position. Melissa’s collar felt heavy at her neck as she shuffled forward. Her stomach knotted at the sight, and memories of the Health Office’s pillory flooded back.

Nala stepped closer, her face lighting up with recognition. “Oh, hey, Melissa! Is it really you?” she said, her voice bright with surprise, tempered by genuine interest and compassion.

Melissa, weary from the farm’s grind, managed a faint smile, her tone carrying sympathy and resignation. “Nala? Nala!” she replied, her voice lifting slightly despite her fatigue. “Hey, Nala. I did not expect I would meet you here.”

Nala’s lips curved into a small smile as she gestured toward the first pillory. “Yes, looks like Grabesh is a small place, does it not?” she said, her warmth softening the barn’s stark atmosphere. “Kneel here and face forward, please.”

Melissa sank to her knees on the cold floor. Her movements were automatic and her eyes stayed fixed on Nala. “Why are you here?” she asked, curiosity mingling with exhaustion. “I thought you worked at the Health Office?”

Nala unfolded the pillory, aligning the bars with practiced ease. “I still do,” she said, her tone steady as she secured Melissa’s ankles into the outer holes, spreading her legs wide. “I’m still doing my apprenticeship at the Health Office. Joining the vet for field visits is part of my learning objectives as a nurse, to understand livestock care across settlements. Now, reach back through your legs and place your hands into the central holes.”

Melissa stretched her arms between her thighs. Her wrists slid into the slots, and the position pulled her shoulders down. It made her rest her face on the ground while it raised and exposed her buttocks for examination. “That sounds like a big step,” she murmured, her voice muffled but sincere, trying to keep the conversation alive despite the pillory’s grip.



“It is,” Nala said, lowering the upper bar to clamp the plates together, locking Melissa in place. Her hands were gentle, her compassion evident in the careful way she adjusted the restraints. “I never thought I would see you again, not like this.”

Melissa’s chest tightened, the memory of their old talks—Nala’s warnings about freedom—stirring unease. “Nor I you,” she said softly, her words heavy with resignation.

Nala moved to Nadine, guiding her into the next pillory. “Kneel and face forward,” she instructed, her voice kind but firm. Nadine’s pale face was taut with fear. Her hands trembled as she complied. “What are you going to do to us?” Nadine asked, her voice shaky, her eyes darting between Nala and the pillory.

Nala secured Nadine’s ankles, her touch steady as she replied, “The vet and I need to check that you are all healthy. We will apply identification to you and ensure your milk is safe.” She guided Nadine’s wrists into the central holes, clamping the plates shut, locking her in the same exposed position. Nadine didn’t know what “apply identification” meant but Melissa caught it and shuddered inside. She remembered all too well from her time at the Health Office and knew what was in store for Nadine.

As Nala adjusted Melissa’s clamps, she spoke softly, her voice gentle with genuine interest and compassion. “Melissa, is there any chance your boyfriend will set you free? You mentioned he would, back at the Health Office.”

Melissa raised her head as far as the pillory allowed her, voice low but steady, the question stirring a fresh wave of disorientation as she realized how little she knew of her own fate. “My boyfriend does not own me anymore, Nala. I was sold to someone else."



Nala’s eyes widened slightly, but she nodded, waiting for more, her hand resting lightly on Melissa’s shoulder.

“My owner has arranged for me to stay here, but I don’t know why… no one told me anything. He has no plans to free me as far as I know,” she continued, her words faltering as the humiliation of her ignorance sank deeper. “But I hope my boyfriend will find a way to get me out, somehow.”

Nala’s fingers moved to Melissa’s hair, stroking it gently, her touch as soothing as it had been at the Health Office. “Of course, Melissa,” she said. Her voice was warm but laced with doubt, with an understanding that freedom was likely a distant dream for Melissa. “I hope so for you too.”

The vet shuffled in. His weathered hands moved with clinical precision. Nala took her place beside him, her demeanor shifted to professional detachment.

“The doctor is here,” she said, glancing at Melissa. “Killian is training as a vet now, by the way. You might see him once Dr. Mwamba retires.” Melissa’s stomach churned at the name. Killian’s cruelty was a sharp memory, but she only nodded stiffly.

The vet began with Nadine. He produced a syringe with a thick needle. Nala held Nadine’s head steady, spraying ethanol on her back for sterilization. “This will sting,” she warned softly, and the vet injected the microchip between Nadine’s shoulder blades. Nadine gasped, a sharp cry escaping as the needle pierced deep, her body jerking futilely against the pillory. Melissa winced, the echo of her own pain resurfacing—the ethanol’s sting, the needle’s bite.

Next, the vet brought out the ear-tagger, a pincer-like tool with a yellow plastic tag. Nala turned Nadine’s head to expose her right ear.

“Hold still,” she murmured, and with a sharp click, the tag was affixed. Nadine screamed, her voice was raw with pain, and her body strained against the pillory. “Damn, this hurts!” she cursed, tears streaming down her face, her ear throbbing as the metal pin pierced through.

Melissa, clamped down beside her, heard every sound—Nadine’s scream, her curse, the faint clink of the tagger—but could not move. The pillory pinned her in place. Her heart ached to comfort Nadine, but her own ear-tagging flashed through her mind: the shock, the fear, the sting dulled by numbing cream Nala had applied at the Health Office. She had been appalled then, horrified by the violation, but watching Nadine now, Melissa realized she had been lucky. The numbing cream back then had spared her this raw agony, a small mercy she had not appreciated until now.

Nala produced a syringe filled with a clear liquid—a hormone pellet to maintain their milk production. She approached Melissa first, swabbing her buttock with antiseptic. “Keeps your levels up,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact, and the needle pierced Melissa’s flesh with a sharp sting. She gritted her teeth, the ache spreading, then watched as Nala injected Nadine, who whimpered softly, still reeling from the tagging. Nala then performed anal and vaginal swabs on all the girls in the lineup. Her movements were swift and detached.

“We do this regularly,” she explained, sealing the samples in small containers. “Ensures the milk comes from healthy females.”

The vet inspected the other slaves, his gruff voice issuing orders as Nala assisted. When he finished, Nala returned to Melissa, and unlocked the pillory’s upper bar. Melissa exhaled in relief, her limbs stiff as she pulled free, sitting up slowly. Nadine followed, her face flushed and tear-streaked, but she managed a shaky nod as Nala helped her up.

Nala’s gaze lingered on Melissa for a moment. “Take care,” she said quietly. Her voice carried a trace of their old bond, then turned to the others as her duties pulled her away.

—

The farmhand reappeared. He motioned for the group to return to the fields. Their bare feet padded against the earth as they walked back to the yam patch. Melissa’s body ached from the pillory, the sting of the hormone pellet lingering, but she pressed on, her bare skin prickling under the midday sun as they resumed their labor.

The slaves continued their work, their hands dug into the earth to unearth the yams. Melissa knelt beside Nadine, her fingers deft as she pulled the roots free and brushing off the dirt with steady motions. Her movements were honed by the Academy’s relentless training. The sun beat down, and sweat beaded on her tanned skin, but she pressed on. Her endurance was unyielding. Each yam was a small victory against the day’s demands. Nadine worked beside her. Her movements were slower, and her face was tense with discomfort as she winced with each motion. The fresh piercing in her ear throbbed from the newly affixed tag. Melissa glanced at her, seeing the pain in her friend’s expression, and shifted closer, her voice soft but firm.

“Let me help,” she whispered, reaching into Nadine’s patch to help unearth a stubborn yam, her strength a quiet support as they worked together, easing Nadine’s burden while the tag continued to sting.

Talia and the other farm slaves watched from their own rows. Their respect for the two white slave girls grew as the afternoon unfolded. They noted how Melissa supported Nadine, ensuring they both kept pace despite Nadine’s pain. Her resilience was a testament to the discipline forged at The Slave Academy. Nadine, despite her exhaustion and the persistent ache in her ear, managed a faint nod of gratitude, her efforts bolstered by Melissa’s encouragement.

—

As the sun dipped lower, signaling the end of the day’s labor, the slaves gathered in the shade of a palm tree. Their collars glinted as they sat in a circle, their bodies weary but relieved. Talia approached Melissa and Nadine, her expression warm with admiration.

“You did well today,” she said, her voice carrying genuine respect. “And you looked out for each other, that’s what matters here.”

She paused, her gaze softening as she glanced at their tangled hair, then at her own neatly braided locks.

“Would you like me to braid your hair?” she offered, her tone kind. “It’s easier for the work, and it’s how we all wear ours here.”

Melissa’s eyes flicked to Talia’s hair, then to the other farm slaves, noticing for the first time that all their hair was braided in the same practical style, a quiet symbol of unity among them. She realized the significance of the gesture: It was more than just a practical act, it was a bonding experience, a new friend reaching out in this harsh world, a moment of welcome into their tight-knit community of slaves. She glanced at Nadine, whose tired eyes met hers with a flicker of understanding. They both recognized the deeper meaning behind Talia’s offer.

“Yes, please,” Melissa said softly, her voice steady despite her exhaustion. She felt a small spark of warmth igniting within her.

Talia knelt beside them, her fingers deft as she parted Melissa’s blonde locks, weaving them into a single, practical braid with gentle care, then moved to Nadine, braiding her darker strands with the same tenderness. As Talia worked, Melissa felt a soft glow of acceptance spreading through her, a warmth that contrasted sharply with the harsh reality of their enslavement, the cage, the labor, the constant threat of punishment. It was a quiet moment of connection, a sign that they were among friends now, part of a community that, despite their shared suffering, offered a fragile refuge. Nadine’s hand brushed hers, a faint smile tugging at her lips, and Melissa sensed the same warmth in her friend’s touch, a shared understanding that they were no longer alone, even in this unforgiving world. The feeling lingered, a small, precious reward for their endurance, a beacon of hope amidst the darkness of Grabesh.

—

After the break, the farmhand’s boots scuffed the earth as he approached the group under the palm trees. His voice was warm yet firm as he motioned for them to follow.

“Come on, girls, let’s get you cleaned up,” he said with a faint smile tugging at his lips. His tone was carrying a hint of affection, like a farmer tending to his prized livestock. He led them back to the barn as their bare feet padded against the cool earth in the fading light. Inside the barn, he directed them to a corner where a hose hung from the wall, with its nozzle dripping with water.

“Line up for me!” he instructed, his voice gentle but authoritative. He pointed to a spot near the wall. The slaves obeyed and stood in a row with their legs spread shoulder-width apart, hands raised to their shoulders, palms facing forward in the position of attention, their collars glinting under the dim lantern light.

The farmhand began with the first girl. He gripped the hose with a steady hand as he sprayed her front. The cold water blasted against her bare skin, and washed away the day’s sweat and dirt.

“There we go, let’s get you nice and clean,” he murmured. His tone was soothing yet detached.

“Spread yourself,” he directed. His voice was calm but firm, and the girl parted her vaginal lips with trembling fingers. The water jetted between them in a clinical rinse, as her body tensed under the icy spray.

“Well done, turn around now,” he said with a note of encouragement in his voice. She stood at attention again, facing away as he sprayed her back, the water sluicing down her spine.

“Bend and spread for me,” he added softly, and she bent forward, and spreaded her buttcheeks to expose her anal region. The water jetted against her anus with a gentle precision that contrasted his earlier indifference. One by one, he moved down the line to repeat the process with a tender efficiency. The slaves were left to drip dry in the warm air. Their naked bodies glistened as they waited for the others to be cleaned.

Melissa stood third in line. Her body tensed as the farmhand reached her. The icy water hit her chest and stomach. Her skin prickled under the relentless spray.

“You’re doing fine, white girl,” he said with a warm voice as he guided her through the steps. His care was a strange contrast to the humiliation Melissa felt. She followed his commands without protest. Her movements were automatic as she spread herself, felt the water’s sting, her cheeks burning with shame as she bent to have her hair drenched, then turned and spread again for the final rinse.

Nadine, next in line, shivered under the spray. Her gasps were sharper as the water hit her tender ear. The fresh tag throbbed under the pressure.

“Easy now, white girl,” the farmhand soothed with a gentle tone. He adjusted the spray to avoid her ear, a small kindness that did little to ease the indignity of the process.

Once all of them were hosed down, their bodies were dripping wet, and the farmhand set the hose aside to pick up the coffle chain from a nearby hook, its links clinking softly.

“Milk squad line up!” he said, his voice still warm, pointing to the barn’s entrance. The slave girls who did shifts at the milk bar obeyed, forming a row as he prepared to lock them into the chain for their evening shift at Simba’s Milk Hut. He paused, and glanced at Nadine. His eyes softened as he noticed her wincing, her fingers brushing the tender piercing on her ear.

“Not you, young lady,” he said gently, a faint smile on his lips as he patted her shoulder, his touch paternal yet objectifying. “You stay with the barn girls. That ear needs to heal.”

Nadine exhaled in relief, her shoulders sagging as the tension drained from her body, the reprieve a small mercy after the day’s ordeal. Melissa felt a wave of relief wash over her too, her worry for Nadine easing at the farmhand’s words, grateful her friend would be spared the evening’s labor.

Melissa stepped forward, and wrapped her arms around Nadine in a brief, tight hug. Their wet skin stuck together as she whispered, “I’m glad you’re staying. Rest well.”

Nadine managed a faint smile. Her hand squeezed Melissa’s arm in return, a silent thanks passing between them. The farmhand moved down the line, locking the remaining slaves into the coffle chain. His hands were steady but careful as he snapped the cold steel shut around Melissa’s collar with a sharp click, murmuring, “There we go, white girl, you’ll do fine tonight.”

The weight of the chain was familiar but no less oppressive. His gentle words were a hollow comfort as he tugged the chain as he lead them out of the barn. Their bare feet padded against the earth as they headed toward the livestock trailer waiting outside.

Melissa glanced back and waved goodbye to Nadine as the coffle moved forward. The chain pulled taut and Melissa moved forward. Nadine stood at the barn’s entrance. Her figure was small against the looming structure, her hand raised in a tentative wave, the tender piercing still a faint ache as she watched her friend being led away.

The trailer’s metal cage gleamed under the fading light and the bars were cold against Melissa’s bare skin as she stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind them with a heavy clang. The farmhand drove them toward Simba’s Milk Hut for their evening shift, while those without a shift stayed behind. Their voices faded into a faint murmur as they played games in the shade in a rare moment of reprieve.

—

When not being milked, the slaves were used to help around the farm. Currently, help was needed to pick fruits from an orchard. Melissa’s hands moved swiftly, plucking mangoes and coconuts, the sunlight soaking her skin, a necessity for the “organic milk” the farm prided itself on that was nutrient rich. The slaves were well-fed, their meals hearty to keep them strong, their days spent outside to ensure the milk’s quality.

Around lunchtime, there was a long break. The slaves napped on woven mats beneath the shade of palm trees, allowing their bodies to cool in the breeze. Melissa splashed water over her face at a nearby stream, scrubbing the sweat and grime from her skin, the other slaves doing the same in a quiet ritual of survival. Another milking followed, the pumps humming as they worked, the jars filling with white streams under the midday sun. In the afternoon, they fed the chickens and weeded the crop fields.

Melissa settled into her new schedule—three days at The Slave Academy, four at Coconut Grove Farm, the farm days replacing her time with Markus. The rhythm was relentless, but she adapted. Her body went through the motions even as her mind churned. One evening, as Dmitri led her and Nadine in a coffle back to the Academy, their wrists handcuffed behind their backs, the chain tugging at their collars, Melissa’s frustration boiled over. “When will Markus pick me up again?” she asked, her voice sharp.

Dmitri glanced back, his smirk sharp, his tone careless. “Markus arranged this—it’s permanent until he decides otherwise. You’ll do these shifts ‘til then.” He yanked the chain, which forced her to stumble forward as Nadine quietly gasped beside her.

Melissa’s breath caught, rage flared as her hands strained against the cuffs, but the steel was unyielding. Permanent? He’s abandoned me to this—farm and bar, Academy and cage, no end in sight. The thought burned as her bare feet stumbled over the rough path. The Academy’s gates loomed ahead in a cold promise of more drills and punishment.

—

Markus stood at the airport, his duffel slung over his shoulder, the hum of departing flights filling the air. His bags were packed, his hut at the resort cleared out, a new life waiting in Switzerland. The bruise on his jaw had faded, but the memory of Arbek’s punch lingered, a sharp reminder of the chaos he was leaving behind. He thought of Arbek, sentenced just the other day to a short prison term for the assault. What a crazy time this had been. Grabesh had reshaped him, hardened him, taught him lessons he would carry with him for the rest of his life. He treasured the experiences, the power he had found, even as he turned his back on his second chance to make Melissa truly his. The boarding call sounded, and he stepped forward, ready for what came next.

Hi Everyone,

In this update, we follow Melissa and Nadine through their grueling shifts at Simba’s Milk Hut and their new life at Coconut Grove Farm. Melissa faces public humiliation during milk bar inspections and tastings, while her transfer to the farm brings new challenges, from caged confinement to veterinary checkups. Amidst the hardship, she finds a fragile sense of community with Talia and the farm slaves. Meanwhile, Markus reflects on his failures with Melissa, deciding to abandon her as he departs for Switzerland, marking a turning point in his journey as a master.

What did you think of these chapters?

I’d love to hear your thoughts. How do you feel about Melissa’s growing friendship with Nadine and Talia? What are your reactions to Markus’s decision to leave Melissa behind, and his transformation into a colder master? Did any moments stand out, like the milk bar’s comparison tasting or the farm’s harsh realities? Are there parts you think could be improved? Let me know!

Please share your feedback in the comments, and don’t forget to rate this update in the poll above. Thanks for reading!

Loved it ! Can't wait to discover mellisa next master !

Hoggle: Welcome back.