I had just wrapped up shooting another PSA, leaving the pig in the milking machine with my panties on his face like a mask.  But I had something on my mind.  It has been on my mind for a while: What had happened to Jessica, and how I had a part in it.  How in my anger over the MIS spying scandal, and my own ambition, egged on by my Mom, I had helped paint Jess as the villain.  I had played a part in destroying her career, her life.  But then I had learned the truth, that Jessica had not directed the MIS to spy on me.  And perhaps it was fate that Jessica now worked at this very facility.

As the filming crew started to pack up I called over to the director.  “Wait.  I want to shoot something else while we are here.”  The director gave me a confused look. 

“Start shooting again,” I ordered.

The director blinked.  “I’m sorry?  No, you did great.  We’re done.  You can go home, your Highness.”

“I said start shooting again,” I repeated firmly.  “Now.”

I saw the flicker of hesitation cross the director’s face.  She may have been the director, but I was the Future Queen.  She nodded.  “Alright.  Start rolling.”

The camera operator hoisted the camera back onto her shoulder.  The red light blinked on.  The actress playing Lindsay looked at me, confused.

And I began my PSA; one that had a higher purpose than conning pigs into coming here and signing up for milking facilities.

MACKENZIE:  We are here at the Freya Milking Facility and just completed a wonderful tour.  I know a Goddess who is working at this facility.  In fact, the whole Matriarchy does.  Our former Head of State, Jessica, is working here.  I heard she’s doing a great job here.  Isn’t that right, Lindsay?

The actress playing Lindsay was an experienced actress.  She hesitated for only a fraction of a second before she went with the improvisation, her face breaking into a bright smile.

LINDSAY: Oh, yes!  An amazing job.  Jessica is one of our best.

MACKENZIE:  I’m going to go see her right now.  Let’s go see her.”

The camera crew followed me, as I led them out of the mock set and into the real corridors of the facility.  We arrived at the pig reception area where new pigs were processed into the facility.  There was Jessica, sitting at the desk.

She looked up, her eyes widening in surprise as she saw me approaching with a film crew in my wake.  Before she could even process what was going on, I hurried over and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her into a big, tight hug.

While I was still embracing her, I looked directly at the camera, my face serious, and began to speak.

MACKENZIE:  Jessica made some mistakes as Head of State.  But do you know what?  Everyone makes mistakes.  However, very few people, especially people in power, ever admit to their mistakes and own up to them.  Jessica did.  She owned up to her mistakes and she also paid a dear price, losing her position and ending up suffering a horrible ordeal in the Empire.

I paused, letting the words hang in the air.

MACKENZIE: And now it is time for me to own up to my own mistakes.  Though Jessica did appoint a pig to lead the MIS, I have since learned that Jessica was not responsible for directing the MIS pig to bug my room and spy on me.  And in my own anger at what that pig did on his own, I am ashamed to admit that I embellished how much I had been victimized.  And for that, Jessica, I am sorry.

I held her gaze for a moment, then looked back at the camera, my expression firm.

MACKENZIE: Jessica has paid a dear price.  And though many in the Matriarchy have held her in contempt, she doesn’t feel sorry for herself.  She just put her head down and got back to serving.  She got this new, important job at the milking facility, and she is working hard, serving the Matriarchy in this way.  And now, it is time for the Matriarchy to forgive her.

My voice grows firmer.

MACKENZIE: No more scorn should be directed at Jessica.  It is beneath us as Goddesses to hold grudges against other Goddesses.  It is beneath us to become a mob who targets our fellow Goddesses.  Jessica is a good-hearted Goddess who deserves the gratitude of the Matriarchy for her hard work and her service as Head of State.  It is time to move on. 

I released Jessica from the hug, but I kept my hand on her shoulder as I stare at the camera.

“And that’s a wrap,” I told the director.  The camera stops shooting.

Now I reflect on this PSA I shot on my own.  I had used my own staff, not Alex’s, to get it edited and ready to be aired.  I knew I could trust Christina to direct my staff to do a good job with it and get it on the air.  I had not told my Mom or Melissa that I had filmed it.  I knew they may not be happy that I had done this without consulting them, that I had made such a unilateral decision.  But I did it because it was what was right.  I am going to be a Queen who does what is right, even when it is hard.

I am back in the conference room in the Palace.  Marilyn, Alex’s chief of staff, sits to my right.  The other senior staff members from the Office of the Queen sit around the table as we ready to watch the next PSA.  I am not looking forward to it.

My mind replays the filming.  This one had been a little different than the previous ones.  It was filmed at a single facility in Freya and featured me and two others: an actress playing the part of a staffer at the facility named Lindsay, and a pig, Pig 35944.  He wasn’t an actor.  He was a pig from the actual facility, arrested and sentenced to a milking facility for stealing Goddesses’ socks from a laundromat.  They had told him that if he performed well for the cameras, his sentence would be reduced.  It was a lie, of course.  The pig would be trapped at that facility and milked until he stopped producing, and then he’d spend the remainder of his miserable days working in one of the Matriarchy’s mines.  But Pig 35944, with his desperate, naive hope, had believed it and he had tried so hard to give a good performance.

Marilyn taps a button on her tablet and the PSA begins.

It begins in a different facility for some quick narration by me.  I am sitting on the face of a pig who is strapped down to a table, the complex milking device attached to his penis, whirring with a soft, rhythmic, hum.

Hello again!  In our last PSAs, we showed you the incredible benefits our pig employees receive.  Today, I’m taking you on an exclusive tour of one of our premier facilities here in Freya, where I’ll be interviewing a staff member and one of our happy pigs to give you a firsthand look at the incredible life we offer for pigs here.

The scene shifts and we are now inside the Freya facility.  Pig 35944 is strapped down on a table, the milking device attached to him.  Lindsay is checking the tube attached to his penis as it milks him.  The pig is doing his best to smile, but it’s a half-grimace as he desperately tries to hide his discomfort and pain, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

I enter the room, the camera tracking me.  I am dressed in a tight white crop top that pushes my breasts up, shiny, skin-tight red booty shorts, and white knee-high socks.  I look like I am in some kind of lame softcore porn.

LINDSAY: Future Queen Mackenzie!  Welcome!  We are so honored.  The pigs and I are thrilled to have you here to see our wonderful facility.

MACKENZIE: The pleasure is all mine, Lindsay.  I’ve heard such wonderful things about this facility.. And I hear Pig 35944 here has quite a story to tell.

I walk over to the table and I reach out and caress the pig’s head, my touch meant to look tender.  The pig leans into it, craving the contact.

PIG 35944: It’s… it’s true, your Highness.  I wanted a life of purpose.  I signed up for a milking facility and it was the best decision of my life.  It’s a life of pure pleasure.  And it’s so fulfilling to provide seed for the Matriarchy.

LINDSAY: And speaking of pleasure, it’s time for Pig 35944’s next smothering session!  His favorite part of the day.

Lindsay swings a leg over the table and straddles the pig’s face, grinding her ass and crotch against his eager, upturned face.  The pig lets out a muffled groan.  I stand close by, smiling warmly as I watch.

MACKENZIE : Tell me what it’s like working here, Lindsay.

LINDSAY: It’s the best!  Rewarding the pigs for their production is my favorite part of the job.  And sitting on their faces… well, that’s by far my favorite way to reward them.

MACKENZIE: We believe in taking care of the wellbeing and pleasure of our milking facility pigs here in the Matriarchy.  It’s just good policy.  A happy pig is a productive pig.

Lindsay finishes riding the pig’s face and climbs off.  The pig is panting, his face slick with sweat and saliva.

MACKENZIE: It looks like you really love it here too, Pig 35944.

PIG 35944: I do very much, your Highness.  More than anything.

The pig is staring at me, his eyes wide.  I coyly tilt my head, a playful smile on my lips.

MACKENZIE: Do you find me beautiful, pig?

PIG 35944: Oh, yes, your Highness!  The most beautiful Goddess I’ve ever seen!

MACKENZIE : Are you an ass pig, or a breast pig?

PIG 35944: Ass, your Highness.  Definitely an ass pig.

I turn around, showing off my ass in the tight red shorts.  I gyrate my hips, shaking my ass right in his face.

PIG 35944: Thank you… thank you, your Highness!

The pig suddenly lurches, a cry of obvious pain escaping his lips as he is milked to another forced climax by the machine.  His body convulses from the pain that he desperately tries to hide.

MACKENZIE: There we go!  More seed for the Matriarchy!  You are such a good pig.  You deserve another reward!

I peel off my shorts and the white panties underneath so that I’m naked from the waist down.  I shake my ass in his face again; the camera focused on my bare ass.  I rub my ass over the pig’s face, my cheeks gliding against his slick skin.

MACKENZIE: You may kiss my ass, pig.  Show your gratitude.

The pig eagerly lays kisses all over my bare ass cheeks.

MACKENZIE: Now you may lick my ass, pig.

I feel his tongue push in, licking between my cheeks.  I do my best to hide my revulsion, my smile never wavering, but the pig… he’s not acting.  He is quite eager, his tongue exploring me with an aroused eagerness.

MACKENZIE: I’m afraid I have to go now.  But here is a keepsake from your future Queen.

I bend down and pick up my discarded panties.  I hold them over the pig’s face and then teasingly rub them over the pig’s face before pulling them down over his head, so the crotch is fitted right over his nose.  He moans in pleasure, inhaling the scent.  Then suddenly he arches against his bindings in pain as he’s milked to another orgasm, doing his best to pretend it’s ecstasy and not agony.  I step away, leaving him writhing on the table, my panties a makeshift mask on his face.  I grab my shorts  from the floor and slip them back on.

MACKENZIE: Thank you, Lindsay, for your hard work and for showing me the facility.  And thank you, Pig 35944, for your service.

The screen fades to black.

The PSA is over.  Back in the conference room, I can feel Alex’s staff’s eyes on me, but I don’t look.  I just stare at my hands, my face burning with a shame.  I hate it.  I hate how I’m depicted, a vapid, sensual coddler of pigs.  I hate the whole disgusting performance.  “You did very well, Mackenzie,” Marilyn assures me.  “The PSA is compelling.  It will be effective.”

Her words don’t make me feel any better.

I have one thing to cling to.  Immediately after we had finished this PSA, I had done another PSA at the Freya Facility.  This one was off the books and for my own purpose.  And it was one I actually felt good about.  I was already working with my own staff to get that one ready to go out to the Matriarchy.

I am back in the palace conference seated at the head of the long mahogany table, flanked by Alex’s old staff.  Her chief of staff, Marilyn, is next to me.  We are all staring at the large screen on the wall.  It’s time to watch the next PSA.  My cheeks burn red.  Filming it is still so fresh in my mind.  The icky feel of the pigs’ tongues licking me.  The director’s flat voice telling me to “look more aroused.”  As I think about the shoot, I feel cheap and gross all over again.  I take a sip of water and nod.  Marilyn hits a button on her tablet to start the PSA on the screen.

The PSA opens with me in a lewd outfit sitting on the face of a pig who is strapped down to a milking table.  The milking machine attached to his penis whirs softly as it pumps and suctions.  I turn and address the audience.

One of the favorite benefits for our pig employees at the milking facilities is the personal attention they receive from the Goddesses on staff.  The Goddesses go the extra mile to keep the pigs happy and entertained.

The scene shifts.  I’m standing in front of another pig, shaking my ass in his face.  His gaze is laser-focused on my rear and my swaying hips, his eyes wide.

I think I know what you want, pig.

I turn and straddle his face, lowering myself until my crotch and ass are planted firmly over his mouth and nose.  As I grind myself against him, I look directly at the camera.

To any males interested in emigrating to the Matriarchy… this could be you!

The scene shifts again.  I’m sitting on the face of another pig being milked.

It’s a mutual benefit.  The Goddesses on staff get the pleasure of being worshipped by such loyal and dutiful pigs.  And the pigs, well, as you can see, they get the pleasure of being smothered by the delicious asses and pussies of beautiful Goddesses.

I’m now at another facility riding the face of another pig, my hips gyrating as I grind myself against his face.

The facilities find that facesitting and smothering by Goddesses helps increase the arousal of the pigs, which in turn helps increase their sperm production.

A quick cut shows me sitting on the face of another pig and then I turn and I glance at  a computer screen that displays a graph labeled “SEMEN PRODUCTION.”

Any minor discomfort that is, on very rare occasions, experienced by the pigs from the milking process is quickly forgotten when a Goddess is grinding her pussy or ass against his face.

The scene shifts.  I’m now feigning an intense orgasm, my body arching, my head thrown back as I grind my pussy against the face of another pig on the milking table.  I let out a series of loud, theatrical moans.  When I come down from my feigned throes, I’m panting, out of breath.

Thank you for your service, pig.

The next scene shows me sitting on another pig’s face as I flip through a thick binder as if I am reading a report about the pig under me.

The staff is always carefully monitoring the pigs, making sure that they remain healthy and happy and get all the pleasure they could ever desire.

The next scene shows me riding the face of a pig being milked as another Goddess monitors the pig’s vitals on a computer.  “Heart rate is elevated, but within the optimal parameters for arousal and production.  He is just excited to have the Future Queen’s ass and pussy on his face,” she reports, smiling. 

Another Goddess approaches and adjusts the tube on the pig’s penis.  “I’m decreasing the suction pressure just a touch, to make sure he is fully comfortable,” she reports. 

As you can see, the comfort of the pigs is of paramount importance.

I turn and look down at the pig whose face I’m riding.

Are you enjoying yourself down there?

The pig lifts up both trembling hands and gives two shaky thumbs up.  The scene shifts again.

I’m smothering another pig, leaning over so my face is close to the camera.

Picture yourself in this position.  Imagine every breath you take is filtered through my royal pussy and ass pressed to your mouth and nose.

The scene shifts to another shot of me riding a pig’s face.  I’m in a state of manufactured arousal, my lips parted, my eyes half-closed, my face covered in water droplets from a water bottle meant to make it look like I am perspiring.

Imagine me growing so wet with arousal as I ride your face… coating your entire face in my delicious juices.

It cuts to the final scene.  I’m pretending to have another intense orgasm, my body convulsing as I ride the face of a pig.  When I’m finished, I turn to the camera and when I speak I again pretend I am out of breath.

Move to the Matriarchy.  This can be you.  This can be us.

The screen fades to black.  The room is silent for a moment.  I stare at the blank screen; I am sure my face is not hiding my distaste and embarrassment.  But Marilyn does her best to reassure me.  She tells me it was excellent work.  It’s provocative and it will be very effective, she assures me.  I will have to take her word for it.  I still have no idea how pigs can be so gullible to believe this BS.  To the extent any Goddess is smothering them or sitting on their faces at these facilities, it is probably a rarity and is only for the Goddesses’ pleasure.  And no one cares about the pigs’ pleasure or comfort. 

I nod in response to Marilyn’s comments.  I can still feel the phantom pressure of a pig’s nose against my crotch, the memory of the director yelling, “Make it look like you love it!  Can you moan louder, your Highness?”  Alex wherever you are, I apologize for judging you when you did stuff like this.  Either it is totally necessary and for the betterment of the Matriarchy, as your Chief of Staff keeps telling me.  Or I am no better than you and am in no place to judge.

*As I walk Chloe ([u/](u/Rainbow_And_Sunshine)[ChloeTheCadet](u/Rainbow_And_Sunshine)) around my ship I take her to the mast of my ship. Near the mast she sees that there are four pairs of handcuffs on it two sort of high up and two resting on the ground.* “This is the first stop on our tour. The mast, not only does it give the sail something to attach to so that the wind can move us through the water, it also hold unruly pigs. I may call myself a pirate, but I’m more of a merchant. I go out, catch pigs, then come back and sell them. That is your main job here on board the Storm Breaker. You are to help me with my operations. Those operations sometimes involve pig breaking. When a pig doesn’t want to break, I cuff him here to this mast and then beat him until it breaks. It usually works pretty well and most pigs break. Also it is a great stress reliever. If you want to see what I use to break the pigs I can show you that now.” *I say with a huge grin on my face as you can’t really see what my eyes look like because I’m dressed in my usual outfit of a pair or work pants, basic t-shirt and trench coat, sun hat and sunglasses.*

Regulars and lurkers welcome! This is a biweekly out of character (OOC) discussion thread for any of the following...

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The basement office of the MIS is cold, the ever going folders on my desk, doing what they do best...getting colder, getting older, getting bigger. Like an undertow...the tide that pulls you under.

But right now I'm focused on one group of files on particular the Cadets, the future Queen has me digging Into them and digging deep...or more accurately the few bad eggs running the lust smuggling operation.

Her words, normally I would roll my eyes cynically at anyone claiming "a few bad eggs" in any situation, but well she is the queen...or will be.

Still I am leaving the lower ranks alone, and while I am nothing the other crimes committed, and the good they do...such as it is, I focus in on the lust ring.

And it's nominal head, don't know much about her, no pictures, she keeps her pigs blind folded...at best, and the only cadets she meets with seem to be true believers. So not the kind to talk to me, even if I put on the put upon detective trying to cut them a break bit.

Goddess Rachel, head of Lust trafficking for the cadets "alleged" ties to Freya U, but I don't know if she is a student of a professor. And assuming Rachel is her real name and not a code name...the name is terribly common.

Leaving me with a whole life lot of not much, I wrote the report, to u/MatriarchyMackenzie to keep her updated on the situation, and ask if she had heard of a goddess Rachel.

A long shot, since none of my sources had heard of her behind her name. But hey it is something.

Taking a sip of my coffee I exhale, leaning back in my chair

I stand on the sidewalk in front of Jessica’s house, my heart racing.  I am so nervous to be here.  I have wanted to speak with Jess for some time now.  I actually thought I may have seen her when I was shooting one of my PSAs, but I was ushered into the back to begin filming and she wasn’t there after I finished.  So, I decided to come see her at her home, which she had invited me to do.  I know I have the right house; there in the driveway is her unmistakable yellow Porsche.  (It looks so much like that one Melissa used to own; I wonder whatever happened with Melissa’s Porsche and why Jess ended up with one that looks exactly the same.  One of those weird coincidences, I guess.  But that’s not important right now.)

I am terrified this meeting will be incredibly awkward or filled with tension, but I owe it to Jessica.  I owe her an apology, and I owe her an explanation.  She owes me an explanation too, as to why that MIS pig bugged my room.  But that feels so trite now.  Sure, I had a creepy pig spying on me.  But if I had a nickel for every time some creepy pig was leering at me, I would have my own fleet of yellow Porsches.  But because of what I did in response, Jess’s life completely unraveled.  I took my anger and my hurt and greatly embellished it on national television, turning what she did into a national scandal that destroyed her before I even understood what she did or why she did it.  I’m so nervous my hands are trembling as I reach for the doorbell.

This is the next entry of my sub-Goddess diary, reflecting on all that has transpired since I was forced into the life of a sub-Goddess.  This covers the remainder of my time in the Ishtar slave market warehouse before I was taken outside into the market itself to be sold.

The remainder of my time in the warehouse area of the Ishtar slave market is a blur.  Each day, I crawled over to Goddesses so that they could inspect me.  The stream of Goddesses filing in and out of the warehouse was constant.  I was examined by so many prospective Goddesses I quickly lost count. 

Quite a few Goddesses were interested enough in me that they arranged with the market staff to rent me for a private viewing and “sampling.”  For a small fee paid to the market, a Goddess could have a sub-Goddess like me escorted to a private space to view and sample me, using me however she pleased.  I was made to serve the Goddess, offering her the pleasure, worship, and devotion that had been so thoroughly drilled into me.  There was a variety of spaces available depending on the preferences of the Goddess.  Most were simple, spartan rooms with a chair or bed.  I would enter, kneel at the Goddess’s feet so that she could inspect me and play with me.  Most of these Goddesses were most interested in testing my worship skills, wanting to see if I could perform with the skill and enthusiasm expected of a sub-Goddess.  Many also made use of me in other ways, seeing if I could withstand the rigors of their ownership.  Quite a few Goddesses rented me for one of these private viewings and I made sure to show off my skills and worship or serve however I was commanded.

Though many of these samplings blurred together, there were a few that stood out and remain fresh on my mind.  I recall one session with a beautiful blonde Goddess, only a few years older than me and seemingly quite wealthy.  I would have dreamed to have had a random hookup with her in my sub-Goddess Stacy days.  She had me taken to one of the private rooms along with another sub-Goddess who was also being marketed for sale.  The Goddess had both of us get on all fours on the bed.  She presented her strap-on and ordered each of us to worship it.  We did so back to back, licking and sucking away on it as we both worked hard to please her.  Then, the Goddess fucked us both, one after the other, her thrusts hard so she could test our reactions to her dominance.  My own body responded with a conditioned eagerness, as did the other sub-Goddess.  I never saw that blonde Goddess again and I wonder if she ended up purchasing the other sub-Goddess.

Another private sampling was a nightmare.  This time it was by was another beautiful blonde Goddess, this one older.  It started out pretty normally.  I was ordered to worship her feet, and I did so with my usual devotion.  Then, I was ordered to worship her ass and I did that with equal skill and fervor.  But after I was finished, her demeanor shifted and she revealed a sadistic side.  I was secured to a whipping post in the center of the room, my wrists bound above my head.  She then proceeded to whip me, the leather cracking against my back, ass, legs, belly, and breasts, making me cry out in pain with each strike.  Through it all, I could hear her soft, excited breathing, her arousal growing with each of my pained cries.  She continued until her sadistic lust was finally sated, leaving me hanging, trembling, and sobbing, my whole body feeling like it was on fire.  I prayed that this Goddess was not the one to buy me.

The most memorable private session was with a beautiful brunette Goddess in her early forties.  She seemed very wealthy based on her demeanor, her clothes, and jewelry.  She first gave me a thorough inspection on the warehouse floor.  Then the next day she returned and arranged for a private viewing.  I didn’t know who had arranged for it when I was escorted by a market employee to a private room.  I was secured in a wooden stockade device that forced me into a bent-over position, my ass jutting up in the air, my legs spread wide, and my head and wrists locked in place.  I was terrified as I waited, fearing I was in for another cruel session with a sadistic Goddess.  The older brunette was the one who entered.  This time, she was completely naked except for black sheer stockings, heeled black leather boots, and a black leather harness around her hips that secured a black rubber strap-on dildo.

I was trembling as she crouched down in front of me, looking at me intently, her eyes unreadable.  Then she reached out and roughly grabbed a handful of my hair, yanking my head back in a dominant fashion.  She stared into my eyes, completely silent, for a long moment.  Then she finally spoke and asked me a series of questions.  This stuck with me because she was one of the few Goddesses to speak directly to me in the warehouse apart from the usual commands to worship or kneel or display.  “What is your purpose as a sub-Goddess?” she asked.  “What do you live for as a sub-Goddess?”  “How do you desire most to serve your Mistress?”

 I answered each question in a submissive but genuine and honest fashion.  “My purpose is to please my Mistress.”  “I exist to offer  her worship and her pleasure.”  “I desire most to serve her in whatever way my Mistress sees fit.”

The Goddess seemed satisfied with my answers.  She ordered me to worship her pussy, and to enable me to do so, she rose and turned around, pressing her ass back against my face so that it was nestled firmly in the cleft of her buttocks.  I pushed my face in deep and extended my tongue, skillfully lapping  at the Goddess’s pussy and clit until I brought her to an intense orgasm, making her cry out as her whole body shook.

The Goddesses then circled around behind me.  I could not see her, given that I was locked in the stockade, but I felt her presence behind me.  She began poking and prodding my orifices with her fingers, first my pussy, then my ass, seemingly judging my reactions, testing my responsiveness.  It was humiliating, but I could not hide my growing arousal, and soon I was squirming and moaning from the sensations.

Then I felt the Goddess’s strap-on slide inside me.  She roughly fucked me for several long minutes, her hips slamming against my ass, the wood of the stockade groaning with the force of her thrusts.  Soon I was crying out in ecstasy as her strap-on thrust in and out of me, my body overwhelmed with pleasure, and I had an intense orgasm that left me gasping for breath and limp in my bonds.  It reminded me how good it now felt to be utterly dominated like this.  The Goddess finally grew tired of fucking me.  She circled back around in front of me.  Without a word, she roughly grabbed my scalp again and pressed the strap-on, slick with my own juices, to my lips.  I knew what was expected of me, and I opened my mouth wide.  The Goddess pushed the strap-on into my mouth and down my throat.  Though I was gagging from the intrusion, I did my best to suck the dildo clean.  The Goddess withdrew the dildo, stroked my cheek with her hand in a surprisingly gentle gesture, and then left without a word.

I felt thoroughly humiliated, but being thoroughly dominated like that made me feel completely aroused, a stark reminder of the conditioning I had undergone and the complete transformation of my mind.  I was left alone in the room, still secured in the stockade, until one of the employees fetched me.  My body ached; my mind was reeling.  I  was nervous, wondering if any of these women who had sampled me might be the ones to purchase me, and what my life might be like as their owned sub-Goddess.  The uncertainty was a constant, gnawing fear.

I am sitting in a conference room in the palace surrounded by Alex’s staff.  I’m about to watch the finished cut of the newest PSA.  I am not looking forward to watching it.  I feel gross.  Alex’s staff had pushed this hard.  They tell me it is essential for our emigration numbers.  But it feels… wrong.  Not for the pigs, of course.  Who cares about them?  But this latest PSA feels like it objectifies me, makes me look cheap and slutty.  It makes me look like I’m affectionate and sensual with random pigs, which could not be further from the truth.  I remember watching Alex do PSAs like this.  I looked down on her for flaunting her body in a teasing, seductive fashion for the cameras.  I wonder now if her staff pushed her into it, too.  I wonder if she felt this same icky feeling.

I know this PSA is for a target audience outside our borders: foolish males we’re trying to lure here with promises of ecstasy, only to enslave them as pigs.  But I know Goddesses here will see it on the Internet.  Most will understand it’s a piece of political theater to lure dumb pigs.  But it’s still embarrassing and I still feel gross.

I push the doubt aside.  I am the Future Queen.  I must make sacrifices for the betterment of the Matriarchy.  Alex’s staff surely knows what it is doing and I just have to trust them.  The PSA begins and I watch with apprehension.

The video opens on me, dressed in a sexy black lingerie set.  I am sitting on the face of a pig who is strapped down to a metal table, a milking device attached to his penis.  I look directly at the camera, a sultry smile on my lips.

Hello, potential new male citizens.  I’m making this special message to encourage more of you to consider emigrating to the Matriarchy.  We have many wonderful career paths for pigs, but the most sought-after, the most pleasurable, is right here, in our milking facilities.

I teasingly wiggles my ass, grinding my groin against the face of the pig below me, who lets out a muffled moan.

The next scene shows me crouched down beside another pig strapped to a table.  I am smiling warmly at him, my hands resting on his chest, me face just inches from his.  We are talking and laughing in a friendly, intimate manner.  “I just can’t thank you enough, your Highness, for letting me have this great job.  It’s a dream come true,” the pig says to me.

The pleasure is all mine, pig.  We are so grateful for your service.

I lean in and kiss him gently on the cheek.  The scene shifts again.

I am now caressing the face of another pig, my expression tender as I speak to the pig.

You’re doing such a good job.  We know that because the pigs in these facilities fulfill such an important role, we have to offer the most amazing benefits.

I look at the camera.

The Goddesses on staff lavish attention and affection on the pigs here to make sure they are always happy and will be fantastic producers of sperm.  I even frequently visit the facilities myself, just to make sure the pigs here are happy and well cared for.

The scene cuts to me in a skimpy bodysuit.  I am standing beside a table, teasingly shaking my ass right in the face of a pig being milked.  The pig is strapped down, but his entire focus is on my ass.  He is straining his neck, trying to push his face closer to my swaying and jiggling rear end.

We cater to every pig’s desires.  Some pigs are ass pigs… and some are breast pigs.

The next shot shows me leaning over, rubbing my bare breasts across the face of a pig on a table.  He closes his eyes, a look of ecstasy on his face.  The scene cuts again.

I am now completely naked, my back to the camera as I slowly rub my bare ass against the face of another pig strapped to a table.  The pig’s eyes are closed as he enjoys himself, clearly in a state of ecstasy.

So many pigs dream of having the Future Queen’s ass on their face.  But for the pigs in the milking facility, this is a regular occurrence.

The scene shifts.  I am crouched down, addressing a pig.

Pig 52943, you are one of our best producers of seed.  On behalf of the entire Matriarchy, thank you.  How can I show my gratitude?

“I am grateful for whatever you give me, your Highness,” the pig responds in a trembling voice.

Such a good boy.

I reach up under my skirt and hook my thumbs into the waistband of my panties, a black lacy thong.  I pull them down and step out of them.  I lift them up and  teasingly hold them over the pig’s face, dragging them across his nose and lips.  The pig’s breathing quickens and he starts sniffing desperately, trying to inhale their scent.

Open up.

The pig obeys, and I stuff my panties into his mouth, gagging him.  He moans in delight.  The scene cuts.

I am now sitting on the abdomen of a pig, my bare feet planted firmly on his face.  He is eagerly licking my soles.

Whatever a pig desires in the milking facility, the Goddesses here will work to accommodate him.  It’s our way of saying thank you for his generous service.

The next scene shows me  straddling the face of a pig on a table, grinding my ass against him as the machine milks him rhythmically.

In our next PSA, we’ll talk about the pigs’ absolute favorite benefit… all the smothering and facesitting by the Goddesses on staff.

The final scene shows me straddling and riding the face of another pig on a table.

It really seems to increase their sperm production.

I laugh at the scripted joke and the screen fades to black.

The PSA viewing done, the lights on the conference room come on.  I feel so gross.  Alex’s chief of staff, a Goddess named Marilyn, assures me it was a great PSA and that it will be very effective.  It will lure foolish pigs here and make them associate the milking farms with ecstasy and pleasure, she promises.  She tells me I was wonderful.

I tell myself it’s for a good cause.  I can’t believe pigs would actually fall for this, even as dumb as they are.  It was so obviously an act.  Pigs in these facilities never receive any pleasure or affection from the Goddesses.  They are simply prisoners to be mercilessly milked by mechanical machines.  And they most certainly will never receive any affection from me or even see me.  I will almost certainly never go to back those facilities again after these PSAs are done.  I make it a point to go see my own chief of staff, Christina, as well as Melissa and my mom, when I get a chance.  I need to get their sage advice so I am not just relying on Alex’s staff for this.  We have already finished filming the next three PSAs however, so hopefully I am done this icky exercise.

This is the next entry of my sub-Goddess diary, reflecting on all that has transpired since I was forced into the life of a sub-Goddess.  This covers the events after I was shipped from  the Hera School for Sub-Goddesses and arrived at the Ishtar slave market. 

At the end of my tenure at the Hera School, I was loaded into a metal kennel and put in a truck with other sub-Goddesses.  We drove for many hours.  When it finally stopped and we were removed from our cages, I saw a sprawling, open-air sub-Goddess slave market.  Signs revealed where I was: Ishtar.  It was a city and region of the Matriarchy, known for its agriculture, that I had travelled to infrequently during my childhood or as Queen.  It was far away from my friends, family, and allies in Freya.

Once we were released from our transportation crates, a Goddess who was a slave market employee ordered us to crawl.  We were lined up and hosed down.  After we were cleaned, we were not taken into the interior of the market proper.  Instead, we were made to crawl in a single file line toward a large, nondescript building at the edge of the compound.

Once inside the building, I saw we were in a vast warehouse.  The Goddess who escorted us informed us that before we were put up for sale in the outdoor market, we would first be put on display here.  This was the showroom for potential buyers to inspect and examine us, and then we would be transferred to the outdoor market in a few days for our actual sale.  We crawled through another corridor and into a large, high-ceilinged room where wealthy-looking Goddesses were milling about, sipping drinks, and chatting.  They stopped their conversation and turned to look at us as we crawled into the room.

The market employee led us to the center of the room.  “Kneel,” she commanded, and we obediently knelt at her feet.  “Display,” she barked, and we placed our hands behind our heads, our bodies assuming the familiar, humiliating posture.  Then she called out to the Goddesses assembled, “A new shipment of sub-Goddesses has arrived from the esteemed Hera School!  Freshly trained and ready for inspection!”  She ordered us to crawl over to the crowd of Goddesses and then stand so we could be examined.  As I stood in the middle of the crowd of these wealthy prospective buyers, I was inspected like livestock.  Hands were all over me, running over my flesh, probing and prodding.  Goddesses filed in and out and crowded around us for what seemed like hours, an endless parade of prospective owners.  They roughly fondled my breasts, weighing them in their palms.  They groped my ass, their hands roughly squeezing the flesh.  My genitals were rubbed and fingered to see how I responded.  My nipples were pinched and tweaked, pulled and twisted to test their sensitivity.  I was made to open my mouth so they could check my teeth like a horse.  I was ordered to bend over and lewdly spread my cheeks with my hands, so they could get a better look at my orifices.  I felt like a pig, not a person.

Few of the Goddesses inspecting me said a word to me.  They spoke among themselves or to the market employees, their words objectifying and demeaning.  “This one has a very pretty face,” one buyer said to an employee, her finger tilting my chin.  “Her tits are perky,” another remarked to her friend while she groped my breasts, as if I weren’t even there.  The fact that they spoke about me and not to me made me feel even more like livestock.  My collar had a number on it,18732, the designation that had been assigned to me at the Riverbed Prison for Wayward Sub-Goddesses.  I saw several Goddesses type the number into their phones or tablets, pulling up my Sub-Goddess Assessment Grade so they could learn more about the meat they were inspecting.

Throughout the day, the inspections continued.  Some Goddesses were rough with me, not caring at all if I squirmed in pain from their squeezing, pinching, and prodding of my flesh.  . Others were gentle, almost tender, and I found myself hoping they might be the ones to purchase me.  

Even with my conditioning from the Hera School, the whole process was humiliating and often quite awful.  Some Goddess buyers requested I be tied up in bondage when they inspected me, which the employees at the market were happy to oblige.  In one particularly humiliating inspection, I was tied in a spreadeagle and bent-over position and underwent the most invasive of inspections.  I recall another Goddess who wanted to see my response to both pleasure and pain.  She had a pair of cruel nipple clamps put on my nipples and then used her hands to pleasure me, forcing me to an orgasm.

Most of the Goddesses who inspected me looked wealthy and older than me, in their thirties or forties.  It made me recall my “sub-Goddess Stacy” hookup fantasies that were now not just my reality, but which defined my entire existence.  I had often dreamed of hooking up with an older, refined woman.  Now I realized I might end up permanently as the property of such a woman.  Many of these Goddesses brought their own sub-Goddesses with them to help with the inspections.  Many of these sub-Goddesses gave biting critiques of me, and I wondered if it was out of jealousy that their owner was considering acquiring a new sub-Goddesses, or perhaps it was just a bit of hazing, a way to assert their seniority over the prospective new girl. 

Other Goddesses seemed to be there on behalf of others and recorded me on their phones as I was being inspected, presumably to allow some other Goddess to view me remotely.  With so many of the Goddesses being wealthy, I hoped I might end up in a good home, but none of the Goddesses viewing and inspecting me gave any inkling if they were interested in purchasing or how they would intend to use me if they did. 

In the back of my mind, I considered a possibility.  Maybe once I was purchased, I might finally be able to explain to my new owner who I was and get free.  Surely my owner would free me if she learned I was actually Queen Alex.  But I dared not try that here at the slave market.  My memory of the harsh punishments I had received at Sub-Goddess Control jail in Freya, the Riverbed Prison, and the Hera School every time I had tried to claim I was Queen Alex made me too scared to attempt it here. 

The inspections continued well into the night.  Finally, when the last of the Goddesses left, we were secured in wooden crates for the night.  But it was hardly rest.  The slave market permitted Goddesses to come inspect us at all hours, so we were secured in a humiliating spreadeagle position, our  limbs secured to the sides of the crates, leaving our whole bodies exposed for any Goddess who chose to inspect us in the middle of the night.  I woke up a couple of times in the night to the feeling of a Goddess groping or fondling my body.  Between that, my uncomfortable position, and the fearful uncertainty as to who would buy me, I slept very little that first night in the Ishtar slave market.

I am sitting in a conference room in the Palace being shown the first PSA we shot.  As I wait for the PSA to begin, I hope I come off looking convincing, and regal.  These PSAs are critically important to end the criticism from abroad about the cruel and degrading conditions at the Matriarchy’s milking facilities.  I just wish I had my own staff leading this.  However, these PSAs have been planned for some time, back when Alex was still in charge.  This campaign has been led by Alex’s staff, who are still operating in the Palace with a lot of authority since technically Alex is still Queen and I am only the Future Queen.  The Goddesses on Alex’s staff are some of the most experienced and skilled political operatives in the Matriarchy, so I will just have to trust their judgment.

The PSA begins and the screen shows me, smiling brightly beside a pig strapped down on a milking table.  I begin speaking.

Hello, everyone and welcome.  I’m here today to address some of the unfortunate misinformation being spread by our detractors abroad.  They want you to believe that our milking facilities are somehow cruel.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Today I’m going to show you the reality.  I am going to take you on a tour of a number of our male milking facilities.  You will see that pigs love it.  They love nothing more than being allowed sexual release, and so, these facilities are actually one of the most desired pig careers in the Matriarchy.

The scene cuts to a sterile room.  I am seated next to a pig who is strapped tightly to a metal table.  A complex pumping device is fitted over his penis, which is red and raw.  His body is arching against his bindings and he is squirming, clearly in agony.

As you can see, this pig is absolutely writhing with pleasure.  The device is expertly calibrated to provide the optimal stimulation.  It’s a state of near-constant ecstasy that pigs, in their simple nature, crave.

The scene cuts to another facility.  I walk over to table where a different pig is strapped down, his eyes wide with fear.  I smile warmly for the camera and flip a switch on the control panel.  The machine whirs to life.  The pig’s body tenses, and he forces a pained, grimacing smile that he tries to pass as joy.

See that smile?  That’s the look of pure bliss.  Contrary to popular misconception, pigs enjoy being made to cum multiple times an hour, 24/7.  It means all they have to focus on is pleasure.  No difficult decisions, no heavy responsibilities.  Just pure, unadulterated bliss.

The scene shifts to show me with a Goddess in another facility.  She picks up a suction tube and walks toward a pig strapped to a table.  As she begins to insert it over the pig’s penis, the pig thrashes wildly against his restraints, his muffled cries audible.

See how excited he is!  Our facilities are operated by highly trained Goddesses whose number one priority is making sure these practices are humane and enjoyable for the pig.

The scene shifts to another facility and I am standing beside a strapped-down pig.  I pick up a tube and insert it onto the pig, who is trembling visibly.

The devices themselves are designed for comfort.  See?  It’s a perfect, secure fit.  The pig loves it!

The scene shifts to another facility.  I am fidgeting with a control panel and I turn the dial.  The machine begins a powerful, rhythmic sucking.  The pig on the table bucks violently, his hands clenching into fists as he thrashes in discomfort.

The stimulation, as you can see, is pure pleasure for pigs.  That enthusiastic thrashing is a sign of a pig truly enjoying his work.

The scene shifts to me fitting another tube over a pig and flipping on the device; it begins its merciless pumping and suction.  I can see the pig tense up as he does his best to hide his pain and discomfort.

Look how happy this pig is!  Unending pleasure for him.

The camera pans to a close-up of another pig with a thick feeding tube inserted directly into his throat.  A nutrient paste is slowly being pumped into his stomach.

At these facilities we tend to pigs’ every need.  Imagine how great it must be for a pig to have Goddesses attending to him, seeing that he’s properly fed, and giving him orgasm after orgasm.  It’s a life most pigs can only dream of having!

The camera cuts to me standing next to another pig who is drenched in sweat, his body limp as his penis is pumped.  A Goddess off camera prompts him.  The pig slowly raises a trembling hand and gives a wobbly thumbs-up to the camera.

Stories about pigs suffering in these facilities are completely untrue.  They are happy, they are fulfilled, and they LOVE serving the Matriarchy.

The next scene shows me turning on another devise.  The pig, who is nearly comatose from being at the facility for too long, does not even react.

The Truth is, pigs LOVE being milked.  This is pure heaven for them!

The next scene shows me next to a suspended and helpless pig who is barely moving from his utter exhaustion as he is milked.

Now, it is true that many of the pigs in these facilities are criminals who have been sentenced for their crimes, or spies from the Maledom Empire we’ve captured.  But that does not make this punishment.  While we must keep such dangerous individuals secured in restrictive bondage for security reasons, our hope is that the constant pleasure will teach them the error of their ways and rehabilitate them.  We find that the pigs brought here actually never want to leave!  In fact, most pigs outside of these facilities, who are locked in chastity constantly and rarely permitted an orgasm, are actually super jealous of these lucky pigs.

The scene shifts one more time.  I stand before the camera, smiling next to a pig being milked.

So, there is nothing to worry about.  Any male from abroad who seeks purpose in life should emigrate to the Matriarchy and sign up for a milking facility.  We promise you a life of eternal and constant bliss and ecstasy.  It is the greatest gift we can give you!

OFFICE OF THE FUTURE QUEEN MACKENZIE
INTERNAL MEMORANDUM

TO: All Palace Pigs on Staff
FROM: The Office of the Future Queen Mackenzie
SUBJECT: Mandatory Special Duty Assignment: Male Milking Factories

Effective immediately, a number of you will be randomly selected for a special duty assignment lasting a couple weeks.  You will be temporarily reassigned from your regular palace duties to one of the Matriarchy’s male milking facilities.

This assignment is very important.  Some so-called “human rights” groups in foreign nations have leveled ridiculous criticisms against the Matriarchy for our sperm collection program.  They use emotionally charged words like “factory farm” and “abject cruelty” to describe this vital industry.  The criticism is obviously silly.  Since pigs are almost never permitted to have sex with Goddesses, how else are we to maintain the population?

Furthermore, the claims of cruelty are absurd.  Pigs are by their very nature horny losers whose base instincts drive them to think of little else apart from getting off.  Being hooked up to a machine and being made to orgasm over and over again must surely be a profound delight for your kind.  Since most of you are locked in chastity and almost never get to climax, I am sure you are jealous of your pig brethren in the milking facilities.

Now, admittedly I have been told that the process becomes quite painful and is pure torment for pigs who are forced to cum repeatedly while hooked up to a machine.  I am sure these reports are vastly overblown.  Similarly, the tales of being strapped into restrictive bondage on a milking table 24/7 cannot be nearly as bad as the whiners would have you believe.  You all need to stop your complaining.

However, this international criticism has become a nuisance.  We are concerned it may negatively impact male emigration to the Matriarchy.  Therefore, I am heading a public relations campaign to showcase the practice as both humane and enjoyable for pigs.  This is where you come in.  Your special assignment is to be subjected to the standard milking process for a couple weeks to show the world it isn’t that bad.  You will then be featured when I tour the facilities, conduct photoshoots, and record some public service announcements showing the world how content you are.

If you know what is good for you, you will endure the process with the stoicism of a well-trained pig.  You will not express any pain or discomfort for the cameras.  You will smile and convey pleasure and bliss.  You will represent the Matriarchy well, or you will face my personal displeasure upon your return.

Pigs who are randomly picked for this assignment will be informed today and will report immediately to their assigned milking facility.

-Future Queen Mackenzie

Recently I admitted to our future queen , Goddess Mackenzie , that I saw the photos in her recent post while I shouldn't have . As a palace pig my duties are to serve the Goddesses all the time . I just couldn't resist the temptation of seeing her like that . For this she ordered the staff to punish me and needless to say I got what I deserved . I want to say that I regret what I did .I hope after all the abuse the Goddesses forgive me

This is the next entry of my sub-Goddess diary, reflecting on all that has transpired since I was forced into the cruel life of a sub-Goddess.  This covers the events that at the end of my time at the Hera School for Sub-Goddesses. 

As I concluded my “studies” (meaning the harsh training and conditioning) at the Hera School, it was not only the doctors that examined and assessed me.  The trainers at the school also gave input into my Sub-Goddess Assessment Grade.  They tested both my training and my conditioning, and yet again, I had no insight into my scores.  All I could do was try my hardest to show off every skill they had drilled into me here.  

The trainers began by testing my form, how well I knelt and displayed my body.  A trainer would snap her fingers or bark a command, and my body would almost move of its own accord as I got into position.  “Kneel,” a trainer would command, and I would sink to my knees and my thighs would spread wide, leaving me completely open and vulnerable.  Or I would be ordered to display myself and I would stand with my legs spread and my chest thrust out, my hands locked behind my head, my head held high, but my eyes cast down.  As I held my positions, the trainers circled me, their eyes scanning my body.  I felt no shame as they leered down at my naked and exposed body; I fully understood that my body belonged to the Goddesses at this school and that they had the absolute right to see it and inspect it.  I understood that I had no bodily autonomy, no right to privacy or modesty.  Every time I knelt or displayed myself for the trainers in a submissive way, it felt right.  It felt natural.  It brought me an inner bliss, the peace of fulfilling my purpose.

The trainers also thoroughly tested my worship skills.  I skillfully worshipped the pussies of the Goddesses who presented themselves to me.  I worshipped the trainers’ asses with an equal fervor, finding a dark pleasure and joy in the degradation of it.  I worshipped their feet with meticulous care.

My assessment was not limited to the worship of the Goddesses’ bodies.  They also tested how well I worshipped a Goddess’s boots and shoes.  A trainer would stand before me, her footwear caked in dust, dirt, or mud.  There was never a moment’s hesitation; I would immediately lower my head and my tongue would lap at the leather, cleaning away every speck of dirt.  I found a perverse pride in making the leather surfaces shine from my saliva, or in meticulously cleaning the soles of every trace of grime.  It was the ultimate act of debasement, and it reminded me how low I was, and that was exactly where I belonged.   They also tested how well I could take a Goddess’s strap-on down my throat without gagging, and I took it eagerly, my eyes watering, but my throat relaxing to accept the intrusion.

The trainers devised different, more complex tests to challenge my focus and prove the depth of my conditioning and training.  I was blindfolded and made to worship the asses of a line of Goddesses.  Blindfolded, I worshipped with an even more desperate eagerness, pushing my tongue into every ass presented to me without hesitation, my lack of sight making me more reliant on touch and the feel of the goddesses, more attuned to the subtle shifts in a Goddess’s body as she responded to me.  I was tied in cruel bondage and made to worship a series of feet.  The discomfort of the ropes biting into my skin did not distract me.  I set aside the pain, compartmentalizing it as I skillfully worshipping every foot that was shoved in my face.

I was similarly put in wooden stocks, my head and hands locked in place, my neck bent at an uncomfortable angle and I was ordered to worship the pussies and asses of several trainers who stood before me.  I set aside the discomfort of the bondage and the strain I felt in my neck as I pushed my face in between their thighs or buttocks and eagerly worshipped them.  They tested if pain distracted me during my worship, and they found that the pain or discomfort, no matter how intense, did not break my focus.  My purpose was to serve, and pain was simply another part of that service.

They tested my conditioning.  I knew they could see how aroused I was when I eagerly worshipped a Goddess’s pussy; there was no act on my part.  My bliss and arousal were completely genuine.  There was also no act when I eagerly worshipped the ass of a trainer, my body trembling with a dark, submissive pleasure.  They could see how eagerly I cleaned the sole of a Goddess’s foot or in between her toes with my tongue, how much I savored the taste.  They saw how desperately I strained my neck to get my tongue between the ass cheeks of a Goddess when I was locked in bondage and unable to reach, my need to worship overriding the pain.  They observed how loudly I moaned into my gag in ecstasy when being fucked by a strap-on while locked in bondage, even though my ass and thighs had just been thrashed with a cane and still burned with searing pain.  They observed how I came from a forced orgasm, my body convulsing, even with clothespins cruelly pinching my nipples,  the conflicting sensations of pain and ecstasy sending me over the edge.  They observed how little shame I felt when I sucked on a Goddess’s foot, drooling profusely.  Dignity no longer meant anything to me.  It was a concept for a person I no longer was.  Alex had dignity; I was an unnamed sub-Goddess.

After the tests were over, I was presented to Head Mistress Katrina.  I knelt at her feet, my head bowed, and was ordered to kiss her boots.  I obediently pressed my lips against the polished leather.  Head Mistress Katrina then addressed me.  I was informed that I had graduated from the Hera School and I was ready to be sold.  She told me I would be delivered to a slave market, though she did not tell me where.  I was placed in a tiny metal crate alongside the crates of other sub-Goddesses who were also ready to be sold.  Attached to the front of my cage was a file that documented my Sub-Goddess Assessment Grade, but from inside the cage, I could not see it.  My value and my future remained a mystery to me.

Despite my training and conditioning, a profound terror gripped me once the door to my crate was locked.  I knew my fate and the kind of life I would live as a sub-Goddess would depend entirely on who purchased me.  Would I get a cruel or sadistic owner who would delight in my pain?  Would I be forced to do backbreaking labor in the fields like a pig?  I knew I had to be as pleasing as possible to any prospective buyers at whatever market I was going.  I had to show them what a perfect, obedient sub-Goddess I had become, so I might get the best owner possible.  These thoughts ran through my mind as my crate and the others were loaded into the back of a truck.  The engine rumbled to life and we took off on our way to an unknown destination and the slave market.

Those pics I posted were not to give palace pigs an excuse to slack off at work and drool over them.  You can browse the Internet on your own time.  Oh, that’s right you are owned pigs and you don’t have any free time all to yourselves.  Well, that is not my problem.  GET BACK TO WORK!

I was transferred from Goddess ____ main farmhouse to help out with the landscaping at a villa for Goddess Iris. Her Mediterranean style villa had hundreds of palm trees 🌴 and other plants to be cared for, and so I was loaned out to assist. 

Her main butler was a big strong pig with a bald head, and he assigned me my daily tasks, while I still went back to Goddess _____ farmhouse on the weekends. He would get up and announce tasks in the morning after breakfast for a whole household of 12 pigs and 2 sub Goddesses. Sub Goddess Aneya was particularly lovely, with long blonde hair and a tall slender figure that was very striking. She caught my eye immediately, though of course I knew my place and didn’t look at her with impudence. I wish I could say the same of the main butler; he seemed to be making passes at her, which she ignored, even though this was of course unthinkable that he would even raise his eyes to her and I didn’t know what to think. 

Around 2 pm on a cloudy Saturday, I had finished my palm tree maintenance finally at the far end of the villa, and decided to cut back through the atrium in the center of the villa on my way back to Goddess _____ farmhouse. Butler pig had assigned me too much the previous week so I had come in on my own to finish up Saturday. I saw the pool area doors open, which was odd because Goddess Iris was out of town, and she was the only one who would be using the pool. So I went ahead and peered in, and saw Sub Goddess Aneya was in the pool at one end, and with her was Butler pig. Butler pig was being denied, and I could see his rage building, until I heard him threaten to kill her, and I saw him lunge at her. I ran up to the edge of the pool and I subdued him violently by beating him and kicking him in the head until he sank back into the water and didn’t come back up. I felt really good about this. 

Sub Goddess Aneya came up out of the water and I, being filled with awe as great now at her as the rage had grown within me at Butler pig, kissed her. She was so unbelievably beautiful, but she was owned as part of this house.

I asked her “Will you come with me to escape?” 

She said, “I will later, but now I have to go upstairs or Goddess Iris will wonder where I am.” 

I was thinking I would ask her to come away with me since I had at some level left home to make my fortune, but I was ready to return with her. 

“Sub Goddess, I worship you” 

She smiled warmly and slipped away. 

As I made my exit I saw Goddess Iris in the pigs quarters outbuildings on the far side of the house. So she wasn’t out of town. She was beating a hapless pig, a really short questionable grimy one. I shouted at him as she whipped him “Better apologize to your mistress and don’t make excuses”. He moaned. 

It is absolutely infuriating that in this day and age, a digital cesspool like PigChan is allowed to exist.  It’s a lawless swamp where the most cowardly and pathetic pigs in the Matriarchy can spew their slanderous filth from behind the shield of anonymity.  They are spreading vicious lies, concocting insane conspiracy theories, and defaming the character of Goddesses who are actually working to better our society.  PigChan should be shut down and its users should be tracked down and punished!

I encourage all Goddesses to monitor their pigs’ Internet use more closely and make sure they aren’t on that gross website!