Ship of Remorse Page 16

  With the humiliation of being forcibly milked before the young male, I flush. I cannot help myself. Though degrading, having my nipples tended to, even so awkwardly, is gratifying. And having brought myself so close to climaxing on the smooth brass doorknob, my already wet vagina begins to flood. I involuntarily begin gyrating my hips, causing my little bell to ring and my gold ball to jiggle against my inner labia.

  Yes, I am quite the sight for the young Julio. He watches in fascination, then begins to laugh, quickly becoming comfortable.

  Before emptying my left, Angela switches to my right. Her inexperience shows. My left breast contains much milk and throbs even more with the need for attention.

  But the right nipple erupts with force, causing milk to splash heavily into the partially filled bowl and resulting in spillage, which drips to Julio’s shoes. He looks down. Angela squeezes twice more. Julio is too aroused to continue watching. The youth’s tumefied organ takes control of his actions, causing him to grab Angela by her free hand. She looks at him, stops milking and laughs. Wordlessly, he pulls her toward him and kisses her, pressing his swollen member against her thigh. She feels it and casually titters. But it is a poor attempt to disguise her own arousal. She breaks away, steps to my bed, picks up my pillow and removes the case. Upon returning she pulls it over my head, blinding me.

  I hear the sound of zippers and the rustle of clothing.

  For the next thirty minutes I remain kneeling in a state of frustration, half milked, half masturbated while I listen to the two teenagers copulate on my bed, presumably gazing at my bound and naked form to spur their ecstasy. I long for the firm fingers of Ms. Powers. My glands throb more than ever. I find myself moving in rhythm with the lustful thrusts of the lovers, sounding my bell and rotating my hips in futile attempts to bring a clitoral orgasm. My gold ball works my labia, caressing the inner lips and adding to my frustration.

  Amazingly, I can feel my milk continue to slowly stream downwards to the tips of my nipples. If I remain still I can hear small droplets drip to the bowl. Otherwise, I imagine, with my desperate movements to achieve gratification, that my essence is thrown about the room by my flopping breasts, wetting both carpet and furniture.

  Sounds of ultimate satisfaction come. The sighs and heavy breathing stop. Then I feel fingers on both nipples. Strong and rough, they are not Angela’s. The unknowledgeable never seem to apply slow continuous pressure and let the milk release itself as does the experienced milker. But my breasts need relief and I hear the sounds of a reasonable amount of flow. I hear the soft laughter of the young male and the voice of the vixen.

  “Go ahead, Julio. Ms. Powers is away. You may do as you please.”

  The fingers again leave my glands. The bottom of the pillowcase is rolled up. The hands clench my head and guide it forward.

  I have been in the presence of too many males not to know what is coming. I open my mouth in anticipation. Julio’s appendage is wet and smells of the female organ.

  “You suck. I milk,” the accented male voice suggests.

  Julio seems to understand my acute need. I comply. As unskilled as they are, I need to feel the pressure of his fingers. His hands leave my head. The pillowcase drapes down and the folds gather where my lips have wrapped about the well-sized, moist and flaccid shaft. I once again feel the gruff but welcomed fingers on my nipples. I indeed suck. The two lovers do not realize my own skill level. My tongue swirls while I pull in the quickly growing organ until the tip knocks at the opening to my throat. For a teen, Julio is a big boy, but in controlling my gag reflex, as my training has so intensively ingrained, his erection slides to the very depths of my throat. He pauses, seemingly shocked with the ease by which I have taken the entire length of his shaft, then resumes, his pure pleasure overriding the absent feeling of machismo normally experienced in making the fellatrix gag.

  In reward for my oral efforts, his clumsy fingers squeeze. I hear strong spurts of my milk splash into the bowl. Briefly, we indeed reach an unspoken quid pro quo... I suck... he milks.

  Unfortunately, the young male, despite his recent climax, too quickly approaches orgasm. I am stymied by my own well-practiced fellatio. Achieving full erection, Julio’s desire is restored. He withdraws and I hear the lovers move again to my bed. I once again am left to my own to listen to the sounds of giggling and passionate lovemaking.

  It is only the dinner hour that inhibits a third go round. Julio professing the need to eat as the young lovers again recover from a second cacophonous pair of orgasms.

  I can hear him dress inches from where I remain blindfolded and kneeling on the table. In finishing, a hand reaches out and one last squeeze of my right nipple produces a sizable spurt and the subsequent sound of spatter in the bowl.

  “She fun,” Julio exclaims in broken English as his footsteps move toward the door.

  I hear the tray being removed and the sound of giggling voices as the hallway door opens and closes.

  I am left alone with the pillowcase over my head, breasts throbbing, my vagina in desperate need of attention.

  What seems like hours later, Angela returns. She removes the pillowcase and feeds me.

  “Ms. Powers called and gave me instructions. I told her of the strong fragrance in your room and she concluded the same thing I did. Your complete chastity is mandatory. Therefore you’re to remain in the waist belt and not to be milked until she returns. She also suggested you wear this.”

  Angela held up my neck collar and leash.

  “We’ll check on you during the night.”

  With hands secured, there can be no resistance while she buckles the collar around my neck. The leash is clipped to the bedpost. The brass doorknob, my last refuge for gratification, is beyond reach.

  Angela’s last task is to remove the blanket and top sheet from my bed. I am to rest without covering.

  My adrenaline subsides and I eventually sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night a maid enters, unclips my leash and leads me into the bathroom. In place of the toilet she directs me to squat in the bathtub. There she reaches between my thighs, parts my lips and pulls aside my golden ball, clearing my passage for relief. The young girl titters as my flow begins, impressed with her own control.

  Hours later, Angela enters. It is close to dawn and I find it odd that she has arisen just to visit me. But then the ubiquitous brush emerges from her pocket. She holds it up and I cringe with the thoughts of the insufferable pleasure it brings.

  “Ms. Powers’ orders,” she laconically explains, as she pushes apart my thighs.

  For the next twenty minutes the pretty vixen gently caresses first my labia, then satisfied that they have been adequately flushed, slowly glides the soft bristles up to my clitoris. She comments on my wetness. Her last act is to once again twist the golden ball, winding the elastic cord so that it slowly rotates. She leaves but long after the sound of her footsteps fade, I feel within my pouch the effect of her mischief.

  I eventually sleep. Within what seems like minutes the door opens. It is Angela with food. The sun indicates that it is just past dawn. I am fed and given my hormone shot. This time her pocket carries a feather.

  “Spread for me... yes that’s a good girl.”

  Being commanded about by such a young girl is angering. But I am helpless to resist, thus I part my thighs to once again display myself to the precocious strumpet. Again my most sensitive female charms are sensually stroked. This time with my arousal, my nipples awaken and without touch begin to drip. They are sadly neglected and in need of milking.

  Angela smiles, purses her lips and softly blows right and left on the crinkled darts. They harden more in reaction, the contraction magically causes more flow. It’s as if the glands are no longer mine but hers to do with as she desires.

  “Ms. Powers will be pleased.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The routine continues for the next few days. My breasts not only ache but leak constantly. Angela takes great delight in feathering my cli
toris, which causes the flow to begin in earnest. But I am not milked, only feathered. At one point she exclaims that my clitoral bell will wear itself out and thereafter I find myself in ankle cuffs, lying spread open with feet secured to the bed posters.

  As a result, I can no longer move enough to arouse myself. It is only by way of Angela’s hand, which seems to present itself every two or three hours, that my vaginal passage is turned into a river and my breasts turned to leaky faucets.

  Finally, after several days, an eternity in which I was fed like a baby and had many embarrassing episodes of having a bedpan slid under my buttocks, Ms. Powers returns.

  She noiselessly enters my room, sashaying to my bedside and displaying an aplomb that I envy.

  “Good morning, Alexi. You’re flowing rather nicely.”

  Yes, I am leaking again. Cloudy white liquid is streaming down my neglected breasts to my stomach. She reaches out and pinches, emphasizing her observation by sending a geyser into the air.

  “Do you know why you’re being punished?”

  I have a good clue, but feign innocence and shake my head.

  From her pocket comes the black light. She flips it on and extends her arm back toward the door without moving her eyes from me. The doorknob glows eerily, still covered with the iridescent powder as a result of frottaging my quim days before.

  “While the cat’s away the mouse will play I suppose. But I also obtained this during my visit to New York.”

  She holds up a videotape.

  “It seems a disgruntled clerk from the hotel you stayed at wanted me to see this. Said I’d find it very interesting. He was correct. After I viewed it I called and instructed Angela to cease all milking and feather you every three hours until I returned. You and I should watch this together.”

  It must have been the wizened old man Maurice from whom I sought refuge by having him milk me into the hotel room bathtub. He did appear irritated by my unannounced departure months before.

  “Late this afternoon after I work out we’ll go to my room and we’ll watch.”

  Ms. Powers leaves. I am disappointed that she chose not to milk me. I am also perplexed by the video. I lie supine and unable to move. The throb in my overfilled breasts seems to correlate with my heartbeat. Feeling the steady, dull pain makes the day go very slowly.

  Hours later I find myself in the Estate’s gymnasium. It is huge, designed to be utilized by the entire staff, therefore it has much equipment and takes up the basement of the entire east wing.

  But Ms. Powers prefers to exercise alone. Therefore the staff is forbidden access during her daily rigorous workouts and but for the noise of her pumping the machinery, an observer would conclude the vast area to be unoccupied.

  I am granted the privilege of watching the ebony goddess pump large weights for an astounding number of repetitions. She attacks what for anyone else would be stubborn masses of metal and works until the iron seems to surrender. Then quickly moves to the next exercise and energetically begins again. Within 10 minutes her perspiration causes her dark skin to gleam under the bright lights and the display of her power becomes mesmerizing.

  Her attire leaves a memorable impression for she wears practically nothing. Arriving at the gym in a silk robe, she discards it to reveal almost completely an incredible physique. She requires the utility of a firm sports bra to keep her breasts from bouncing uncontrollably. Other than that, she is naked from her sternum to her toes. Her waist is minimal but curves outward to form buttocks which capture the eye, particularly when moving, and legs that seem to be able to lift entire machines, not just the weights attached thereto.

  But it is only her arms, which appear less than potently feminine. They are those of a construction worker. Sculpted but rugged, the only hint of femininity being the smooth relatively hairless flesh that covers the powerful muscles beneath.

  She notices my intent and envious stare. She smiles knowing that it is by her hand that my physique is the opposite of hers... pearl white... and Rubenesque... with layers of soft but firm fat. As written, my reflection reminds me of the Pillsbury doughboy, but in place of soft moist flour, I am full of breast milk. It belongs not to me but to whomever cares to take the time to extract it. I am just a large vessel, bathed and fed for the purpose of storing the nourishing liquid then giving it up for the amusement of others.

  Watching Ms. Powers’ beautiful body arouses me. As I kneel with wrists still secured and thighs spread, I find my hips rotating and like it or not my clitoral bell gives away my thoughts. It has been many days since I’ve been afforded the pleasure of servicing her. My frolicking imagination places my face between her muscled thighs where I lick and suck while her strong arms tug at my hairless head in a symbolic attempt to pull my face within her portal and have my tongue caress the very depths of her vagina.

  By the time she finishes, I can feel my juices running to the floor and smell my strong fragrance. Ms. Powers arises from the bench press where hundreds of pounds have been thrust toward the ceiling while I peek between her naked thighs. She approaches with the well-trimmed patch of pubic hair at the level of my eyes. Sweat is pouring down her torso, gathering there then streaming toward the floor.

  “I seem to have forgotten my towel,” she remarks as she places my smooth, hairless head between her open hands.

  I need no further invitation. As she pushes downward I simultaneously bow with tongue extended. I am granted the privilege of licking her entire wet and overheated body.

  I savor her flesh. It has been too long since I last tasted her. And the thought occurs that perhaps, just perhaps, if my tongue pleases, my breasts will be soothingly pumped of the painful engorging liquid.

  Long steady laps cover her right calve. I quickly move to her left. Then to her thighs. She patiently stands arms akimbo, on occasion reaching down and utilizing an earlobe like a handle to guide my lips to a particularly sensuous area.

  At last I reach her nest. She parts her feet. My tongue dives in and I suck her plump firm outer labia.

  My tongue moves onward to her bud. Before I can lick and nibble the sensitive pearl she pushes away my head.

  “You know where I like little white girls to visit.”

  Yes I do. She turns and presents her magnificent buttocks. I lick and find my way between muscled hillocks. I think of the number of evenings I have spent permitted to explore there without end.

  I am so grateful she has returned.

  As my tongue enters her forbidden crinkled opening, she speaks.

  “I’ve changed my plans somewhat. After watching the videotape, I think I can make you happier with a different course of action. There are too many things about your past that you withheld from me. Your evasiveness will cost you dearly.”

  My tongue and lips momentarily freeze in shock, then hungrily resume.

  Her concern must be with my experiences aboard ‘The Scarlet Letter’, I conclude. I have no other past except the brief time working at the peep show, of which Ms. Powers is very much aware.

  “I’m going to have your electrolysis appointments expedited. I’m having the woman come here every day until every follicle is removed. I’ve been very tolerant in allowing the eyebrows. But you have not been appreciative of my leniency.”

  The strange image projected by my shaven eyebrows while aboard ‘The Scarlet Letter’ comes to mind. I shudder with the memory. I humbly continue to lick, but a sadness slowly overcomes me. I have somehow upset the Mistress of the house, my new defacto Lord and Master, and there appears a price to be paid.

  “My robe.”

  With my tongue having been deemed to cover all pertinent areas, my task is completed. I crawl to retrieve her robe, clench it within my teeth and return. She clips on my leash. I am led back to her apartment.

  “There will be other changes, Alexi. Tomorrow you have a doctor’s appointment. I decided on some alterations, small but meaningful.

  “I am also attempting to contact a certain artist. I’ve been im
pressed with her work but don’t know her name. Finding her will require time and money. I have both.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  I am granted the privilege of watching Ms. Powers shower, and again find myself mesmerized by the combination of muscles and feminine curves on her six-foot frame. Donning a soft cotton robe, she tugs on my leash and we proceed to her living room .

  There, Ms. Powers guides me to the carpet before her large television. I sit on the floor with my back propped against the front of her lounge chair, legs stretched straight out in front of me. My wrists remain cuffed in my waist belt. Without command, I know to spread my feet. My golden ball first peeks out then is slowly drawn up inside me. The ominous videotape is inserted. A button is pushed. She returns and sits with her legs straddling my shoulders.

  Filling the screen is the radiant face of Nurse Inga. Her blond her is braided and as the lens zooms out, the camera finds her wearing a costume resembling a German milkmaid. My mind races with the recognition and the recollection of the event. It is the video made for the wealthy Arab Prince!

  “Interesting, is it not Alexi? The quality of the cinematography is rather good for a kinky video.”

  It is indeed. So, Marvin’s work is better than average, I think to myself. The Prince’s money appears to have been well spent.

  As Nurse Inga frolics on the screen and the camera focuses on her stainless steel pail and rubber apron, my mind wanders back to that most humiliating role I was forced to fulfill.

  After watching Nurse Katrina add ‘color’ to Maria’s nipples and labia it was my turn. The rubber slapper was specifically designed to induce pain without causing damage to the flesh. It had the useful side effect of causing the area of application to become flushed with increased circulation and, as Marvin discovered, to thus present a deep shade of red for the benefit of the camera.

  I howled like a wild animal. But Nurse Katrina was relentless. I learned ironically that with the slapper the recipient may suffer even more than from the application of the whip, cane or riding crop. With those instruments of correction the flagellatrix must be careful not to inflict permanent injury. With the slapper, there are no limits except the endurance of the dispenser’s arm.