Cattle Drive - Another Day at The Lazy M by Joe Doe

[imreadonly2]

I expanded and focused on part of the Cattle Drive story that interested me. I hope you enjoy it, and thanks, Msakr!

My name's Emily, and up until I enrolled in Boston University, I was your classic city princess—Chicago bred, all sleek leggings and iced coffees, eyeing a future in some glossy high-rise. Slavery? Yeah, it was a thing in our world—legal for debts, crimes, or those thrill-seekers who signed up voluntarily. I'd sneak peeks at those steamy online forums late at night, heart pounding as I devoured tales of women stripped of everything, collared and commanded. But me? Hell no. Until Sam crashed into my life.

She stormed our dorm like a Montana whirlwind—tall, sun-kissed, with biceps that screamed real labor, not spin classes. "Hey, roomie," she said, her voice a lazy drawl as she tossed a duffel that reeked of sun-baked earth and saddle leather. "Sam from the Lazy M Ranch. Ag major, specializing in Slave Handling." Her grin was sharp, predatory, and it sent a shiver straight to my core.

Slave Handling? I was disgusted at first, but excited, her stories sank hooks into me. We'd sprawl on our beds munching ramen, and she'd paint pictures of the ranch: vast skies over rolling pastures, where they ran cattle alongside slave herds—mostly women, volunteers or debt girls chasing a raw reset. "It's like wrangling wild mustangs, but with bare skin and begging eyes," she'd say, her blue gaze locking on mine, making my skin prickle. I'd feign disgust, but alone in the dark, my fingers would wander, imagining myself in a collar, exposed under that endless blue.

It kicked off subtle. One rainy afternoon, post-midterms, Sam whipped out a worn notebook. "Check this out." She flipped to a page: "Slave Grading: Emily." My pulse hammered. There I was, dissected like prime beef: Height: 5'4". Build: Slender, 105 lbs. Measurements: 34C-24-34. Skin: Pale, smooth, freckles on shoulders. Hair: Brunette waves to mid-back. Eyes: Hazel, expressive. Notes: Perky tits with sensitive nipples; tight ass; quick to flush—high humiliation response.”

"When the hell did you—?" I spluttered, cheeks blazing.

She lounged back, smirking. "Observation's my job. You're top-shelf stock, Em—soft city curves begging for a handler's touch. You'd pull premium at auction." Her eyes raked over me, and damn if my nipples didn't harden against my thin tee.

To make a long story short, after a year together, with Sam grooming me, I let Sam talk me into becoming a slave animal on a Montana cattle drive.

I stepped into the blistering sun, my light sundress whipping in the breeze. "Strip." One word, but it hit like a command. Fingers fumbling, I peeled off the dress, bra, panties—fabric pooling at my feet, warm wind teasing my newly bare skin, nipples pebbling instantly. The exposure burned: vulnerable, alive, my pussy already slicking.

Into the barn we went, hay dust tickling my nose, the dim light filtering through slats, shadows dancing on wooden beams. Two other women in denim shirts were chatting casually, one playing with a piece of coiled rope.

"Fresh stock," Sam said. The women nodded and I gave a little shudder as they looked me over with apraising eyes.

Sam didn't waste time. The collar first: heavy leather encircling my throat, buckling tight with a metallic click that locked it into place. A tag dangled cold against my chest: "Lazy M Property – Volunteer #47." Then the chip: a sharp sting at my nape, like a bee's bite, the device burrowing under skin.

"Tracked livestock now," she said, her fingers lingering, tracing down my spine, raising shivers. "No running away, Princess."

I watched with confusion as Sam took a tool off the shelf and casually fitted a pink plastic tag onto what looked like a punch gun. I didn't understand what she was doing, and wondered if it was for stapling papers together. My stomach lurched when I finally noticed the other women—two dozen of them, kneeling in the hay-strewn corner, breathing hard. Their skin glistened with sweat, their thighs trembling slightly from exertion. And there, dangling from each of their left ears, was a bright pink tag, the kind you’d see on prize cattle at a state fair.

Each tag had a sideways M, the same logo on the tag on my collar, the logo of The Lazy M Ranch.

I stepped back as Same moved toward me with the gun, but the other two women held me in place.

Sam turned the punch gun in her hands, the pink tag catching the barn light. "Ear tagging's standard," she said, thumbing the mechanism with practiced ease.

"You don't have to—" My voice cracked as Sam's fingers closed around my earlobe, tugging it taut. The cold metal of the punch gun pressed against the soft flesh. "The chip, the collar—I'm already marked, Sam. This is unnecessary."

The barn erupted in laughter—not cruel, but rich, throaty, the kind that comes from knowing something you don't. One of the women, a redhead with a sunburned nose, wiped her mouth with her sleeve. "Oh honey," she chuckled, shaking her head. "You really think the livestock decides what happens when it's loaded off the truck?"

Sam's smiled; clearly she was enjoying my fear. "Ear tags aren't about necessity, slave girl, they're about visibility. People looking at the heard might not spot a bad collar tag, and they ayn't going to scan a chip. But this?" She held up the pink, triangle shaped tag with the ranch logo on it, "this tells every cowboy from here to Wyoming exactly what you are—and who owns you. And from now on, call us Mistress, or Miss Cowgirl."

The punch gun clicked—sharp, final—and pain flared white-hot through my skull. I gasped, legs buckling, but the women held me upright as Sam fastened the tag. It hurt, and I cried out, but clearly no one cared.

Without a moment to think, the three women grabbed me. I was fastened over a padded bench, ass up. I was about to ask what they were doing - or at least I was thinking of asking - when a leather bit was shoved into my mouth and pulled back tight enough so my teeth showed.

"She sure does have nice pearlies," the redhead said. "I got saddle sores older than her." Again, the women laughed.

My eyes went wide with fear as I first smelled, then saw the smoking brazier in front of me. The handle of a branding iron stuck out of the flowing red coals, the metal glowing a vicious orange where it disappeared into the heat. My nostrils flared—that scent, acrid and ancient, like burnt hair and scorched leather—it coiled down my throat and settled like lead in my gut.

The redhead leaned against the barn wall, rolling a toothpick between her lips, watching my reaction with lazy amusement. "If ya' don't think you need a tag, yer' really not gonna like this," she drawled, flicking the toothpick into the hay. "But all the livestock on The Lazy M Ranch git marked before the drive.”

I turned my head, straining to see Sam, hoping to catch her eye, hoping she'd save me. Until now, it had been a game. Even the tag could be removed. But the brand was real. Permanent. There'd be no doubt as to me being a slave one it kissed my ass.

Across the barn, my roommate Sam leaned against the stall rail with her arms folded, hat tipped low over her eyes. She looked completely at home in a way I had never seen on campus. Back in our dorm she moved through life like she was tolerating it. Here she moved like the place belonged to her.

Her boots were dusty, her flannel sleeves rolled up, and there was a coil of rope hanging from one hand like it weighed nothing.

Two other women stood near the saddle racks.

The other woman was compact and quick-moving, her dark braid swinging down her back as she lifted a saddle and set it onto a rack with practiced ease.

Sam wiped her hands on her jeans. "You gonna enter anything in the chilli cookoff, Denise?"

Denise shook her head. "I should have won last year."

“You lost,” the older redhead said.

“Rigged judging, Patty. Rigged judging."

“Your chili had chocolate in it,” Sam said.

“It was good.”

“It was confusing.”

Patty leaned against the saddle rack, still smiling.

“Still better than Denise’s stew.”

Denise lifted an eyebrow.

“My stew kept people alive.”

“That’s one way to describe it.”

Staring at the smoking brazier with the handle protruding into the air, I flashed back to our dorm room in Boston, remembering how the rain pattered against our window while I squatted naked on my slave yoga mat. "Stop thinking like some rich girl in Chicago," Sam had drawled from her bunk, barely looking at me as she scrolled her phone. "Slave poses are different. Your body's not yours anymore—it's product."

I tried again. She frowned. Not good enough.

Her cowboy boots thudded to the floor as she rolled off the bed, suddenly all predator.

I'd frozen mid-pose, skin prickling as she circled me like a cowgirl inspecting stock. "Auction ass ain't about perfect downward dog," she snorted, kicking my feet wider apart with her scuffed, worn boots. Her fingers—rough from ranch work—dug into my neck without warning, tilting my head back. "Tits up, always. It's about presenting."

Her boot pressed against the small of my back, forcing my spine into a deeper arch that thrust my pussy up higher "Like this. Makes buyers see the goods. They should always be looking at your tits, your pussy, or the brand on your ass."

"Are the girls on the cattle drives branded?" I asked, my butt cheeks clenching at the thought.

"That's a dumb question," she said, "Rub your pussy. Show the buyers how wet you are."

My pussy was already wet, but my fingers felt good. I was careful to not let my hand block the view. Sam had taught me this was for the buyers, not me. "Why is it a stupid question?" I asked.

Sam lay back on her dorm bed, crossing her boots and as she enjoyed the sight of my fingers working my ‘product’.

"It's dumb because you're thinking like a person," she drawled, plucking at a loose thread on her quilt. "Livestock doesn't wonder if it'll get tagged or branded any more than a steak wonders if it'll be medium-rare." Her boot nudged my hip, forcing my knees wider apart. "Market decides. Handler decides. Auction house decides. Owner decides. What your think don't mean shit."

“But branding is permanent," I said, enjoying the buzz the branding conversation was causing me even as my bottom cheeks clenched. "If I went on a cattle drive, I'd pretend to be a slave, but I'd be free afterwards, right? But the brand would still be there."

"No shit it would still be there, genius," she said, chuckling at my stupidity. "And there ayn't no pretend about a cattle drive. We'd need to get the paperwork together, all nice and legal, for the government inspectors. Who is going to manage your bids?"

"What do you mean?" I said, pausing my rubbing as I looked at her in confusion.

Sam's tone betrayed her contempt. "Flip on the brights, city girl," she sighed, rolling her eyes toward the dorm's stucco ceiling. "You really think livestock walks into an auction house and starts negotiating prices? Read the regs, girl, she said, taking a book off the shelf and waving it. Who is going to manage your bids?"

The question caught me off guard. I knew cattle drives ended in auctions, but did I want to go that far? Not wanting to stop the game, I decided to play along.

Mom had offered to take me to the Chicago Slave Market two summers ago, just after my high school graduation. "If you're going to have these... interests," she'd said, swirling her iced tea with that clinical detachment she reserved for discussing my menstrual cycle, "you should at least see the reality." I had turned her down. The thought of touring a slave market with my elitist mom was too embarrassing. But she knew my kink, and I knew she'd support me in anything I wanted to do, and I knew Sam wanted an answer, to see that I was serious.

Straining, I told Sam my mom would handle my bids, although I wouldn't really want her to see me naked and performing on the auction block. My heart beat faster at the thought. Mom knew about my late-night browser history, sure, but watching her only daughter paraded on a rotating platform in some auction house in Dung Hole Montanna while buyers inspected my teeth? That was different.

Sam picked up a rope next to her bed, her fingers moving through the knots with practiced precision. "Naw, Mom's gotta watch," she said, looping the hemp into a complex figure-eight. "Standard procedure. Wouldn't want some slick auctioneer shorting her. Seeing the whole process, soups to nuts, she knows it's legit, and she's getting fair market value."

My hand moved back to my pussy as I imagined my always fashionably dressed mother watching as I spread my butt cheeks and winked my asshole at the bidders. Would she be horrified? Amused? Angry? Satisfied I had found my place? The fantasy sent fresh slickness trickling down my inner thighs—half arousal, half terror.

It was absurd. Mom's stiletto heels clicking across auction house concrete. Her manicured fingers flipping through my grading report like a menu at Le Bernardin. That single arched eyebrow—the one she'd perfected over twenty years of corporate negotiations—lifting as the auctioneer announced my starting bid.

"My mom wouldn't sell me," I explained, teasing my clit. "We don't need the money."

"You think this is about money?" Sam's laugh was slow, rich as molasses dripping off a spoon. Looking down at me rubbing my pussy, her ranch-girl eyes saw right through city-girl bullshit—and locked onto mine. "Emily," she said, in a voice that made me feel like I was seven, "your mom won't sell you because she needs cash. She'll sell you because it's RIGHT."

"What do you mean 'right?" I said, rubbing my pussy faster. "I told you, the price..."

Sam's fingers worked the rope with the same lazy precision. The hangman's knot took shape effortlessly under her calloused hands—each twist, each loop tightening the noose. "It's not about the money, dummy," she drawled, testing the knot's give with a sharp tug that made my breath hitch. "That's why your mom needs to see the whole shebang. Wander around the market, watch the other slave pussy getting auctioned. Understand the rhythm of the place. That way, when yer' turn comes, she'll see how you fit in. Fair market price. Fair value. How things work."

"But I'm her daughter," I protested.

Sam's fingers tightened around the noose, testing its smooth slide. "After a day of watching inspections, brandings, auctions?" Her smile was slow, knowing. "When she sees you up there, Princess, she'll realize you're not as special as you think. Trust me, you'll be just another lot, one more pussy on the block."

"Do you really think so?" I said, rubbing my pussy faster. "I mean... if she watches auctions all day...I guess I would kinda, sorta... blend it?"

Sam smiled as she held up the noose for inspection, the rope's rough fibers whispering against her calloused palms. "Damn right you’ll blend it. My bet is she won’t even recognize the naked slut up there doing her block routine. I’ve seen parent’s jaws drop when they see their little princess slave-gasm in the inspection pens. You and yer’ mommy git along?”

“Mostly,” I said, remembering some of the battles of my teenage years, when I had been impossible.

“Seeing as how your fate is in yer’ Mom’s hands, yer gonna wish you’d been a little nicer. My bet is Mom won't get all sentimental," she drawled, giving the knot an experimental tug that made my breath hitch. "She'll see it as a business transaction. After all, that's what it is."

The noose swayed lazily between us like a hypnotist's pendulum. "She'll be thinking about how you compare, if the auctioneer did a good job, if you had the right bidders. She'll check your price against what the other girls got—and make her decision right quick."

Back in the barn, Patty sauntered over and took the branding head out of the bucket of glowing coals. I screamed into my bit as she blew on it, and it glowed bright orange.

"Easy, girl," Patty said. "I've branded droves like you. The Lazy M is going to look good on that cute little butt of yers."

I looked to Sam, whimpering, desperate for help. She grabbed a brush and started running it along a saddle blanket as Patty stuffed the hot iron back into the glowing coals.

“You check the north fence yesterday?” Sam asked.

Denise nodded. “Gate hinge still sticking.”

It was surreal. I was about to get my ass branded, and they were talking about a fence gate, like that actually mattered!

It was hard to believe that a few minutes ago I Emily, Sam's brilliant Boston College roommate. I had been her confidant, her friend, the one who helped her with her math homework in slave economics. Now I was #47, bare-assed and trembling over a branding bench, listening to them talk about a gate hinge while my skin prickled under the threat of the iron. The casualness of it all made it worse. Patty humming off-key as she tested the iron's heat. Denise flicking hay off her jeans. Sam brushing that damn saddle blanket like my whimpers were just barn white noise.

"Gate needs oil," Denise said.

I gasped as Patty reached between my legs and ran her finger over my slick pussy, massaging it like pizza dough. "You could use some of the oil between this little bitch’s legs," Patty said. I gasped as her finger slipped easily inside of my soaking wetness. "Damn, she's hot. Where'd this one come from, a river."

Sam didn't even look up as she kept brushing. "Chicago, I think. Some hoity-toity college girl I groomed."

“Nice,” Patty said. “10% on this one will be a nice piece of change.”

The realization hit me harder than the punch gun had. Sam had groomed me. Of course she had. All those late nights together, her coaching me, telling me what the cattle drive would be like. Emily, her roommate who’d stayed up with her cramming for exams, who’d lent her favorite sweater when Sam caught a chill, who’d laughed so hard at her dumb cowboy jokes that milk came out her nose? That girl was gone. I was just #47 now, another piece of livestock trembling over a bench. A 10% commission!

The brushstrokes never faltered. Sam’s arm moved in steady, rhythmic sweeps across the saddle blanket, her calloused fingers gripping the bristles with the same casual confidence she’d once used to highlight our econ textbooks. Each pass of the brush might as well have been a nail hammered into the coffin of my old life. I choked back a sob around the bit, my thighs trembling against the padded bench. The branding iron hissed in the coals, a sound like venomous snakes whispering promises.

Patty’s rough fingers still worked between my legs, her thumb circling my clit with mocking precision. "Christ, she’s dripping," she chuckled, withdrawing her glistening fingers to wipe them on my thigh. "Guess city girls really do make the best stock—all that pent-up energy." The women laughed again, and Sam brushed her hat back as she finally looked up at me, strapped down over the bench, waiting to be branded.

For a moment, I thought she was going to acknowledge me, and tell the others who I was. Perhaps she would even call off the branding.

Sam had warned me I'd get no special treatment, but would she really brand me? I was still her friend. I was more than just a commission.

But Sam just chuckled as I pushed back on Patty's fingers. "Hot and sloppy, that's how the buyers like 'em'. Yer’ right. She'll fetch a good price when we get her to market."

The conversation continued as Patty rubbed my pussy faster, causing me to groan with pleasure even as I remained transfixed by the branding iron in front of me.

“You think the creek crossing’ll be high?” Sam said.

Denise shrugged.

“Shouldn’t be.”

Sam folded the blanket and put it on a shelf.

“If it is, we go west trail.”

Patty nodded. “Fair enough.”

A truck engine rumbled somewhere outside.

My head was spinning. Patty's fingers worked me with cruel precision, each stroke dragging me closer to the edge even as my stomach twisted with terror. The branding iron glowed malevolently in the brazier, its heat distorting the air above it like a desert mirage. I wanted to scream, to beg, but the leather bit stretched my mouth wide, reducing my protests to animal whimpers. The dichotomy was unbearable—my body arching into Patty's touch while my mind recoiled at the sight of that scorching metal. This wasn't some dorm-room fantasy anymore. That iron would scar me in ways no late-night online story could capture.

Sam walked over and leaned her hip against the branding bench, the casual press of her denim-clad thigh against my trembling flank as natural as if I were part of the furniture. "Heard Old Man Rigby's prize heifer got loose again," she drawled, flipping the iron in the coals with a practiced twist of her wrist. The coals glowed brighter, casting jagged orange shadows across the barn's weathered planks.

"Is it ready?" Patty said.

I shuddered and screamed into my gag as Sam pulled the iron out and blew on the head. Now it glowed a yellow-orange.

"More than ready," Sam said.

"You brought ‘er in. Wanna to do the honors, Sam?" Patty said.

"I guess," Sam said casually, as if branding my bottom was a chore or no consequence, like fetching the mail.

The iron hovered inches from my skin, radiating waves of heat that puckered my flesh before contact. Time slowed—the way it does in car wrecks, in freefalls—every detail crystallizing with brutal clarity. The way Patty's knuckles whitened where she gripped my hip. The way Denise absentmindedly picked at a hangnail. The way Sam exhaled through her nose, steady as a metronome, as she positioned the glowing brand.

I had always thought of Sam as my inferior, the rube from Montana that I had to show around Boston. I was an engineer, she was in agriculture—slave ag, at that. Back in our dorm, I'd tutored her through calculus problems while she stared blankly at equations like they were hieroglyphics. I'd rolled my eyes when she couldn't pronounce "espresso" correctly, when she marveled at automated subway doors like they were witchcraft. But as I strained to look over my shoulder now—muscles quivering, sweat dripping between my bare breasts onto the branding bench—I realized with gut-clenching clarity that Sam, the girl with a slight smile on her lips and a branding iron in her fist, was the powerful one, the girl in charge.

The branding iron hovered maybe two inches above my upturned ass, its heat radiating in visible waves that distorted the air. Sam's stance was casual—boots planted wide, one hip cocked—but her grip on the iron's handle was absolute. No tremor. No hesitation. Just the easy confidence of someone who'd done this thousands of times before. My eyes darted to her face, searching for any flicker of recognition—any sign that she remembered all those late nights I'd helped her cram for exams, the time I'd held her hair back when she puked tequila onto my Marc Jacobs purse. But her expression was the same one she'd worn while brushing that damn saddle blanket: detached, professional, utterly at home in her role as my handler.

All business, except for the hint of a smile.

Time slowed to a crawl as the iron touched my ass. "One Chicago," Sam drawled, her voice dripping with lazy amusement as the iron's heat pulsed against my skin like a second heartbeat. The women's laughter coiled around me—thick, rich, the kind that comes from watching city girls learn their place. My thighs trembled violently, the muscles in my ass clenching tight enough to crack walnuts. A warm trickle escaped down my inner thigh, the piss puddling on the bench beneath me before dripping onto the hay-strewn floor. The redhead—Patty—snorted and wiped her nose with her sleeve.

"Two Chicago," Sam continued, her boot tapping the bench rhythmically, the sound muffled by my choked whimpers.

The scent of my own urine mixed with the acrid bite of scorching metal filled my nostrils. I squeezed my eyes shut, tears leaking down my cheeks to mingle with the sweat on my collarbones. Patty's calloused thumb rubbed circles on my hipbone, a grotesque parody of comfort.

"Three Chicago," Sam finished, and lifted the hot iron from my burned ass.

The relief was instantaneous—until the laughter doubled, harsher now, edged with something darker. My eyes flew open to see Denise holding up a hand mirror, angled so I could see the angry red M, comically laying on its side, seared into my left buttock, the skin already blistering at the edges. The brand pulsed with every frantic beat of my heart, the pain radiating down to my toes. Patty leaned in, her breath hot on my branded flesh as she inspected the mark. "Crisp edges," she murmured approvingly, tapping the welted skin with one rough finger. I jerked violently, a broken sound escaping around the bit.

Sam's calloused hands hooked under my armpits, hauling me upright with the same effortless motion. My knees buckled instantly—half from the branding's aftershocks, half from the sudden vertigo of realizing my ass now bore permanent proof of ownership. Patty caught me before I face-planted into the hay, her grip firm beneath my trembling elbows. "Easy there, heifer," she chuckled, steering me toward the corner where the other slave livestock knelt in neat rows. The hay prickled against my raw skin as they forced me into position—knees wide, hands laced behind my neck, spine arched to display the fresh brand still throbbing on my left cheek.

I knelt with the other livestock in the shadows, naked, knees spread, hands behind my head, sobbing softly. If my parents walked in, I doubt they’d even recognize me. I was just another piece of livestock, collared, chipped, and branded, on her way to market.

Patty asked Sam whether she needed an oil change for her truck, and Sam said she was good. My branding had been the most momentous moment of my life, a transformation that had changed everything. But for Sam and the other cowgirls, it was just another day on The Lazy M ranch.

[Johnny Lawrence]

Great story. I'd love to see more.

You know, I was wondering what percentage of wealthy parents just cannot accept that their little angel would debase herself like that and rub her pussy in front of all those bidders. It's got to be a decent number. And if you've convinced yourself that that's not your daughter up there winking her asshole at everyone, then it must be some other family's dirty little whore who they didn't raise right (and your sweet Emily is off on that European summer vacation you had talked about, surely).

And if the auction house got her information mixed up and gave her auction rights to you by mistake, well, why not have a little fun with it? The conventional wisdom is that the slave wants as high a score as possible, to bring in as high a bid as possible. It pays off any debts faster and results in a shorter enslavement to a wealthier owner, who probably already has other slaves to distract him, right? But if you've got the bidding rights, you wouldn't really have to accept the highest bid, would you? There's some slut up there on the block with a similar name to your daughter, ruining her good name. Wouldn't it serve her right if you accepted a lower bid on purpose, so she really knew her place? Instead of 3 or 4 years as a rich guy's plaything, what about a solid 15 or 20 as a truck stop glory hole girl?

Your daughter will probably think it's just hilarious when she gets back from the French Riviera in September.

(Obviously not necessarily applicable in this story, since Emily's mom already knows her daughter is just a horny little slut who can't keep her fingers out of her pussy. But at least her mom can make some money out of it this way, as opposed to refusing any bids only to find out the stupid whore got herself enslaved some other way six months later.)