This is part two of a story that will take a couple of posts and some time to write. If you haven't read the first part, please do that first. I'm taking a small step back from reddit for a while, but didn't want to leave you with nothing to show for it, so here's a very brief part two. I do expect I'll continue sooner rather than later, so I won't leave you hanging. Feedback and messages are always appreciated.

He wiped his cock with her hair, giving it a pink tint from the blood, cum and saliva that still dripped from her mouth. The edge was off now that he came. Less intense, perhaps, but with purpose in his eyes. She wasn't sure whether she preferred the brutal violence or the calm thoughtfulness. She felt distant, like she stepped out of her body and everything was happening to somebody else, something else. So she didn't even panic when she automatically wanted to get up and the intense pain in her feet reminded her of the sliced tendons. The high heels dragged over the rough floor, her feet useless. He smiled at her with what could amost pass for pity in his eyes. "Poor thing. Don't worry, we'll fix those soon enough". She believed him, she believed that everything would be alright.

He slid one arm behind her back, the other behind her knees, and scooped her up like she weighed nothing. It could have been romantic, and she allowed her head to rest against his broad chest, feeling his strong arms support her. Yes, everything was alright. She closed her eyes and had faith that he would take care of her, no matter what that would mean. She was even smiling when he lowered her onto a wooden table in the next room, on hands and knees like a good little cow. He pushed her down further, until her elbows rested on the wood, her ass high up in the air. She even spread her legs a bit and wiggled her ass for him, trying to share the warm tenderness she felt. She had to focus when he talked again, as if she were drunk or drugged. "You're losing blood a bit faster than I expected, pet, so we'll have to move forward with your preparation. I'm afraid you won't have much time to adjust, but it'll be okay". She smiled again. It'd be okay.

She was vaguely aware of a fire roaring on one side of the room, like a farm's small smithy for horseshoe repair and minor metal works. What looked like a cast iron skillet and a poker were sitting in the flames. That didn't make sense, she was sure that anything he might be cooking would burn in the intense heat. Her stomach growled at the thought of cooking. Her wandering thoughts were interrupted by the metal bands closing over her forearms and legs, and the mechanical whirring of the electric screwdriver as he fastened the restraints to the table. They were tight, too tight. She could feel her hands and feet throb as the circulation got cut off. Her attempt to speak up resulted in moo-like moans, her tongue still skewered and pinned inside her mouth. He stepped back and looked at her. With her slutty top, leather cow print skirt and high heels she looked like a bondage model, metal shackles pinning her arms and legs down on the table. Only the blood on her lips and heels gave away that she was more than that. He smiled, lifted her skirt and felt her exposed cunt. "Good whore" he showed her how wet his fingers were when he pulled them back, and she blushed. She blushed like a damn schoolgirl, while he already tortured, cut and facefucked her. The table lowered, and she saw it was more like a workbench, the wooden top more like a butchers block, stained with old blood and covered in cut marks, some of them so deep they must have been made with great force. She stopped descending when her face was at his crotch level. She wondered if he was ready to fuck her again. She had to admit that she was.

Instead, he hummed a bit while working on something behind her, the toneless tune of somebody taking his time to perform a task. She heard rasping sound, like metal over stone, rhythmic and steady. And then he appeared again, holding an axe. The blade long like a cleaver, the back ending in a hammer head, it looked home made. It also looked razor sharp and heavy. Panic set in. The ice cold panic you can feel spread through your veins, the panic that shuts down any fight or flight reaction and only freezes, the panic that made her piss herself and pull on her bonds with all her strength. He ignored her inhuman screams and moans, took one of the two massive nails out of his mouth and put it on the back of her hand. Without a word the back of the axe landed on the head and drove the nail deep into her. Another hit and the nail penetrated the wood. Another hit and both hand and workbench were firmly nailed together. He took one of her fingers and pulled hard, trying to lift her hand from the surface, but it remained flat and immobile. He mumbled "that's not going anywhere" around the other nail, before taking it out of his mouth and expertly nailing her other hand down as well. He finally looked at her, grabbed her hair, pulled her head back and out of the way, and with one swing dropped the axe onto her left wrist, cleaving through bone and tendon, and cut her hand off. Everything hit at once. The pain, the horror, the fear, the sick knowledge that there's no turning back from this. She must have screamed because she could feel her mouth fill with blood where her tongue ripped. She screamed some more when he hit her right wrist with the axe. Either he didn't hit hard enough or hit a particularly stubborn bone, because the blade got stuck in her arm. All she could do was look, seeing her fingers spasm, the ring on one of her fingers catching the light, the faceted stone red with blood. He put his knee against the workbench, pulled on the axe with both hands and pulled it free. The second swing cut straight through, and if it weren't for the nail through her hand it would have been sent flying across the room. Hyperventilating but quiet, she stared at her wrists with big eyes, smelling the blood with every deep breath, all rational thought gone. Using the axe as lever, he pulled the now immobile hands free from the nails and tossed them into a bucket. Using he cloth, he took the handle from the skillet and smiled at her. "Cows don't have hands, silly girl, you'll get used to it". The cast iron was glowing angry red when he lifted it, and sizzled and sputtered when he pressed it against the stumps of her arms. The smell of roasting meat filled the room, blue smoke rising from her wrists, and when he pulled the metal back and put the skillet back in the fire, she'd stopped bleeding, seared shut.

She was catatonic, paralyzed, staring at where her hands used to be, losing her butcher out of sight. She barely registered the next blow, feeling the shock on her leg before she felt any pain. Within seconds the second hit landed, and he entered her field of vision again, holding her shoes by the heels and threw them in the bucket as well. They were not empty. She started sobbing when he took the skillet again, grieving the loss of parts of her body, accepting that she was committed now, and feeling utterly alone and helpless. Her body was numb to the pain, only registering him scorching her flesh and bones and skin where her legs now ended at the ankle. She might not have long to live, but she knew that what she had left would be a life of pain. And part of her had known all this time, she knew that to live out her fantasies she would have to forfeit her life, and she decided she would. Regret wouldn't change that and wouldn't turn back time. It was all too late now, so she was going to go all the way. Her mother didn't raise a quitter, her mother raised a fucking snuffslut hucow piece of rapemeat, dammit!

When he took it out of the fire, she saw the poker ended in a twisted piece of metal, and when he showed it to her she didn't look away. She looked into his eyes first, defiant, accepting, daring him to do his worst. Then she looked at the white hot iron so close to her face. Her owner's initials. It was perfect. She still shivered when he pulled her skirt up around her hips. She still screamed when he pressed the brand into her skin. She still cried in pain and exhaustion and desperation afterwards. But when he took her foot out of the bucket, removed the shoe and used the back of the axe to hammer her own foot into her cunt, he found it dripping wet.

Hours passed, perhaps days, she lost track. On elbows and knees, supported by a bale of hay under her belly, she didn't move from the workbench. He stuck IVs into her, replenished her fluids and blood. He treated her wounds, cleaned her, gave antibiotics that the bottle said should only be given to cattle, and several times used her dead feet and hands to fuck her holes, laughing and praising her for being able to take them. Forcing two, then three, then four of her own fingers into her ass, the stiffness of death helping a bit. Getting her own foot deeper inside her cunt. Fucking her face with his cock or her own body parts, it was something to do to pass the time while making sure she wouldn't die. Not yet. And only twelve hours later that felt like twelve days, he happily concluded she would live and could serve as his cow. He celebrated by piercing her ear with a tag, and left her exhausted, feverish and in the dark, still screwed down onto the table like an object. She slept and dreamed of cows.