Ship of Remorse Read online

  The next morning I called the men’s club and made an appointment for that very afternoon to see the manager concerning employment. My name didn’t seem to ring a bell, which was disappointing.

  I then took a walk, enjoying my freedom, and stopped in a drug store to buy a breast pump. Yes, I was still lactating profusely. Dr. Helga insisted that I received the same treatment as the other cowgirls right up to the last day. Thus, I was overflowing with hormones and had been milked up to the very morning of my release.

  My breasts ached.

  When I returned to my hotel, the wizened clerk was on duty. He called to me that there was a phone message. As I took it from his wrinkled hands, the bag spilled open and the box, imprinted with the words ‘breast pump’, fell unto his side of the reception desk. He leaned over and picked it up with a most knowing smile.

  “Many of Dr. Helga’s former patients spend time here. Our room service can accommodate your needs.”

  Accompanying the shocking words was a look which told me he had indeed observed my naked, opened body and more than likely watched while someone at some time slowly drew my breast milk from my distorted nipples.

  I took the package from him, expressing my displeasure with a look of rage. He just laughed.

  “We’ll be expecting your call, Miss Alexi. We’ve found Dr. Helga’s girls all need assistance at some point.”

  I hurried to the elevator both embarrassed and angry. I should move, I thought. Get to another hotel. But as I later sat in my room and considered, hotels rooms in New York were difficult to find and expensive. The prepaid thirty days was worth at least $3,000. Why should I unnecessarily dip into my stipend so soon? I calmed down, convincing myself that I was now in control of my body, and I would decide who touched me and when.

  Though my breasts throbbed for attention I was too focused on the upcoming interview. The phone message was to request my presence one hour earlier than originally arranged. I napped and found when I awoke that I had little time to relieve the buildup of fluid before making the appointment.

  It was a mistake.

  I dressed quickly and simply, knowing that whatever garments I chose, I would not be wearing them for long. A cute hat covered my baldness. (Nurse Inga had shaved me right up to the last day). I rushed through the lobby, ignoring the clerk. The cab ride in mid-afternoon was quick. I arrived on time.

  The fat, the bald and the perverted was fatter and balder than before, directing me to proceed straight to his basement office.

  “I remember you little lady. Your Uncle Carl told me that the leave of absence would be longer than expected.”

  So, the mysterious Carl had covered all the bases. No one at the club was looking for me over the past two years, though I doubt if they would have spent the time even without Carl’s input.

  We entered his office after walking through the large administrative area where I used to pick up my paycheck. He shut the door. The office smelled the same, though after my sojourn on the ship, my nose was much more sensitive to the fragrance of the female genitalia. It was strong. Another girl had evidently been recently ‘interviewed’.

  “Would you like to waitress again or apply to be a dancer?”

  As usual, he got right down to business.

  I also got down to business and began removing my clothing.

  Mr. Fatipton pushes my right nipple out of his mouth, interrupting my thoughts. I twist my torso, positioning my left nipple over his lips. Tonight he is hungry, sucking in the second pink dart with surprising gusto. It feels good. I feel my vaginal moisture begin to drip down my thigh. My right nipple is well worn, but the constant dull ache is gone.

  As trained, I remain motionless, letting him slowly drain me. I feel the covers move and peer down to see the bony right hand of the octogenarian slip out. I know what is coming. By instinct the old reprobate cannot help himself. The cool fingers find the inside of my left thigh and slide up under my rubber apron. I do not object or move to stop him. It is one of my duties and despite the coldness; I will open myself completely to his whims. I remind myself of the high level of compensation for complying versus the painful wrath of Ms. Powers for resisting.

  As two fingers glide into my love nest, I calm myself with memories. My mind returns to the office interview...

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I casually tossed my garments onto a nearby chair. The manager was smiling, sitting behind his desk, quietly enjoying the show. When my nipples popped into view his smile turned to a stare. Then I removed the cute hat, baring my hairless head. I had not even grown much of a stubble.

  “Whoa. Stop right there, little lady. The circus left town months ago.”

  I explained that I had been traveling and had not had time to purchase a wig.

  “You going to buy one for those tits too?”

  Sitting on a large swiveling desk chair, he motioned me toward him. As I approached, he patted his knees, indicating I was to sit on his lap.

  I thought I was mentally prepared after two years of abject humiliation aboard ‘The Scarlet Letter’. But most of the interaction there had been with women. The fat, the bald, and the perverted was a most repugnant male. I just wasn’t fully expecting the combination of bad odor, brash talk, and distasteful appearance. To make matters worse, my nipples crinkled in reaction to the excitement, apparently anticipating some form of interaction, despite my reluctance. The manager noticed and was amused. He took the sight of my erecting pink darts as a prelude for lust.

  “Well, well. Nicely shaved below. Now that helps. Spread ‘em and have a seat.”

  With his choice of phraseology, I could not help but recall the commands of the ship’s trainers as I laid on the exercise mat, parting my thighs in compliance and looking up to see so many deviant yet smiling faces glaring at my privates, exposed so well in the Caribbean sun.

  I summoned the courage to sit, convincing myself that unless I found work, within thirty days my stipend of savings bonds would begin to erode, quickly.

  “Not so shy any more. Good. I won’t ask what you been doing but your attitude has improved. That’s also good. We can always use girls who do what they’re told. You know, many customers come here to get away from nagging wives. Don’t need girls who play hard to get games or just say ‘no’.”

  I had placed my hands on my head. I hated myself for the move, ingrained after months of Dr. Helga’s input, but it impressed the manager and since my huge breasts were practically pushed into his face as a result, he took it as an invitation, which he readily accepted.

  As his left hand reached to my right nipple, his right slipped between my thighs. The degradation I had expected and mentally planned for began. I told myself to remain silent and to please him no matter what and to think about all the dollar bills that would be tossed my way working the club’s runway or better, the private room for table dances.

  Two fingers slipped inside me. I decided to demonstrate some of my newly found talent. I latched onto the digits with my well-developed pelvic muscles pulling them in and at the same time massaging them with a rolling contraction. I had the strange woman with the metal eggs to thank for learning that trick. The manager was ecstatic, chortling as he wriggled his fingers in response.

  “Like some kind of Tijuana act,” he smugly announced

  He continued working his fingers. I felt my wetness begin. He rolled my right nipple between thumb and forefinger.

  It was then that I regretted not having the time to use the breast pump. I sprayed him with milk.

  “Whoa. If you’re pregnant you’re not going to be here long.”

  I explained my condition, the second child having been born six months before. I did not explain Dr. Helga’s extensive hormone and lactation program. Who’d ever believe it?

  “Ok. So you obviously need to feed the kid.”

  I didn’t bother informing him of the adoption. I really needed the job.

  “Yeah, we got a place for good girls who need some quick
dough. The question is, are you a good girl?”

  I was prepared to answer. I retreated from his lap and went to my knees. He looked down with a smile and separated his thighs. Over time Josef had added several refinements to the many mornings of fellatio. And one I demonstrated by placing my hands behind my back, craning my neck forward and using my tongue and lips to locate his zipper. My well-trained and dexterous tongue found it and flipped up the tab, allowing my teeth to grasp the small strip of plastic. With a quick movement of my head I unzipped it then snuggled my face inward.

  “You been working the wrong side of the tracks,” he suggested with a laugh. “But we kinda like that here. I think I got just the spot for you.”

  His words inspired me and I worked toward his penis, which was not hard to find under the boxer shorts. It, in turn, was doing its best to find my lips, its semi erect shaft poking upwards.

  I drew in the head. He was nowhere near the size of Josef. Therefore physically the nasty deed was easy. Emotionally, since I had been preparing for it for almost two years, I was able to put aside my disgust. Thus, I proceeded with as much relish as I could summon. Since the fat, the bald and the perverted probably had some sycophantic girl sucking between his thighs weekly, if not daily, I knew my fellatio had to make an impression.

  It did. I took him slowly and deeply, prolonging the pleasure until I thought he would faint. Then I let him pump a bit and climax into the depths of my gullet. He came like a pubescent schoolboy.

  After holding still and letting his penis soften, I carefully licked him clean, sucking in the very last drop of semen from the tip of his urethra and making sure he noted that I swallowed everything.

  “You’re like a little vacuum cleaner,” he suggested with a smile. “Keep the head shaved. It adds a nice twist.”

  I was pleased that he was pleased. I began to count all those imaginary dollars. He began scribbling on a pad. I remained kneeling, demonstrating my complete subjugation.

  “Take this over to Ernie at our west side operation. 42nd street near 10th Avenue. You may have to audition a little, if you know what I mean. But he needs good girls who have their scruples under control.

  “I think he’ll like the look,” he added, brushing his hand across my baldhead.

  My heart sunk when I heard the address. This could not be a swanky men’s club. There was nothing even close to being swanky at that location, one of the seediest areas of Manhattan.

  “Don’t look so sad. You can come back and apply again anytime.”

  He laughed at his own cruel joke. Reflectively, I asked myself if at any point he ever gave me serious consideration for the dancer’s job. This time he did not even offer the waitressing position.

  He got up and left. I dressed. When I stepped out of his office into the larger room filled with filing cabinets and papers, a middle aged woman, evidently a bookkeeper or clerk, was tittering.

  “You want me to schedule another appointment for next week?”

  With her sarcastic question she broke into an outrageous laugh. I sullenly continued toward the stairs. As I reached the top and stepped into the empty main dance room I heard her call out from below.

  “If it makes you feel better, he said you were one of the best,” her laugh got even louder. I exited the club into the cold of the New York autumn. I headed west toward 10th Avenue.

  Mr. Fatipton’s fingers are warmed by my hot vagina. The exploration of my most intimate passage seems to spur his suckling. It also increases my flow. I know this from two years of having Dr. Helga collect my precious fluid like a dairy farmer. The lactation process is both explicitly and inexplicably linked to arousal. Thus I let him work me, enjoying the sensation of having my neglected genitalia fingered, even if by the aged and gnarled digits of an eighty-year-old man.

  After ten more minutes he pushes away the left nipple. He is well nourished, yet I have more to offer. I know that within minutes my remaining juices will cause that breast to throb and I will humbly beg Ms. Powers for assistance. But meanwhile, my duties continue. He slides out his fingers. I can always hear the slight plopping sound as my extremely wet vaginal opening seeks to hold in the manipulating appendages.

  Though frustrated in being half masturbated, I shuffle lower, straddling his calves.

  “May I suck your penis, sir?”

  Ms. Powers’ instructions have been very specific... that at each feeding I humbly beseech the Master of the house with the utmost of courtesy and respect. I use as subservient a tone of voice as possible. For me, it is a privilege to be of oral service.

  He nods with a distant look of joy. It is apparent that the warm, moist and lively tongue of the obsequious young female brings pleasant memories.

  I pull down the bed covers. His only garment is a nightgown, which I gently push up to his waist exposing what at one time was a magnificent organ. Without pause, I submissively lower my head and take into my mouth the withered phallus of the supine billionaire. His left hand pats my baldhead, as if rewarding the behavior of a beloved puppy whose training is at last found to be acceptable. Meanwhile I can hear Mr. Fatipton sniffing the fingers of his right hand, fragrantly coated with my juices.

  The ‘hunt’ is still in the dog.

  By rote, my tongue dances... licking, rotating, gyrating. I feel my Master’s member twitch.

  I will suck him until he falls asleep. There will be no respite for me until he does so. Ms. Powers insists and she awaits my signal.

  My mind returns to that befuddled walk along 42nd street, clutching what I believed to be my last hope for employment, the scribbled note to ‘Ernie’ from the fat, the bald and the perverted.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The ‘west side operation’ was not as seedy as I expected. It was worse.

  Garish neon signs flashed, indicating the availability of ‘girls’... ‘naked and moving’ suggested another. In faded red, the words ‘non-stop action’ were painted on a board hastily nailed over an old, more permanent sign. I felt dirty just standing and reading all the suggestive advertising.

  It was a peep show.

  The ‘interview’ with Ernie went as expected. He was amused when I stripped without request as he read the note from the fat, the bald and the perverted. He likewise squeezed a nipple but did so while standing to my side. He did not appear surprised by the resulting stream of breast milk, which shot across the room. The fat, the bald, and the perverted had evidently called ahead to apprize him of my condition.

  Before I could demonstrate my zipper trick, he had his penis out and was pushing me downwards.

  “All fours. I like to talk without being interrupted so I give my girls something to keep their tongues busy while they listen.”

  Ernie had an interesting methodology for attaining oral gratification. It was best described as fornicating my face, aggressively and with no regard for my comfort.

  He began by intentionally stepping on my hands. Not painfully, but firmly enough so that I could not lift or move my arms. Then he grasped my ears and directed my mouth toward his stiffening penis.

  It was gruff and bold. Had I not been an accomplished fellatrix, I would be gagging uncontrollably as he rocked his hips and tugged on my ears and head, thrusting his sizable stiff phallus in and out.

  Quickly achieving full erection, thrusting rhythmically and deeply, he spoke.

  “Yeah, you are good.

  “Here’s the deal. Every day you arrive, you strip, you enter a booth. When the bright lights turn on that means one or possibly up to four customers are watching you. They’re going to have requests. The more requests, the more money they pay. You won’t be able to see them; they look through holes in the booth. We’ve had other lactating girls. A couple of regulars will want to see some flow. Doesn’t have to be a lot. Give the nipples a little squeeze. They’ll love it. Mostly you’ll just masturbate for them. That’s probably the most common thing. That and some nice spread shots, front and back. Some of the girls keep their backs
ides lubed up. The shining oil gets ‘em thinking, you know.

  “You’ll keep yourself shaved. Everywhere. It’s an attraction. You’ll find that even normal looking guys have proclivities that are different. We want them to come here for that. So do what they demand no matter how different.

  “No hair. Got it. And do what you can to keep that milk going.”

  Ernie stopped talking and began fornicating my face in earnest. He pulled roughly and exploded quite strongly. He seemed impressed when I didn’t gag.

  “Yeah, you been around. If you need some extra dough, I can get you some bachelor party action. We know who we can trust. It’s best that you keep that backside opened. Know what I mean?

  “And we’ll talk every now and then. You know, I like to make sure my girls are happy and the girls feel the same about me.”

  So, in addition to my duties in the booth, return visits to his grimy office on all fours and with tongue and lips ready would be mandatory.

  Ernie was zipping himself when he was called away.

  “Start tomorrow. 11:00 a.m. You’ll be surprised with the number of ‘gentlemen’ who stop in during their lunch hour.”

  He firmly pinched my left nipple causing a small geyser of milk to arch across the room. He snickered as he walked out. I dressed and returned to my hotel.

  Mr. Fatipton sleeps soundly. He is satiated by my nourishing milk and the firm sucking of tongue and lips on his once proud manhood.