The sows were kept in similar pens to their uncastrated brethren but there were no exercise machines. Just iron racks on which mountains of blubbery flesh were tied down, feed pipes deep down inside their gullets and chubby cheeks stretched around the jaw-distending gags. The clear plastic pipes pulsed rythmically as pumps in the roof somewhere forced oily slime into their stomachs at a slow but steady rate. I found out later that some of the electricity produced by the boars' machines powered these pumps, so the boars were actually force feeding their fellow animals! No discipline was required here, as they couldn't avoid their massive force feeding and, as Mirelle explained, they were not exercised as it was desirable to keep their flesh sweet and tender. The boars' flesh was rather gamey for some tastes and the sow's meat provided an alternative. The fat-boars were somewhere in between. Eyes, devoid of hope, followed our every move as we clicked on our heels around the concrete floor of the pens. Under each sow, as with the boars, a pile of soiled straw awaited collection by the gardeners, but the piles were bigger and fed by a steady ooze that trickled from between each pair of mountainous buttocks. The stench was overpowering. As we visited the similar scene in the fat-boars' shed, one of the pretty young hog handlers popped her head around the door. "We're ready when you are, ma'am." "OK, darlin'. C'mon honey. It's a bit before their time, but ah've set up a lil' demo of what we do with these beauties when they're good 'n' ready." I had already guessed what might be waiting, but I couldn't suppress a wide grin of anticipation as we went back to the boars' pen to choose our victims. In the gloom of the stable-block, Mirelle and I paced slowly down the line of stalls, closely inspecting each creature for weight and muscle development. Each hog was pedalling urgently, but their eyes swivelled to follow our steady progress. Every one of them hoped we would ignore him and leave him another few weeks to "enjoy" some more agonising toil. How strange the creatures are. Mirelle paused briefly in front of a stall. The sweating hog in front of us stared up hopelessly. He was sufficiently distracted to slacken his effort momentarily, and was rewarded for his slackness with a severe shock to his bollocks. His body convulsed and then sagged, as Mirelle pointed down at him and told the closely-following handler that he would be culled today. Three more labouring swine were selected in a similar manner and the girls disconnected their various "umbilicals" and wheeled the machines out of their stalls. I was amused to see all four of the animals continue to pedal, so conditioned were they to work their allotted stint, until released by a buzzer that indicated an imminent feeding period. Then the buzzer sounded and they stopped. Simultaneously, the others back in the shed relaxed their hands and feet on the pedals, slumped exhausted on their straps and tried to accommodate the gallon of slime that started to flow into their swollen stomachs as the dynamos slowed. We all stalked off to a cleared space at the far end of the yard where a stocks-like arrangement had been set up, followed by the four handlers - each wheeling a chosen hog. There, a firmly rooted head clamp-cum-bolt gun awaited them, along with a couple of comfortable chairs and chilled champage for us. The bodies of the hogs were quite strangely deformed. The massive muscles of the arms, legs and haunches contrasted with the balloon-like swelling of the abdomen where the unexercised belly had grown so much that the creatures appeared nine months pregnant. The testicles were covered in angry red blisters and sores where the electrodes had repeatedly seared the flesh. Most of all, I noticed their eyes. Wide with panic and fear as their owner and her guest loomed over them, come to witness their fate. "OK, Mary-Lou, darlin'. Let's be havin' 'em." The young girl so addressed supervised the others in wheeling the first hog into position. His head fitted into a metal head-clamp and Mary-Lou tightened it around his shaggy skull until he winced. Mirelle and I took up our seats on chairs positioned only a few feet in front of his pathetic face. One of the girls served the champagne and we toasted each other with large smiles. Mirelle then gave a nod and Mary-Lou stepped up to the hog's head. She hauled back on the powerful spring of the bolt gun protruding from the side of the clamp, set the trigger and waited. I looked into the male's staring eyes as he grunted madly around his massive gag. Then Mirelle snapped her fingers and the bolt shot into the hog's head. It was entirely humane. The were only a few drops of blood but the hog died instantly, although his body continued to spasm for a few moments and his bladder emptied. (I gather a hog's bowels constantly leak a runny brown slime due to the creatures' diet and were pretty much empty.) Then the carcass was unclamped and wheeled off to the cold store. The next hog to be slaughtered, if he had had any illusions before, certainly had none now. He bucked and jerked wildly on his machine, but it rocked only slightly. Certainly not enough to inconvenience the girls slotting him firmly into the clamp. I took a sip of champagne as the bolt gun thudded home again and felt a warm wetness flood my pussy. Mirelle and I exchanged meaningful glances. "Ah know, honey. Me too. Butcherin' males always makes me horny. How 'bout a piece of afternoon delight today?" "Mmm. Sounds divine. Mustn't have too much lunch then." "Oh, no. Perhaps I could tempt you to a tongue sandwich, huh? His tongue, maybe." A fresh hog was clamped before my eyes. I addressed him serenely. "Yes, I think I shall have your tongue, hog. Lightly braised, in a sandwich with horseradish and salad. OK with you?" I had to laugh as his neck muscles corded with the effort of trying to shake his tightly-clamped head and as he frantically grunted in protest. "Very well then. As long as you have no objection. Go ahead Mary-Lou." We all were giggling merrily as the gun slammed home again. This little piggie was wheeled off straight to the kitchens to make my sandwich. The last piggie was slaughtered and the girls returned to the boar's shed. Their feed would have slipped down their throats by now and it was time to water them and then start them working again, working to generate power for Mirelle's ranch and to build muscle for Mirelle's table. Later, Mirelle confided to me that she rarely ate any meat but male meat these days. As I munched on my delicious sandwich, I could certainly see her point! In fact, she said that she slaughtered so many animals these days that even with her whole staff on a high-male-meat diet, she had to throw half of the carcasses away. She was even considering supplementing the hogs' feed with the ground-up residue of their predecessors. We seriously discussed diverting some of her excess supply of males to one of my more secure plantations. We finished our snack and climbed the stairs arm in arm. Upstairs we slipped under her satin sheets and began to explore each other tenderly. I thought briefly of the naked (naked apart from their restrainer-tubes, of course!) males standing around the room, alert for their Mistress's slightest need. Anything from sexual service to another of those lovely sandwiches. They were only too eager to compete in their subservience. Anything to avoid an assignment to Mirelle's hog-house!