Petgirl

By DX

Copyrighted, 9/2026, all rights reserved.

 From the top of my barn’s roof I spotted her as she walked down the long, lonely dirt road to our farm.  The early morning sun hit her full on, and I saw she was tall and lithe, and wore a long, flowing summer dress that swished around her ankles.  She had something on her head, but from that distance I couldn’t quite tell what, perhaps a scarf.

 She moved easily, and her hands were empty, and I couldn’t imagine her dress to have pockets, and I dismissed all that because I had work to do.  I was resurfacing the metal roof of the barn and the sealant, once mixed with an activator, had to be sprayed on before it set, coupled with the equipment I had was rented.  The pressure was on to get it done.  I didn’t have time to worry about some rando woman walking down my road.

 My worst worry was the sun.

 I had a small window before the blazing sun turned the roof of the barn into a glowing, hellish landscape.

 “Let’s be farmers!”  I had convinced Zack, my boyfriend, that for my third incarnation of my life I wanted to be a farmer; to be one with nature, feel the land, my cheeks flush and my hands rough.  “Farming is fun!”  I said.

 No farmer ever said that, because they know how hard farming is.

 My first incarnation was the Army, and back in the day it was tough for women like me who took it as a serious career choice.  The Army didn’t like feminists.  

 My second incarnation was an administrative supervisor for the State.  I detested the job, and my subordinates detested me because I held them to a work standard.  They were delighted when I was able to use my military time and add it to my accrued time to take early retirement.

 Now in my fifties, and armed with two pensions, my boyfriend and I bought a hundred acre farm.  It was a fixer-upper, to be polite, and I in my delusional state I declared I would do the DIY.

 To be fair, Zack used his best diplomatic skills and tried to warn me off because farming is the most difficult, miserable things a human being could do, but I took that as a challenge.

 He was right.  I was wrong.  

 When faced with reality and logic, I chose neither.

 We could have spent a lot of money and had professionals do things, but I could be stubborn to a fault.

 Which is why I was on the roof of the barn sweating to death in a paint suit, armed with an air powered spray gun, my back already being roasted by the dawning sun, spreading goo across a metal roof as a woman walked up to the front door of my house.  

 I left Zack to deal with it.

 He has this job, it has a title, and I’ve seen him do it, just don’t ask me what it is exactly.  For eight months of the year it was four hour days with an hour and a half lunch, which meant he would have plenty of time for farming, and painting, and fixing things because there was a lot of that to do.  It was a good plan.

 Except the closing on the farm was at the start of his ninth month, where his fluffy, purring job became a rabid beast of fifteen hour days with foreign dignitaries and Prime-Ministers on video chat, and spread sheets twenty-two feet long.  He would be ensconced in his home office, living off of meal bars and caffeine.  His salary was insane, which is how I got the farm.  He simply bought it out right and signed it over to me.

 Did I mention I love him?

 I took some notice when the woman climbed up the steps to the front porch and rang the bell, but I had goo to spread and I was confident that Zack in his calm and extensive vocabulary would tell the woman we weren’t interested in whatever she was selling, and to fuck off.

 On the roof, the unmerciful sun climbing in the sky, balanced precariously on the slope, I spread sealant and gave no more thought about anything.  I made good progress.

 “Yip!”  Something said.  “Yip!”

 I paused the machine, not sure what I had heard.  I had only lived on the farm for few weeks, so many of nature’s sounds were strange to me.  Although we didn’t have any domestic animals yet, except the chickens which came with the farm, there were still plenty of wildlife, like wild turkeys and deer, neither of which said, Yip.

 “Yip!”  It said again.

 I shifted carefully and looked around.  I actually lifted my goggles so I could hear better.  Surprisingly, that did work.

 “Yip!”

 I made my way over to the edge of the roof and looked down.

 I had assumed the woman had left.

 She had not.

 She was naked.

 She was also bald, and in her brief moment in the sun her skin was already pinking up in preparation for a nice deep burn.

 I was gobsmacked, and only stared, mouth agape.  She only smiled, and pointed to something.  I creeped to the very edge of the roof and craned over to see.  On the shelf of the open dock was a pitcher of ice water, and a tall glass.

 The woman nodded, and turned back toward the house.

 She was naked, and brought me water.  This was all my brain could process as she made her way back to the house, carefully picking her way through the tall crab grass.

 As I watched her walk away in her bare feet, she suddenly skipped, then jinked, then hopped frantically.  

 “Yip!  Yip!  Yip!”  She screamed.

 I knew by the stress of her voice she had walked into a moundless nest of fire ants.

 They were hidden land mines of single minded terror.  Imagine an ant, and he suddenly finds himself looking up at a mountain so big he can’t even see it all, and armed only with a knife requiring a micro-scope to see, screams, “Die Mothah Fuckah!”  and attacks.

 That tiny, tiny bite delivers a neurotoxin that hurts like being stabbed with a needle that’s glowing red hot, multiplied by a thousand, because that’s how many are screaming Die Mothah Fuckah! at you.

 I set down the sprayer, scrambled down the ladder as quickly as I could and ran over to the dancing girl, trusting my work boots would give me some protection against the ground now seething with angry ants.  I wrapped my arm about her waist and hoisted her up, and hauled her over to the water trough, filled with rain water and bright green with algae, and dropped her in.  

 I quickly splashed water over her thighs to brush the climbing ants off, then down into the murky water to scrape off the ants still screaming, Die Mothah Fuckah!  except punctuated with blubs.

 My short time on the farm made me an old hand about fire ants.  They were my initiation to the dangers of living on a farm.  Next were hornets, wasps, and black widow spiders, followed by copperhead snakes, then bears.

 Let’s be farmers!  Farming is fun!

 You quickly learn a stick is your friend to give the wildlife a half second to run away when moving a pail, or lifting a sheet of metal.

 Moundless fire ants, however; give no warning.  You’re just there, and suddenly your leg is on fire.

 Water didn’t kill the fire ants right away, but it would slow them down long enough for me to scrape them off.  It also broke the connection as reinforcement ants were now looking for her.

 The attackers had already done their duty, however; and her legs were already beginning to show the hits.  The neurotoxin was now taking effect and setting her legs ablaze.

 Now, close to her, my hands on her skin, my work gloves soaked, I discovered she wasn’t actually, exactly naked.

 I helped her out of the trough, which was compounded by the fact her legs were shackled together.  Heavy, shiny cuffs, two inches high and a quarter inch thick connected by a heavy tow chain commonly used to pull tree stumps out of the ground.

 The tow chain had a thin, delicate chain connected to it at the halfway point, that traveled up and looped around her waist.  The purpose of this was to keep the heavy chain from dragging on the ground as she walked.

 I might of mumbled, ‘what the fuck’, but I had to get her inside as the ant bites would feel like lava.  “Come on!”  I did say, and she quickly waddled as fast as her chain would allow, giving the ant’s nest a wide berth.

 Once inside, I guided her through the ocean of unpacked moving boxes, and into the kitchen.  She was mewing from the pain and struggling to keep calm.  I sat her in a chair.  

 “Whatever you do,”  I warned her.  “don’t touch it.  It will hurt ten times worse!”  I ducked into the bathroom and grabbed our large bottle of antihistamine spray.  

 As I returned, she was shaking from the pain.

 I quickly patted her legs dry with a dish towel, then coated her legs in spray.

 “You have to focus past the pain.  And don’t scratch!  Don’t rub it, or touch it!”  I ordered.  “If you touch it, it will only make the hurt last longer.”

 She just mewed.

 “Life is going to suck while this spray does its thing.  It won’t hurt less, you just won’t mind as much.”  I looked at her leg shackles, making sure to spray down inside them.  I shifted them enough to chase out a couple half drowned ants and sprayed more, until she dripped onto the floor.

 “How do I take these off?”  I asked.  “Where is the key?”

 She only grimaced from the horrible pain, mewing.

 The shackles were continuous bands of metal, without seams or locks.  It was as if they had been welded on.  I concluded the key was magnetic, or possibly magic.

 I took further survey.  She had thick rings through her nipples, ears and nose.  She had no eyebrows, or any body hair.

 At her neather, was a triangle steel cage, I wasn’t quite sure how it stayed on.

 She was in her thirties, and beautiful like a fashion model.  She had full, puffy lips, and exotic, almond shaped polar blue eyes.  She had a bit of a pug nose, and a delicate cleft chin.

 She wore no make up, but she didn’t need it.

 She managed to smile through the pain.

 “I’m Corra.”  I said, trying to be friendly and distract her from the boiling of her legs.

 “Mmm.”  She said.

 I looked at her, trying not to give her that askance expression.  “And you are…?”  I didn’t ask why she was naked and barefoot and why her ankles were cuffed together with anchor chain.

 “Mmm.”  She was trying to be pleasant, and ignore the rage ravaging her feet and calves.

 “Do you…”  I moved my hands like I knew sign-language, even though I didn’t.  “talk, at all?”

 “Mmm.”  Was all she said, and tightened her face from pain.

 How do you respond to that?  

 I heard Zack come up behind me and I celebrated in the distraction.

 He was in a suit and tie and shorts.  He looked right at the naked woman and knew instantly what had happened.  “Okay!  New rule!”  He announced.  “No going outside naked.”  He declared.  “And you must wear shoes and a hat,”  he nodded to his logic.  “and sunblock!”  He jutted his chin, then looked at me with an expression, ‘I see you have this handled, I’ll get out of your way’, then turned and left.

 I looked to the woman.  “Uh, wait here.  Don’t do anything and whatever you do, don’t scratch, rub, or touch your legs.”

 I went after Zack.  

 He was pulling his office door closed and I grabbed it and pulled it back open.  “Do you mind telling me what is going on and who is…”

 His silent, stoney face spoke volumes.

 With the corner of my vision I looked to his desk.  The screen was on and filled with twenty or thirty faces on the video call; all white males in their sixties, wearing suits and ties.

 He had been in a video conference, heard the doors slamming, the scrape of chain on the hard wood floor, my harsh voice saying FIRE mumble, and interrupted the meeting to check on the potential emergency.

 He didn’t mute his microphone, or switch off his camera.  

 I was in a white paint suit, splattered with green algae and grey goo, and looked more like a forensic expert at a murder scene than a farmer.

 I said nothing.  I only left and closed the door, leaving him to make up something to explain the meeting’s interruption.

 Back in the kitchen, mystery naked woman was unpacking things.

 Zack and I had just moved in, hitting the ground running.  He was in his mad work season which left me to deal with a long list of projects to get the house livable.  Unpacking got lowered on the list as I had to figure out how to kill the black widow spider’s nest in the shower, then lowered again when I had to deal with the large snake in the chicken coop, and lowered again when the outside faucet sheared off in my hand and water gushed out like a rooster tail.

 Lowered again and again and again.

 Now she was doing it.

 I wanted to insist she stop, that she was a guest and I should make her tea and cookies and be a host, but I didn’t.  I wanted to explain why the house was shit, and Zack was very busy, and I could handle everything, but I didn’t do that either.  I wanted to demand to know who she was and did she just escape a prison chain gang and why she was naked.

 I watched her open a box and unwrap brown paper from a coffee mug, then look at the empty cupboards for where coffee mugs should go and decide above the outlet where the coffee maker would be placed when she finally unpacked it.

 The goo to spray the roof was gelling, and if it cured inside the sprayer there would be a one hundred and thirty-two dollar fee to clean it.

 She was in agony, and anything, like the mindless task of unpacking, would distract her from it.

 Zack was in the other room, and when his video call was done, he would come deal with it.

 This was my rational.

 I went back outside and the sun punched me in the face, but I shrugged it off, got back up on the roof, and started spraying.

 I was a little mad.  Here was this naked woman doing my job in my kitchen in my house.  I was a little embarrassed because I was failing as a farmer and farming; tasks I should have somehow magically done.  I was disappointed in myself as a feminist because I had woman power and should be able to build a log cabin with only a multi-tool and grit, but couldn’t.

 And this naked woman… what the fuck?

 Did Zack hire a naked woman?  Zack knows I’m a feminist and wouldn’t stand for that, but his only concern was wearing sunblock?  Hello?  She’s naked and in chains?

 Like… like a slave?


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Copyrighted 9/2026, all rights reserved.
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