The Master's Farm — Episode 5: The Corral and the Other Cows

The Master finished writing the number with the industrial marker. He put a large, black "4" on the right buttock, right in the fattest, most prominent part, where the curve is maximum. The ink was cold and the stroke of the marker on the freshly shaved skin gave him a chill that ran through his entire buttock and reached his anus, which was still open, swollen, and still dripping.

"You're Cow Four," said the Master, blowing on the ink to dry it. "You don't have a name here. You're a number. Cows don't have names."

He gave a soft slap on the freshly written "4", like sealing the brand, and the buttock rebounded with the printed number on top, obscene, degrading, perfect.

"To the corral. On all fours."

Miguel detached himself from the frame with effort. His legs were like jelly, his arms were trembling, and his buttocks weighed as if he had two sacks of cement attached to his waist. He got down to the floor, got on all fours, and started crawling, following the Master, who walked in front of him with long strides, without turning to look at him, like someone guiding an animal that already knows it's going to follow.

They crossed the stable. Miguel felt the cold concrete on his knees and palms, and his buttocks swayed from side to side with each advance, a heavy, hypnotic movement that the Master already knew. The "4" on his right buttock moved with the flesh, deforming and returning to its shape with each step.

At the end of the stable, there was a wooden door that led to a covered passageway. The Master opened it, and Miguel crawled through the passageway, which had an earth floor and smelled of damp hay. At the end of the passageway, there was another door, and behind that door, the corral.

It was a rectangular space, larger than Miguel expected. Thick wooden walls, a meter and a half high, a sheet metal roof to provide shade, a floor half earth, half concrete. There were four mattresses on the floor, each one next to the wall, with a metal ring embedded above. In one corner, a water key with a hose. In another, buckets and rags. It was austere, functional, clean within what was possible. A space designed to contain animals.

And there were the other three.

Miguel saw them and his breath was cut off.

Three guys. All naked. All on all fours or sitting on their mattresses. And all - all - with enormous buttocks.

The first one was sitting with his legs crossed on his mattress, leaning against the wall. White, light brown hair, round face, big eyes, and a tired expression. Thin from above, like Miguel. But from the hip down, it was an explosion of flesh: enormous, round buttocks, sprawling against the mattress and protruding from the sides of his body like two inflated cushions. He had a "1" written with a marker on his left buttock, already half-erased by time and use. He was the veteran. The one who had been there for eight months.

The second...