Ship of Remorse Read online

The details become blurred. My balls are slipped out and the doctor’s instruments seem to work deep within my cervix. Then I feel the instruments being withdrawn and something slipped back within.

  Then my mouth is forced open and held by a special device as what seemed to be conically shaped instruments slide down my throat. The doctor works there for many minutes. I feel some pain.

  Then it is time for my ring. Surprisingly, the hole created by Dr. Helga’s device had not completely healed. Reopening it is uncomfortable but much less painful than the original effort months before.

  I see a bright flash as the enormous ring is welded closed. My feet are released. The doctor leaves. The nurse helps me off the table.

  “How do you feel?”

  I speak but no words come out. Instead there is gibberish.

  “Do you wish to talk?”

  The nurse becomes annoying with her attempts to entice me to speak. After more tries and more gibberish, she laughs.

  “Very good. The doctor has sutured your vocal cords. Ms. Powers’ orders. You’ll find that your throat will feel a little sore. Trying to talk will irritate it but won’t do any permanent damage.

  “Walk for me, be careful.”

  I step off the table to the sound of a moderate clang and the most amazing feeling within my vagina. I look down to see a sizable bell dangling between my thighs. It is two to three inches wide, about the same in length and hangs from an elastic cord similar to that which held my golden ball. The outside surface of the bronze colored bell is studded with spikes.

  “I’ve never seen one of those before. I have seen discipline implements hung in order to keep a girls thighs parted, but never combined with something that rings.”

  She laughs.

  “It’s attached to a new set of Ben Wa balls. The cord has been sutured very high on your vaginal wall so don’t try to pull it out.”

  Yes, as the bell moves about and rings with my movements I can feel it moving the ball near my vaginal opening. The larger ball deep within me also moves. This was not so prominent with the original set.

  “You may wish to rest for a while. The atropine will dissipate in an hour or so. Then the feel of Ms. Powers’ new toys will be even more prevalent.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  As the limousine again passes through the pillars, the last effects of the mild sedative dissipate. In the bottom of my peripheral vision is my new nose ring. When I look down, the hideous bronze bell rests on the leather seat between my well-parted thighs.

  The sharp studs attached to its outer surface force me to sit with legs spread and my outer labia pleasantly rubbing against the soft warm seat cover.

  The difficulty in walking out of the doctor’s office to the car was mitigated by the effect of the atropine. But as it wears off and the car makes very slight movements, the weight of the bell tugs on the elastic cord and gyrates my balls, sending pangs of pleasure throughout my genitalia.

  As we approach the immense house I spy a truck loaded with lumber. The sounds of saws and hammers penetrate the car frame as Arthur pushes a button to open the garage door.

  The Mercedes is expertly guided into the garage. There stands Ms. Powers. When Arthur opens the rear door he moves to the side. I peer out to see the Mistress of the Estate twisting a rope in her hands.

  “Come, Alexi. Don’t be shy.”

  She snaps her fingers twice and smiles. She knows the sensations caused by any motion of the new jewelry and bell are nearly impossible to withstand. I reach down with my right hand and carefully grasp the bell so as not to prick myself. The studs are that sharp. Holding it I then step out. Controlling the motion of the hanging implement helps.

  I begin to speak, forgetting about the surgery. With the sound of the imperceptible utterances, Ms. Powers laughs and pulls off the flimsy sheet. I stand before her naked as she threads the rope through the large nose ring.

  “Release the bell, Alexi. You don’t really want to face a caning so soon after your doctor’s visit.”

  I comply. As it swings downward and clangs the studs force me to spread further. With the sensation of the initial swing my knees almost give out with the sudden feeling of ecstasy. Ms. Powers is amused.

  “The new upper ball has been set adjacent to your ‘G’ spot. The lower one will still friction your inner labia. It’s designed so that as the bell moves and rings you’ll become one pleasantly aroused cowgirl.”

  A slight tug on the rope and I feel a familiar acute pain that I have not experienced in months. The ring pressures an amazing number of sensitive nerve endings in my nose and nostrils. I lurch to follow Ms. Powers despite the clanging of the large bell and the incredible pleasure is causes.

  “You’ll find your cortex overwhelmed Pain and pleasure with each step.. Walk with me. Minimize the pain”

  I do indeed. Trying as best I can to ignore the deep sensations within my vagina in order to keep the controlling rope slack.

  “The lumber and the sounds of carpentry are for your new home. It will be ready in a few days. Time now for some electrolysis.”

  As I waddle behind Ms. Powers, walking with feet well apart, freeing the heavy bell to swing with each step, we enter one of the lower bedrooms. It has been quickly converted to what appears to be a salon. But there is no comfortable chair, just a plain table. Two women are awaiting me. One I recognize as the woman who I’ve been visiting for weekly treatments. The other, much younger and pretty, I learn is her daughter.

  Ms. Powers ties the end of my rope somewhere under the table and leaves. The remainder of the day I spend kneeling on the flat surface as the two women work with nasty electrical instruments. When the mother works my eyebrows, I begin to cry, recalling the alien look such removal causes. The daughter just laughs and continues to sporadically do so throughout the afternoon. She comments to her mother about my scent, which is most noticeable when forced to remain spread for so long. On occasion she pushes my new bell, careful not to prick her finger on the studs. She is amused by my resulting moans of pleasure and the stronger wafts of feminine arousal.

  Later I am led to my room. Dinner is served by a maid and is comprised of high fat foods with what appears to be a large milkshake. It is the first evening of my new diet. Ms. Powers henceforth will mandate only milk, various cheeses and plenty of ice cream.

  I reflect on how carefully my diet was balanced and monitored aboard ‘The Scarlet Letter’ and how much exercise Dr. Helga demanded of us cowgirls. Now at the Fatipton Estate I am offered all the dairy products I want with the maid closely supervising to ensure the complete consumption of the large milkshake. And as for exercise, during my few months of tenure I was barely permitted to walk and would appear to be doing even less with the horrid bell in place.

  The maid places me back into my waist belt with wrists cuffed. Mercifully, the bell is removed while sleeping, therefore I am permitted some degree of latitude in positioning myself on my bed.

  I find myself undergoing two more afternoons of electrolysis which otherwise punctuate mornings and evenings of inactivity. I am not granted the relief of a milking. Then on a third afternoon, the woman very carefully inspects every inch of my exposed flesh. When finished she pronounces me hairless and so informs Ms. Powers with the recommendation she return for monthly maintenance visits.

  “There’s always some stubborn follicle that will pop up somewhere,” she sums up with a very pleased Ms. Powers.

  On the following day I am again brought to the makeshift salon. Though Ms. Powers had suggested she was to be contacted, I am still surprised to encounter Ms. Greenwich Village, the avant-garde artist who painted me for the video.

  I guess one never can be accustomed to being led about by a nose ring, naked and with bells ringing (yes my clitoral bell continues to tintinnabulate along with the other). For when she looked at me and laughed, I flushed with shame.

  “Yes, I remember her. The ship. I do a lot of kinky stuff but her I remember. Miss Elsie the cow. Some show
she put on with that other girl. I even asked Marvin for a copy of the tape. I usually don’t bother. I’m not into most of the scenes. I normally just throw on some body paint and move onwards.”

  “But you are a tattoo artist? I was specific concerning my request.”

  Ms. Powers’ FBI training as an interrogator surfaces. With her emphasis of the word ‘tattoo’ my ears perk.

  “Oh. Yes. That’s really how I got started. Some movie directors saw my work and for certain productions wanted the actors to wear the same look. But no actor is going to let himself be permanently marked. So for movies and the stage, I paint.”

  “Well this will need to be permanent. Call it an affectation. Alexi will not object.”

  Permanent!

  In my shocked reaction the gibberish begins to flow from my mouth. But Ms. Powers is most correct. I in fact will not object. I cannot speak!

  “Can you replicate the patterns on the video or something similar? I have a copy for you to view.”

  A discussion ensues. The artist suggests outlining the black areas with a marker first. If not satisfactory, the tape can then be reviewed. Ms. Powers agrees.

  “Black is almost impossible to remove, Ms. Powers. Even the laser has difficulty breaking down that color.”

  A smiling Ms. Powers nods.

  “She’ll be taken care of here. If not, she can always obtain movie roles.”

  Both laugh with the suggestion. The artist opens her case. Ms. Powers departs. For the next hour Miss Avant Garde once again uses my naked hairless body like a canvass. This time she knows to draw within my thighs, my dangling bell mandating that my legs be constantly parted. When finished she steps back to look from afar, then has me lie supine.

  “A nice split for me Alexi.”

  She carefully holds the spiked bell and draws an outline around my meaty outer labia. My balls jump with her initial grasp and she laughs when I blush.

  “Goodness, Alexi. You’re wet and your aroma is strong.”

  Yes, it is. But there is nothing that can be done.

  She releases the bell. I feel the same pleasurable movement as she again steps back to survey her work. After some touch up she leaves, apparently to summon Ms. Powers. They return together.

  “The larger elliptical shapes will be filled in with black. For this one around the pudendum I have a very alluring bright red. I remember Marvin wanted that area highlighted. I can do it permanently.”

  Ms. Powers nods.

  “An excellent suggestion. Do it. Take your time. Cost is no object. And we have plenty of room for you to stay here.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The next morning after my cleansing and injection I am again taken to the salon for more tattooing. I remain unmilked.

  Ms. Powers stops in to watch. Apparently observing my anguish as the tattoo needles of Miss Greenwich Village penetrate every imaginable area of my flesh is a source of recreation.

  “Many things have been addressed since Mr. Fatipton’s death, Alexi.”

  She sits before me, casually sipping coffee while I endure the hell a of hundred bee stings.

  “Most importantly I had to deal with that reprobate Randy. I have long realized that the potential for a grandchild could throw quite the wrench into my planning. Though Randy’s sexual preferences do not make such an occurrence likely, I like to cover all the bases. So I did something which I was planning to do eventually.

  A pause for another sip.

  AI gave orders to Arthur that the next time he picked up a comatose Randy after a drug crazed night in a New York City club, he should alert the flight crew and drive him directly to the airport.

  “As you can imagine the Fatipton fleet of aircraft is comprised of the fastest and longest range private jets available. So I had the flight crew on alert and three days ago before Randy awoke from his latest stupor he found himself in Mexico. Cash adds quite a bit of flexibility to the ethics of the medical profession there. It was surprisingly easy to find a doctor for Randy’s alteration.

  “The flight crew was most cooperative in the endeavor. As you may have ascertained, Randy has not entirely ingratiated himself to the staff over the years. And I understand the flight attendants were most entertained, making sure that our newly feminized family member was very comfortable on the return flight. They had him wearing a set of pink silk jammies.”

  The powerful Trustee laughs with the vision of Randy tucked away in the cabin of a jet curled up in effeminate night wear with the female crew feigning concern for his lost masculinity.

  “So I think you’ll find that he will approach you with more respect. You may be the Fatipton cow, but he’s now the Fatipton steer.”

  Ms. Powers chortles with her wry comparison.

  “He seems to be dealing with it rather well. I did have his prostate gland left intact. He likes to receive an internal massage from by some gay stud in the City, if you get the picture. But I think he’ll soon find himself enjoying bending and spreading for me. I’m still experimenting with various strap ons. But since he is addicted to anal pleasure, it’s a simple matter to train him to receive it differently.”

  I wince, interrupting Ms. Powers’ narration. The buzzing needle is working a sensitive area of my inner thigh.

  My antagonist artist steps away for more ink. Ms. Powers moves directly to my front.

  “Last night I had one of the maids strip down Randy and give him a good cleansing... inside and out. You’d be surprised how shy he has suddenly become for someone who has spent so much time in New York sex clubs. Amazing what a pair of simple snips will do for a boy’s modesty...

  “Well, I used a nicely sized eight-incher on him. Not very long but it was stout with special bumps designed to best manipulate the male anatomy. Despite his protests I opened him up and pumped away. His scrotal sac is mostly healed and bringing him to an erection, knowing that over time each stand will become smaller and smaller, imbues a woman with indescribable power. After a few dozen thrusts, he actually ejaculated. And I had great pleasure reminding him that it was probably his last.”

  Ms. Powers gathers up the leash to my nose ring then gently pulls upwards, forcing me to look into her forceful but smiling face.

  “You may also enjoy the penetration Alexi,” she ominously declares.

  The artist returns and Ms. Powers releases the leash. She pauses, analyzing my reaction. I bow my head in thought. My inner response to Arthur’s anal assault was rather curious, I reflect. Despite the discomfort and the humiliation, something deep within me caused to open the floodgates of my vagina. My genitalia were not touched yet the pleasure was most palpable. And though also untouched, my breasts oozed, forcing Arthur to afterwards retreat to a nearby car wash while the doctor operated in order to make the interior of the limousine presentable.

  “You give it some thought, Alexi. There will be no vaginal penetration for you at the Fatipton Estate. In that respect you will live a life of complete chastity.”

  Ms. Powers playfully taps my pierced and newly sensitized nose as she leaves with her empty coffee cup. There is a reason she told me the story of Randy’s fate and her message is received. As powerful as she was before Mr. Fatipton’s death, she is now omnipotent.

  I cannot help but turn my head and watch as she walks to the door. She wears a tight sleeveless pullover dress, which ends at mid thigh. The thin fabric outlines her amazing buttocks... hillocks serving to store impressively potent muscling. The sight causes my mind to wander and I picture myself kneeling, thighs spread, after a young maid has spent an afternoon cleaning out my backside and degradingly coating my sphincter with a thick layer of lubricant. I wait with apprehension wondering how large on object Ms. Powers will choose.

  I daydream that at last the door opens and my benefactress approaches wearing black leather halter, dildo harness and nothing more. She smiles, stands before me and introduces a hideous phallus of prodigious size. Knowing fingers slip it under the crouch piece. She rubs my baldhead
then disappears from sight behind me. I soon feel the bulbous head introducing itself and with a slow, steady and overwhelming thrust it becomes buried in my back passage. My bells ring, perhaps in reaction to her powerful motion, perhaps in celebration of long needed attention. She pumps and I also envision, as she penetrates with sang-froid, her large hands encircling my torso to find my ripened mammary glands. As I have come to understand over the past few days, my milking now awaits the fancy of the Mistress of the house. No longer can I expect daily or twice daily relief. All future lactation is for the amusement of Ms. Powers and I realize that if my breasts are to be drained, providing the hormonal release that I crave, I will need to inveigle, wheedle, coax and cajole.

  So offering my backside for the pleasure of Ms. Powers will have its advantages. I shudder with the thought that the moment I savor most, when her strong black fingers squeeze, pull my elongated nipples, and force my essence to freely flow for her amusement, will come only with the discomfort and humiliation of anal penetration.

  Yes, I will submit to the phallus Ms. Powers. But I find it difficult to stifle a growing concern over my planned impregnation. Mr. Fatipton died weeks before and Ms. Powers has made no mention of plans for insemination.

  But alas, I had recently spent a morning at the doctor’s office. Perhaps it was done while under the effects of the Atropine.

  Yes, that’s why I will not be afforded vaginal penetration. Since Ms. Powers has already had me impregnated, for procreation any further penetration is superfluous. As for sexual climax... well that’s not for me to have.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Over the ensuing days, each morning I am fed, injected with hormones, carefully sponge bathed to assure the artist’s lines remain then led to the salon. There Miss Greenwich Village continues to slowly work her tattoo needles over major portions of my body. Neither Ms. Powers nor any maids massage my nipples.

  While I long for relief, the artist indeed takes her time. She is very much amused on the third day when my breasts begin to give up milk with a constant ooze, either dripping to the table if I am kneeling or collecting and then dribbling down the body of my mammary gland when lying supine.