Story time! I thought I'd like to share a short tale written by a dear friend of mine. It is set in the Mansion of my slave role generator 'world' and I enjoyed it very much. Here is Lady Caroline's Apple.
Lady Caroline’s Apple
Lady Caroline had always been a favorite among us livestock. A quiet unassuming woman, she often visited the stables during less busy times of the day to admire the beautiful landscaping of the mansion along the way and to care for us beast girls. We were like her own private petting zoo, in a way, and that suited us just fine. Better that than the whips and tricks and games of a few of the other Ladies.
When Caroline came down the hill, we knew there were pleasantries in store. She would often come with apples or sugar cubes and offer them to the pony girls as she brushed their manes and tails. Every now and again, she’d order a pony-girl drawn carriage ride around the paths of the estate, but she never taxed the ponies beyond their limits and usually waited for one or two to approach her as unspoken volunteers before choosing among them.
The ponies basked in Lady Caroline’s attention far more frequently than us pigs or the cows. But we weren’t ignored. Every now and again, she’d step into the pigsty to tug at our pink ears or tickle us until we squealed and oinked uncontrollably, or pull on her boots and walk out in the cow pastures to enjoy the green grass and cool air on cloudy days. Lady Caroline seemed to prefer cloudy days. And so did those of us who’d been at the Mansion long enough to know her habits.
Once, she came to watch us pig slaves at slop and set up an easel to paint a picture. This was truly a rarity, and a few of us stopped to watch her between slop dives, but none of us who noticed her were overly concerned. For starters, the trough was full, so little else mattered in the moment. Secondarily, Lady Caroline’s focus seemed to be set on a fattened pig girl for the most part. If there was some sort of tryst in the wind, it would probably affect her, not us. (Even with the kindest of Ladies, we were always aware of the possibility for games at our expense. We were slaves, after all.)
The fattened pig slave had curly red hair that shone in its full brilliance today, as we’d all been relieved of our various piggy uniforms, save the trotters and snouts, to wallow in the mud that had been a result of the previous night’s rain. We didn’t know one another by name. No one who could speak ever dared to, either out of fear or dedication, and attempts at scrawling words in our mud wallow were always sabotaged by the older slaves who knew the punishments for such activities. So, I’d taken to creating my own little nicknames for my piggy sisters.
More often than not, the names I came up with had something to do with a girl’s eccentricities. There was Skitterbug, a recent addition to our sty who had huge buggy looking eyes and was still very thin and shivered in the cool air or morning when the barn doors were opened. Of all the unfortunate girls who would draw a “naked” tile to match a “pig slave” assignment, it would be a dinky little waif. And then there was Spamela, who reminded me of an air-headed corporate office secretary dressed as Miss Piggy what with her pinstripe suit and vacant blue eyes. Babe, I affectionately called the young thing that had been sent to our sty a few months ago, was Spamela’s shadow and seemed to follow any pig slave who offered her maternal comforts. She was especially fond of suckling the rows of Skitterbug’s nipple implants, when she could get close enough.
They all had names of one kind or another, to me. The fattened pig slave with red hair was certainly the largest of us all, but she wasn’t an alpha type by any means. More often than not, her heft seemed a mere inconvenience to her and to others as she lumbered around the pigsty and flopped heavily into mud puddles and patches of grass. A gentle giant with a sloppy way about her at the trough. I’d named her Big Red.
Big Red had long since abandoned any sense of moderation or decorum while eating. This was probably due to the fact that we’d all get punished if the fattened animals don’t eat excessively enough to put on weight. Let’s just say she’d had plenty of encouragement toward the development of a substantial appetite. And it certainly paid off in terms of her size. Though she had only been in our sty for just over a year, Red was easily double the weight she had been when she was first led, red faced and tearful, through the pig pen gate.
On the day of Lady Caroline’s painting, the over-fat redheaded pig girl paid no mind as she plowed into the trough. She wiggled her snout through the kitchen scraps and thrust herself deep into the mess of it with wild abandon, gorging on as much as she could manage to pack into her swollen belly. The rest of us, more or less unmoved by the presence of Lady Caroline and her paints, plugged ourselves into the tough, haunch to haunch, and had our fill. We must have looked like a row of undulating pinkish rump cheeks from Lady Caroline’s vantage point.
One by one, each pig eased away from the trough to find her place to rest and digest in the mud or grass. I meandered over to my usual patch of grass by the barn wall. Skitterbug was indulging Babe’s nursing habits over by the water trough, and others were dotted around the pen. When Lady Caroline had finished her painting, she came into our sty and stepped carefully around bits of slop and several lazily slumbering pig-faced girls, making her way over to the shady corner where Big Red usually collapsed after eating.
I can recall the sweet way in which Caroline roused the hefty sow. I remember feeling touched, because she was sort of motherly in her approach, gently stroking the abundant girl’s plump red cheek. Patient. As Red blinked through her drowsiness and the painting, now held in front of her, came into focus, her green eyes widened and she squealed in horror at what she saw. Several of the sleeping pig girls were startled awake at the sudden noise, and they looked to see what the matter was. I wasn’t far off to begin with, but out of curiosity, I rose to my knees and trotted over a bit closer to get a better view of the painting.
It was actually pretty good, as paintings go, but maybe a bit too real for Big Red to handle. The image was a familiar one, with several of us at the trough feeding. But in the center was the humongous rotund rump of the fattened pig girl. Our lack of clothing that day left nothing to the imagination, and as Big Red was the primary focus or the piece, her rear end was given the most attention to detail. There were two huge round dirt-streaked butt cheeks complete with cellulite on the backs of her thighs and a small tuft of red curls peeking out as she bent far over into the trough, greedily plowing her way through the slop. Her swollen belly bulges were painfully visible on either side of her doughy rear end. I was in there too. Just to the left of Red. Not in shape, to be sure, but nowhere near Red’s girth. This was clearly the source of the girl’s upset.
The poor girl’s squeals of shame melted into heavy-chested sobs that ended up sounding more like sloppy wet grunts as she wiped her face with her muddy trotter. Lady Caroline was clearly amused, but not unkind. She smiled to herself as she stroked poor fat Red on her head in consolation. Her petting continued as a burlap drone was summoned to fetch the painting and arrange to have it set and framed.
The next morning, the painfully honest painting was hung on the side of the barn just over our pen, for all to admire.
Some months later, during an unseasonably warm afternoon, lady Caroline came to visit, in spite of the heat. I was lying on some grass, looking idly up at that painting when she came in the gate. She made her way around, patting the pigs and feeding us treats, as was often her custom. When she happened my way, I accepted my treat and snorted appreciatively as she stroked my head and followed my gaze up to that painting. A warm smile bloomed across her face, and she asked if I liked her art. I, of course, couldn’t respond, being a pig slave, but I did looked up at her as she asked. Then she looked pointedly at my plump bottom on the grass then back up to the painting, squinting a bit as she looked. I felt my face flush pink, and she laughed a little.
“Ahh, so that is you up there, huh?” She peered down at my blushing face almost affectionately.
“Such a chubby little piggy rump.” At that last, I felt my pink cheeks flush deeper into red. I was so embarrassed.
“I see,” Lady Caroline said with one eyebrow raised. “Well, come along then.”
I didn’t know what to do, so I stood frozen. I’d never been ordered out of the sty before on my own. Sometimes we were all taken out at once or a few at a time. But not like this. Lady Caroline stopped to look back at me and called for me to follow. This time, hesitantly, I obeyed.
I followed Lady Caroline into the barn to the showman’s stall that was used for grooming the puppy slaves sometimes. There were two drones nearby, no doubt mindlessly engaged in their daily duties among the livestock and grounds. Lady Caroline called to one of them to fetch her some rope, a bucket, and her deer knife. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and my eyes grew wide with fear. A knife? In that moment, I think I came closer to pigdom than I ever had before, as I froze in animalistic panic and nearly peed myself at the thought of this soft-spoken Lady using a knife in any way on me.
The items she’d requested were delivered, and she asked the drone for further assistance. Lady Caroline stripped my latex suit from my body, leaving the hood, snout, and trotters in place. My newly exposed skin was cold and clammy in the shade of the barn even though the day was warm. I shivered.
The rope was tossed over a barn rafter, upsetting a nest of swallows on its way, and I was unceremoniously hoisted up by my wrists onto my tip toes. The rope was tied off, and the drone resumed her previous duties by Lady Caroline’s leave. It had been such a long time since I’d stood like a human that the position seemed unnatural, and I felt stretched beyond comfort.
Lady Caroline turned the bucket on its brim and sat down, knife in hand. I couldn’t take my eyes off the half-smirk on her face as she sat there looking me up and down like dinner. She said nothing, only sat. Looking. And smirking. As my body stretched and limbered, and the pain of this foreign position had waned, I noticed my nakedness, a distinctly human realization. In this upward stance, I became acutely aware of just how much my own body had changed since I came to be a pig slave nearly two years ago. My arm flesh hung slightly, and my breasts were heavy and low. My belly, too, was swollen, and my thighs stood thick and blubbery beneath it all.
“Oink for me, little sow,” came the words from Lady Caroline. And for the life of me, after two years of uttering nothing other than barnyard swine noises, pride seized my chest, and I couldn’t do it.
Lady Caroline, I swear she knew exactly what was going on in my head, stood from her bucket and stepped toward me.
“Speak, piggy,” she whispered into my face. I didn’t make a peep.
“No? Well then, I suggest you hold very still.” I felt the cold point of a blade begin to drag over my hip and squealed the finest shrillest frightened swine squeal that the world has ever heard. Lady Caroline jumped back, startled, and laughed.
“That’s more like it!” She exclaimed as she crossed the distance between us and grabbed a handful of my thigh fat. Our eyes met, hers playful, mine horrified, and Lady Caroline shook her hand quickly back and forth causing my loose flesh to jiggle. My face and neck burned, mortified, as her small hand sank into my flesh and sent me into a jiggly frenzy.
“Such a fat pig girl you are! Look how you wobble!” She continued, and I felt myself choking back tears.
“I want to hear you speak, silly pig. Oink, grunt and squeal for me!” I froze again, silent and still. At that, she stepped back and smiled, amused.
“Goodness, you are a proud one, aren’t you? We can’t have that in a pig. Who ever heard of a pig that won’t oink?” She crossed to a basket on a table and reached inside. Out came a big red apple, shiny and crisp-looking. Even though I’d just finished eating, I wanted to sink my teeth into it. Lady Caroline saw my hunger lust and laughed as she brought the apple closer and waved it in front of my face.
“Open wide,” called Lady Caroline in a sing-song tone. I parted my lips and opened my mouth slightly. “Wider,” she teased. And this time, I complied, opening my mouth as wide as I could, snout rising to block my view. I felt her thumb quickly press my jaw open even wider as the apple was pushed into my mouth, holding my jaw uncomfortably wide and gagging me at the same time.
“There! All you have to do is squeal and oink convincingly enough to be allowed to bite through that apple, and your torment will end. Now, let’s have a look at just how fat you are, sweet pig girl.”
At that, Lady Caroline stepped behind me and reached around to my front, grabbing my bottom belly roll with one hand and my top belly roll with the other and shook them wildly. The flapping sound they made as they collided with each other caused my stomach to turn in shame. Her giggling only made things worse. I attempted a pathetic squeal from behind the apple, but it wasn’t even close to what she was looking for.
Lady Caroline’s hands slowed in pace and soon I felt her fingers sinking into my soft belly flesh, kneading me like bread. I grunted behind the apple, and she moved her hands outward toward my sides, which tickled terribly and sent me into snorting nervous laughter. I managed a few convincing oinks and grunts before she took hold of the fat alongside my breasts and wobbled my chest around. Some of the ponies sniggered in their stalls, and my face burned.
“Ignore them, piggy. It’s just me here. And I’m watching you very carefully. I see all your dimples and creases. All your wobbly flesh. It’s mine to play with. You’re mine to play with.” At this, her hands moved forward and explored the crease leading to my bellybutton. My stomach muscles tightened, inches beneath the surface of my skin, and I heard Lady Caroline exhale into a broad smile just before she sank one long finger into my bellybutton hole and began to twirl it around.
My stomach turned again, and tears ran down my reddened cheeks. I suddenly imagined Big Red in our pigsty, her freckled cheeks stained with tears in front of the painting that revealed her true nature. Big Red was a pig slave. And as I felt Lady Caroline’s finger exploring the caverns of my fattened flesh and felt her feminine hips swaying against the rounded mounds of my rump, any human shame melted from my mind like tears dripping off my snout. I let out a mighty squeal, releasing the apple from my tightened jaw. It felt to the straw-covered barn floor. Lady Caroline pulled a slipknot in the rope, and I followed the apple.
“That’ll do, pig.”
I rose to my trotters and rooted around in the straw for the apple, which Lady Caroline retrieved and fed to me as my head rested in her lap. I was given a buttermilk bath and led back out to the pigsty where Lady Caroline patted my pink rump affectionately and closed the pen gate behind me. I returned to the sty sure of my place. The wallow never felt so right.