Ship of Remorse Page 10

  “Close your eyes and hold still.”

  I felt her left hand grasp the bridge of my nose. Before I could protest, I felt the metal instrument about my septum, heard a loud click and felt sudden unbearable pain.

  After she stepped away, I could see the glint of brass and felt something hanging from my nose. The Doctor had inserted a large ring through my septum!

  “It will heal very easily. It’s a well-designed device. With one pull of the trigger it pierces, inserts the ring and seals it closed. Not sure you’ll ever get used to the ring though. But not to worry, we’ll remove it... some day.”

  Maria had watched the procedure. She resisted and had to be strapped down to the table before the Doctor pierced her nose.

  Miss Greenwich Village touched up my paint while the device was re-sprung and used to pierce Maria. Afterwards, as the woman also retouched her paint, Marvin entered. He gushed.

  “Given the proper budget, I’d film an entire heard of these cowgirls for the Prince. What a great touch with the rings.”

  He raised his viewfinder and scanned my half black body. It was the only covering I had been afforded in almost a year, but strangely I felt even more naked, painted and put on display at the whim of some wealthy Arab. And the ring dangled heavily from its most sensitive place.

  He lowered the viewfinder.

  “The pink appears pale. Can it be highlighted? The Prince will want it to show on the video...”

  Dr. Helga smiled ominously at Nurse Katrina.

  “Easily done, Marvin. But you may not want to watch. We’ll bring in your cows in a few minutes with their pink parts quite presentable. Meanwhile, you may wish to ensure that Inga is properly costumed.”

  Marvin nodded. With a look of perplexity he retreated. Nurse Katrina moved to a cabinet.

  “Try not to spill too much, Katrina.

  “You may have to touch them up a bit,” the Doctor added to the body paint artist.

  “There may be some tears.”

  Nurse Katrina began with Maria. Since she was already strapped to the table, with a quick release of a latch and a turn of a crank, the section under her breasts fell away and the section securing her legs parted. Since her mammary glands hung nearly to the floor a button was pushed and the table rose.

  “Tie them off tightly, Katrina. Three or four minutes shouldn’t hurt”

  Nurse Katrina tied off Maria’s nipples with short, stretches of elastic resembling rubber bands. When done, she pinched and pulled on each one. Amazingly, no milk appeared.

  “Crisp and firm, Katrina. They need a good shade of red for the camera lens.”

  The huge nurse stepped back and pulled a strip of flat, hard rubber from her pocket. She extended her arm out to the side and viciously swung with the motion of a tennis stroke. With the sound of a light splat, the tip of the device glanced off Maria’s right nipple. She screamed. The nurse swung again, hitting the left. Another scream. Then another swing to the right.

  Dr. Helga’s face broke into a most diabolical smile. The faces about the windows were focused intently. I wondered if the numerous cameras were recording the event.

  After a dozen swings, Nurse Katrina moved to the bottom of the table. There, with legs widely separated Maria’s feminine charms were obscenely presented, outer labia spread, inner labia glistening in the bright lights, her clitoris peeking back under a hood forced to reveal its hidden jewel. Utilizing an underhand motion, Nurse Katrina resumed slapping. The strokes were more moderate, but the resulting sound from Maria was the same.

  When finished, Maria’s nipples and genitalia were the color of crimson. Miss Greenwich Village dabbed away her tears and touched up her paint. Dr. Helga turned to me.

  “Up on the table Alexi. You’ll also need to have some color added.”

  ***

  As humiliating as the past year had been aboard the strange ship, I could not possibly be prepared for what followed.

  Maria and I were filmed, extensively, thoroughly, in color, under bright lights and before the ubiquitous collection of Dr. Helga’s guests. They laughed and cheered as Marvin and his crew made an erotic movie of us two lactating females, painted to appear as cows and led about by a rope threaded through our pierced and ringed septum’s. Nurse Inga milked us in a demonstrable fashion, deliberately appearing to be working the udders of a cow rather than the sensitive pink nipples of young girls. Marvin commented afterward that the Prince would be most pleased with the results.

  Yes, I was eventually released from the ship. In time and at Dr. Helga’s whim, not mine. But I end this part with the filming because it punctuated my memory of the years aboard ‘The Scarlet Letter’ and I found the ensuing year to be repetitive and unworthy of recording with pen and paper… though as for that the perverted and licentious guests came and went as we sailed from port to port, and occasionally a new arrival would use my naked, servile and lactating body in some newly degrading manner, though not entirely remarkable.

  And so, after another tour of the Caribbean, and a second pregnancy, the ship returned to New York and I found myself freed to once again attempt a normal life... a pursuit which became equally frustrating and humiliating.

  But that’s another story…

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty

  Recording the events of the past few years has a therapeutic effect. The pages of my journal fill rapidly and what was initially remembered as intolerable humiliation aboard The Scarlet Letter’, slowly turn to more mellow recollections. But the clock indicates it is time for Mr. Fatipton’s evening feeding, thus I drop my pen. Ms. Powers does not tolerate tardiness.

  I remove my robe and move to the bathroom. A full-length mirror reflects my entire naked image. It’s something with which one can never become accustomed. My breasts are huge with nipples that resemble small penises as they react by erecting in the cool room air. I remain shaven. What little hair that grew back after I left the ship, Ms. Powers insisted be removed.

  “Strict antisepticism when interacting with Mr. Fatipton,” she cautioned me more than once.

  Thus, hair with its potential for filth is considered a health risk. But gratefully my eyebrows were allowed to grow in, otherwise I am without hair, between my thighs, under my arms, atop my head. The weekly electrolysis appointments are wearing and expensive. But with Mr. Fatipton’s wealth, money is no object.

  The sound of my clitoral piercing breaks the silence as I reach for my apron. Ms. Powers decided that my little bud was too well hidden and most painfully she had it pierced to hold back the covering hood. Playfully, she thought a tiny bell would be a nice addition and sure enough, Mr. Fatipton always smiles as its ring announces my arrival.

  The rubber apron hangs on the back of the bathroom door alongside my feeding harness. I tie the apron about my waist, careful not to touch my pudendum. Ms. Powers will definitely be checking my hands at some point. The special powder dusted about my labia will glow eerily under a black light, thus any trace found on my hands will result in harsh punishment.

  The feeding harness requires some manipulation in order to don it properly. It resembles a brassiere, except the cups are of thin, stretchable translucent latex and the straps are much stronger, designed to pull back my shoulders and thrust forward my breasts. A small hole in each cup is where my large, elongated nipples are to be presented. Pulling the pink darts through the openings is a chore, and many times my flow will begin just from lightly pinching and forcing the oddly shaped areolas into full view.

  With the base of my nipples tightly encased in latex and the clitoral piercing gently caressing my bud, I begin my journey to Mr. Fatipton’s bedroom. The walk is relatively long. Mr. Fatipton’s mansion is vast and my room within the servant’s quarters is on the fourth floor and well to the rear of the massive structure. Occasional twinges of pleasure cause my step to falter.

  As my naked feet pad down the deeply carpeted hallway, I pass the room of Randy, Mr. Fatipton’s profligate son. I can hea
r through the closed door the sound of Ms. Power’s voice and the sound of slaps.

  He has apparently once again displeased the powerful trustee of Mr. Fatipton’s huge estate, and I picture the tall and amazingly powerful black woman cuffing the twenty year old son, right cheek and then left, as she lectures him. Ms. Powers is a defacto governess. Though Randy is approaching his majority, he will attain it penniless, having to either rely on Ms. Powers and the assets under her control for support, or find some level of ‘dreaded’ employment until age 25, at which time the wealth of the estate passes to him.

  Thus, Randy must accept the blows of Ms. Powers’ controlling hand, comforting himself I’m sure with thoughts of the revenge he will slake when it is his turn to head the Fatipton Empire, said to be in the billions.

  But Randy is not aware of an often overlooked provision in the trust agreement. That is, if there is located another direct descendant of Mr. Fatipton, the trust remains under the control of Ms. Powers until that descendant attains age twenty-five. The provision was added as a protective clause. After a lifetime of debauchery, there was the concern among Mr. Fatipton’s advisors that an illegitimate son or daughter would come forth after his death and, in being neglected in the estate documents, have the ability to cause the estate structure with its huge sums and intricate planning to be torn asunder. The provision stalls that scenario, leaving the control with Ms. Powers until legal planning can be reformulated.

  Ms. Maxine Powers is very much aware of the provision. Educated as an attorney, trained by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I have learned over my months of employment that no detail escapes her attention. She is most intelligent, disciplined and devoted to Mr. Fatipton. But in dealing with Randy, she has no compunction in meting out what is due him after he returns to the mansion from a forbidden evening of indulging in controlled substances and high risk sexual interaction with persons of questionable gender.

  My journey continues, within minutes reaching the decorative carved wooden door of the Master of the house. I knock lightly and enter. With the sound of my tiny bell, Mr. Fatipton stirs from a light nap. For a man nearly 90 years of age, his hearing is remarkable.

  “Is it dinner time, already?”

  His baritone voice squeaks and cracks with age. But in listening to his occasional reminiscences, it is amazing that he is still of this Earth. Taking great risk in business at an early age, some time in his late thirties he placed himself in early retirement and attempted to spend every dollar he earned on rich food, expensive wine, and beautiful women. The food and wine served to aggravate his rare genetic stomach condition. One of the women, finally bringing him to the alter in his late sixties, left him with Randy. She died in a skiing accident. And the money never left him. It continued to amass faster than he could spend it, his crew of proficient executives growing the various interests at an alarming rate.

  I close the door and slowly approach his bed. He lies supine with his head propped up by a large pillow. I know he likes to watch me walk, naked but for the apron loosely hanging over my shaven vulva and the translucent feeding harness which hides very little. My clitoral bell rings, bringing a smile to the wrinkled face of one of the wealthiest men in the world. His eyes follow every bounce of my abundant breasts. Although the feeding harness is tight it is heavily burdened by the sheer weight of my mammary glands. Even in his ninth decade, the life of lechery has ingrained him with an inextinguishable appreciation of the young, the naked and the submissive female. My nipples harden with the anticipation.

  Mr. John Bares Fatipton can only be nourished with human breast milk. His delicate stomach rejects almost all other forms of sustenance. Yes, the life sustaining liquid can be purchased and imbibed through a nippled bottle or straw, but when one’s net worth is measured utilizing ten digits, one has the luxury of hiring the likes of me. Young, shapely and, thanks to Dr. Helga’s program, lactating like a dairy cow.

  When I reach the side of his bed I humbly await instructions. He prefers to vary the positions by which he savors me. He pauses in thought. I look down to see my right nipple giving up milk. Just being in his presence causes my glands to begin to produce. That combined with the titillating walk through the house with my breasts bouncing, my nipples pressured by the latex feeding harness and the tiny bell vibrating to remind me that my clitoris has been woefully neglected. All of which arouses me and assists in bringing forth the most sensuous of reactions from the lactating female... the insatiable need to be suckled

  He laughs seeing the dribble.

  “I often wonder if you need me more than I need you.”

  He is somewhat correct in his observation. After the two years on the ship, a breast pump just doesn’t relieve the aching and throbbing. Psychologically, having my essence extracted by hand or mouth is the only way the need seems to be satisfied.

  “Straddle me. Hands on the bed frame.”

  I know the position all too well. I crawl unto the bed and kneel over his hips. One knee lies on his right side, one on his left. I feel my labia open and my little bell rings freely. I lean over and grasp the top of the bed frame. He slides further down under the covers allowing my huge breasts to hang over his face. His head sinks into the overstuffed pillow. I slowly lower my torso. His lips catch the stiffened, long and pink right nipple and the premature dribble is licked away. Then he draws the entire length of the two-inch appendage into his mouth.

  The long slow feeding begins. Initially his tongue and lips feel cold, but the friction of his strong efforts to suck warm both his mouth and my nipple. I feel the throb begin to dissipate as my flow begins in earnest. The sensation turns to a wonderful glow. I feel my vagina moisten. The fragrance of my undouched sex begins to waft throughout the room. The Master of the house is not too busy to notice the aroma. He forces back a smile, my odoriferous genitalia evidently reminding him of younger and what must have been most libidinous days. It is by Ms. Powers orders that I am so ‘naturally’ presented, as the French would suggest.

  “Mr. Fatipton’s eyesight is failing. He may require your scent in order to acknowledge your presence,” she suggested with her characteristic educated laugh.

  As the Master recalls his robust youth, my mind also wanders as my nourishing essence is drawn away in a process that on some evenings may last for an hour...

  Chapter Twenty-one

  During the autumn of the second year aboard ‘The Scarlet Letter’, about the same schedule was followed, sailing down the east coast and stopping at numerous ports. Dr. Helga’s program was growing rapidly. 3 stall had 2 more girls upon leaving Miami for the slow cruise about the Caribbean. Thus eight girls awaited for all the ‘buns in the oven’ to bake.

  The procedures were identical. My second child arrived on schedule after which me and the other girls of 3 stall became erotic fodder for the debaucherous cannons of the guests.

  Then my fortune turned. With the prolific results of the previous year’s tour of the east coast, Dr. Helga estimated that 3 stall would become overcrowded with the next trip. Not wishing to pass up opportunities for more ‘feminine fondue’, that bizarre ritual of sitting naked and blindfolded while Dr. Helga partook in the essences of expecting teenagers, a decision was made not to inseminate me again.

  Therefore, when the ship reached New York, I was to be released!

  When New York finally arrived I anxiously sat through a most memorable parting interview. Once again sitting naked before Nurse Stolgren, she asked many questions, apparently attempting to elucidate any propensity on my part to report the ship’s practices to the authorities.

  After an hour her hand moved under the desk and a minute later a young nurse entered with the flimsy cardboard box taken away two years earlier by Nurse Katrina. In it were my clothes.

  “If you’d care to sign this release, there is an envelope you can have. Inside are 10 savings bonds totaling $10,000. There is also the address of a hotel with a room prepaid for a month. Most girls have found that to be suff
icient time and money to find employment.”

  The release contained various statements to which I was to swear under oath... that I received proper care, that I was not mistreated and that my offspring were willingly given up for adoption, among other falsehoods.

  After I paused for a moment’s thought, Nurse Stolgren added,

  “Or we can arrange for a quick visit to the insemination table before releasing you...”

  The money was more than enough to tide me over until the fat, the bald and the perverted took me back at the men’s club. (Yes, I was that confident my newly acquired skills would not be over looked).

  And my heart jumped when I thought about once again lying spread open on that table while Dr. Helga injected whatever she wished into my womb.

  I signed.

  Nurse Stolgren picked up the papers and departed. I dressed and was left to find my way out. The clothing felt very strange after two years of nakedness. But I did not meditate about it. I found the egress as quickly as I could and went down the gang plank before the possibility of mistake or oversight found me being taken back to the stall or worse... to the insemination table.

  When I reached the bottom of the plank and looked up, the unctuous words of welcome were again hung on the sign over the hatch door. I found it most ironic that any girl would ever read them and willingly step aboard. But that was no longer my problem.

  An identically gray New York October day greeted me. Humphrey Bogart was again missing from the dock. I found enough money in my pocket book to ensure I could afford a cab. I went to my bank where my tiny checking account remained overlooked and inactive. I made sure it was open, deposited one of the bonds and cashed a check.

  Money and freedom... and with clothing.

  The hotel was a short walk. The clerk, a wizened man in his fifties, knew me by name and looked familiar. As I rode the elevator to my room it dawned on me that his features were quite similar to a guest on ‘The Scarlet Letter’. I could picture his face peering down at me two years earlier during my first outdoor exercise period. As a trainer barked orders on the exercise deck to ‘lift ’em and spread ‘em’, he had smiled most lasciviously. I shuddered with the notion that someone who had been permitted to so closely observe and examine my privates was so proximate to me in my newly acquired world of freedom. The thought ended when I opened the door to my room. What few possessions I had before my ordeal were there, still packed in boxes after their removal from my seedy residence hotel two years before. This ‘Carl’ character, however unsavory in his ability to illegally enter hotel rooms and remove all traces of a person’s life, was most fastidious in his packing. Everything was returned.