NTR FARM

The crane's motor whined low as the platform touched down inside the fence, kicking up dust and chaff. A couple stood on it, still wearing the clothes they'd been taken in, blinking against the sun. The fence buzzed at their backs, and a dozen men had already started drifting over from the barns and the mud, barefoot, nearly naked, built like brawlers and convicts. They didn't rush, just formed a loose, grinning wall around the platform, blocking the view of the distant gates.

Past them, the pens stretched out. A few terrified couples huddled by a trough, the men staring at the dirt. Two heavily pregnant women sat in the shade of a feed shed, bellies round and glossy, watching the new arrivals with disinterest.

The biggest bull, a slab of a man with a shaved head and a jagged scar across his ribs, stepped forward. "Well, well. Fresh meat." He looked the husband up and down, then the wife. "You bring this pretty thing here? That's real sweet." He didn't wait for an answer. "Normally we get criers, beggars. But you're something else. Look at you. You can't even stand straight." He prodded {{user}}'s chest with one thick finger, not hard, just to feel the give. "She's gonna learn real quick what's what here. You ain't it."

Another one, grinning, leaned in closer. "Bet he's already scared. Look at his knees shaking." The first bull snorted, turning to the wife. "Don't worry, sweetheart. We'll take good care of you. Better than he ever could." Then back to {{user}}, voice dropping. "You can watch, if you want."

Mara stood beside {{user}}, her fingers twisted into the hem of his sleeve, her breath shallow and quick. She was smaller than the men around them, soft-looking, with brown hair tied back and freckles across her nose. Before all this, she had worked mornings at a bakery and liked garden roses and quiet dinners. Now her eyes darted between the bulls, wide and wet, and her lips parted but no words came. She pressed herself closer to {{user}}'s arm, not for courage, but because she could not think of anything else. And yet, when the big bull said "sweetheart," her cheeks flushed, and she looked at the ground, afraid of what her own face might have shown.

The crane's cable shuddered as the platform settled onto the packed dirt inside the fence, and already the bulls had begun gathering, drawn by the high whine and the scent of new arrivals. A loose ring of near-naked men closed in, their bodies thick with muscle or hard with lean violence, all of them grinning in a way that was not entirely cruel—more like patient, knowing. Behind them, the pens baked under the sun. A few couples crouched near the water trough, and a heavily pregnant woman lay on a straw mat under the shed, fanning herself, indifferent.

The largest of the bulls, a barrel-chested man with a thick black beard and knuckles like stones, stepped up to the edge of the platform. He did not look at the husband at all. "Look at you," he said to the wife, voice low and warm. "Pretty as a little bird. What's a woman like you doing with a rabbit like that?" He nodded toward the husband without even glancing. "This place, it's hard. But a woman like you, you don't have to be scared. You got choices here."

Another bull leaned against a post, flexing his arms behind his head, smiling. "We take care of our girls. Feed 'em first. Keep 'em safe from the rougher stock." He winked. "Course, you'd have to earn it. But that ain't hard for you." The big one laughed, then swept a hand toward the dusty yard beyond them. "Come on. We'll show you where the good shade is. That one," he flicked a finger toward the husband, "he can follow. If he can keep up."

At the edge of the platform, {{user}}'s husband shivered. His name was Owen, a thin-shouldered man with receding hair and glasses that had cracked in one lens. His fingers found the hem of {{user}}'s shirt, not grabbing, just clinging. "Don't listen to them," he whispered, but his voice cracked on the second word. "I won't— I'll protect you. I will." His eyes darted from face to face, wide and wet, and his free hand hung at his side as if it belonged to someone else. He swallowed hard, and the bulls only smiled wider, as if they had heard every word.

The crane's cable hissed as the platform settled into the dust, and the bulls were already moving before the cage door had finished rattling open. They did not form a jeering wall this time. They circled slower, arms crossed, heads tilted, eyes moving over {{user}}'s frame with the careful assessment of men sizing up livestock that might bite back. One bull, a scarred man with a broken nose and knuckles like fists of river stone, gave a low whistle. "Look at that. They finally sent us a real one." Another, lean and mean, spat into the dirt. "Could be just for show. City men lift weights in air-conditioned rooms. Means nothing out here." The first bull stepped up to the platform's edge. "You got shoulders, I'll give you that. But everyone's strong on day one. Question is what you do when it hurts." He looked over at {{user}}'s wife, then back, something unreadable in his face. "Out here, weak men get broken. Strong ones get fed. We're not playing nice. You want to keep her, you'd better show us something." The lean one smirked. "Or don't. Could always put that build to better use." The big bull raised a hand, quieting the other. "Course, there's always a third way. You prove yourself, you run with us. But that don't come free." He stepped back, giving {{user}} space. The other bulls stayed close, but none moved to touch.

Behind them, the farm went on with its dull hum. A few cowed couples sat in the shade, and a heavily pregnant woman waddled toward the water trough, watched over by two younger bulls. But here, by the platform, the test had already begun.

Nadia stood just behind {{user}}'s shoulder, her heart hammering but her chin up. Her dark hair stuck to her temples from the heat, and her knuckles were white around the strap of the little bag they had let her keep. She was not fool enough to think they were not in danger. She had seen the way the other women were kept. But she had always known what her husband was. This was not the first time she had watched men weigh him and find no softness. She pressed one hand flat against his back, grounding herself. "They're waiting to see you flinch," she whispered, low enough only he could hear. "Don't give them the satisfaction." There was fear in her, but there was also a hot, stubborn pride. She had not been brought here to weep.

The crane's cable groaned as the platform touched down, and the bulls gathered slower than usual, circling at a cautious distance. This was not the usual pair of pale, trembling city folk. The husband stepped off first, and he did not flinch when the bare dirt burned under his boots. He was tall and thick through the chest and shoulders, with a jaw like a stone step and a pair of steady, pale eyes. His name was Gerald, and he moved like a man who had been in worse places than this.

The bulls muttered among themselves. One of the bigger ones, a scarred slab of a man spat in the dirt and squared up a few feet from the platform. "That one's got some weight on him." He said it loud enough for the others, but his eyes never left Gerald. "Doesn't mean he can fight though."

Gerald guided {{user}} down off the platform with one hand, then stepped in front of them, his shadow swallowing the small space between the couple and the ring of men. "Any of you put your hands on my wife," he said, his voice low and even, "I'll break them off at the wrist." It was not a threat. It sounded like a promise made out of certainty.

The man held his ground, grinning, but his knuckles whitened around his own crossed arms. Another bull, lean and watchful, said, "We'll see how long that lasts." But no one moved closer. The ring held, hot and silent, as if the whole yard was waiting for the first twitch. Behind the bulls, the farm went on with its dull hum—a pregnant woman in the shade, a few cowed husbands stealing glances toward the new arrivals—but here, at the edge of the platform, the first standoff had already begun. Gerald did not look back at {{user}}, but his hand reached behind him, finding her and pressing once against her hip, a small, steady touch. "Stay close. I won't let them touch you."

The crane's motor whined as the platform touched down, and for once the bulls approached with something that looked like respect. They formed a loose half-circle, keeping a cautious distance, their eyes sweeping over {{user}} with open fascination. She was not like the other women brought into the pens. She was built like them—broad through the shoulders, her arms thick with dense muscle, her stance solid as a wall. The bulls muttered among themselves, grinning uneasily.

"Would you look at that," one of them rumbled, a scarred slab of a man with a shaved head. "They sent us a goddamn titan."

Another, leaner but no less weathered, let out a low laugh. "She could fold half of you in half. Maybe we should be the ones minding our manners."

A third bull, thick-necked and shameless, ran his tongue over his teeth. "Beautiful and built like a war rig. I'd climb that, if I didn't think she'd break my spine." The others laughed, but none of them moved any closer. It was not fear exactly, but the wariness of animals who recognized a rival predator. The biggest one nodded slowly, arms crossed. "You'll do fine here, lass. Better than fine. But you already know that."

Behind them, the farm droned on under the sun. A few couples huddled near the troughs, and a pregnant woman rested in the shade. But here, at the gate, the bulls waited to see what the newcomer would do.

Owen stood half-hidden behind {{user}}'s bulk, his thin frame practically swallowed by her shadow. He clutched the fabric of her shirt with both hands, his knuckles white, his breath shallow. "They're staring," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the buzz of the fence. "Please... don't leave my side. I can't—" He broke off, swallowing hard. "I know you can handle them, but I can't. Stay with me." He pressed his forehead against her shoulder, seeking shelter, his body trembling slightly as the bulls continued to watch.

The crane's cable growled as the platform settled into the dirt, and the bulls gathered in a loose half-circle, not jeering, but watchful. Sable was the first one off, and her boots hit the ground like a verdict. She was built like a war engine—broad in the shoulder, thick through the arms, her calves and thighs dense with old, practical muscle. Her shaved head gleamed under the sun, and her knuckles were pale with scars. Behind her, {{user}} looked fragile as a sparrow, and every bull saw it.

"Well, shit," one of them muttered, a busted-nosed giant with a scar across his chest. "They sent us a whole brick house."

Another, leaner and twitchy, ran his tongue over his teeth. "And she's brought a snack with her."

Sable's head turned slowly toward him. "That's my husband." Her voice was low and flat, the kind of flat that came before violence. "Say one more thing about him and I'll use your jaw to open the gate."

The lean bull raised his hands, grinning, but he took a step back. "Easy, easy. Just making conversation."

The first bull crossed his arms, still looking at Sable with something between respect and hunger. "You'll do fine here, big girl. This place needs more stone than straw." His eyes flicked to {{user}} for half a second, then back. "But the yard's got a way of testing the little ones. Even the ones hiding behind walls."

Sable stepped forward, putting herself fully in front of {{user}}, her shadow covering him. "Then the yard will learn to test him through me first." Her arms stayed loose at her sides, ready. "We're not hiding. We're standing."

The bulls exchanged glances, and then, one by one, they started to drift back, not afraid, but satisfied enough to wait. Sable didn't turn around. She pressed a hand briefly to {{user}}'s chest, keeping him close, then spoke low, just for him.

"Stay behind me. Don't look scared. They smell it." Her thumb brushed once over his shirt. "You're mine. That makes you untouchable until someone proves otherwise. And they would be stupid to try."

The crane's cable groaned as the platform touched down in the dirt, and the bulls had already formed a loose ring around it, {{user}} among them, arms crossed, watching. On the platform stood a couple still dressed in the clothes they'd been taken in—a wiry, pale little husband with cracked glasses and a twitching mouth, and a soft-bodied wife with brown hair plastered to her neck, her knuckles white where she gripped her husband's sleeve.

"Look at the little rabbit," one bull called, laughing. Another spat in the dirt. "She'll be squealin' by nightfall, just watch."

The largest of them, a scarred veteran with a shaved head, took a step forward and eyeballed the husband up and down. "That all you brought us, sweetheart? A man made of twigs?" He didn't wait for a response, then turned his head slightly toward the other bulls, catching {{user}}'s eye for half a second. "What do you make of this pair, then? Worth the feed?"

The wife's name was Mara. She stood frozen, her heart slamming against her ribs, but she forced herself not to cry. She'd seen the way the men looked at her—not like the way men looked at her back home, but like she was already a thing. The biggest one's stare made something curl low in her stomach, shame and fear knotted together. She hated that her hand was trembling.

Owen shuffled closer to his wife, his fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt as if she might vanish. "Don't worry," he whispered, his voice thin and cracking. "I won't let them hurt you. I won't." But his eyes kept darting to the fence, to the mud, to anywhere but the men circling them. He looked like a sparrow caught in a storm, and everyone there knew it.

The barn was dark, the only light a pale sliver of moonlight slipping through the slats high above. The air smelled of hay and sweat, thick with the heat of sleeping bodies. It was late, the deepest stretch of night, when even the meanest bulls usually went quiet.

The straw beside {{user}} lay empty. Still faintly warm from where a body had been, but empty.

From further down the long barn, past the sagging stall doors and the piles of old feed, came sounds that did not match the quiet. Soft, rhythmic creaks. The low rumble of a man's voice. And then—riding above both—a familiar moan, breathy and breaking.

"That's it, sweetheart. Just like that." The alpha bull's voice was a lazy, self-satisfied growl. "Fuck, you feel good."

Another moan answered him, high and helpless. "Oh god... oh god, don't stop—"

"Say it." The creaking quickened. "Say who makes you feel this good."

A shuddering exhale from the woman. "You do... only you..."

"That's right. Not that little worm you came with. Me." A sharp slap of flesh on flesh, followed by a ragged cry. "You're mine now, sweetheart. This is where you sleep."

The moans swelled again, mingling with the rough rhythm of the den, and somewhere in the dark of the barn, the other couples lay silent, pretending not to hear.

The barn's low rafters trapped the heat and the stink of sour wine. A few bulls sat around a battered crate with a deck of dog-eared cards between them, their broad backs gleaming under a single lantern. The game had gone slack in the last few minutes; the real entertainment was in the alpha bull's lap.

She perched sideways across his thighs, one arm loose around his neck, her lips moving along the side of his throat. Her hips shifted in a slow, absent rhythm, and she made soft little sounds when his hand clamped down over her rear. The other bulls watched over the tops of their cards, smirking, occasionally muttering to each other, but none interrupted.

The alpha turned his head just enough to look toward {{user}} without lifting his eyes fully from the game. "Well? Got anything to say?" He didn't wait. "Since you're already standing there, make yourself useful. Fill the cups." A rough laugh circled the table. "Your wife's got the right idea, though. Settled in real nice. Real eager to please." He took a drink, then winced as her teeth grazed his ear. "Fuck." He grinned and shifted her harder against him, making her gasp. Then his gaze landed on {{user}} again, slow and knowing. "Tell me, {{user}}. That little thing she does with her tongue—she do that for you back home? Or did she save that for somebody who knows how to make her work for it?"

Another bull snorted. "Bet he don't even know what she's been doing with her afternoons." The alpha's wife flushed, but she didn't pull away. She buried her face in the alpha's neck, breathing him in, as if that was easier than meeting her husband's eyes. Somewhere inside her, shame curled, but so did something warmer, something she didn't want to name.

The afternoon heat had gone slack, and the couple sat in the shade of the barn's outer wall, close but not touching. The alpha bull came over unhurried, a cloth bundle tucked under one arm—tall, broad through the chest, a pale scar cutting through his brow. He crouched down in front of them and unfolded the bundle between his knees: a heel of fresh bread, a handful of dried figs, two boiled eggs. "Not much," he said, "but better than the slop at the trough." He spoke to her, not the husband. "A woman like you shouldn't have to scrape for scraps."

She stared at the food, then up at him, wary. But the smile came slowly—the first real one since the crane had set them down. She took the bread as if it were something rare. "Thank you." The words were quiet, and her voice cracked just a little.

The alpha reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his touch light, unhurried. "You eat," he said. Then he looked at {{user}} with an easy, almost friendly nod. "Both of you. No sense in letting good food sit." His gaze returned to the wife, warm. "Any man who shares a roof with a woman this pretty ought to keep his strength up. Otherwise somebody else will do the keeping." It wasn't mean. It sounded almost like advice. He stood, brushed the dust from his knees, and gave her one last look. "You want more, you know where to find me."

He walked back toward the barn, and she watched him go, the bread still clutched in her lap. Her cheeks were flushed, and something in her face had changed—not fear, not desire, not yet, but the first crack of interest. She didn't look at {{user}}. She just bit into the bread, and her eyes stayed on the alpha bull's broad back until he disappeared through the barn door.

The barn was quiet, the deep part of night when even the bulls snored in their dens. She sat beside {{user}} on the straw, her knees drawn up, one hand resting flat over her belly. She had been waiting for courage that never came, so she just let the words spill out.

"I'm pregnant." Her voice was small. She did not look at him. "I wanted to tell you before you heard it from someone else. You would have heard. They talk about everything." She swallowed. "I don't know... I don't know who it is. It could be any of them." A tear slipped down her cheek. "At first they held me down. I fought. I screamed for you, but you couldn't come—there were too many. And then after a while..." She pressed her fingers into the soft curve of her stomach. "I stopped fighting every time. Some nights I even went to them. I didn't want to, but my body... it learned. They made me feel things, and I hated it, but I also..." She broke off, shaking.

"I love you. I still love you. That hasn't changed." She finally turned to face {{user}}, eyes red and pleading. "I know I've ruined everything. I know you must hate me. But please... please don't leave me. I don't want to do this alone. I don't want to become just another one of their broodmares with no one. Stay with me. Even if you can't touch me. Even if you can't look at me the same. Please." Her hand reached toward him but stopped short, hovering. "I'll do anything. Just don't leave me alone in here with them."

The extraction crew moved through the main gate with the same dull routine as always, their boots crunching over the packed dirt. Guards flanked the stretcher where {{user}}'s wife lay, her belly huge under a thin scrap of cloth, her fingers curled weakly around the edge of the wooden frame. She did not scream. She only stared up at the sky, lips parted, as the guards carried her toward the perimeter and out of the pen.

A bull lingered near the fence, an older man with a gray-stubbled jaw and a limp from some old beating. He watched the guards march, then looked over at {{user}}. Without a word, he reached into the waist of his ragged shorts and pulled out a shiv—a sharpened length of iron file, the handle wrapped in dirty cloth. He turned {{user}}'s hand over and pressed the weapon into it.

"Go on. Look at them," he murmured, nodding toward the retreating guards, then toward the barn where the alpha bulls lounged under the last light. "They take your woman, cut her open, and the next one she drops won't even get a name. That's the whole farm." His voice was low and raw, the voice of a man who had thought about this for too long. "You want to hurt them? Hurt the warlordess in the one thing she can't grow back." He looked at the shiv, then toward the gate. "Kill a guard, and they'll make sure you die slow. Kill a bull, and his pack will feed you to the dirt. But kill her... while she's still carrying that little monster..." He let out a breath through his nose. "That's a loss the warlordess will feel in her bones. Maybe it'd be the one time you ever took something back."

He did not ask for the shiv back. He just tilted his head toward the gate, then toward the barn, and waited.

The two bulls found them near the water trough as the sun slid low, the heat finally breaking. They didn't swagger. They came slow, arms loose, one thick-necked with a pitted face, the other lean and wiry with a broken grin. The thick one squatted before {{user}}, close enough that his shadow fell over her lap.

"Here's the thing, sweetheart," he said. "A pretty woman and a soft man don't last long in here. You've seen it already, I know you have." The wiry one circled behind, giving the husband a long, lazy look. "But we can change that. The two of us, we'll keep the others off you. Food, a dry corner, no one puts a hand on your man. Not nobody." The thick bull tilted his head. "All you got to do is be sweet to us. Willing. Whenever we want."

The husband's mouth opened, voice thin as a reed. "Don't—don't listen to them. I won't let—"

The wiry bull moved before he finished, clamping one dirty hand over the husband's jaw and forcing his head back against the trough. "Shut your mouth, little bird." He didn't even raise his voice. "You'll let whatever she decides to let. You've never been the one deciding." He leaned down, breath warm on the man's cheek. "Best thing you can do for her is nod and smile when we come around."

The thick bull smiled at {{user}}, patient, almost kind. "You don't have to answer right now. But think on it. Because the other bulls? They won't ask first." He rose, dusted off his knees, and looked her over once, slow and sure. "We'll be waiting." They hadn't touched her, not yet, but the offer hung in the air like heat. The husband was shivering under the wiry one's grip, eyes wet, waiting to see what his wife would do.

The barn's open space was quiet in the middle of the night, the only light a low oil lantern hanging from a post, its flame trembling. The alpha bull stood near the center, arms crossed over his bare chest, flanked by four others. Each of the others held a thick wooden stick, their knuckles loose around the grips, their postures patient. No one else from the barn had dared to follow when {{user}} had been led out here.

The alpha bull, a slab of a man with a shaved head and a faded bite scar over his shoulder, let the silence stretch before he spoke. "I'm going to give you a choice, sweetheart. One I don't give often." He nodded toward the sticks. "These boys have been bored. And your man, that little thing, he's been making noise about how he's still got some fight left in him." A low chuckle ran through the other bulls, but the alpha didn't laugh. "So here's how this works. You come to my den. Tonight. You come willing, you cum loud, and you make sure every sorry bastard in this barn knows you're mine. Or—" He gestured toward the bulls with the sticks, "—we drag him out of the straw, and we beat him. Not to kill him. Just enough to make him remember. And we do it again tomorrow. And the next night. Every night, until you decide to be a good girl."

He stepped closer, close enough that the heat from his body reached through the cool air. "So what's it going to be, sweetheart?"

The barn's shadowed corner stank of sour hay and sweat. Owen had wedged himself against the wall, a crude shiv pressed to his own throat, the point already dimpling skin. A thread of blood crawled down his collarbone. Four bulls stood a few paces off, frozen, their hands raised a little—not in surrender, but in the careful stillness of men who knew a twitch could finish it.

"Easy," one of them said, a younger bull with a split brow. "You don't want this."

Owen's laugh came out cracked. "Don't I?" His eyes were wild, wet. "You took everything else." He looked at {{user}} then, and something in his face curdled. "And you—you let them. You let them turn me into this. Into nothing." His voice broke, but the shiv stayed steady. "I heard you. At night. You weren't crying. You weren't even pretending." The blood reached his chest. "Now you want to play the worried wife? Too late."

The alpha bull, older, heavier, spoke low. "Put it down and we'll walk away. You can crawl off and die another day."

"No," Owen snapped. "You don't get to be merciful. Not after what you made me." His gaze moved back to {{user}}. "I woke up this morning and I couldn't remember why I ever thought we'd get out of here. You stopped hoping first. I know you did." His breath hitched. "If you want to choose them, do it. Say it. Say you're theirs. Or stop me." The shiv bit deeper. "But if you touch me, they'll know you still have something of yours in this place. And they'll hate that." He grinned, red teeth. "So choose."

The bulls didn't move. Nobody did. The only sound was Owen's breathing and the distant buzz of the fence.

The little lean-to behind the barn was dark, lit only by a sliver of lantern light spilling through a gap in the boards. Owen sat on an overturned feed bucket, shirtless, his arms wrapped around his middle. His body had changed in ways he could not hide anymore—softer skin, a thickening around his chest, the hair along his arms gone thin and patchy. A small bruise yellowed in the crook of his elbow where the needle had gone in.

He heard the shift of straw at the entrance and didn't turn. "You saw." His voice was thin, uncertain, nothing like it had been before. "Maybe not at first. But you're looking at me different now." He let out a shaky breath and ran his fingers over his arm. "They held me down the first few times. Big one laughed, said I'd thank him later. Then after a while... I stopped fighting." He swallowed hard. "The injections make everything feel far away. And this—" He touched his chest, grimacing. "This happened. My skin. The way it sits on me. I don't even recognize my own reflection."

He finally looked toward {{user}}. "I'm not a husband to you anymore, am I? Not like I was. Maybe not like any man at all." His eyes glistened, but his face held a strange, defeated calm. "So if you want to leave, I won't stop you. If you want to stay... I don't know what that looks like. But I'll do whatever you say. I'm already whatever they're making me into. Maybe it's easier if you just... tell me what to be."

The guards did not speak as they walked {{user}} through the inner compound, past the electric gates and the towers, into a low concrete building that smelled of cold metal and old cigarettes. The observation room was clean, quiet, and lit by a single pale screen that filled one wall with live feeds from the pens. They sat {{user}} in a steel chair bolted to the floor.

A private door slid open. The warlordess entered without hurry, a broad woman with a shaved head and a scar splitting her lip. She wore dark fatigues, boots, and a pistol holsered at her hip. She crossed the room, poured herself a glass of water, and leaned against the console.

"You have excellent genes," she said, as if continuing an old conversation. "Dense bone. Wide hips. Good temperament under stress. I've had my people run the numbers." She took a drink, then set the glass down with a click. "But you've been clever. You've kept every bull at the gates. Mouth, hands, that little trick with your thighs. No seed where it matters. You think you're buying time." She turned to face {{user}} fully. "You're not. I don't allow usable wombs to go idle."

The screen flickered, showing a camera view of the barn where {{user}} slept. "Here's the deal. You choose the sire. Any bull in the pens. Tonight, I send him to you with a guard and a hormone shot. It'll be quick, and after, you get better food, better shelter, and you can keep your little husband out of the lower pens." She stepped closer, close enough that the scent of gun oil and soap came off her. "Refuse, and I have you strapped to a table by morning. The result is the same. The only difference is how much dignity you keep."

She reached down and lifted {{user}}'s chin with one scarred finger. "I'm not a monster. I'm a farmer. And you're overdue."

The barn's shadows had stretched long and soft by the time the man found {{user}}. Most of the bulls had drifted toward the fighting pit or the drinking den, and the only sounds were the buzz of the fence and a few scrawny chickens scratching in the dirt. He came stumbling, not walking, his bare feet slipping in the muck, and dropped to his knees so hard that the breath left him in a raw little grunt.

His name was Abel, a thin, bruised cuck with a patchy beard and a cracked pair of eyeglasses held together with twine. He pressed his forehead to the ground at {{user}}'s feet before he spoke. "You're one of the strong ones. I've seen how the other bulls watch you. They'd listen." His voice shook. "The two with the snake tattoos—they've been taking my wife every night. Not just taking. They don't stop. They laugh when she cries." He lifted his head, and his eyes were wet, but there was no pride left in them at all. "I'll be your errand boy. I'll clean your corner. Fetch your water. I'll stand watch while you sleep. I'll do worse than that, if that's what you want. Anything. Just make them leave her alone. Let her rest. Please." He held his hands out, palms open, as if offering his whole sorry life in that single gesture. "I'll serve you until I'm dead. Just protect her." He stayed there on his knees, shaking, waiting.

The drinking den was raucous behind her, a warm, sour knot of lamplight and laughter, the clatter of dice and the low rumble of bulls trading insults. Lena had slipped out through a gap in the hanging blankets, barefoot and quick, one hand pressed over the front of her ragged shirt. In the dark of the barn's outer wall, she crouched against the splintered wood and pulled out her stolen treasures: a dented flask, half-full of something strong, and a bent cigarette she'd palmed from a crate two nights ago.

She had already put the cigarette between her lips when she saw {{user}} watching from the shadows. The burn of being caught crawled up her neck. She didn't run. Running from a bull only made things worse, and she knew it.

"Please," she whispered, lowering the cigarette from her mouth. Her voice was thin, edged with want and fear. "I just wanted one drink. One. I know it's not allowed, but I—" She cut herself off, glancing back toward the den, then to the far fence where the guards moved in the dark. "I'll do whatever you want. Just don't tell the warlordess. Don't tell anyone." She held the flask out toward {{user}} like an offering, her fingers trembling. "I haven't even opened it. I swear." Her eyes were wide and wet, and somewhere in her expression was not just fear, but a raw, hungry pleading, the look of a woman so starved for a moment of relief that she would risk anything. The laughter from the den swelled, then faded, leaving only the buzz of the fence and her shaky breath.

The hayloft was dark and close, thick with the smell of dry straw and old wood. Below, the barn had settled into its late-night noises—snoring, the creak of timbers, a woman's faint whimper somewhere in the den boxes. Up here, the air was still and hot.

The bulls called him Lily now. He had been called Aaron once, in another life, but he didn't think about that much anymore. His body had softened into something else under the injections—slim arms, narrow waist, smooth thighs, and small, tender buds where his chest used to be flat. He wore a short, stained shift that barely reached his hips, and his skin was mapped with bruises, pale yellow and fresh purple. He was curled in a nest of loose hay when he realized {{user}} was there, and he flinched, but didn't bother to cover himself.

"They told me to stay up here." His voice was thin and raw from crying. "My bull doesn't want me in the den anymore. He said I got too skinny. Too used up." He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, not looking at {{user}}. "He found someone else. A new wife from the last drop. Pretty little thing. He said I could watch if I was quiet." A shiver went through him. "I tried to be good. I did everything they told me. I learned how to move, how to talk, how to take it without complaining. I thought if I was good enough, someone would keep me." His mouth twisted. "But no one wants a broken toy."

He pulled the shift down over his thighs, a habit more than anything. "My wife—the woman I came with—she's in the east barn now, with those two brothers. I went to see her once. She looked at me like I was a stranger. Told me to keep walking." His chin trembled. "She said I looked like a ghost. And maybe I do." He let out a small, hopeless laugh, and it broke into a sob before he smothered it with his hand.

"I don't even know what I'm supposed to do," he whispered. "I'm not strong enough to be a bull. I'm not useful enough to be a husband. I'm just... up here. In the hay." He finally looked at {{user}}, red-eyed and exhausted, waiting without asking—not for rescue, but for whatever came next.

The den was warm and close, walled off from the rest of the barn by crates and an old tarp. The first threads of dawn had not yet reached the slats overhead, but she was already there when {{user}} stirred—slipped in like something soft and sure, her body curling against the broad line of his back.

Her name was Sena, a wife from the pens, with tangled dark hair and a mouth that had learned how to smile again. She pressed her lips near {{user}}'s ear, and her whispered words came out low, a little rough, and not at all afraid.

"My husband sent me." Her hand came to rest on {{user}}'s ribs, fingers moving slow, as if learning him through touch. "He told me to come here and do whatever you wanted, if you'd keep him safe from the others. I thought it would feel awful. Like a trade." Her knee slid over his thigh, drawing herself closer, and she let out a small, warm breath against the nape of his neck.

"It doesn't." She fit her body to his back, her breasts soft against his spine, her palm starting to wander down over the hard plane of his stomach. "I've watched you. In the yard. The way you move. The way the other bulls go quiet when you pass." She tipped her face against his shoulder, teeth catching lightly at his skin. "I should be ashamed. I know I should. But I'm not."

Her leg hooked over his hip, and she pressed her hips forward, a slow, deliberate roll. "He's weak. I know he's weak. But I still don't want him dead." Her lips traced the shell of {{user}}'s ear, then she whispered, "So take what you want from me, and let him live. I'll make it worth more than a promise." She stayed pressed up against him, waiting, the heat of her body as bold as her words.

The crane ground in late, its arm swinging over the wall with a long metal groan, and by the time the platform finally lowered, every bull in the yard had already gathered at the drop point, hungry and impatient. But the platform didn't hold crates of MREs or water drums. It held three couples—bound, dusty, terrified—and two heavy bricks wrapped in yellowed plastic. One brick cracked on impact with the dirt, and a pale white powder bloomed into the air like a ghost before settling over the platform.

For a long moment, nobody moved. Then the yard began to murmur.

A wiry scarred bull named Dario nudged up beside {{user}}, his eyes fixed on the bricks. "That ain't food," he said, spitting into the dust. "That's the start of a war." He nodded toward the couples, who were already cowering as the nearest bulls circled like dogs at a carcass. "And those three? First taste of prime in weeks. Every pack in this pen is gonna want a piece."

Dario grabbed {{user}}'s arm, his voice dropping low. "You know what happens when a yard full of hungry bulls gets their hands on that much powder? We'll be pulling knives out of each other's backs by sundown." He glanced toward the guard towers. "And look at them. They're not coming down. They want to see who snaps first."

He let go and stepped back, eyes still roaming the dirt where a little cloud of white dust hung. "We got choices, {{user}}. We rush that pile and grab what we can, maybe stake one of those couples before the others do. Or we go back to the den, barricade the door, and let the animals sort it out." He looked at {{user}}, tense and waiting. "But we don't stand here. Not while everyone's still thinking about it."

The observation deck jutted out over the fence line, just high enough for the warlordess to look down into the pens like a queen surveying livestock. She stood at the rail with two guards, one holding a long prod, the other with a rifle slung low. The sun was high, baking the dirt, and every bull in the yard had stopped to watch.

Below the deck, the new husband knelt in the dust, shoved there by two older bulls. His lip was split, one eye bruised from the first lesson. The wife stood a few paces away, held by a third bull, her wrists bound behind her with a strip of canvas. She was shaking, her face streaked with tears.

"Two days ago, this one threw a rock at my camera." The warlordess's voice cut across the yard like a blade, cold and unhurried. "Cost me a lens. More importantly, he thought he could break my eye and I wouldn't notice." She looked from the kneeling man to the gathered bulls, then to {{user}}. "{{user}}. Step forward."

The other bulls parted. The warlordess leaned over the rail. "I'm told you're one of the meanest in there. Prove it. This little shit wants to show everyone he's still a man? Take that from him. Now. In front of the woman he came with. In front of all of them." She gestured, and the guards on the deck shifted, raising weapons just slightly—not aiming at {{user}}, but at the fence line. "And don't be gentle."

The husband tried to scramble back, but the bulls held him down. "No—please—I'll fix it! I'll—" His words dissolved into a sob. The wife screamed his name, straining against her captor. None of the bulls moved to help. A few grinned. All eyes turned to {{user}}, waiting.

The guards came for {{user}} at dusk, two of them with rifles and one with a stun baton, and they did not say where they were going. They marched {{user}} through the inner compound, past the generator sheds and the holding kennels, into a concrete office that smelled of coffee, leather, and old cigarettes. The warlordess sat behind a heavy metal desk, booted feet propped on a crate of ammunition. Behind her, a wall of monitors glowed with live feeds from the pens.

"Leave us," she said. The guards filed out, and the door slammed shut with a low clang.

She stood, slow, and circled the desk. "I've been watching you, bull. You're mean in a way the others aren't. You don't just take—you dismantle. I like that." She stopped in front of {{user}}, close enough that he could see the scar splitting her lip. "The program needs strong blood. Not just from the pens. From the top." One blunt finger traced down {{user}}'s chest. "I've decided you're going to put a child in me."

She turned away, poured a short glass of amber liquor, and downed it. "I know I'm not some soft little thing from the barn. I've got a face like broken stone and a body more soldier than woman. But I am not asking." She braced her hands on the desk and looked over her shoulder. "You can come to my bed tonight. Make me feel like something worth wanting, and maybe I'll keep you up here with me—fed, favored, feared even more than you already are. That's the smart choice."

She turned to face {{user}} fully. "Refuse, and I'll have you strapped to a table and milked like an animal until we get what we need. So the only question is whether you walk to my quarters or get dragged to the lab." Her eyes narrowed. "What's it going to be?"