The Farmer Who Chained Herself to Work the Land

My name is Mariela, and I’m twenty-two years old. I’ve grown up among these fields all my life, I know every inch of the farm as well as I know my own body, and I know what it costs to wrest what the earth gives from it. Hard work doesn’t scare me. It never has.

Just over a year ago I lost my parents, one after the other, in the same winter. There wasn’t a single uncle or cousin willing to take care of me or the hectares, so the farm became mine and mine alone. Of age, alone, owner of every furrow and every hen. Some would see that as a burden. I experienced it as a liberation.

Because there’s something about me that stands out, something that doesn’t fit the image of the simple country girl who sells vegetables at the market. For years I’ve been fascinated by self-bondage, shackles, bondage. The feeling of being restricted, of moving within a margin I choose myself. I used to hide it carefully so as not to upset my parents, keeping it tucked away in locked drawers and stolen moments. Now, by contrast, my whole life has adapted to my own tastes. I still have electricity, running water, internet. But everything else is up to me.

Today a new day was beginning. Like every day.

***

I woke with the first light coming through my bedroom window. The house is modest: one story, whitewashed adobe walls, a barn at the back that in other times overflowed with animals and laborers. When the accounts stopped balancing I had to do without almost everything. I kept a handful of hens, a couple of pigs, and little else. The silence they left behind doesn’t weigh on me. I prefer it.

I stretched slowly, feeling my back crack, and got dressed. Though dressed is putting it generously. I only put on a short strappy jumpsuit that barely covered my thighs and part of my stomach. Nothing underneath. Why would I? I was alone on my property, with no neighbors in sight, no one who could peek over the fence. The warm morning air on bare skin was a pleasure in itself. The straps pinched my hardened nipples, and every movement made the rough fabric scrape my tits, sending a hot jolt straight to my cunt.

Today was real work, so I added an extra touch. I took from the closet a chain with shackles I’d bought long ago and locked them around my ankles. Each one made a sharp, final click. To open them you need a special key I keep in a drawer in my room, a drawer I don’t go back to until the end of the day. That’s the rule. The rule I impose on myself and that gives me a shiver every time the metal closes.

I enjoyed the first step with the chain taut between my feet. It forced me to walk shorter, more measured, with a jingle that would accompany me all day long. I went barefoot into the yard and felt the fresh earth, the muck, the mud between my toes. With the shackles, that simple sensation became something else. Something that made the hair at the back of my neck stand up and made me notice I was already starting to get wet between my thighs.

***

I walked to the kitchen dragging my feet a little to start the day. Having a farm has its advantages: fresh eggs for breakfast, some cured meat, and not long ago a horse I kept in the stable. I’d bought it to take produce to the nearby village, but soon I found another use for it I would never confess out loud.

I opened the fridge and took out a couple of eggs and a glass bottle. Anyone would have thought it was milk. It wasn’t. It was a fresh bottle of horse semen, collected patiently and kept cold. I know, it sounds insane. But long ago I stopped measuring myself against what’s normal.

I cracked the eggs into the pan and sat down to eat by the window. Between bites I took a swig from the bottle. The consistency was exactly how I liked it: thick, viscous, with a texture I felt sliding slowly down my throat. The flavor, strong and salty, filled my mouth, and a thick drop escaped from the corner of my lips and ran down my neck. I caught it with my finger and licked it off slowly, feeling my nipples harden under the jumpsuit. I ate unhurriedly, looking out at the field waiting for me, already feeling a tingle below my navel that went straight to my clit.

Once breakfast was done, it was time for the chores. I walked in short steps, conditioned by the chain, but I was already used to that shortened rhythm. I almost liked it better this way.

***

I went first to the henhouse. I collected the eggs in a wicker basket; luckily it had been a good laying. Then I went to feed the pigs. I could have fed them from the other side of the fence without getting dirty, but that would have deprived me of the best part. I went into the sty and let my feet sink into the warm sludge, feeling it climb up my ankles over the metal of the shackles. The thick mud, the raw smell, the weight of the chain. I closed my eyes for a second and took a deep breath. Without thinking I lowered a hand to the edge of the jumpsuit, slipped two fingers into my cunt, and drew them out shining with slick. I brought them to my mouth and sucked them like someone tasting the salt of the earth.

Then came the crops. I gathered what was already ripe—red tomatoes, firm onions—and set it aside in wooden crates. But the main event of the day was planting new rows. And for that I had my own method.

An ordinary farmer would use a tractor, or hitch an ox to a hand plow. I had been more creative.

I had a real hand plow, but I’d modified it so that I would be the one pulling it. I took off the jumpsuit so I wouldn’t soak it with sweat and hung it from a post. Naked under the sun, I adjusted a leather harness that cinched around my chest and shoulders, with two thick ropes I would hold with my arms. The harness straps squeezed my tits until they bulged out, swollen and with the nipples as hard as stones. And then came the touch that changed everything: a rigid bar connected the plow to a dildo fitted inside me. Every step I took, every meter of furrow, I would feel it pushing all the way in.

Lately I’d been turning up the intensity. This time I mounted a thick dildo, elongated and curved, the caliber of a real cock and quite a bit longer. Before fitting it in, I squatted over it and spat into my hand to lube it, though my cunt was already dripping on its own. I ran it over my swollen lips, up and down, rubbing it against my clit until I let out a rough moan. Then I set it at my entrance and lowered my hips slowly. The thick head opened me by force, with a delicious burn, and I kept lowering until the base hit my pubic bone. I moaned softly, completely alone in the middle of the field, feeling it drive deep inside me and create a taut bulge in my belly. I pulled it out a few centimeters and lowered myself again, testing the edge. A stream of my juices ran down the bar to the earth. I adjusted two straps at my hips so it wouldn’t slip out with the effort, tightening them until they marked my skin. And with everything in place—the rubber cock buried to the hilt, my tits crushed by the leather, the shackles jingling between my feet—I planted my feet in the soil and started to pull.

***

It was slow, yes. The work took me two or three hours. But every step was a little sweet torture: the plowshare biting into the ground, the ropes digging into my arms, and inside me that constant thrust forcing me to clench my teeth. With each stride the dildo moved two or three centimeters in my cunt, in and out, in and out, fucking me at the pace I set myself through sheer effort. The curve of the dildo struck just that rough spot inside, the one that made me see stars, and with every push I felt an electric current climb my spine and run down my thighs.

I advanced a meter, breathed, advanced another. Sweat ran down my back and between my breasts, slid over my stomach and mixed with the thick slick pouring from the slit of my cunt to my knees. The shackles jingled with each short stride. I started gasping out loud, with no one to hear me, talking to the wind and to the furrows.

—Fuck... fuck...— I hissed through my teeth. —Fuck me, fuck me more...

Every time the plowshare caught on a stone I had to yank harder, and that yank drove the dildo to the hilt in one shot, tearing a sharp cry from me. My nipples rubbed against the hot air, so hard they hurt. I ran one hand over my tits, squeezing them, pinching one nipple, and with the other I found my clit among the soaked folds. I rubbed it in circles while I kept pulling, one step, another step, another thrust inside.

The first orgasm hit me halfway through the second furrow. My knees buckled, I fell forward against the harness ropes and screamed into the leather, my cunt clamping down on the dildo in long spasms, spilling over the freshly opened earth. I didn’t stop. I breathed through my nose and kept pulling, my legs shaking and the dildo sloshing inside me, already smeared with my own juices.

It wasn’t just pleasure. It was effort, it was burning muscle, it was the exact mix of pain and desire I’d been chasing for years. Halfway across the field I stopped, trembling, and leaned on the ropes so I wouldn’t fall. My legs could barely hold me up. I brought two fingers to my mouth, wet them with saliva, and shoved them into my ass while the dildo stayed buried in my cunt, doubly filled, and I let out a guttural moan that scared the birds off the fence. But I kept going. Furrow after furrow, release after release, until the last line was open and the earth was ready for seed, soaked with mine.

When I finally finished, I stood there for a moment as I unhooked myself with clumsy fingers. I loosened the hip straps, grabbed the base of the dildo, and pulled slowly. It came out with a wet sound, dripping, followed by a thick thread of my fluids that hung down to the mud. I let out a long sigh, my cunt open and throbbing, and dropped the harness to the ground. My knees couldn’t take it anymore. I collapsed onto the freshly plowed earth, naked, sweaty, filthy with mud, my heart pounding against my ribs and my tits rising and falling. I spread my legs to the sun, stroked my swollen cunt with my open palm, and stayed like that, looking at the sky, feeling more myself than ever.

I wouldn’t trade this for anything, I thought.

***

I had adapted to this life without a single complaint. The only shadow was a certain loneliness that sometimes appeared, especially at night. But I knew that if I had someone here, even just one person to help me out, I would lose this freedom. The freedom to do whatever I wanted, however I wanted, without explanations or strange looks. And I was not willing to give that up.

I spent the afternoon lying in the shade of the porch, thinking up new ideas to jot down in a to-do notebook. I wanted to dig a pit of fresh mud—people always say a mud bath is good for the skin, though my reasons were different: imagining myself rolling in it, with the muck getting into my ass and cunt, made my thighs squeeze together on their own.— I dreamed of a waterwheel that would improve the water supply, because hauling it up from the well by hand had become routine. And I was considering buying a tractor, which would open up many more possibilities. Though, honestly, part of me didn’t want to give up the plow.

When the sun began to set I put the jumpsuit back on and prepared the cart for the next day’s market. It hitchs to the horse without any fuss. I had already loaded some vegetables, several crates of eggs, simple farm goods. The market never went badly for me, which meant good sales. The only annoying part was having to stay covered up: a shameless farmer girl like me would not be a good seller if I let my tits peek out between the jumpsuit straps.

I ate the usual thing, a thick vegetable stew, and washed it down with a long drink of my personal fridge beverage. The horse’s cold semen filled my mouth, thick, and this time I didn’t bother swallowing it in one go: I savored it, rolled it over my tongue, let it cling to the roof of my mouth before I let it go down. Then I washed the dishes and turned off the kitchen lights.

***

At night, in my room, I finally opened the drawer and took out the key. I freed my ankles from the shackles with a relief that was almost physical and left the chain coiled on the nightstand. The skin bore the reddish mark of the metal. I stroked it slowly, pleased.

I undressed completely and got into bed. But I still couldn’t sleep. Not without one last ritual. My fingers weren’t enough for what I needed, so I took a simpler dildo, without bars or straps, but just as thick. I licked the tip first, wetting it well with saliva, letting my mouth fill as if I were sucking a real cock. I gagged when I pushed it deeper into my throat and pulled it out dripping with spit. Then I guided it between my legs and ran it over the lips of my cunt, swollen again, up and down, until the tip caught at my entrance.

I pushed and felt it open me, the firm stretch, flesh giving way around it. I drove it all the way in with one thrust and arched my back, biting my lip so I wouldn’t shout. Then I started fucking it slowly: out, in, out, in. Every time it went all the way in, a low growl escaped me. I sped up, my heels dug into the mattress and my hips lifting to meet each thrust, remembering the weight of the harness, the bar pushing inside me, the plow opening the earth, the taut chain between my feet.

I took my other hand to my breast and pinched a nipple, twisting it until pain mixed with pleasure, and then I brought my fingers down to my clit. I rubbed it fast, in small tight circles, without stopping pumping the dildo with my other hand. The mattress creaked. The bed smelled of sweat and cunt. I heard myself panting, saying dirty things out loud:

—More, fuck, deeper, more...

The second climax of the night hit me with the dildo buried to the hilt. It shook my legs, made me clamp my thighs around my wrist, and tore from me a long moan that died against the pillow. I left the dildo inside, without taking it out, my cunt throbbing around it and squeezing it in waves that grew softer and softer.

I kept at it for a long while like that, half asleep by then, giving little thrusts with my hips until my body went completely slack and sleep overcame me with the dildo still inside me, my mouth parted and my legs spread over the rumpled sheets.

The next day, though I didn’t know it yet, would bring something that would change my routine forever. But that’s another story.