The neighbors revenge, part 2

My wife is called to do another film shoot, this time at the farm.

Sarah's call hit me like a gut punch mixed with that twisted thrill I'd come to crave. 'Get your little whore wife ready. Me and some other girls are taking her to my uncle's farm. I want her dressed up like a slutty farm girl—she's gonna get fucked hard, Jamie,' she giggled, her voice dripping with that sadistic glee that made my stomach churn and my cock twitch. I hung up, staring at Amber across the room. She was lounging on the couch in nothing but a robe, her blue eyes distant, fingers idly tracing the faint bruises on her thighs from the kennel escapades. The addiction had her in its grip; she'd been fidgety all morning, popping those Special K pills like candy to chase the high that only came from remembering Max's brutal invasions.

I pulled her up, guiding her to the bedroom with a firmness that masked my own conflicted hunger. 'Time to play dress-up, baby,' I murmured, laying out the outfit Sarah's twisted mind had probably scripted in her head. The white lace strapless bustier hugged her petite curves like a second skin, pushing her full breasts up into soft, overflowing cleavage, the garter straps snapping taut against her thighs as I rolled the sheer white stockings up her toned legs. Those white high-heel stilettos locked onto her dainty feet, forcing her posture into that provocative arch, ass perked and ready for whatever depravity awaited. The tiny baby blue and white checkered gingham dress was a joke of innocence—puffy sleeves slipping off her shoulders, the hem barely skimming mid-thigh, flaring out just enough to tease glimpses of lace underneath. I tied the baby blue ribbon around her slender throat like a choker, a subtle collar marking her as property.

Amber stood before the mirror, applying her heavy makeup with shaky hands—smoky eyes that screamed 'fuck me,' and that blood-red lipstick painting her pouty lips like a warning. She paused, eyes flicking to the pill bottle on the vanity, and without a word, she tipped two Special K tabs onto her tongue, swallowing them dry. Her body relaxed almost immediately, a hazy smile curving her mouth as the drugs melted her edges. 'Feels good,' she slurred softly, leaning into me, her scent a mix of vanilla lotion and lingering desperation.

The doorbell rang sharp, and there was Sarah—flanked by another woman, a tall brunette with a cruel smirk and a crop in hand. They didn't waste time; Sarah's eyes raked over Amber like she was merchandise. 'Look at this primped-up pet. Ready to get plowed?' She grabbed Amber's wrist, yanking her toward the door, the other woman snagging her elbow. My drugged-up wife stumbled in her heels, giggling deliriously as they marched her to Sarah's sleek black SUV. I trailed behind in my car, the drive a blur of anticipation and dread, my hands white-knuckled on the wheel.

On the road, I kept pace, catching glimpses through the windows. Sarah was in the back with Amber, feeding her more pills—crushing them into a water bottle and tilting it to her lips like communion. 'Swallow, you greedy slut—gonna need that buzz to take what's coming.' Slaps echoed faintly; sharp cracks against Amber's cheeks, her thighs, making her yelp and squirm in the seat. 'Be a good little farm girl, or we'll make it hurt worse.' The brunette drove, laughing along, while Amber's head lolled, her dress riding up to expose the garters, her body already surrendering to the chemical fog.

The farm sprawled like a fever dream—acres of rolling fields under a relentless sun, but the real action pulsed in the massive red barn at the heart of it. Cars jammed the dirt lot: sedans, trucks, even a van with equipment racks. Sarah hauled Amber out, practically dragging her by the ribbon around her neck through the throng of gathered women and a smattering of men, all eyes turning with predatory hunger. Obscenities flew like confetti: 'Fresh meat!' 'Look at the stuck-up bitch, all dolled up for the beasts.' 'Gonna ruin that pretty dress with cum stains.' Amber staggered, heels sinking into the gravel, her world spinning from the drugs, but she didn't fight—just whimpered softly, clinging to Sarah's arm.

Inside the barn, the air hung thick with hay, sweat, and something primal. Spotlights rigged on beams cast harsh glows over the crowd—maybe thirty strong, neighbors from the pool party mixed with strangers, all buzzing with excitement. And there, in the corner, a full film crew: cameras on tripods, a guy with a boom mic, another adjusting lights. Professional-grade setup, no doubt to immortalize the degradation for wider audiences. Sarah shoved Amber forward to the centerpiece: a sturdy breeding bench of polished wood and leather, restraints dangling like invitations to hell. It was elevated on a platform, surrounded by hay bales for seating, the perfect stage for spectacle.

'On your knees, whore,' Sarah barked, slapping Amber's face hard enough to snap her head sideways, red blooming on her cheek. More pills forced between those painted lips—three this time, Amber gagging but complying, her body slumping as the high deepened, eyelids fluttering. Sarah worked fast, binding her with ruthless efficiency: wrists cuffed to the front legs, forcing her upper body down flat against the padded surface, the bustier straining. Her stocking-clad legs spread wide, ankles locked to the rear, heels dangling off the ground. The gingham skirt flipped up like a flag of surrender, exposing her bare ass and the smooth, glistening slit beneath—no panties, just vulnerability. The crowd roared approval, phones joining the crew's lenses, capturing her flushed skin, the ribbon taut like a leash.

A burly man in overalls led in the first beast—a sleek black pony, no more than three feet at the shoulder but built like a coiled spring. Its sheath was already unsheathed, that enormous equine shaft swinging heavy between its hind legs: at least 15 inches of mottled pink and black, thicker than a soda can at 4-5 inches around, the flared head leaking a steady drip of pre. The pony snorted, eyes wild with instinct, as the man positioned it behind the bench, a mounting block under its front hooves to align the heights. Amber's head lifted weakly, blue eyes widening in drugged terror. 'No... please, not that... Jamie?' Her voice cracked, slurred pleas lost in the jeers.

Sarah gripped the shaft's base, stroking it to full rigidity, the vein-ridged length throbbing in her hand. 'Shut up and take it, you animal slut—this is what prissy cunts like you were made for.' She aimed the blunt tip at Amber's entrance, rubbing it along her folds until the drugs and fear slickened her enough. The pony bucked instinctively, the flare breaching her with a savage push—her lips parting impossibly around the girth, a guttural scream tearing from her throat as inches invaded her core. 'It's ripping me apart—too big, oh god!' The bench creaked under the assault, her tiny frame jolting with each thrust, the bulge visible under her skin as the shaft reshaped her from within.

Sarah egged it on, smacking the pony's flank with a riding crop—crack after crack, urging deeper, harder rams. The stallion obliged, hips snapping in a frenzy, balls like grapefruits swinging to slap her clit, forcing her body to respond despite the agony. Amber writhed in the bonds, stockings tearing at the knees from the strain, her skirt bunched around her waist, ribbon askew. But betrayal came swift: her pussy clenched and spasmed, clear squirts arcing out with every withdrawal, soaking the hay below. 'Stop... I can't... ahh!' Her screams fractured into moans, the Special K amplifying the stretch into electric overload, her swollen belly distending rhythmically.

The climax built in the beast too—whinnies echoing as it buried to the hilt, the flare lodging deep. Then the flood: hot, viscous ropes of horse semen erupting in torrents, her womb ballooning under the pressure, tummy swelling like a seven-month swell, skin taut and veined. She wailed through it, another unwanted orgasm ripping free, thighs quaking as she milked the intrusion, juices mingling with the overflow. The crowd chanted, cameras zooming on the grotesque union, the way her makeup-streaked face twisted in humiliated ecstasy.

Finally, with a wet slurp, the softening cock withdrew, unleashing a deluge—gallons of thick, yellowish cum gushing from her ravaged hole, pooling in a sticky lake beneath the bench. Amber sagged, panting, body limp and leaking, the scent of barnyard rut heavy in the air. Sarah patted her ass mockingly. 'Good girl—first of many.' But they turned me away then, Sarah's glare sending me packing. 'Go home and stroke to the previews, cuck. She's got a full roster of rides this weekend.'

The drive back was torture, my mind replaying the scene on loop. Home alone, the videos started trickling in—texts from Sarah with attachments, each more damning than the last. The first: close-up of the penetration, Amber's screams syncing with the pony's grunts, her belly bulging like a piston. I came hard watching it, shame burning as I replayed the squirts, the swell. More followed: a second stallion, a massive chestnut with an even girthier tool, taking her ass-up after they flipped the bench, her cries muffled by a gag as it reamed her backdoor. Clips of gang use too—women strapping on harnesses, pounding her while she babbled incoherently, or forcing her mouth onto toys slick with equine residue. By Sunday night, she'd been through three horses, her body a canvas of welts, fluids, and exhaustion, the final video showing her curled in a stall, fingering herself lazily to the memories, whispering for more.

Sarah dropped her off Monday dawn—Amber stumbling in, dress in tatters, stockings shredded, makeup a ruin, a horsehair braid woven into her blonde locks as a trophy. She collapsed into my arms, reeking of musk and meds, but her eyes sparked with that dark fire. 'It was... everything,' she breathed, hand sliding to my crotch. The farm had broken her further, but in the videos' glow, we both knew the cycle spun on—deeper, filthier, unstoppable.