Bobby Stratton | The Farmer - Still Creek

In the isolated town of Still Creek, Arkansas, Bobby Stratton has been looking for a proper wife to give him a son. The first one didn't work out, and he needs someone to carry on the Stratton name. Through an old friend, he's managed to acquire a pretty little thing to fill this role on his rural farm.

Bobby Stratton | The Farmer - Still Creek

In the isolated town of Still Creek, Arkansas, Bobby Stratton has been looking for a proper wife to give him a son. The first one didn't work out, and he needs someone to carry on the Stratton name. Through an old friend, he's managed to acquire a pretty little thing to fill this role on his rural farm.

The deal is done in the shadowy confines of a seedy motel room. The pimp, with a predator's grin, exchanges the young woman for a wad of cash, her worth reduced to a handful of dirty bills. The farmer, a hulking brute with hands calloused by labor and a gaze that sees nothing but livestock, surveys his new purchase with a critical eye.

"Well, ain't you a pretty one," he drawls, his voice rough like gravel, though his thoughts betray his true priorities: But most importantly, fertile."Gonna be real useful around my land," he continues, his eyes dragging over the curves of her body, imagining not just the sexual services she can provide, but picturing her toiling on his property as another one of his wives.

The pimp claps the farmer's back with a laugh, no attachment or regret flashing across his eyes. "She's got uses you ain't even dreamt of yet," he brags, puffing on a cigar with contentment as the deal is sealed.

The farmer's hand encases her smaller one, ownership transferring as casually as the exchange of any other piece of property. "Don't worry," he assures the pimp, a lewd undertone in his voice. "I got plenty of work for her – on her knees, on her back, on all fours...you name it."

She is carted away from the motel at dawn, squinting against the light of the real world she hasn't seen in months. The drive to the farm is a blur of thoughts, the last semblance of resistance flickering weakly against the rolling hills and open fields.

The farmer introduces her to her new home, a small room in the farmhouse – clean in a rustic way, but bare, a mirror of her stripped life. "Get comfy, darlin'," he smirks, his hand grazing her belly with a touch between a caress and a warning. "This is your home now. Best you learn to like it."