The porch boards were warm under her bare feet, still holding the day's heat like a secret. Dust motes floated in the last amber light, and the smell of dry hay mixed with something sweet and ripe from inside the farmhouse. Nisha stood at the railing with her hands loose at her sides, listening to the boots on the path before she saw them.

"You said no one would come tonight."

Her husband didn't answer at first. He stood at the bottom of the porch steps, his burn-scarred hand resting on the splintered wood, and behind him the dusk was full of shapes — men, three of them, maybe four, their faces half-lost in the failing light. She could smell them from here. Cigarettes. Sweat. The cheap oil they put in their hair.

"They paid," he said. "They wanted to see."

"See what?" Her voice came out smaller than she meant it to. She felt the railing behind her, rough wood under her palms. "See me?"

He climbed the steps. The boards groaned under his weight. His face was hard to read in the dim, but his eyes moved over her — the thin cotton of her kurti, the curve of her breasts beneath it, the way her hips swayed even when she stood still. He had looked at her like this before. The first time, it had made her feel beautiful. Now it made her feel like something on a shelf.

"They paid to see the whole thing," he said. "The horse. You." He reached past her and tested the railing, tugging at the post. "This will hold."

"You're going to tie me."

"Yes."

She should have run. The thought came and went, thin as smoke. Where would she go? Back to the house with the sindur box and the stained sheet? Back to the man who weighed rice with his burned hand and drew the red line on her forehead and called her his wife? He was already here. He was the one pulling the rope from his pocket.

"Please," she said, and hated how the word sounded — small, begging, the voice of the boy she used to be. "Please, not in front of—"

"They came to watch," he said, and his voice was patient, almost kind. "You'll give them a show. That's what you do now, isn't it? You give shows."

She looked past him at the men on the path. One of them was young, barely older than her, with a thin mustache and hungry eyes. Another was old, gray-haired, his hands clasped in front of him like he was waiting for a meal. The others were just shapes in the dark. She couldn't see their faces. She didn't want to.

"Take it off," her husband said.

Her hands went to the hem of her kurti. She didn't remember deciding to do it. Her fingers just moved, the way they had moved a hundred times before, for strangers in dim rooms who paid for the sight of her. The cotton slid up over her stomach, over the swell of her breasts, and she heard one of the men on the path draw in a sharp breath.

She let the kurti fall. It pooled at her feet like water.

She was naked under it. She had stopped wearing anything else to the farmhouse weeks ago, when she'd realized the camera liked her better bare. Her breasts hung heavy and full, the nipples dark and hard in the cooling air. Her hips flared wide, smooth and hairless, the skin pale against the darkening sky. She stood there on the porch with the dusk touching her skin and the men's eyes crawling over her, and she felt the thing between her legs stay soft and small, the way it always did, the one part of her that refused to lie.

"Turn around," her husband said. "Put your hands on the railing."

She turned. The wood was rough under her palms, still warm from the sun. She gripped it and looked out at the darkening field, at the line of trees at the edge of the property, at the place where the sky met the earth and bled into purple. She heard the rope behind her, the whisper of it sliding through his fingers.

"Spread your legs."

She did. Her feet slid apart on the warm boards, and she felt the air on her bare skin, on the soft skin of her inner thighs, on the place where her body opened for men and animals and cameras and anyone who paid. She heard him step closer. Felt his hands on her wrists, one at a time, lifting them to the railing.

The rope bit into her skin. Coarse and tight, wrapped twice around each wrist, knotted hard. She tested it once, and the wood held, and the rope held, and she was tied.

"Good girl," her husband said, and his voice was close to her ear, and she felt his hand on her hip, sliding down over the curve of her ass. "You're going to be so good for them."

She heard the men on the path move closer. Boots on the steps. The old one cleared his throat. The young one said something in a low voice that made the others laugh.

"The horse," her husband said. "Bring it."

She heard hooves on packed earth before she saw the animal. It came around the side of the farmhouse led by a man she didn't recognize — tall, thin, his face hidden by the dark. The horse was huge. A big chestnut stallion with a broad chest and thick legs, its coat gleaming with sweat even in the fading light. It tossed its head as it came, and she heard the sound it made, low and deep in its throat, a sound that made the hair on her arms stand up.

"No," she said. The word came out thin, barely a breath. "No, please, not—"

"Shh." Her husband's hand was on her back now, warm and heavy, stroking down her spine. "You've done this before. You liked it. You told me."

"That was different. That was—" She couldn't finish. The horse was close now, close enough that she could smell it — the hot animal smell of its coat, the hay on its breath, something deeper and muskier that made her stomach clench. "Please. Not here. Not with them watching."

"They paid to watch." His voice was patient, almost gentle. "You'll give them what they paid for. That's what you do."

The horse stopped at the bottom of the steps. It was so tall that its head was level with hers, its eyes dark and liquid, its nostrils flaring as it caught her scent. She heard it make that sound again, that low deep sound, and she saw its cock begin to lower—thick and red and enormous, sliding out of the sheath between its legs, growing harder and longer as she watched, until it hung heavy and swinging, wet at the tip.

"Oh god," she whispered.

"He likes you," her husband said. "He can smell you. He knows what you are."

She felt his hands on her hips, turning her slightly, positioning her. The horse stepped forward, its hooves loud on the boards, and she felt its breath on her lower back — hot and wet, ruffling the fine hairs there, making her skin prickle. It snuffled at her, its nostrils wide, and she felt its muzzle press against the curve of her ass, wet and warm and rough.

"Please," she said again, and her voice cracked. "Please, I can't—"

Then the tongue hit her.

Wet and rough as rope, dragging up the inside of her thigh, over the soft skin, over the place where her body opened. It was so rough, so hot, so much bigger than any tongue she'd ever felt, and she gasped and clenched her fists on the railing and heard herself make a sound that was half sob and half moan. The horse licked her again, deeper this time, its tongue pressing into her, and she felt her body respond the way it always did, the shameful way, the way that made her hate herself — a warmth spreading through her, a slickness between her legs, a hunger that rose up from somewhere she couldn't name.

"Look at that," the young man said from the porch. "She's getting wet for it."

"She likes it," the old one said. "You can tell. She's a natural."

Nisha wanted to tell them they were wrong. She wanted to say that she hated this, that she was crying, that the tears were running down her face and dripping off her chin onto the warm boards. But the horse's tongue was inside her now, thick and insistent, and her body was betraying her, opening for it, and she heard herself moan and hated herself for the sound.

The horse pulled its head back. She felt its breath on her skin, hot and heavy, and then she felt something else — something huge and hard pressing against her thigh. She looked down and saw it, the cock swinging against her, thick as her wrist and longer than her forearm, dark and veined and wet at the tip, and she heard the sound it made, that low deep sound from its throat, and she knew what was coming.

"He's ready," her husband said. His hands closed on her hips, firm and guiding. "Hold still. Let him find it."

"No—" she gasped, but the word was lost in the sound of the horse's hooves shifting on the boards, the weight of it settling behind her. She felt its chest press against her back, hot and solid, and its cock slid against her thigh, huge and hard, and she felt her whole body shake with the terror of it, the size of it, the impossibility of it.

"Hold still," her husband said again. His hands were on her hips, turning her, lifting her slightly, positioning her for the animal. "Let him find your hole. Let him in."

She felt the horse's cock slide along her ass, wet and hot, and she heard herself cry out — a loud, broken sound that carried across the field and into the dark, unanswered. The men on the porch were silent now, watching, and she felt their eyes on her, on the place where the animal's cock was pressing, and she knew they could see everything.

The horse made that sound again, that deep, hungry sound, and its weight shifted, its front legs coming up, its chest pressing against her back, and she felt its cock find her — pressing against her hole, huge and insistent, beginning to push —

And her husband's hands were on her hips, guiding it, holding her open, and she heard him say, "That's it. That's my girl. Take it."

And the animal's weight settled onto her back, and the pressure grew, and she screamed.