My weekends are in the slave stables

 

My weekends are in the slave stables

For a long time I dreamed of being a slave pig in a real pig farm, fattened by its owner and prepared for fake slaughter.

 

So I signed up for a pig fattening roleplaying game after seeing an ad for a tyrannical butcher shop where you could become a weekend pig fattening slave.

 

I'm a fat pig by nature, and I hoped he'd like the interview photo of a naked pig wearing a pink pig mask and all my points on display.

 

It didn't take long to get confirmation that I had been selected to spend the weekend in slavery.

 

When we got to start the most exciting pet game on a Friday afternoon, other Pigplay slaves were waiting for us in the backyard of our rural farm, and suddenly we realized that things were really getting complicated.

 

In a butcher poll I listed "feeding" as one of my preferences.

 

I shivered when I saw the hole in the yard.

 

I imagined that the owner must feed him generously, force-feed him and calm the excitement that arose.

 

When ten pigs were gathered in the yard, a young farmer appeared and asked us to follow him.

 

As he led us to the barn, he said, “We'll leave our things here, take off our clothes, and put on our pig masks.

 

We will write if it is ours or ours.

 

"Because the butcher will only receive us as pigs," said the slave pigs first.

 

The young farmer waited patiently until he took off all his clothes and put on his mask.

 

Then he opened the barn door and we crossed the yard naked in our pig masks.

 

At this point, I felt like I was supposed to be raising pigs, but I stopped thinking and felt.

 

My body blew in the wind and my beauty stood tall like many other pig athletes.

“Wait!” The pig farmer instructed us and disappeared.

 

There we were standing in front of the pen, waiting for the pigs to be picked up, fed and fattened.

 

The pig door slowly opened and the butcher appeared in the doorway.

 

He was tall and statuesque, wearing a rubber apron, overalls and rubber boots.

 

There is nothing else.

 

My gas puppy ran to his big car, went to the eye mask and covered in half and went to the node.

 

I couldn't stand it for a long time, but we have long seen us and lifted the long pork shelf and struck us in the first slave garbage pig.

 

"hurry!" He shouted, and one by one we entered the stable.

 

Some of us were whipped, but not me.

 

Inside, he divided us into two groups into two compartments and made us kneel on all fours.

 

"I don't want to see a slave pig standing there!" He asked us.

 

Then he walked back and forth in front of the box, approaching each of us one by one, squeezing us tightly, testing our flesh.

 

He joined me, pressing the folds of fat inside me together, slapping my fat buttocks, explaining it all as "fat ham" and making me roll onto my hands and knees.

 

“Here, you five will be taken to the garden and eat fattening food and become juicy steak,” he told my group.

 

Until I come back.

 

, the tray will be empty!'' So he filled our trays with everything from potato wedges to vegetables to bread slices.

 

When my slave neighbor reached out, he hit him in the pig's leg with the shifter.

 

Since when did pigs eat with their feet?

 

"Put the pig's head in the pit!" And then he brutally shoved his head down her throat.

 

It was hard to eat with masks on, but none of us dared to hold hands.

 

Because he was sitting in the corner looking at us.

 

When the butcher returned a little later, he wasn't even half done.

"You are weak!" He spoke insultingly, opened the pen door, grabbed the first colt by the tail and dragged him, unseen, into the only pen on the other side.

 

When they heard the whimpers and screams, their hearts began to pound, and the rest of the pigs hurriedly ate their food to avoid the pain.

 

But the butcher mercilessly dragged them one by one into separate boxes.

 

I was the last slave pig.

 

The butcher dragged me forward with a switch and kicked the pig's bottom.

 

In the box was a scale.

 

There my weight was noted and he recorded it.

 

"I want to see at least 5kg here by Sunday." he ordered, patting my belly.

 

"You're a nice fat pig, but that's not enough for me." Then he took a bucket and a large spoon and made me stand in front of the bridge where the apron hung.

 

She skillfully opened the pig's mouth and handed me a spoonful of creamy, vanilla-scented porridge.

 

"Swallow it, you fat pig." he asked as he continued to stroke my folds of fat, looking at my firm bulge.

 

Sometimes I was allowed to rub the pig's nose with a rubber apron while the pig mercilessly stuffed spoonfuls of porridge into my pig's mouth.

 

I started to feel sick.

 

"You want to be the best and fattest pig, don't you?" He encouraged me until I couldn't take it anymore.

 

I felt full, satisfied and excited.

 

Then he took me to the coffin with the others.

 

The butcher let us sleep on the straw for a while and I was relieved to be able to fill my big belly.

 

After dinner, the rest of the day did not last long, as the neighboring pigs returned from hunting in the yard.

 

Some have pigskin muzzles tied, and others are covered in mud.

 

The butcher gave them carrots so they wouldn't eat them and they turned off the lights.

 

The first night fell on our pigs.

 

The next morning we woke up with the owner of the pig.

 

It was nearly daylight outside so we had to feed the pigs again while the others huddled in the garden to soak in the rain.

 

By then, my knees hurt because I wasn't used to crawling on my hands and knees for long periods of time, and my back hurt from sleeping on straw.

 

The butcher opened the box next to the cage and told us to sell the pigs there.

 

I was scared.

 

We all had to touch the poo.

 

i am disgusted At the same time, I wanted to please the butcher and thought this was proof that I had followed his instructions.

 

So I did it.

Again, each pig in the individual pig game received special treatment.

 

He weighed me and found another 300 grams, but he was not satisfied and I was ashamed.

 

This time he handed me a large bottle of milk and held my head to his chest so I could avoid it.

 

It was a dream.

 

I drank, swallowed, felt his lingeringly fragrant body, his softness, the rubber apron on my bare skin.

 

That alone has made all the pain so far worth it.

 

He repeated this individual treatment three times, continuing to block the space between us.

 

In the afternoon we were also taken to the garden and had to walk on our knees with others, walk through mud pits, splash cold water and scrub our whole bodies with a carrot brush.

 

This friction made the fat pig so excited that he could not control his appetite and threw himself into the butcher's rubber boots.

 

When he licked the last drop off her bottom, she furiously slapped his bottom to make it all clean again.

 

I watched this scene with wide eyes and pushed my big belly to the ground so that my master wouldn't notice how excited I was to see this sight.

 

At the last weigh-in at Pigplay on Sunday, the butcher was disappointed to see that I hadn't gained even 10 pounds and punished me by falsely refusing to slaughter me for my lack of weight.

 

Instead, there was another force-feeding, this time through a tube he inserted into my mouth.

 

He then massaged my whole body with a firm squeeze to make sure the bacon had developed properly, gave the ham a few more strokes and said, "Maybe I'll put it back into the pig program because of you." He's a very fat pig.

 

It would be a shame to kill you now.

 

Because you'd better put on some weight.

 

I proudly returned to my utility box.

 

I wanted to resume my role of fattening pigs and personally feeding them to the owner butcher until they were too fat and round to handle.

 

This animal fulfilled my fantasy while playing in the pigs over the weekend and I haven't felt this sexually stimulated in two days.

 

I signed up for a Pigplay weekend for advanced fat pigs.

 

I've had bacon before so I think the butcher's wife will like it better next time.