The Correction Farm Where I Learned to Obey

The bugle sounded at five in the morning and ripped me out of the only decent sleep I’d had in weeks. The sound was brutal, metallic, designed to shatter every last shred of peace. It bounced off the walls of the cell — because that was what it was, a cell, not a room — and left me sitting up on the cot with my heart in my throat. Before I could even swallow, Magda’s voice exploded through the speaker embedded in the ceiling: All of you to the dining hall. Now. There was no courtesy in that voice. There was nothing human in it.

I washed my face in the ice-cold water from the sink. My hands shook as I brushed my teeth with the toothbrush they’d assigned me, marked with the number that now defined me. I looked at my reflection in the broken mirror and saw a woman I barely recognized. What did you do, Renata? What did you get yourself into?

The dining hall was a large room with metal tables and benches bolted to the floor. There were about forty women already seated when I arrived. All of them overweight, like me. Some huge, others less so, but none of them thin. Their faces were a catalog of resignation: deep circles under their eyes, clenched jaws, gazes that didn’t dare rise from the plate. I sat in the only open spot, beside three women who didn’t give me so much as a glance.

—Hi —I whispered—. I’m Renata. How long have you been here?

Silence. One of them, a woman with gray hair pulled back in a dirty braid, leaned in just enough to move her lips: Don’t talk. They’ll punish you. I didn’t understand what she meant. I didn’t have long to find out.

A dull удар on the table made me jump. Magda was there, materializing as if she’d come up through the floor, a wooden rod in her hand and that smile that wasn’t a smile. She was tall, lean, with tight black hair and eyes that seemed to enjoy every second of what she did.

—We’ve got fresh meat —she said, pointing at me with the rod—. Another pig coming in to be domesticated. And from the look of those huge tits showing under the uniform, she’s going to be a lot of fun.

The blood rushed to my face. I opened my mouth to answer, to tell her she had no right to speak to me like that, that I’d paid for a transformation program, not this. But before the first word could leave my lips, her hand crossed my face. The slap was so hard it shoved me sideways on the bench. The sting was instant, like someone had pressed a hot iron to my cheek. The tears came on their own, without permission, without dignity.

—You don’t have a voice here —she said, bringing her face close to mine. Her breath smelled of coffee and cruelty—. You’re number 387. When I want you to speak, I’ll order it. When I want you to open your mouth, it’ll be to swallow whatever they put in it. Understood?

I nodded, crying, my cheek throbbing in time with my heart. Around me, not a single woman looked up. They all knew. They had all gone through this.

***

Breakfast was a glass of orange juice diluted until it was nearly transparent and two bran crackers that might have served as construction material. Magda announced that would be all until dinner. Then she came up to me, grabbed my face with one hand, squeezing my cheeks until I felt my teeth pressing into the inside of my cheeks. With the other hand, with no attempt at discretion, she squeezed one of my tits through the uniform, weighing it like someone appraising a head of livestock at market.

—Welcome to the farm, pig. Eat up, because the good stuff is coming. That fat cunt of yours still has no idea what’s waiting for it.

She walked off laughing, and the sound of it hung in the dining hall like a poisonous gas. I chewed the crackers with difficulty, every bite scraping my palate, while the juice left me with a bitter taste that wasn’t only from the liquid. I could still feel the heat of her hand on my breast, as if she’d left a mark under the fabric.

After breakfast, two nurses in gray uniforms took me out of the dining hall without explanation. I tried to ask where we were going, but one of their looks — empty, professional, indifferent — shut my mouth. They brought me to a room that smelled of disinfectant and metal. In the center was a gurney, with leather straps at the ends and, what I hadn’t noticed at first, two foldable gynecological stirrups at the foot. They shoved me onto it and, before I could resist, yanked off my uniform in one dry pull, ripping the buttons and leaving my tits bare. They tied my wrists and ankles, then unfolded my legs into the stirrups, spreading me so wide I could feel the muscles inside me tightening. I pulled at the straps with all my strength. They didn’t give a single millimeter.

—No, please, no! Cover me! —I screamed, trying to bring my thighs together and failing. I was completely exposed, my cunt open to the cold air of the room, my tits bouncing with each sob, and a group of men I didn’t know looking at me as if I were livestock at auction.

Magda appeared in the doorway. She always appeared at the worst moment, as if she had a sensor for fear. She closed the door behind her and came closer, savoring every step.

—All pigs get marked —she said, walking slowly toward me—. One tag on the right ear, another through the septum, with your number. And a tattoo on the right ass cheek. So you don’t forget what you are. —She stopped between my spread legs, looked at my exposed sex with a slow smile, and slid two fingers along the crease until she parted my outer lips—. But first we have to inspect the merchandise. Make sure the cunt is healthy, make sure the asshole can hold. We need to know what we can put in you, right, pig?

—No! I don’t want this! Let me out! —I screamed, yanking at the straps until the leather burned my wrists.

No one heard me. Or worse: they heard me and didn’t care. Magda drove her fingers in without lubricant, opening me with clinical brutality, while with the other hand she pinched one nipple until it went hard against my will. The pain of the dry penetration mixed with the humiliation of feeling my body respond, traitorous, against my own wishes. She started working my cunt with two fingers, then three, while I cried and begged, and the bitch smiled like she was tuning an instrument. When she pulled them out, they were shiny. She smelled them, slowly, and licked them in front of me without breaking eye contact.

—Look at that, pig. The cunt says one thing and the mouth another. —She pushed her hand back inside me, this time all four fingers together, opening me in a way I thought would split me apart. I felt the burn of the stretch, the heat of being invaded, and, against everything I wanted to believe, the trace of an involuntary pleasure that disgusted me more than the pain itself.

After that, when the nurses were sure I was "healthy," one of them brought a piercing gun to my right ear. The cold metal touched my lobe, and for a second there was silence. Then came the snap and the pain: a savage sting that shot through my ear like a red-hot needle. I screamed. No one even flinched.

The septum piercing was something else. The cartilage cracked when the tool went through it, and the pain burst at the center of my face, radiating into my eyes, my forehead, my teeth. It was as if someone had broken my nose with a hammer. Tears blinded me, and blood dripped onto my lips, mixed with the snot I couldn’t stop.

Then came the tattoo. They turned me over on the gurney — but without unfastening my ankles, so I ended up folded like an animal with its ass in the air — and I felt the machine’s buzz before the needle touched my skin. Every stab was a tiny fire that built and built until it became a blaze. The number 387 was etched into my right ass cheek while I clenched my teeth so hard I thought they’d crack. And while the tattooist worked, Magda stood behind me, grabbed my ass cheeks with both hands, and pulled them apart. I felt the cool air enter the crack of my ass, everybody’s gaze on it, and then Magda’s finger sliding over my asshole, wet with who knew what spit, until it sank into my most intimate hole with calculated slowness.

—Tight —she remarked, as if noting it in a ledger—. We’ll loosen that up. New pigs always come in with a sealed asshole. In three months I’m going to shove my fist in up to the elbow.

I sweated, I cried, and at some point I stopped fighting. My body gave up before my mind did.

***

When they were done, they untied me and left me naked. Completely naked. They took me out to the yard naked, with the piercings throbbing, the tattoo burning, my cunt and asshole still sore from the inspection, and the humiliation weighing on me more than my own body. In the yard there were already about thirty women, all naked, forming a wide circle beneath a sun that fell like divine punishment. I looked at them one by one, and on each body I saw the same marks: the number on the ass cheek, the ring in the nose, and on many of them, other marks that made me swallow hard. Nipples pierced with heavy rings. Rings through the outer lips. Some had leather collars around their necks, like grazing animals.

—One hour of jogging —Magda announced, arms crossed in the shade of an awning—. Tits in the wind, cunts in the sun. Anyone who stops early goes to the correction room.

A whistle blew and we started running. The ground was loose gravel that dug into the soles of my feet with every step. The heat crushed me. My tits bounced wildly, unsupported, slapping against my chest, aching. My body, heavy and undisciplined, protested from the very first minute. I watched the other women gasp, stagger, fall. Those who fell were picked up by guards and dragged toward a metal door at the back of the yard. None of them came back while we were there.

I lasted twenty minutes. My legs stopped obeying me as if someone had cut the cables. I collapsed onto the gravel, my knees scraping against the stones, and two guards lifted me by the arms with no gentleness at all. They dragged me to the correction room.

Inside there was a treadmill, and beside it, against one wall, a leather horse with rings for securing wrists and ankles. They put me on the treadmill and turned it on. It wasn’t fast, but for my wrecked body it might as well have been a sprint. And every time my steps faltered, every time my rhythm slipped, a whip cracked against my back. The first blow tore a cry out of me that didn’t sound human. It was a line of pure fire that split my skin and stole my breath. The second was worse, because I already knew what was coming and fear made everything worse. The third, the fourth, the fifth. I lost count. Blood ran down my back, mixing with sweat, warm at first and then cold. Every lash was a reminder: keep running, keep running, keep running.

Half an hour in, Magda entered the room. She had a black rubber cock in her hand, thick, attached to a leather harness. She strapped it around her waist with the calm of an office worker preparing for a meeting. Then she climbed onto the treadmill behind me, grabbed my hips with both hands, and shoved the fake cock into me in one thrust, without warning, with no lubricant beyond the mix of sweat and blood already running down my ass. I howled. I howled like a slaughtered animal while the treadmill kept forcing me to walk, and she fucked me at a perfectly steady rhythm, pushing my head forward with each stroke so I wouldn’t stop moving my feet.

—This is what pigs like you come here looking for —she panted in my ear, driving all the way in again and again—. This cock is your new owner. It’s going to fuck you on the treadmill, on the cot, on the dining hall table. Wherever I want, whenever I want. And you’re going to spread your legs and say thank you, pig.

Each thrust drove me against the treadmill and forced me to keep running so I wouldn’t fall, and between the fake cock shredding my cunt and the whip a guard kept cracking against my back every time my pace faltered, I lost all sense of time. I felt the pressure in my belly, the heat growing against my will, the humiliation of an orgasm I didn’t want, that I shouldn’t have wanted, and that my body, pushed to the edge, ripped out of me anyway. I screamed with pleasure and rage at the same time, and Magda laughed out loud while she kept fucking me. Her hand slid around to the front, found my swollen clit, and started rubbing it as she kept thrusting, taking me to a second climax that came almost on top of the first and left my legs trembling on the treadmill, held up only by her hands on my hips.

—There it is, pig. There it is. Your cunt knows what it wants before you do.

I made it through the hour. I don’t know how. My body operated in a mode I didn’t know, an animal mode of pure survival where the mind shuts off and only the muscles keep doing the minimum necessary to avoid another blow. When the treadmill stopped, Magda yanked the cock out with a dry pull that drew a moan from me, slapped my tattooed ass cheek brutally, and I fell to my knees on the floor, panting, vision blurred and the taste of blood in my mouth from biting my tongue so hard. I felt my own fluids leaking between my thighs, and the mere thought of my body responding to this made me gag.

Magda squatted in front of me. She grabbed my hair and lifted my face so I had to look at her.

—Good work, pig. You survived day one. —Her smile was the coldest thing I had ever seen in my life. She shoved two fingers into my mouth, those same fingers that had opened my cunt on the gurney, and made me suck them clean—. You’ve got three hundred and sixty-four more to go.

She let out a short laugh and walked away. They left me there on the floor for several minutes that felt like hours.

***

The showers were like prison showers: an open room with shower heads in a row and no partitions. The water came out ice-cold, a brutal contrast to the heat of the yard and the sting of the lashes. There were fewer than ten bars of soap for all of us, and the women passed them around in silence, moving mechanically, without looking one another in the eye. Some had backs striped with red marks, the newest ones still bright with blood. Others moved with a care that betrayed pain in places I didn’t want to imagine.

I pressed myself into a corner and washed as quickly as I could. The ice-cold water over the lashes was a new pain, a frigid burn that made me clench my teeth. While I was lathering up, I noticed that some of the women who’d been there longer watched the newcomers with an intensity that made my skin crawl. They were the "veterans," I understood later: women who had survived long enough to become part of the machinery, whom management had allowed to build a small internal hierarchy that made them complicit in the system. Their tits hung lower, their bodies were worn down, but their eyes had the look of people who were no longer at the very bottom.

I saw one of them approach another newcomer — a curvy woman with brown hair, no more than twenty-two — and whisper something in her ear. The newcomer backed away, eyes wide, tried to move, but the veteran shoved her against the tiled wall. Another veteran joined in. The newcomer opened her mouth to scream, but the first one covered it with her palm while the other forced her thighs apart with a knee. The one with her hand over the mouth shoved three fingers into her cunt, no preamble, and the other bit one of her nipples with a cruelty that made mine ache in sympathy. The newcomer writhed against the wall, tears in her eyes, and no one in the showers moved. No one looked up. The water kept falling. It was as if it wasn’t happening, as if it were just background noise in the farm.

And then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw a tall woman with her head shaved close, a snake tattoo on her neck, and nipples pierced with rings. She looked me over slowly, the same way Magda had looked at me on the gurney.

—Your turn, 387. Welcome.

—No, please, no —I whispered—. I just… I just came out of correction. I’m hurt.

—Even better —she said, smiling. She grabbed my hair and shoved me to my knees. The tiled floor was hard and cold under my wounded kneecaps, and in front of my face appeared her cunt, shaved, with a shiny piercing in the clit. It smelled of cheap soap and something else, something stronger, more feminine—. If you make me come fast, you’re done. If not, you get to do it again. Learn fast, pig.

I closed my eyes. I stuck out my tongue because I had no other choice. The taste hit me — sour, strong, alive — and for a second I thought I was going to vomit. But she pressed my face harder still against her sex, and my tongue started moving on its own, seeking the pierced clit, licking between the lips. The woman moaned, at first slowly, then with more hunger, while she ground my face against her. She held my neck with one hand and with the other gave me little smacks on the head to correct the rhythm.

—Higher, pig. Suck the clit, don’t stay on the hair.

I obeyed. I sucked. I licked. I worked my tongue into the tight hole of her cunt, sucked her clit with everything I had, ran my teeth carefully over it because I knew one bite would cost me blood. While I did that, I felt another veteran move in behind me, force my knees farther apart, and push two fingers into the cunt Magda’s dildo had already wrecked. The new intrusion tore a muffled sob out of me, but I kept sucking, because the truth was that if I stopped, it would get worse. The second veteran added a third finger, then a fourth, and started fucking me from behind with her whole hand while I kept sucking the first woman’s clit, both bodies moving over me as if I were a piece of furniture.

The woman with the piercing came fast. She shoved my face against her so hard I thought she was going to break my nose for the second time that day, and I felt her thighs close around my ears, her whole body shaking and soaking my face with the warm spurt that filled my mouth and ran down my chin. When she let me go, I nearly fell backward. My face was soaked, I didn’t know if it was her spunk, the shower water, or my own tears. Probably all three.

—Good pig —she said, slapping my cheek—. You learn fast. Next time it’s your turn. But when it’s your ass, today you’re loose; opening you up is going to be a party.

They left me on the floor, panting, with shower water pouring over my wrecked back. The veterans went away, and the other newcomer — the brown-haired one — ended up stretched out beside me, her thighs smeared with blood and fluids. We looked at each other once, saying nothing. Each of us knew what the other had just been through.

Dinner was an insult: a glass of murky water and a handful of white rice that would fit in the palm of one hand. The women ate with desperation, every grain counted, every sip measured. They trembled from exhaustion, from hunger, from fear. I chewed that tasteless rice as if it were the last food I would ever eat, because at that moment I wasn’t sure it wasn’t.

Magda came to my table one last time that day. She leaned over my shoulder and whispered in that voice that was pure poison wrapped in silk. While she spoke, she slid one hand under the table until she found my sex under the new uniform they’d given me for dinner, and pushed a finger inside me, without asking permission, like someone checking the temperature of an oven.

—Get used to it, 387. Miserable food and long days. Open cunts, broken asses, mouths at work. This is what you asked for. —She moved the finger inside me two, three times, felt how the flesh responded against my will, and pulled it out. She wiped it on my own neck, slowly—. Tomorrow we start on the nipple rings. You’re going to look gorgeous, you’ll see.

She walked away laughing, and the sound of her heels on the cement floor was the last thing I heard before they sent us back to the cells.

Alone on my cot, I took out the only photo I’d brought with me: Damian and Sofía, my husband and my son, smiling on the beach last summer. I pressed it to my chest and cried until my body had no tears left. The tattoo burned, the tags tugged at my ear and nose with every movement, the lashes made it impossible to lie on my back, my cunt throbbed with a dull pain that wouldn’t leave, my asshole burned every time I moved. I curled onto my side, the photo in my hands, and thought of the promise I’d made myself: one year and I’d come back transformed, thin, new.

Three hundred and sixty-four more days.

I closed my eyes, but sleep didn’t come. Only the silence of the farm, broken now and then by the muffled crying of some woman in the neighboring cells, or by distant moans — some of pain, others I no longer knew how to classify. And the certainty, cold and heavy as the straps of the gurney, that I had entered a place I might not leave as the same woman.