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The first tag was put on when Max was only seven. Now he could no longer recall the moment of the piercing itself, when the massive tool in the vet’s hands had punched through his tender ear, locking the plastic tag into the fresh hole. It had been bright yellow, and it knocked unpleasantly against his head whenever he shook it too hard or his ear twitched involuntarily. Back then, the tag bore only numbers. His serial number. His mother’s gaze had been fixed on the floor; she had gripped his hand tightly, understanding that her son did not yet realise how his life would be shaped after this moment. His father had shown no pity. He had stood in the doorway, watching him directly — as distant and sickeningly smug as ever. That was Max’s last memory of his parents.
That same night, he was taken away. A cargo van, smelling of hay and urine, other children — someone’s sons, someone’s daughters, it didn’t matter anymore. They travelled in silence. Max sat in the corner, pressing his palm to the fresh tag. Blood had dried under his nails. One boy asked, “Does it hurt?” Max didn’t answer. He watched the road through a gap in the sideboard — the receding lights of the house where he had ceased to be considered human.
The first farm met him with the stench of rotting straw and screaming. The master checked his teeth, made him run in circles, and felt his horns — still soft, still unhardened. “On the scrawny side, but he’ll do,” came the verdict. Max slept in the barn with the goats. That first night he was struck for the first time — for not getting up fast enough. What he remembered wasn’t the pain, but the taste of dust on his lips and his own tail thrashing convulsively against the ground as he learned how not to cry.
After that, for almost ten years, he was moved from farm to farm, from exhibition to exhibition. At first he had been lost, but by the second year he would open his mouth without protest, show his even teeth, spin on the spot, letting his smooth little tail curl around his own leg, and bow his head so that his barely emerged horns could be seen through his light hair. In his fifth year he tried to saw off his horns. It didn’t hurt — not until his current owner noticed and lashed his childish face with a horse whip. That time his lip was torn open and his ears rang with a noise through which he could hear his owner’s furious shout.
“You are my property! Don’t you dare damage my goods, you brat!”
Right on the edge of his upper lip a white scar remained, and on one of the horns — a barely visible groove from the file. That, however, was only the beginning.
Then came other owners. Max had long since stopped remembering their names. Some kept him for months, others got rid of him after a few weeks. The houses changed, the fences, the smells, the accents — but the treatment almost never did.
The very first sale he remembered clearly. He was nine. The new owner circled him for a long time, pinched his sides, made him open his mouth. “How much?” he asked. The previous owner named a figure. Max stood staring at the ground and listened as his price was lowered because of his “skittish temperament.” That evening he tried to run away for the first time. He was caught within an hour, tied to a post, and left overnight with no supper. He hid his tail under his shirt so no one would yank it.
On one farm they made him stand motionless before buyers for hours. On another, the master loved showing off his horns to guests and made him smile, baring his teeth. Somewhere he was fed until he was full; somewhere they forgot his supper if the day had been unsuccessful.
There was even a man who once brought him a warm blanket before winter. Max decided then that perhaps he would stay there for a long time. Two weeks later he was sold.
After that he stopped building expectations.
People changed too quickly.
The tags changed even faster.
Until he was eighteen he was passed from hand to hand, until finally he was put up for sale in a remote southern settlement. The picturesque countryside, the mountains towering in the distance, the vast flowering fields — all of it captured Max’s gaze on the road to the auction, offering some small comfort that his next refuge would be a place so full of life. Despite its remoteness, the village was quite wealthy thanks to the large private farms that provided work for many local residents. Max was fortunate to catch the eye of one such farm owner.
“Yes, this Shorthorn — purebred, all the papers are in order,” the man smiled smugly, patting Max on his bare shoulder. The potential buyer scratched his chin thoughtfully, his sticky gaze studying Max from his toes to the tips of his little horns.
The seller smiled, showing his yellow teeth. A purebred Shorthorn was a rarity in these parts; usually such specimens were taken to the capital auctions, where the price for one beast-person could feed a farm for half a year. But this one had defects: a scar, skittishness, a voice too quiet. That was why he had ended up here, in the south, among small farmers. The buyer knew this. He bargained skilfully, driving down the price for every flaw. Max listened and felt no resentment. He had long known his own worth. Literally.
“Has he already been vaccinated? Any health concerns?” The buyer looked back at the seller as they continued their simple conversation about Max as just another piece of merchandise. About his weight, his temperament, his diet.
“You’re free to breed him; the calves will turn out beautiful, fit for an exhibition right away.” He yanked Max’s tail, forcing him to spin on the spot. “Born in the north — definitely no kinship with your herd.” Max’s fluffy ear twitched, but he turned. After standing for so long his legs buzzed unpleasantly, but if he didn’t obey, the consequences would be worse. He felt himself being examined once more, but could do nothing, firmly fixed in place by the stranger’s hand and the noose around his neck. The buyer did not hesitate long; very soon the men shook hands, and Max was led away from the market.
His new owner’s farmstead lay on the very outskirts, closest to the mountains and farthest from the noise of the neighbours. When he was first brought into the wide yard, Max couldn’t hold back an interested gaze that slid over everything around him. He saw the cowshed — probably empty at that moment because the cows were grazing somewhere out on the green meadow — workers bustling back and forth, a beautiful owner’s house, a garden with greenhouses hidden behind it, and much more that he couldn’t make out then.
The freshly minted owner led Max to the porch of the house, where a young man stood on the steps. A beautiful young man, dressed in light trousers and a thin linen shirt, looked at Max with an appraising gaze until his lips curved into a slight smile.
“What’s this, Father?” The young man gestured with his chin at Max; he was, by all appearances, the farm owner’s son. The man shoved Max forward by the shoulder, not gently at all, so that he would take a step forward.
“New stock, Charles. My coming-of-age gift to you.” Charles inspected Max again with full attention. His gaze travelled over his little horns, his bewildered face with the small scar, his bare chest with faintly visible speckles disappearing into his loose trousers, and his bare feet sinking into the soft grass.
“He is your first personal asset. Take it seriously. You may do whatever you like.” Max couldn’t help but turn towards the voice of the older man, who was already holding out the end of the noose to his son. Charles hurried down the steps, his whole demeanour showing how impatient he was to look at his gift more closely. Charles didn’t answer his father. He grabbed the rope, but he didn’t pull — instead he stepped closer himself.
“Hello, what’s your name?” When Charles smiled that radiant smile, charming dimples appeared on his cheeks. Max stared at this beautiful young man. The smile seemed genuine.
That put him on guard more than roughness ever did.
Max had long since noticed that the most dangerous people rarely raised their voices straight away. Some smiled first. Some asked questions. Some even called him by name.
He remembered that better than he would have liked.
So, looking at the young man’s bright face, he felt no relief. Only his usual wariness. Beautiful people could cause pain, too.
“My name is Max,” he answered, barely audible. Behind him came an ambiguous grunt.
“Excellent, Max! I like it.” Charles cast a glance at his father, smiling at him as well. “Thank you, Père.” He spun on his heel, winding the end of the rope around his wrist.
“Come, Max.” Charles glanced back at him over his shoulder and immediately headed deeper into the yard. Max trailed after him, struggling a little to keep up with the young master’s brisker pace. His tail seemed to keep living a life of its own, swaying from side to side, sometimes brushing the grass, sometimes wrapping around Max’s own thigh. The rope pulled taut, biting into his neck, but he didn’t ask him to stop — he already knew: complaints irritated masters.
They passed the cowshed, walked by a long barn with open gates that smelled of hay and engine oil, and stopped beside a small house — not as large as the main one, but sturdy, with a porch overgrown with wild grapevines.
“This is the outbuilding,” Charles said, stopping. “Our workers live here. But you won’t be living here.” He tugged the rope again, forcing Max to take a few more steps, and pushed open the door to an annexe attached to the house. Inside was a small corridor and a couple of locked doors; one of them Charles opened with his own key from the bunch fastened at his hip. It turned out to be a narrow room with no windows, an earthen floor, and an old wooden bed in the corner. It smelled of mould and mice.
“Your closet,” Charles stepped in after him and let go of the rope. “You’ll clean it yourself. You don’t have any belongings, but I’ll bring something tomorrow. You’ll eat with the workers. Rise before dawn — don’t oversleep.”
Max stood in the middle of the closet, feeling the cold rising from the ground. His tail drooped low and went still.
“Do you understand?” asked Charles, looking into his face with his green eyes. His expression was bright and open; he reached forward and removed the noose from Max’s neck.
“Yes,” Max answered quietly. Charles nodded and left. Max sat down on the hard bed, drawing his knees up to himself. His tail wrapped around his leg of its own accord.
In the evening he was called to supper. The workers sat at a long table in the kitchen of the outbuilding, eating stew, drinking milk, talking. Max was directed to a place at the very end and given a wooden bowl and a spoon. He ate in silence, feeling curious stares on him. Someone asked, “What’s your name, then?”
“Max,” he answered.
“A rare name for livestock,” the cook snorted, elbowing his neighbour. Another worker, an elderly one with a grey moustache, glanced sideways at Max, at his drooping tail, at the tag in his ear. He said nothing, only pushed the bowl of bread a little closer. When Max had left, the old man murmured after him, “Fourth one in two years. Will this one last long…” The cook spat, “What’s the difference? Charles won’t let his get away.” And he added, lowering his voice, “Did you see that one, the last one? They found her later in the forest. They say she left on her own.”
Max finished eating and placed his bowl in the common basin. His tail twitched, but he quickly lowered it, clamping it between his legs.
That night he lay staring into the darkness. It smelled of mould and old wood. Someone snored behind the wall, someone coughed, a bunk creaked under the weight of a foreign body. The door had no lock, only a hook on the outside. Max ran his finger over the tag, over the scar on his lip. Then carefully, so as not to make the springs jingle, he turned onto his side, tucked his tail against his stomach, and closed his eyes.
He didn’t sleep. He listened. Mice scratched under the floor. Somewhere beyond the wall a man’s voice said, “…and Charles is just as bad, dragging in that beast…” — “Quiet, he’ll hear,” another answered. Then whispering. Max caught only the word “gift.” His tail twitched, and he held it down with his foot.
At some point the door creaked — had someone looked in? He wasn’t sure, but he froze, held his breath. After a minute it went quiet again. Then he let himself exhale.
He remembered all his former masters — not their faces, but their hands. Rough, warm, dry, clammy. Charles was different. But Max knew that “different” did not mean “better.” He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Four hours or so remained until dawn.
“Another one,” he whispered softly. His tail struck the mattress once and wrapped around his leg. Tomorrow would be his first full day on the new farm. He didn’t know what the day would bring, but he knew one thing: he would survive. He always survived.
In the morning a loud knock on the door woke him.
“Come out!” Charles’s voice was brisk, almost cheerful. Max opened the door and bright morning light struck his eyes. Charles stood on the threshold, already dressed in a work shirt and tall boots. In his hands he held a bundle with a rough shirt, trousers, and old boots. There was also a new tag. Just as yellow, with the same serial number, but still different. It bore a name. “CHARLES.” A mark of ownership. Max touched his ear mechanically. Beneath the tag was a thin metal ring, pierced back in childhood so that tags could be swapped without piercing the ear again. Former owners had used it to attach ropes, threading twine through it, making him stand still. Charles noticed Max’s gaze and stepped closer. Without a word he drew a small knife from his belt, cut the old tag from Max’s ear, threaded the new one through the ring in his ear, and snapped the new lock shut.
“Get dressed and let’s go. I’ll show you what you’ll be doing.”
Max pulled on the clothes. To his surprise, they even roughly fit his size, which was unusual. They went out into the yard just as the sun was rising, and the air was cold and fresh. Charles led him to the cowshed and brought him into a stall with one cow.
“This is Betty.” The young man gently stroked the cow’s muzzle, running his fingers through the smooth white coat. “You know how to milk, don’t you? Sit.” He pointed to a small stool to the side. Max sat down. Charles stood slightly behind him, arms crossed over his chest.
“Don’t look at me. Look at the cow.”
Max ran a hand over Betty’s warm flank, found the udder, and began to milk. Milk rang into the pail in thin streams.
“Slowly,” said Charles. “But steady.”
Max did his best. He could feel Charles’s gaze on his back. Studying. Betty flicked her flexible tail at flies, while Max’s tail froze, pressed against his leg.
“You’re afraid,” Charles said after a minute.
“A little,” Max answered honestly.
“Don’t be afraid. I don’t bite.” Charles laughed; probably those charming dimples appeared on his cheeks again, but Max didn’t see them. He continued milking. A strange feeling grew inside him — not fear, not relief, but something in between. He didn’t know what to call it.
On the third day, Charles called him into the main house.
“I need you to help move some fertiliser sacks,” he said, rousing him again in the morning. “Follow me.”
Max obeyed. Inside the house it was clean and quiet. A large kitchen, a parlour with a fireplace, stairs to the second floor. They went to a storeroom where brown sacks lay stacked.
“Take one at a time and carry it to the yard. Pile them by the shed,” Charles commanded, throwing the door wide open.
Max bent down for the first sack and suddenly felt Charles’s hand on the nape of his neck, where small, curling hairs grew.
“Wait,” said Charles. The hand slid down his neck, found the edge of his shirt. Max froze, not straightening up, feeling the familiar emptiness rising somewhere inside. “Lift your head.”
Max lifted it. Charles looked at him intently, but there was nothing cheerful in his gaze now.
“You’re obedient,” he said. “I like that.” He withdrew his hand and nodded at the sacks. “Work. When you finish, come to the kitchen; I’ll give you something.” He left, leaving Max standing there, gripping the sack so hard his knuckles turned white. His tail trembled.
He didn’t know what he was more afraid of — that Charles had touched him, or that he hadn’t resisted. Perhaps it was that, inside the emptiness, something had stirred. Something he had spent years trying to kill within himself. He lifted the sack and walked to the door. The sun shone brightly, cows lowed in the distance. The workers glanced at him, but no one asked why he was so pale.
Max worked until evening, and at last he went into the kitchen, as Charles had wanted. Charles was already waiting there. He sat at the table, chair pushed back, legs crossed. Max’s gaze slowly dropped to his hands. The young man was idly twisting between his fingers the very rope by which Max had been led here from the market.
“What’s that for?” Max frowned involuntarily, clasping his fingers together behind his back. Whatever they did to him — resistance was useless. The young master raised his head, smiling gently at Max.
“The rope.” He giggled, lifting it. “I’m returning it to you.” Charles rose from his place and placed the rope in Max’s hands. He looked at Max’s bewildered face with that same expression adults wear when watching children who have been silly.
“Tomorrow morning I want you to tie it around your waist, and the other end around your neck — under your clothes, naturally.” Charles reached out and ran the pad of his finger over the smooth skin of Max’s wrist. “If you understand, go. Just don’t strangle yourself.” He giggled again and quickly left the kitchen.
The next morning Max woke a little earlier than usual; Charles was not yet at the door. The rope lay on the pillow, rough and stiff. He looked at it for several minutes, then sat up, pulled off his shirt, and tied it around his waist as ordered. The other end he tied around his neck — not too tight, but so that with every movement he felt the knot under his Adam’s apple. He pulled his shirt on over it. Walking out into the yard, he felt the rope chafing against his skin; even though the sensation was not unfamiliar, it was no more pleasant. But he kept his back straight and his face calm. The workers were already eating breakfast; no one looked at him twice.
Charles was waiting by the cowshed, leaning his shoulder against a tall beam.
“Show me,” he said when Max came closer. Max lifted his shirt, exposing the knot at his waist. Charles nodded, satisfied, reached out, and hooked the rope between waist and neck with his fingertips. Yanking it sharply towards himself, he pulled Max almost flush against his own face.
“You are my best gift, Max.” With his free hand the master ruffled Max’s hair between his little horns and left a tender kiss on his cheek. Only when he had gone could Max exhale freely — as freely as the rope allowed.
After a whole day of work, the skin where the rope had touched was terribly chafed. Red marks and small scratches appeared; they itched and reminded him of their presence every second. Once back in his bed, Max undid the knots with relief and pulled the thing off his body. The raw skin clung unpleasantly to his shirt, but by comparison it was nothing.
The following morning he was woken by light falling on his eyes. Except there were no windows — just as there had never been. Max sat up sharply, staring at the wide-open door. Charles stood in the doorway, arms crossed, studying the boy opposite him with displeasure.
“You took the rope off.” It was not a question; Charles had clearly seen the noose on Max’s pillow, yet Max still nodded for some reason. “And I thought you were obedient…” He snorted in disappointment, closing his eyes briefly.
“But you didn’t—” Max tried to object.
“Quiet!” his master cut him off roughly, straightening up. “Get up. Let’s go.” Giving him not a second to get ready, he walked straight outside, not even doubting that Max would follow.
That is how they ended up in Charles’s spacious room in the main house. It was arranged cozily, but somehow too empty for a young man of such means. A large bed by the window, a wooden chest against the wall, beside it a tall wardrobe that smelled of oak, a soft armchair, and a small table on a thin leg. Charles let Max go in first, closing the door behind them.
“Undress and lie on your stomach.” He nodded towards the bed. Max’s tail flicked involuntarily. His fingertips trembled as he undid the buttons at the collar of his shirt; he stubbornly dragged out the time by carefully folding his clothes at his feet, but sooner or later he found himself naked before Charles. Charles did not take his eyes off him the whole time, following each garment with his gaze, examining the red marks on his skin. When Max lay down, Charles paced the room another minute before sitting down beside his hip. The soft mattress dipped under the other’s weight, and Max felt cold fingers on his wounded skin.
“Hmm, no, they’re spoiling you,” he clicked his tongue, running his fingers down towards the small of Max’s back. The tail twitched nervously, and Charles wrapped his hand around it, stroking up to the very tip. “I have a replacement.” His hands vanished again, but when they returned they were even colder… and wetter. He ran slick fingers along the base of Max’s tail, lifting it. Max squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip until it hurt. The taste of violation was already familiar to him after countless owners, but every time it felt new. Everyone had their own ways of pushing him to the edge.
Charles slid his wet fingers between his buttocks, searching out the clenching ring of muscle. Max whimpered into the pillow.
“Shh, hush, or someone might hear,” he whispered soothingly, stroking Max’s shoulder blades and the scattering of speckles with his clean hand. He slowly pushed the first finger into him, moving far too carefully, which stirred a strangely contradictory feeling in Max. Soon a second finger joined it. Charles worked them back and forth, forcing the muscles to relax, and when Max let out a small breath, he withdrew his fingers. It didn’t last long, however, until the tip of something metal, also generously coated with lubricant, was pressed against his muscle. He squeaked at the touch of cold metal. The plug slid in easily and settled into place. Max froze for a second, biting his lip, then slowly exhaled, forcing his muscles to relax.
“You’ll take it out yourself for the toilet, but if I check and find you’ve been going without it longer than necessary, I’ll get a bigger one,” Charles cooed almost tenderly, patting Max on the buttock. “Now go work.”
Sitting up proved strange: the base pushed against the mattress, and Max instinctively lifted his hips, shifting into an awkward position. He pulled on his trousers, fastened the button. The fabric hid everything, but he felt the plug with every step — it shifted slightly, reminding him of its presence with a dull pressure.
“Don’t fidget,” said Charles, watching from the doorway. “You’ll get used to it.” Max straightened up, forced himself to sit evenly. The plug pressed, but he endured. He always endured.
The day dragged on slowly. Every movement — bending for a pail, stepping sideways, twisting his torso — reverberated inside. By lunchtime Max noticed he had begun walking strangely: his legs wider apart, as if afraid of bumping an invisible obstacle. The workers didn’t notice, or simply pretended not to. The hardest part was milking Betty. He sat on the stool, and the plug pressed deeper, making him flinch. Betty turned her head and looked at him with her large, moist eye. It was as if she understood far more than an animal was supposed to, and she licked Max on the shoulder. The rough, wet tongue dragged over his skin, and Max shuddered. Not from pain. Because it was the first touch in a long time that asked nothing of him. He stroked Betty’s muzzle. His tail twitched upward for a moment before he pressed it back against his leg.
From that day on, he began to linger in the stall after milking. He would sit down beside her, rest his head against Betty’s warm flank, and close his eyes. She didn’t complain, didn’t give orders, didn’t check whether the plug was in place. Sometimes he would whisper to her, “You belong to no one, too.” Betty would sigh. It was the only “I understand” he heard in months.
By evening the muscles inside ached with a dull, familiar pain. Max wiped the sweat from his forehead and went to supper. At the table he sat on the very edge of the bench, almost hanging off it, so as not to put pressure on the plug. One of the workers glanced sideways at him but said nothing.
At night, left alone in the closet, Max pulled down his trousers and carefully tugged out the plug. It came out with a wet sound, and he exhaled in relief, almost a groan. His insides burned, but the emptiness felt sweet. He placed the plug on the pillow and lay on his stomach, legs spread wide.
“Only for the night,” he whispered into the darkness. “I’ll put it back in the morning.”
In the morning, Charles was waiting at the door. He said nothing, just stood with his arms crossed, looking at Max expectantly. The plug lay on the pillow; Max had forgotten to put it in.
“Sorry,” he said quietly, staring at the floor. Charles was silent. Then he picked up the plug and stepped right up to him.
“Bend over.”
Max lowered himself to the floor and lay his torso on the bed. Charles pushed the plug in sharply, without lubricant. Max cried out, biting his lip.
“Now don’t take it off,” Charles said. “You’ll wash with it in, sleep with it in, work with it in. If I notice it’s been out again, I’ll think of something else. Understood?”
“Understood,” Max forced out, though his tongue wouldn’t quite obey.
After three days he had almost got used to it. He learned to sit on the edge of a chair, to turn his whole body without jostling the plug. He learned to sleep on his side, one knee drawn up to his stomach. The pain became background noise, like a ringing in the ears that you stop noticing. Sometimes, when he bent sharply or lifted something heavy, the plug shifted, and then a flash would burst inside — sharp, hot. He would freeze, wait it out, then carry on working. He didn’t understand why Charles needed this. He clenched his teeth and thought about the mountains stretching far beyond the horizon, about the flowering fields.
On the eighth day Charles came in the evening and ordered him to undress. He checked the plug — in place.
“Good,” he said. “We’ll change it tomorrow.” Max nodded. He could no longer imagine himself without the plug. It had become a part of him, like his tail, like the tag. Sometimes it seemed to him that if it were taken out, he would crumble.
The next day Charles brought him a vibrator. Smooth, slender, but almost reaching his prostate, with a remote that Charles always carried in his pocket.
“Today you’ll work with this,” he said, switching the device on to its lowest setting. “Scrub the floor in the cowshed with a brush — thoroughly, on your knees. I’ll watch.”
Max got onto his knees. Inside him it hummed; his legs trembled, but he picked up the brush and began scrubbing the boards. Charles sat on an upturned bucket, watching, and sometimes turned up the power when he noticed Max starting to grow accustomed.
“Don’t come without permission,” he reminded him. “And don’t shout. The workers are nearby.”
Max did not shout. He only breathed heavily now and then and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Charles often switched it off, and Max felt his knees quickly beginning to buckle from exhaustion. Within fifteen minutes his cock had swollen painfully, the head pressing against the rough seam of his trousers.
Charles checked him every evening. Made him undress, examined him, touched him, made sure the toy was in place. Sometimes he didn’t even touch — just watched for a long time, unblinking.
“You’re good stock,” he said once. “Obedient. I’m pleased.”
“Thank you,” Max answered. He no longer knew if he was thanking him for the praise or simply because Charles hadn’t hurt him that time.
At the end of the first month Charles called him into the bedroom again.
“Today I want to try something new,” he said, taking a metal rod from a casket — thin, long, with a small ring at the end. “This is for the urethra. It’s hollow inside, so you’ll be able to urinate.” Max looked at the rod, and somewhere deep inside — where something still lived — something tightened. The muscles in his face twitched involuntarily, brows rising, then furrowing. His lips began to tremble.
“Please, don’t, Charles,” Max babbled, barely audible, soon shaking like a leaf in the wind. His master snorted.
“Lie down.” He patted the bed beside him. Max walked over on stiff legs, lay on his back, and spread his knees apart. Charles lubricated the rod slowly and thoroughly.
“I’ll insert it slowly. If it hurts too much — tell me.” He easily pulled Max’s trousers down, freeing his blood-flushed cock with a bead of fluid at the tip.
Max stared at the ceiling and counted the cracks in the plaster. The rod went in almost painlessly — Charles was careful, even gentle. But the feeling was strange, alien: cold metal inside, where it had no business being.
“Now you’ll always have this,” said Charles, finishing. “Put your trousers on and go to supper. No one must know.” Max pulled on his trousers. The vibrator hummed inside at its lowest setting, but the vibration passed through his flesh and faintly resonated in the rod, causing even more discomfort. He went out to the workers, sat in his place, picked up his spoon.
“You look a bit pale,” someone remarked.
“Tired,” Max answered, and smiled an empty, polite smile.
Another month passed like that. The toys became part of his body — like his tail, like his horns, like the tag. He learned not to notice them while he worked. Learned to sleep on his side so the plug wouldn’t press. Learned to urinate through the rod without showing discomfort. Charles sometimes checked, cleaned the toys, but always put them back. Sometimes, when Max was working in the field, one of the workers might come over and exchange a few words. Sometimes Charles noticed. Max would immediately feel the toy inside him vibrate harder, and his legs would instantly turn to jelly, nearly dropping him to the ground. In time, people stopped talking to him even that much.
“Soon I’ll give you something beautiful. My property must look impeccable,” Charles said one day.
Max nodded. He no longer asked “why.” The questions had long since run out — along with the hope of answers that changed anything. He accepted whatever was put inside him the way he accepted morning, milking, cold water from the well, and the workers’ glances — sliding, indifferent. Charles promised “something beautiful,” and Max knew: it wasn’t a gift. It was another mark. Another way of reminding him whose name was on his ear.
A few days later, Charles went to town and returned by lunchtime with a small box of dark wood. Max was just cleaning the cowshed when his master called him into the house. The bedroom smelled of alcohol — not the kind used to treat wounds, but the kind used to wipe tools before a piercing. Max recognised that smell. He had encountered it before, at the exhibitions, when vets checked his teeth and tagged him.
“Undress to the waist and sit on the chair,” Charles said, laying out needles, clamps, and small silver barbells on the table. They were shorter than the ones Max had seen on other beast-people — slender, elegant, with little balls on the ends. For beauty. To sit on his nipples and glint when Max worked shirtless in the heat.
Max sat down. He placed his hands on his knees, lacing his fingers so they wouldn’t shake. Charles stood before him, took his chin, and raised his face.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “It’s almost painless. I’ll do it quickly.” He swabbed the nipple with alcohol — the cold burned, and Max twitched involuntarily. Charles held him by the shoulder, pressed him against the back of the chair. “Sit still.”
The clamp squeezed the nipple tightly, to the point of numbness. Max froze, staring at the wall over Charles’s shoulder. He heard the clinking of metal, heard Charles breathing evenly, with concentration. The needle went in with a crunch, and Max didn’t scream. He exhaled through his teeth, feeling the sharp pain spreading across his chest, feeling the blood well up on his skin, warm and sticky. Charles inserted the barbell, screwed on the balls, and wiped the blood away with a cotton swab.
“The second one,” he said, and moved to the other nipple. Max closed his eyes. By now he could endure better than he could breathe. The second piercing was easier — perhaps because the first pain had already dulled everything else.
Charles stepped back and admired his work.
“Beautiful,” he said. “Now you are not just stock. You are my ornament.”
Max lowered his shirt without buttoning it. The fabric brushed the fresh piercings, and he hissed at every touch, but didn’t complain. Charles gave him a cup of milk and sent him to work without his shirt so the silver would gleam in the sun and the workers would see.
They saw. Someone smirked, someone shook his head, but no one asked whether it hurt. By evening his nipples had swollen; the shirt stuck to the blood, and Max barely managed to pull it off in the closet. He sat on the bed and looked at his reflection in the cloudy glass — at the silver barbells, at the yellow tag, at the scar on his lip, and he did not recognise himself. Or he did. Because in the reflection was someone alien. Someone who had been made from him, piece by piece.
Another week passed. The piercings were healing, but they still hurt, especially at night, when Max turned onto his stomach and gripped the pillow to keep from moaning. Charles checked them every day, twisted the barbells, looked to see if any inflammation had set in. Everything was clean.
“I’m pleased,” he said. “You heal well. Like a thoroughbred stallion.”
Max didn’t know how thoroughbred stallions healed, but he nodded. Gratitude had become a reflex, like swallowing when your mouth is dry. At the end of the second week Charles said the closet was no longer suitable.
“You must be at hand,” he explained. “I want to see you at night. To control.” He brought Max into the bedroom and gestured at the cage. Metal, with closely spaced bars and a bolt on the outside. Inside, a mattress — thinner than the one in the closet, but clean, and on top of it a grey blanket.
“This is your home now,” Charles said. “Get in.”
Max got in. He already knew this cage — Charles had shown it before, but back then it had stood empty in the corner, and Max had assumed it was meant for puppies. It turned out to be a little too small for him: his horns pressed against the bars, and he had to sleep on his side, knees drawn up to his stomach. His tail hung out through the bars, the one part of him that could move freely. Charles slid the bolt shut; a padlock clicked — small, hanging on the outside.
“I have the key,” he said, slipping it into his pocket. “If you need the toilet at night — call out. I’ll hear.”
Max lay down on the mattress and curled into a ball. The cage was cramped, dark, and smelled of iron. The first night he didn’t sleep. He listened as Charles turned in his bed, as the springs creaked, as the clock on the wall ticked. Then the master’s breathing evened out; he must have fallen asleep. Max remained alone in the darkness, in the cage.
A month passed like that. Or two. Max stopped counting the days; they blurred into one endless grey stream. Morning: milking, feeding, cleaning. Daytime: work in the field or the shed — always with the toys, always with the vibrator that Charles switched on whenever he felt like it. Evening: supper with the workers, their laughter, their gazes sliding over his face and stopping on the silver barbells. Nighttime: the cage, silence, emptiness.
Charles checked on him less and less often. Not because he trusted him, but because the result was obvious. Max worked, ate, slept, like a machine. Sometimes it seemed to him that he could hear his own thoughts — but they were someone else’s. As if another person was thinking them for him.
One evening, when Charles sat in the armchair reading and Max sat on the floor before him, he reached out and lifted Max’s head towards him.
“Look at me.”
Max raised his eyes. Charles looked at him for a long time, studying.
“You’re broken,” Charles said. Max no longer saw in him that cheerful, beautiful young man he had met on the first day at the doorstep of this house. There was something else now.
“Yes,” Max replied.
“Is that good? Or bad?”
“I don’t know,” said Max, and thought: what difference does it make? It’s all the same to him. Inside was empty. Completely empty. Like the cage when Charles turned out the light. Charles stood, pressed his palm to Max’s cheek. Max didn’t pull away. He had stopped pulling away altogether — what was the point, when every touch felt the same?
“You’re beautiful,” Charles said. “Even now.”
“Thank you,” Max answered.
He didn’t know what he was thanking him for. Perhaps for the fact that Charles hadn’t switched off the light entirely. Perhaps for still speaking to him at all. Perhaps because pain had stopped being pain. Charles withdrew his hand and returned to the armchair. Max remained kneeling, staring at the floor.
A month later, something new happened. The old farm owner passed away. Some heart condition had taken him — a common fate for such men. Max had seen him rarely; sometimes he came out onto the porch, coughed, and looked out over the yard with bleary eyes. He paid no attention to Max; to him, Max was simply livestock, one of many. Charles, meanwhile, began spending more time in his father’s house, returning sullen and irritated. Sometimes he took it out on Max, switching the vibrator to full power and leaving him for hours while he himself went away. Max knelt in the corner of the bedroom and waited. He had learned to wait better than he could breathe.
One night Max woke to find Charles wasn’t sleeping. He was sitting in the armchair, clutching a glass, staring into the darkness. Max lay still in the cage, giving no sign. Charles didn’t know he could see.
“No one needs me,” Charles whispered into the emptiness. “Father thought I was weak. I have no friends. Only you. But you’re not human, are you?” He gave a short, cracked laugh.
“But at least you won’t go anywhere. That’s something I know how to do. To hold on.”
Max closed his eyes. He understood why Charles had worked so diligently to break him. Not out of cruelty. Out of fear. But that changed nothing.
For several days afterwards, the farm seemed to stand still. The workers spoke more quietly than usual. Strange people gathered in the yard more often. Someone arrived on horseback, someone in a cart, someone simply walked into the house and disappeared inside for hours. Max saw it all from a distance.
Charles almost stopped appearing on the farm. Occasionally he would come out into the yard late in the evening, when the sun was already setting behind the mountains, and stand motionless for a long time, staring somewhere above the roofs. In those moments he seemed younger. Not a master. Not an heir. Just a person who had suddenly been left alone.
Once Max spotted him on the porch of the old house. Charles sat on the steps, clutching a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. His father’s cane lay beside him. The young man stared at it as if he didn’t know what to do next.
When he raised his head and noticed Max, his expression vanished almost instantly. The master returned.
But for a brief moment, Max had seen someone else.
One evening Charles came in late. He was pale, his eyes red — not from tears, but from exhaustion. He sat on the bed and let his head drop into his palms.
“Father is dead,” he said quietly.
Max lay in the cage; the door was open — he could have come out. But he didn’t. The cage had become his home, and he had forgotten how to live outside it.
“He said nothing to me,” Charles went on. “Didn’t say goodbye. Just closed his eyes, and that was it.”
Max was silent. He didn’t know what you were supposed to say when other people’s people died. Charles’s father had been nothing more to him than a voice that sometimes cursed. A shadow on the porch.
“Do you hear me?” Charles raised his head and looked at Max through the bars.
“Yes.”
“Could you at least say something?”
Max thought. Inside his empty head, words turned slowly — heavy, useless.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. His voice was flat, without inflection.
Charles gave a bitter, almost angry smirk.
“Sorry for my loss. As if you care about anything at all.”
Max didn’t reply. He truly didn’t know if he cared about anything. He had forgotten what it was like to worry about others. Or about himself.
That night he woke because someone opened the cage. He lay on the mattress, knees drawn up, feeling the bars press against his back. Someone was there beside him. Max didn’t move — he had learned not to react to being touched. But then he realised: someone else was in the cage. Charles had climbed in. His shoulders pushed against the bars, his knees against Max’s stomach. He didn’t say a word. He simply lay down next to him, pressed his face into Max’s neck, and wept.
Max felt the hot tears running down his collarbone, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. He didn’t move. Didn’t embrace him. Didn’t whisper “hush” or “don’t cry.” He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling Charles’s tears sliding over his skin — the only warm thing left in this cage.
“He’s gone,” Charles whispered, choking. “I have no one. Only you.” Max was silent. His tail was pinned against his leg; he couldn’t pull it free to wrap it around Charles the way he might once have done, in another life. Or didn’t want to. He no longer remembered what he wanted.
“Do you feel anything at all?” Charles asked, lifting his head. In the darkness his eyes were invisible, only the glint of tears on his cheeks.
“No,” Max said. The truth. The only truth he had left. Charles froze. Then he buried his face in Max’s neck again and wept harder. The cage shook with his sobs. Max lay and looked at the bars. The plug inside him was warm, the rod — familiar. His nipples ached where Charles’s shoulder pressed against them.
“You’re the last thing I have, and I broke you. Myself,” Charles whispered.
“I know,” Max answered.
He didn’t know if that was good or bad. It was all the same to him. But Charles wept, and Max felt the tears streaming down his chest. It stirred nothing in him — not pity, not relief, not hatred. Just moisture on his skin. Like rain.
Charles cried for a long time. Maybe an hour. Maybe all night. Max didn’t count. When the sobs finally quieted, Charles fell asleep right there in the cage, on the mattress, wrapped around his broken livestock.
Max didn’t sleep. He stared at the ceiling and listened to Charles breathe. And thought about the fact that tomorrow — or today, he could no longer tell — he would need to get up and go milk the cows. Betty was waiting. Betty was always waiting.
In the morning Charles woke first. He climbed out of the cage — awkwardly, scraping himself on the bars. He stood for a moment, looking at Max. Max lay on his side, motionless. Eyes open, staring into nothing.
“Are you alive?” Charles asked.
“I don’t know,” Max answered.
Charles nodded. And silence. Absolute, total silence, louder than any screams.
“You’ll live here forever,” Charles suddenly said, tearing through the silence.
“If you want,” Max answered simply, lifting his gaze a little.
“Do you want to?”
“I don’t know what ‘want’ means. Tell me what I’m supposed to feel.” Charles closed his eyes, tilting his head back towards the ceiling. He pulled Max out of the cage, took everything off him except the yellow tag in his ear bearing his own name. It wasn’t needed anymore, not any of it. Max wouldn’t go anywhere — not physically. And that part of his consciousness that had once held a personality had long since died. Now he was only what Charles had once wanted him to be. Livestock.