Carnal Slaughterhouse

The air in our slaughter shop always carries that metallic sweetness. It clings to everything—the concrete floor, the stainless steel hooks, my mother's hands even after she washes them three times. I've grown up breathing it, tasting it on my tongue like it's perfectly normal.

I'm in the back room, adjusting my white stockings. The seamless nylon pulls tight against my long legs, stretching from my toes all the way up to where they disappear beneath my maid dress. No underwear today. There's never any point. Not in this house.

"Yue'er!" My mother's voice cuts through the hum of the refrigeration units. Lan'er. She sounds excited, breathless in that way she gets when she's found something special.

I pad down the hallway, my bare feet silent on the worn linoleum. The shop floor is empty, the holding pens quiet. Father must be in his office, doing whatever he does with his account books and his quiet smiles.

Mother stands by the front counter, and beside her—a girl. Small, pale, with enormous eyes that dart around the room like a cornered rabbit. She can't be older than me. Eighteen, maybe. Her high school uniform is crisp and clean, white blouse tucked into a pleated skirt, and her legs are sheathed in pantyhose that catch the fluorescent light. Crystal flesh stockings, the kind that look like bare skin until you touch them.

"Li Pei," Mother says, running a hand along the girl's shoulder. "Isn't she lovely?"

Li Pei trembles but doesn't pull away. She's been bought. Paid for. She knows what that means.

"Very lovely, Mother."

Lan'er's smile widens. She's wearing her usual outfit—a tight vest that strains against her massive chest, her E-cups threatening to spill out, and denim hot pants that ride up her thighs. Fair skin, soft curves. She looks like she should be in a magazine, not standing in a slaughter shop with a purchased girl.

"Come," Mother says, taking Li Pei's hand. "Let's get to know each other."

She leads the girl toward the back rooms. The ones with the padded floors and the soundproof walls. I follow because I always follow when Mother has that look in her eyes.

The room is warm, soft-lit from a lamp in the corner. A mattress lies on the floor, covered in clean sheets. Mother guides Li Pei down onto it, stroking her hair, whispering things I can't hear. The girl's eyes are wet, but she doesn't resist. She's been prepared for this. Broken in, somewhere else, before she arrived.

"Yue'er," Mother says without looking up. "Come here."

I kneel on the mattress beside them. Li Pei's stockings whisper against the sheets as she shifts, and the sound goes straight through me. Mother's hand finds my waist, pulls me closer.

We touch her together. Mother takes the girl's mouth, kissing her slow and deep while my hands travel down her body, over the pleated skirt, beneath the hem. Li Pei gasps against Mother's lips when my fingers find her wet through the nylon. The pantyhose are damp already, clinging to her skin.

"Good girl," Mother murmurs. "You're doing so well."

She peels Li Pei's blouse open, buttons scattering across the floor. Small breasts, barely A-cups, pale as milk. Mother takes one in her mouth while I work the girl's skirt up around her waist, exposing the soaked gusset of her stockings. I tear through the nylon with my teeth, tasting her through the fabric. Sweet and clean, like soap and salt.

Li Pei moans. A real moan, not forced. Her body is responding even if her mind isn't here anymore. Mother's hand guides mine down between my own legs, where I'm already hard, straining against the fabric of my dress.

"Yue'er," Mother says, her voice thick. "Give it to her. Gently."

I position myself between Li Pei's thighs. The torn stockings frame her entrance perfectly, the nylon still intact around her legs but open where it matters. She's watching me now, her eyes glassy, her lips parted. I push into her slowly, feeling her stretch around me, hearing her moan catch in her throat.

Mother watches. Touches herself. Guides my hips with her hands until we find a rhythm that makes Li Pei's toes curl in her soaked stockings. I fuck her while Mother fucks her with her fingers, both of us working together, our bodies moving in tandem.

It doesn't take long. Li Pei comes with a scream muffled against Mother's shoulder, her body convulsing around me. I follow close behind, emptying myself into her as she shakes and sobs and clings to us both.

Afterward, we lie tangled together, breathing hard. Li Pei is between us, her stockings ruined, her uniform destroyed. She looks peaceful now. Spent.

"Your father," Mother says, propping herself up on one elbow. "He needs to prepare her."

She rises, smoothing down her vest, adjusting the waistband of her hot pants. I watch her leave, still half-hard against Li Pei's thigh. The girl doesn't move. Just stares at the ceiling.

Minutes pass. Then Mother returns, and her face is wrong. Tight. Angry in a way I've never seen before.

"He's gone."

I sit up. "What?"

"The car is still here. His keys are still here. But he's gone." She paces the room, her bare feet slapping against the mattress. "He's never gone when there's work to be done."

"He's probably just—"

"I looked everywhere." Mother's voice is sharp, cutting me off. "Everywhere, Yue'er. He's not in the house."

Li Pei stirs between us, awareness creeping back into her eyes. She looks at me. Looks at Mother. Begins to understand that something is wrong.

This is what needs to happen next. The shop needs to close its business for the night. Li Pei needs to be processed. But there is no one to do it.

Mother stops pacing. She's staring at me.

"Fine," she says. "You'll do it."

The word hits me like cold water. "Mother, I've never—"

"Your father taught you. I taught you. You know how." She's already moving toward the cabinet where we keep the tools. "We can't keep her here overnight. She's bought and paid for. The paperwork is done. She's ready."

Li Pei is sitting up now, her ruined uniform falling away from her body. She's looking at the tools in Mother's hands. A cleaver. A boning knife. The steel hook we use to hang the carcasses.

"No," she whispers. "Please. I'll do anything. I'll stay. I'll work. Please."

Mother ignores her. She hands me the cleaver. It's heavier than I remember, the handle worn smooth from years of use.

"The hook room," she says. "Take her there. I'll clean up here."

Li Pei is crying now, tears streaming down her cheeks, snot running from her nose. She crawls toward me, grabs my ankles, presses her wet face against my stockings.

"Please. You were so gentle. Please don't."

I look down at her. At the mess of her stockings. At the semen drying on her thighs. At the way her small body shakes against my legs.

My mother is watching. Waiting.

I wrap my hand around the girl's arm and pull her to her feet. She doesn't resist. They never do, once they've been bought. It's part of the training—the breaking—whatever you want to call it. They accept their fate because they've been taught to accept their fate.

The hook room is cold. Sterile. White tiles on the walls and floor, a drain in the center, a chain hanging from the ceiling with a meat hook at the end. It swings slightly when I walk in, catching the light.

"On your knees," I say.

Li Pei kneels on the tile floor. Her bare knees make a soft sound against the white surface. She's stopped crying now. Just stares straight ahead, her expression blank, her body still.

I stand behind her. The cleaver is in my right hand, heavy and ready.

"You should keep your eyes open," I say. "It's better that way."

She doesn't respond. Doesn't move.

The first swing is easy. Clean. The blade goes through her neck like it's cutting through butter, severing vertebrae and sinew and flesh. Her head topples forward, hitting the tile floor with a wet sound, rolling to a stop against the drain.

Blood sprays from her neck in a hot arc, drenching my dress, my arms, my face. It soaks into my white stockings, running down my legs in thick rivulets, pooling around my feet on the white tile floor.

The body slumps forward. The blood keeps coming. A dark red lake spreading outward, touching the tips of my stockings, climbing up the sheer fabric like it's alive.

I stand there, holding the cleaver, watching her blood soak into every thread of my clothing. My stockings are ruined. Bright white turned to deep crimson. The blood is warm. Almost hot.

Mother appears in the doorway, bathed in the fluorescent light. She looks at me, at the body, at the blood covering everything.

"Good," she says. "Clean yourself up. There's more work to do tomorrow."

She turns and walks away. Her footsteps echo down the hallway.

I look down at Li Pei's head. Her eyes are still open. Still staring.

The blood on my stockings is beginning to cool.

The morning light crept through the gaps in the heavy curtains, painting pale stripes across my bedroom floor. I stretched, my long legs sliding against the smooth silk of my white seamless stockings. They were already on—I never took them off at night, not since the incident three weeks ago. The fabric clung to my skin like a second layer, warm and familiar.

I pulled on my maid outfit, the black fabric hugging my slim frame, the skirt barely reaching mid-thigh. No underwear. There was no point anymore. Not in this house.

A soft clatter came from the kitchen. Father was up early. That was unusual—he normally slept until noon, claiming exhaustion from the shop's paperwork. I padded silently down the stairs, my bare feet making no sound on the aged wooden steps. The house smelled of stale tea and something metallic, that faint copper tang that never quite washed away from our clothes.

Through the kitchen doorway, I saw him. Chu Ri stood by the back door, dressed in a gray pencil skirt and a cream blouse, his flat chest barely making a shape under the fabric. He adjusted his wig—a sleek black bob that framed his angular face—and slipped a small revolver into his handbag. His movements were precise, practiced, like a butcher cleaning his knives.

I pulled back, pressing myself against the wall. My heart hammered. Father never carried a gun to the shop. Never.

He left through the back door, his heels clicking softly on the concrete path. I waited five breaths, then followed.

The morning air was cool, carrying the scent of damp asphalt and distant exhaust. Our neighborhood was still waking up—a few shopkeepers rolling up their grilles, a stray cat picking through garbage. I kept my distance, using parked cars and telephone poles as cover. Father walked with purpose, his hips swaying in that practiced feminine gait he'd perfected over the years. But I knew the muscle beneath that skirt. I knew the coldness behind those painted lips.

He turned left at the second intersection, heading toward a row of old apartment buildings. These weren't the nice ones—peeling paint, rusted balconies, windows covered with newspaper or cheap blinds. I slowed as he stopped in front of building 14, pulling a key from his purse. He glanced around, but I had already ducked behind a stack of cardboard boxes. Satisfied, he unlocked the front door and disappeared inside.

I counted to thirty, then slipped across the street.

The building's lobby stank of mildew and cigarette butts. A flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead. The stairwell echoed with the distant sound of a television. I took the steps two at a time, following the click of heels on tile. Father stopped on the third floor, apartment 3B. I heard a door open, then close, followed by a woman's laughter.

I crept down the hallway, pressing my back against the wall. The door to 3B had a small window, its curtain partially drawn. I edged closer, positioning myself where the gap in the fabric gave me a view.

My breath caught in my throat.

Father stood in the center of a small living room, his handbag on a coffee table littered with wine bottles and ashtrays. Aunt Wang—Chu Ri's mistress, my father's secret—lounged on a floral-patterned sofa, her long legs crossed under a flowing dress. Her gray crystal stockings shimmered in the weak light, catching my eye. She was beautiful, I had to admit. That thick black hair, those full lips, the way her dress clung to her D-cup breasts.

But it was what they were doing that made my blood run cold.

Aunt Wang rose from the sofa, her hand reaching out to cup Father's cheek. He leaned into her touch, his eyes fluttering closed. She whispered something I couldn't hear, then pulled him into a kiss. Deep, passionate. Father's hands found her waist, pulling her close. His skirt rode up as her fingers traced down his back, pressing into the fabric.

I felt sick.

This was the man who butchered livestock. The man who taught me how to make the first cut clean, how to let the blood drain properly. The man who—my mind flashed to Mother, bound in the basement, her eyes wide and pleading. And here he was, locked in an embrace with his mistress, his fingers tangling in her hair as she moaned into his mouth.

They broke apart, breathing heavy. Aunt Wang laughed, a throaty sound. "I thought you'd never come, Ri. It's been a week."

"Business." Father's voice was low, husky. "The shop keeps me busy. You know how it is."

"Busy with your livestock." She traced a finger down his chest, over his flat blouse. "Or busy with that boy of yours? He's growing up, isn't he? I saw him yesterday at the market. Tall. Those legs."

A cold knot formed in my stomach.

Father tensed. "Leave Chu Yue out of this."

"Why? He's a man now. Or something close to it." She laughed again, stepping back to pour two glasses of wine. "You can't keep him in the dark forever. He'll find out about us eventually. About everything."

"He's my responsibility. My blood." Father took the glass, downing half of it in one swallow. "I'll handle him when the time comes."

"When? Not if?"

"Don't test me, Lan'er."

She smiled, slow and dangerous. "I would never. I just want to make sure you have a backup plan. You know how these things can go wrong." She set down her glass, her hand sliding down her own thigh, over the shimmer of her stockings. "But enough talk. I didn't invite you here for business."

Father's expression softened, just a fraction. He set down his glass and moved toward her, his hands finding her hips. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into another kiss. This time, she guided him backward onto the sofa, her dress riding up to reveal the tops of those gray stockings.

I couldn't watch anymore. I stepped back, my shoulder blades pressing against the cold wall. My hands were shaking. My father—the executioner, the master of the slaughterhouse—was tangled in the arms of his lover, while Mother lay in chains not a kilometer away. And Aunt Wang had seen me. She knew who I was. She had mentioned me by name.

The door to 3B creaked.

I froze. Footsteps approached the entrance. I bolted down the hallway, turning the corner just as the door swung open. Father stepped out, adjusting his wig, his blouse slightly wrinkled. He walked past my hiding spot without a glance, heading for the stairs.

I waited until his footsteps faded, then slipped back to the window. Aunt Wang was still on the sofa, her dress now fully hiked up, her stockings glistening. She was lighting a cigarette, a lazy smile on her lips. As if she knew I was watching. As if she wanted me to see.

I turned and ran. Ran down the stairs, through the lobby, out into the morning light. My legs carried me without thought, my white stockings flashing with each stride. I didn't stop until I reached the market, where the vendors were setting up their stalls, where the smell of fresh vegetables and raw meat filled the air.

I leaned against a lamppost, catching my breath. My mind raced with images—Father's lips on Aunt Wang's, her hand on his chest, his fingers in her hair. And then her words: *He'll find out about us eventually. About everything.*

What else was there to find? What more could this family hide?

The answer came unbidden, dark and certain: *Everything.*

The third day arrived with a gray dawn. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the wooden fan spinning lazily overhead. The law was clear—before a man could remarry, his ex-wife must be slaughtered. My father had not spoken of marriage yet, but Aunt Wang’s presence in his life was a threat to my mother’s existence. The thought tightened my chest, a cold knot of resolve forming. I slipped out of bed, my white seamless stockings whispering against the floor as I dressed in my usual maid outfit, the fabric light and clinging to my slim frame. No underwear—I never wore any beneath the one-piece. It was a small rebellion, a secret thrill I kept to myself.

I left the house before the sun fully rose, my long legs carrying me through the quiet streets to a back-alley pharmacy I knew. The shopkeeper, a greasy man with a knowing smirk, sold me a vial of potent sleeping powder without questions. I paid in cash, slipping the glass bottle into the pocket of my dress. The weight of it felt heavy, a promise of what was to come.

By mid-morning, I stood at Aunt Wang’s doorstep. Her house was a modest two-story on the edge of town, surrounded by overgrown rose bushes. I knocked, forcing a gentle smile onto my face. The door swung open, and she appeared in a floral-print long dress, gray crystal stockings gleaming on her legs. Her D-cup breasts strained the fabric, and her hair was pinned up carelessly.

“Chu Yue? What a surprise!” Her voice was warm, a little too cheerful. She wiped her hands on her apron. “Come in, come in. Your father mentioned you might drop by.”

“I wanted to visit you,” I said, stepping inside. The air smelled of baking bread and jasmine. “Father spoke highly of you, and I thought we should get to know each other better.”

Her eyes sparkled. She led me to the living room, where a teapot sat on a low table. “How thoughtful of you. I was just about to have some tea. Would you like a cup?”

“Yes, please.” I sat on the sofa, smoothing my dress over my thighs. My legs, a full meter long, stretched out before me, the white stockings gleaming. She poured two cups, her back turned as she added sugar. I saw my chance. My hand moved swiftly, the vial uncorked, a stream of white powder cascading into her cup. I stirred it with my finger, then wiped it dry on my skirt.

She turned, handing me the tainted cup. “To new beginnings,” she said, raising her own.

I nodded, taking a sip of my clean tea. She drank deeply, and I watched her throat move with each swallow. “You have such lovely legs,” she said, her voice a little dreamy. “I’ve always admired a young woman who knows how to dress.”

“Thank you, Aunt Wang.” I set my cup down. “You’re very kind.”

She laughed, a soft, musical sound. Then her eyelids drooped. “I feel… dizzy…” Her hand went to her forehead. “Excuse me, I think I need to…”

Her words trailed off. She slumped sideways on the sofa, her head lolling back, unconscious. I stood, my heart pounding but my hands steady. The living room was quiet except for the clock ticking on the wall. I bent over her, checking her pulse—strong, steady. Good.

I looked around. I needed to move her to the wild, away from prying eyes. I grabbed her ankles, her gray stockings smooth under my fingers, and dragged her off the sofa. Her body was heavier than I expected, but I was tall and wiry, with strength born from years of helping in the slaughter shop. I pulled her toward the back door, her floral dress riding up, exposing her thighs. Outside, a dirt path led to the woods. The wind rustled the leaves, and the sun cast dappled shadows.

I laid her on a patch of grass behind a thicket. She was still out cold, her chest rising and falling peacefully. I knelt beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You were my father’s mistress,” I whispered. “But the law demands my mother’s safety.” I pulled a length of rope from my pocket—I had come prepared.

I bound her wrists and ankles, then gagged her with a cloth. She wouldn’t be waking for hours. I stood, looking down at her. The first step was done. Now I needed to plan the rest.

But as I turned to leave, a shadow fell over me. I spun around. Aunt Wang’s eyes were open, wide and terrified. The gag muffled her scream. I froze. The drug shouldn’t have worn off this fast. Then I noticed the faint smile in her gaze—not fear, but something else. Understanding.

She had known.

I didn’t hesitate. I struck her temple with the butt of my knife, and her eyes rolled back. This time, she was truly out. I took a deep breath, the thrill of the hunt settling into my bones. There was no turning back now.

The blade trembled in my hand as I dragged Aunt Wang’s unconscious body through the tall grass. The moon was a cold silver coin stuck in the sky, watching everything. Her floral-print dress had ridden up, exposing her gray crystal stockings and the pale skin of her thighs. The D-cup breasts rose and fell with each shallow breath. I had hit her harder than I meant to.

The outskirts of town faded behind a thicket of bushes. This far out, no one would hear. No one would come. I threw her down onto the dirt, her body landing with a soft thud. My fingers were numb around the handle of the cleaver. Blood from earlier—from Li Pei, from the others—had dried into a sticky rust-colored film on my palms.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the unconscious woman. “But you knew too much. You were Father’s mistress. You saw me with Xu Xiaojia. You can’t be left alive.”

She didn’t respond.

I raised the cleaver high. The moonlight caught the edge, turning it into a line of pure silver. My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. One clean swing. Then drag the body into the ravine. Done. Like the rest.

But my arms were shaking. I had never killed anyone who wasn’t already tied down, already helpless. Aunt Wang was just lying there, peaceful, like she was sleeping. Her face was pretty in the darkness. Lips slightly parted. A single strand of black hair across her forehead.

I couldn’t do it.

No—I *had* to do it. For Mother. For myself. For the family.

I squeezed my eyes shut and swung down.

The blade never hit flesh.

A hand caught my wrist. Iron fingers dug into my bones, stopping the cleaver an inch from her neck. My eyes snapped open. Aunt Wang’s eyes were wide open, clear, aware. There was a smile on her lips, but not a human smile. Something cold and amused.

“Chu Yue,” she said softly. “Did you really think a single blow to the head would keep me out?”

I tried to pull back, but she was stronger. So much stronger. She twisted my wrist, and the cleaver flew out of my hand, landing with a clatter in the grass. She yanked me forward, off balance. I crashed onto my knees beside her.

Before I could react, she rolled on top of me.

Her body pressed mine into the cold ground. Her weight was surprising—she was lean, wiry, not the soft voluptuous woman I had imagined. Her thighs clamped around my waist, pinning me. Her hands grabbed my wrists and shoved them into the dirt above my head.

I struggled. My long legs kicked wildly, my white stockings slipping on the grass. But she had leverage. She had technique. Every time I tried to throw her off, she shifted her hips, deadening my strength.

“Let me go!” I shouted.

She laughed. A low, throaty sound that sent a chill down my spine. “Let you go? After you dragged me all the way out here to chop off my head? That’s not very polite, little futa.”

Tears welled in my eyes. I was defeated. I was going to die. Just like the livestock in the slaughterhouse. The cleaver was lying two meters away, but I couldn’t reach it. And then, the worst humiliation—the pressure in my bladder released.

A warm wetness spread across my crotch. The white of my stockings darkened as urine soaked through. The maid outfit clung to my skin, ruined.

Aunt Wang’s eyes widened. She looked down at the stain, then back at my face. I expected disgust. Anger. A knife to my throat.

Instead, she burst into laughter.

“Oh my god,” she wheezed, tears forming in her own eyes. “You’re adorable. Absolutely adorable. A two-meter-tall futa who wets herself when she’s scared. Your father never told me you were this cute.”

My face burned. I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. “Shut up,” I snarled. “Just kill me and get it over with.”

She stopped laughing. Her smile softened into something almost tender. She released one of my wrists and reached down to touch my cheek. Her fingers were warm.

“Kill you? Why would I want to do that?” She leaned closer, her lips brushing my ear. “I like tall futa. I’ve been watching you for months, Chu Yue. The way you walk. The way you move. That long, strong body. You have no idea how many nights I’ve thought about this.”

Her hand slid down my neck, across my collarbone, over the B-cup breasts barely covered by the lace of my maid top. I shuddered. Not from fear anymore.

“What?” My voice came out broken.

“You heard me.” She sat up, still straddling my waist, and began unbuttoning her floral-print dress. The fabric parted, revealing a smooth stomach and the swell of D-cup breasts encased in a thin bra. “I want you to fuck me, Chu Yue. Right here. In the wilderness. Under the moonlight.”

My mind spun. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I had come to kill her. I was supposed to be the executioner. Instead, I lay pinned beneath her, shame-soaked and trembling, while she offered me her body.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered.

“You don’t have to understand.” She leaned down and kissed me.

Her lips were soft, tasting faintly of mint and something else—something wild. Her tongue traced my lower lip, then slipped inside. My eyes closed involuntarily. My body responded before my brain could catch up. My hands, free now, found her waist. My fingers dug into the fabric of her dress.

She broke the kiss and pulled back, a glint in her eyes. “Your father used me. He threw me away when he found someone younger. But you’re different. You’re innocent. Powerful. And I’ve seen the way you look at women like me.” She reached down and traced a line down my stomach, stopping at the waistband of my maid skirt. “You’re not a killer, Chu Yue. You’re a lover who was forced into a slaughterhouse.”

Tears dripped down my temples into the grass. Everything she said was true. I didn’t want to kill. I wanted to touch. To be touched. To lose myself in warmth and wetness and the sound of a woman gasping my name.

I nodded, barely.

Aunt Wang smiled. She stood up, pulling me with her. I wobbled on my long legs, my stockings still damp, my skirt clinging to my thighs. She took my hand and led me deeper into the thicket, away from the cleaver, away from the bloodstains, away from everything.

“Don’t be scared,” she said. “I’ll show you what it means to be with a woman who actually wants you.”

She pushed me against a tree trunk. The bark bit into my back through the thin maid fabric. Then she dropped to her knees, looking up at me with those dark, amused eyes, and her hands crept up my thighs.

I bit my lip as her fingers hooked into the waistband of my stockings.

The moon watched. The grass rustled. And for the first time in days, I didn’t feel like livestock.

I felt like the hunter.

The grass was cool and damp against my back, the blades tickling the exposed skin of my thighs where the white stockings ended. Aunt Wang straddled me, her floral-print dress hiked up around her waist, the gray crystal stockings glistening with dew and sweat. Her D-cup breasts bounced free from the loose fabric, and she rode me with a feverish desperation that made the world blur at the edges.

"Harder, Yue'er," she gasped, her head thrown back, her long hair cascading down her spine. "Fuck me harder."

I gripped her hips, my fingers digging into the soft flesh above the stockings. My cock slid into her wet heat again and again, the squelching sounds mingling with her moans and the chirping of evening crickets. She was so tight, so warm, and her inner walls clenched around me with every thrust.

"Yes, yes, yes!" she cried out, her nails raking down my chest through the thin fabric of my maid outfit. "Don't stop, don't you dare stop!"

I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. The lust had taken hold of me, clouding my judgment, numbing the part of my brain that still remembered what I was supposed to do. Her body was a drug, and I was an addict chasing the next hit.

"You're so good," she whimpered, her rhythm faltering as her climax approached. "So much better than your father. He never fucks me like this."

The mention of Father sent a jolt through me, but she was already convulsing above me, her orgasm ripping through her body. Her eyes rolled back, her mouth fell open, and she cried out to the darkening sky.

And in that moment of her absolute vulnerability, I reached for the butcher knife I had hidden in the grass beside us.

The blade was cold and heavy in my hand. Aunt Wang was still shuddering, still lost in her pleasure, when I brought the edge to her throat.

"Yue'er?" she whispered, her eyes wide, her body still trembling from the aftershocks.

"I'm sorry," I said, and I meant it.

The knife sliced through her neck with a wet, tearing sound. Blood sprayed across my face, my chest, the white stockings. It was hot and thick and metallic, and it smelled of iron and something coppery that made my stomach lurch. Aunt Wang's body jerked once, twice, then went limp. Her head separated from her neck with a final, sickening crunch, and it rolled across the grass, coming to rest with her eyes still open, still confused, still searching for an explanation that would never come.

I lay there for a moment, breathing hard, the body of Aunt Wang still slumped over my hips. The blood was cooling on my skin, and the weight of what I had done settled over me like a shroud. I pushed her corpse aside and sat up, wiping the blood from my eyes.

And then I saw him.

Father stood at the edge of the clearing, his office lady suit pristine, his arms crossed over his flat chest. His face was a mask of cold fury, his eyes burning with a rage that made my blood run cold.

He had seen everything.

"Chu Yue," he said, his voice low and dangerous, each word a blade. "You killed my mistress."

"Father, I—"

"Don't speak."

He walked toward me with measured steps, each footfall deliberate and heavy. When he reached me, he grabbed me by the hair and yanked me to my feet. I cried out, but he didn't care. He dragged me away from the corpse, away from the blood-soaked grass, to a spot where the ground was bare and the branches of a willow tree hung low.

He didn't say a word as he ripped my maid outfit from my body. The fabric tore easily, leaving me naked except for the white stockings that now bore Aunt Wang's blood. I stood there, shivering, exposed, as Father broke a thick branch from the willow tree and stripped it of its leaves.

"On your knees," he commanded.

I obeyed. There was no choice. He was the head of the slaughterhouse, and I was nothing but a disobedient butcher's child.

The first blow fell across my shoulders, and the pain was white-hot, blinding. I screamed, but he didn't stop. The second blow landed on my back, the third on my thighs. He beat me with a cold, methodical precision, each strike drawing blood, each lash carving my flesh.

"Why did you do it?" he demanded, his voice shaking with rage. "Why did you kill her?"

"She was going to—" I gasped, but another blow cut off my words.

"I don't care what she was going to do! She was mine! You don't take what is mine!"

The branch came down again and again, splitting my skin, painting my body in crimson. I collapsed onto my hands and knees, tears and blood mingling in the grass. The pain was overwhelming, consuming, but beneath it, there was something else. A cold, hollow satisfaction.

Aunt Wang was dead. And I was still alive.

For now.

The back of my head smashes against the wall. Again. The plaster cracks under the impact, and I feel the warm trickle of blood slide down my neck, soaking into the collar of my maid dress. Chu Ri’s hand is wrapped around my throat, her fingers pressed deep into the flesh, choking off my air.

“You think I wouldn’t find out?” Her voice is low, almost a whisper, but it cuts through the ringing in my ears like a blade. “You think you could touch what’s mine and hide it?”

I can’t answer. My vision blurs, spots swimming at the edges. She releases my throat just enough for me to gasp, and then her fist connects with my ribs. I hear the crack before I feel it—a sharp, white-hot explosion of pain that folds me in half. I slide down the wall, my long legs crumpling beneath me, white stockings ripping at the knees.

She stands over me, immaculate in her office skirt and blouse, not a hair out of place. Her face is expressionless, but her eyes—those cold, dead eyes—are burning. She pulls a cigarette from her pocket, lights it, takes a long drag. The smoke curls between us.

“Get up,” she says.

I try. My arms shake, my ribs scream, but I manage to push myself to my knees. She grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me upright, dragging me toward the door.

“We’re going to the registry,” she says, her tone flat. “You’ve lost your name. You’ve lost your place. You’re livestock now.”

I stumble after her, my bare feet slapping against the cold concrete floor. The maid dress is torn, stained with blood and dust. The white stockings are shredded at the thighs. I don’t even have underwear—she never let me wear any, said it was “waste of fabric on something that would be meat.” It never felt real until now.

The registry office is a small, sterile room in the municipal building. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The clerk behind the counter is a pale, thin man with glasses, his fingers tapping at a keyboard. He doesn’t look up when we enter.

Chu Ri shoves me forward. “Cancel the identity. Register as livestock.”

The clerk finally glances at me, his eyes tracing the bruise forming on my cheek, the blood matted in my hair. He says nothing. He just pulls up a form and starts typing.

“Name?” he asks, though he already knows.

“Chu Yue,” I whisper.

He shakes his head. “Not anymore. You’ll be assigned a number. Let’s see…” He clicks a few buttons. “Livestock code 88-12-XJ. Breed: futa. Age: 18. Grade: Prime.”

He prints a small metal tag, the kind they clip to a cow’s ear. He slides it across the counter. Chu Ri takes it, grabs my earlobe, and presses the tag through the flesh. The pain is sharp and immediate, a hot metal sting. I clench my teeth and don’t scream. I won’t give her that.

“One more,” the clerk says.

Chu Ri frowns. “What?”

“Your wife. Lan’er. She’s also been flagged. Order from the higher-ups. Her involvement with the underground purchase of unregistered livestock has been noted. She’s to be registered as livestock as well.”

I stare at him, my heart hammering against my broken ribs. Mother? No. No, she can’t be—

Chu Ri’s face doesn’t change. She takes the second tag, slips it into her pocket. “Fine.”

The drive home is silent. I sit in the passenger seat, pressing a handkerchief against my bleeding ear. The tag dangles, cold and heavy. I can feel it with every heartbeat.

When we pull into the driveway, I see the front door is slightly ajar. Music is playing inside—something soft, sultry. A woman’s laughter drifts out.

Chu Ri kills the engine. “Wait here.”

But I don’t wait. I follow her inside, my bare feet silent on the marble floor. The living room is a mess—couch cushions thrown aside, a bottle of wine spilled on the carpet. And on the floor, tangled together, are two figures.

Mother. Lan’er. Her vest is unbuttoned, her hot pants around her ankles, her huge breasts pressed against the body beneath her. And beneath her is a girl I don’t recognize—wheat-skinned, wearing a rumpled JK uniform and over-the-knee black stockings. She has a cock, long and hard, slick with fluid. She’s thrusting up into mother, her hands gripping mother’s hips.

Mother’s head is thrown back, moaning, her eyes closed in ecstasy. She doesn’t see us.

Chu Ri stands in the doorway, watching. Her face is stone.

“Lan’er,” she says, her voice soft and calm.

Mother’s eyes snap open. She freezes, a flush spreading across her chest and neck. The girl beneath her—Xu Xiaojia, I realize, the one we bought yesterday—looks up, her expression shifting from lust to fear in an instant.

Chu Ri takes a long drag of her cigarette, then stubs it out on the doorframe.

“I see you’ve already met the new livestock,” she says, her tone conversational. “Good. That makes things simpler.”

Mother scrambles to cover herself, pulling her vest closed, but Chu Ri waves a hand dismissively.

“Don’t bother. It doesn’t matter anymore.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the second metal tag. “You’ve been registered, Lan’er. Livestock code 88-13-XJ. You too are now meat.”

Mother’s face drains of color. “What? No—Ri, please, you can’t—”

“I can. I have.” Chu Ri turns to Xu Xiaojia, who is now sitting up, her skirt pooled around her waist, her cock still half-hard. “And you. You’re new, but you’ve already defiled my property. That’s a death sentence.”

Xu Xiaojia’s eyes widen. “I—I didn’t know—she said she wanted it—”

“I don’t care what she said.” Chu Ri looks at me, then back at mother, then at Xu Xiaojia. “All three of you are now livestock. And livestock must be processed.”

She walks to the kitchen, opens a drawer, and pulls out a long, curved slaughtering knife. The blade gleams under the lights.

“The execution will happen tonight,” she says, her voice flat and final. “I’ll decide the order myself.”

Mother begins to cry. Xu Xiaojia trembles, her hands shaking as she buttons her skirt. I stand there, the tag cold against my ear, the pain in my ribs a dull throb, and I realize—I’m not scared. I’m not sad.

I’m hungry.

And I know, deep in my gut, that before this night is over, someone is going to die.

The slaughterhouse floor was slick with blood and water, the fluorescent lights humming overhead like a dirge. Chu Ri stood at the center, his office lady attire immaculate despite the carnage around him. His eyes were cold, fixed on the bound figure of Lan'er, who knelt on the concrete, her E-cup breasts heaving beneath her torn vest. Her hot pants were soaked, and her fair skin glistened with sweat and fear.

"Xu Xiaojia," Chu Ri said, his voice smooth as a razor. "You've proven yourself useful. Now, show me your loyalty. Reverse the roles. The livestock becomes the butcher."

Xu Xiaojia stepped forward, her wheat-skinned legs carrying her with a predator's grace. The JK uniform clung to her body, the black over-the-knee stockings gripping her thighs. In her hand, she held a curved slaughtering knife, its blade catching the light. She smiled, a flash of white teeth against her dark skin.

Lan'er looked up, her eyes wide. "Please... I thought you liked me. I bought you, I fucked you..."

"You bought me," Xu Xiaojia said, her voice low and playful. "Now I own you. And I'm going to enjoy this."

She crouched down, running a hand through Lan'er's damp hair. Lan'er trembled, but there was a flicker of arousal in her eyes—the same twisted desire that had driven her to buy and fuck livestock. Xu Xiaojia leaned in, her lips brushing Lan'er's ear.

"One last time," she whispered. "For old times' sake."

Lan'er's resolve crumbled. She nodded, and Xu Xiaojia pulled her to her feet. They kissed, a brutal, desperate tangle of tongues and teeth. Xu Xiaojia's hands roamed Lan'er's body, squeezing her breasts, gripping her hips. Lan'er moaned, her body betraying her as Xu Xiaojia pushed her down onto the bloody floor.

Chu Ri watched, arms crossed, his flat chest barely visible beneath his blouse. He glanced at me—Chu Yue, his son, still in my white stockings and maid outfit, my legs trembling, my heart a clenched fist in my chest.

I wanted to look away. I couldn't.

Xu Xiaojia mounted Lan'er, their bodies grinding together. Lan'er's moans grew louder, her legs wrapping around Xu Xiaojia's waist. The knife lay beside them, forgotten for a moment. I saw Lan'er's face contort with pleasure, her eyes half-closed, her mouth open.

Then Xu Xiaojia's hand moved.

She grabbed the knife.

In one swift motion, she sat up, still inside Lan'er, and brought the blade down across Lan'er's throat. The sound was wet, a ripping of flesh and cartilage. Blood sprayed across Xu Xiaojia's face, across the floor. Lan'er's body convulsed, her hands clawing at the air, then went still.

Her head rolled off her shoulders, thudding against the concrete. The eyes blinked once, twice, then went dull.

I screamed. A raw, broken sound that tore from my throat. "Mother!"

I lunged forward, but Chu Ri's hand clamped onto my arm, his grip like iron. "Stay," he said, his voice flat.

Xu Xiaojia stood, blood dripping from her chin. She licked her lips. "Done."

Chu Ri nodded. "Good. Now for the next one."

He turned to me, his eyes burning with cold fury. "You thought you could take my wife? You thought you could indulge your little fantasies and escape consequences? No, son."

He gestured to Xu Xiaojia. "Strip him. Open all three holes."

Xu Xiaojia approached, the knife still in her hand. I struggled, but my body was weak, my legs tangled in my stockings. She grabbed the collar of my maid dress and tore it open, exposing my flat chest, my B-cups, my pale skin.

"Please," I whispered, tears streaming down my face.

Xu Xiaojia smiled. "Don't worry. I'll make it feel good."

She pushed me onto the blood-slick floor, my mother's headless body beside me. I could smell the iron of blood, the sweetness of Lan'er's perfume. Xu Xiaojia knelt between my legs, her fingers finding the slit of my futa cock, still soft from shock.

Chu Ri stood over us, his shadow falling across my face. "Make him scream," he said.

And Xu Xiaojia began.

The heavy steel door of the slaughterhouse slams shut behind me, the clang echoing off the bloodstained concrete walls. I'm still bound to the wooden table from the previous night's ordeal, my white maid dress torn to shreds, my seamless stockings ripped open in a dozen places. The smell of copper and offal fills my nostrils as I struggle against the leather straps.

Chu Ri steps into the dim light, still in their office lady skirt suit, but now the jacket is off, shirt sleeves rolled up. Xu Xiaojia follows close behind, still in her JK uniform and black over-the-knee stockings, but her eyes have that same dead-cold look from when she helped murder Aunt Wang. She carries a coil of rope and a butcher's hook.

"Still alive, little slut?" Chu Ri's voice is flat, almost bored. They pull on a pair of yellow rubber gloves. "I suppose you think you're clever, don't you? Fucking your own father's mistress. Killing your mother."

I try to speak, but my throat is raw from screaming. Only a croak comes out.

Xu Xiaojia sets down the equipment and walks to my side. She runs a hand over my thigh, through the torn stocking. "He's still hard, even now. Look at that." She points to the bulge straining against the remnants of my maid outfit. My body betrays me again, the constant arousal never ceasing no matter what horrors I've witnessed.

Chu Ri snaps the gloves. "Untie him. We'll do this properly."

Xu Xiaojia unbuckles the straps with practiced efficiency. My arms and legs are free, but I'm too weak to move. The two of them grab me by the ankles and wrists and flip me onto my stomach, face pressed against the cold metal table. I hear a bottle open, feel cold liquid dribble between my ass cheeks.

"No—please—" I manage to gasp.

Chu Ri's fingers, slick with lubricant, find my asshole. They don't bother with preparation, just shove two fingers in knuckle-deep. I scream into the table.

"You don't get to beg, Chu Yue." They withdraw and I hear the sound of a belt unbuckling. "You don't get to feel pain anymore. You're just meat now."

The first breach is a violation, Chu Ri's cock forcing its way into my unprepared hole without even a pause. I feel skin tear, feel something warm trickle down my thigh. My hands claw at the table but find no purchase. Behind me, Chu Ri begins to thrust, each stroke punching the air from my lungs.

Xu Xiaojia walks around to face me. She kneels down, unzips her JK skirt, and pulls out her own cock, already hard and glistening. "Open wide," she says, grabbing my hair. I try to turn away but her grip is iron. She shoves herself into my mouth, filling my throat, and I gag as Chu Ri continues to pound into my other end from behind.

They set a rhythm, Chu Ri fucking my ass while Xu Xiaojia facefucks me, alternating their thrusts so that one is always inside me, always stretching some orifice, never giving me a moment to breathe. I can taste my own blood from where my gums have been cut. My vision blurs from tears and lack of air.

"Harder," Xu Xiaojia grunts, pushing deeper. "He's still conscious. I want him to feel every inch."

Chu Ri complies, slamming so deep I feel it in my guts. I try to scream around the cock in my throat, but only a muffled whimper escapes. My legs give out and I collapse onto the table, my body a broken toy between them. They hold me up, continuing their assault, two bodies using me as a fuck puppet.

I come twice without permission, my own orgasm a pathetic spasm against the overwhelming pain. Then I pass out.

I wake to the sensation of being flipped again. I'm on my back now, legs spread wide. Chu Ri is crouched between them, their face between my thighs, tongue lapping at my bleeding holes. The sensation is too much, too sensitive. I try to crawl away but Xu Xiaojia pins my shoulders.

"Stay," she whispers. "Let him clean you up."

Chu Ri's tongue finds my small cock, draws it into their mouth, and I come again, a weak, watery orgasm that leaves me dizzy. They pull away, lips slick with blood and cum.

"Now," they say, standing and wiping their mouth. "Fuck her."

I blink at Xu Xiaojia. Her face is unreadable.

"You heard him," she says. She lies down on the table beside me, her legs apart. "Mount me."

Chu Ri grabs my hair and forces my face toward her cunt. "Do it properly. Show me you understand."

My body moves without my permission. I crawl over Xu Xiaojia, my cock already half-hard again, the cursed arousal that this family has bred into me. She wraps her legs around my waist. Her eyes meet mine.

"It's better this way," she murmurs. "Just give in."

I push inside her. Her cunt is warm, wet, welcoming. I hate how good it feels. I hate how my hips begin to move on their own, how I start to thrust into her with growing urgency. She gasps, claws my back, pulls me closer.

"Yes—like that—" Her voice is breathy, and I feel her internal walls clench around me.

Chu Ri stands behind us, watching. I can feel their eyes on my ass as I fuck Xu Xiaojia, feel their hand come down hard on my left cheek. "Harder. Fuck her like the pig she is."

"Do it harder," Xu Xiaojia echoes, pulling my face down to kiss her, a brutal, teeth-clacking kiss. "Fuck me like you killed that bitch Wang."

That word—*killed*—breaks something in me. I slam into her, no longer controlling the rhythm, just pure animal need. She cries out, her legs shaking, her own orgasm rippling around my cock. I feel the pressure build in me, and I come, pumping into her with shudder after shudder, collapsing onto her body, both of us slicked with sweat and blood and cum.

Chu Ri applauds slowly. "Beautiful. Now it's time to finish."

Xu Xiaojia pushes me off, stands, and retrieves the rope. She ties one end around my neck, then her own, looping the rope so that no matter which way we turn, we're connected, face to face. Our bodies are pressed together, chest to chest, cock to cunt. She is still inside me, or I am still inside her. I can't tell anymore.

Chu Ri produces the slaughter knife. It glints red in the fluorescent light.

"You get to go together," they say, almost gently. "That's more than either of you deserve."

I look into Xu Xiaojia's eyes. There's no fear there, only a strange peace. Her hands find my waist, hold me close.

"Hold me," she whispers.

I wrap my arms around her. Her heart beats against my chest.

Chu Ri raises the knife.

"Together."

The blade swings.

I see a flash of steel, feel a cold line across my throat, then nothing.

Our heads fall together, mine and hers, tumbling through the air, my face still turned toward hers, her eyes still open. We hit the bloody floor with twin thuds. And somewhere above us, in the screaming silence, our blood flows out across the concrete, mingling, running together into a single red stream that winds its way toward the drain.