Fucking Goats
Lily’s cage was a festering pit, the straw crusted with blood, seed, and her own vomit. The rabid dog’s foam still burned her throat, the boar’s tusks haunted Mia’s screams, and the client’s snuff order loomed like a guillotine. Her body was a ruin—bruises, claw marks, and welts from dogs, wolves, bears, and boars. The collar choked her, a constant reminder of The Kennel’s claim. Mia’s whispers, *We survive*, were a fading pulse in the dark, barely audible over the barn’s new sounds: bleats, grunts, and the clink of chains. Goats, Lily realized, her stomach twisting. The annual gala, Vixen had hinted. A night of excess where no one escaped unbroken.
