Ship of Remorse Page 3

  “Bad girls have been known to wear the yoke like that for many hours. Of course the body adapts, but then we can move the yoke further back.”

  The message was received. The price to be paid for disobedience could be very slow and prolonged pain.

  As I sat in darkness, the sound of much activity around me returned my thoughts to my situation on the table. The room was being prepared to serve dinner and with my nakedness I was again most embarrassed. Occasionally someone caressed one of my nipples and I heard soft laughter amongst the voices.

  “She’s a beauty this new one,” one female voice plainly enunciated, evidently standing before me as a set of fingers stroked my left breast.

  Curiously, Nurse Inga’s large and deep enemas served to relax me, a result that I would not have believed during the long ordeal. My thoughts diverted to the late afternoon escapades with Nurse Inga.

  After finally emptying my bladder and giving up the requisite urine sample, Nurse Inga weighed me then had me sit while she exhaustively measured every part of my body. She then disappeared in a storage room and returned with the yoke. After ensuring that it fit snugly about my neck without impairing my breathing she removed it and led me to a horizontal bar. Above it dangled numerous tubes, nozzles and hoses. There was no question as to the purpose. After she adjusted the bar to the height of my waist she just pointed and I knew to bend over it.

  “Dr. Helga likes her girls with nice clean backsides. You may as well get used to this. It is the first of many.”

  My ankles and were strapped to the sides as were my wrists. With my buttocks pointing straight up and my face just about on the floor, Nurse Inga inserted a rather stout nozzle, inflated it, and unceremoniously turned on a valve.

  “Nice and slow for you, Alexi. At least for the first one. It’s best to relax and take it, for one way or the other you’re to be cleansed, completely.”

  Over the ensuing months I was to learn that Nurse Inga was most correct. Dr. Helga’s enemas were obligatory and the professional staff was relentless in dispensing them. I let the broad bar hold my weight as I felt my lower belly slowly fill.

  Meanwhile Nurse Inga retrieved a pair of scissors. Within minutes the front of my head was devoid of hair just as that of the extremely pregnant girl. When finished she took the time to also shave that portion of my scalp.

  Young but knowledgeable hands paused to reach down and prod my belly. The pressure felt immense. Nurse Inga detected the same.

  “Time to expel. Just let it all go. The floor is well drained.”

  She removed the nozzle. I did not need to be told twice. My bowels exploded. I closed my eyes in shame.

  The release took several minutes. The young virago coaxed me to push everything out then inserted another nozzle. This time she devilishly inflated it further, turned a valve and momentarily disappeared.

  She returned carrying a tray of paraphernalia I could not see for she remained at my side as my bowels again began to fill.

  She swabbed my right buttock with a moist cloth. Then I felt her apply a liquid. Next I heard the sounds of a bottle being opened.

  “You’re getting your number. It’s a nice big ‘3'. That means you’re expecting in March and will be stalled with the other girls in the same stage of pregnancy. Right now there are only two others. But we’ll be stopping in Philadelphia, Baltimore, Norfolk, Wilmington, Charleston, Savannah and Miami so you’re bound to have more company. Norfolk is always surprising. Lots of sailors you know. They keep us very busy. You would think Dr. Helga had them on commission.”

  Nurse Inga pleasantly explained as I felt her painting my flesh. Little did I realize the full significance of my ‘number’.

  “It’s indelible ink applied after I swabbed on a special chemical to open up your pores. Some day it will come off, but only after utilizing the right solvent, which we won’t use until we’re through with you.”

  Effectively I was being branded like a head of cattle. With the frequent use of the term ‘stall’ perhaps that analogy was appropriate.

  Nurse Inga stepped away with what I imagined to be a brush and jars. When she returned, she slowed the flow of water giving her artwork an opportunity to dry before the next evacuation. She placed a chair in front of me and sat. In her hand was a wooden cone identical to the one I spied intertwined in the hair of the number eleven woman. She spoke as I felt her gather my hair and insert it into the hollow cylinder of wood.

  “You don’t and probably never will like me. That is not part of my role. But there will be times when you’ll beg for my attention and most times you shall have it, although afterwards you may later curse yourself for asking.”

  Her fingers worked my strands of remaining hair.

  “There are not many mirrors here on the ship so you’ll probably rarely see yourself. But you’re not here to look pretty. Therefore you’ll learn that this little addition to your hair style can be quite useful despite its dramatic appearance.”

  With that she grasped the cylinder and pulled. With my hair firmly attached to it, my head moved accordingly. Nurse Inga chuckled with self-satisfaction as she moved her hand about directing my head like that of a puppet.

  “Looks no longer matter. You’re here to please Dr. Helga and bear a child... maybe more than one.”

  More than one? These words shocked me and riveted my attention despite the hand of this young harridan pulling my head about and despite my overly filled intestines.

  My thoughts returned to my present predicament on the table as I heard voices. One was that of Dr. Helga but there were male voices! I tugged my feet against my bonds. As with the scruffy sailor in the hallway, I did not want my shame and humiliation observed by a man, crew member or not. And here I sat spread open and blindfolded.

  “Oh, she is sweet,” a mature male voice commented. And I felt fingers on my right nipple. A soft caress and then a firm squeeze.

  A laughing Dr. Helga replied.

  “That’s for me. You know I insist on the privilege.”

  The fingers withdrew.

  “Besides, she’s only in her fourth month. Since it’s her first child, initially there won’t be much flow.”

  I heard chairs move and felt a large pair of hands, one on each thigh.

  “Relax, Alexi. Enjoy. You’re here to entertain. Stripped and spread open. Isn’t that what you want?” Dr. Helga’s voice inquired. “Isn’t that how you like to appear, showing off your young body... being watched... looked at... examined?”

  I detected Nurse Stolgren and her psychological handiwork. My mind said ‘no’ to the posed questions. My dripping vagina replied otherwise. A finger easily slid past my gooey vaginal lips and without effort entered my prized feminine portal.

  “Yes, I think I’ve found the answers.”

  Dr. Helga laughed. I heard many other voices join her, both male and female.

  Chapter Six

  Over the next hour I received a most debasing lesson on what Dr. Helga meant with her statement ‘having this strumpet for dinner’.

  Stripped of all clothing, hands secured to my yoke, legs and thighs well separated and restrained I sat while Dr. Helga took all I had to offer. I was like a fertile tree, covered with overly ripe fruit from which Dr. Helga calmly and deliberatively plucked whatever she desired. ‘Luscious’, ‘sweet’, ‘succulent’ were her descriptive words. And frustratingly, the more humiliated I felt the more my juices flowed. Yes, flowed only to be gathered up for Dr. Helga’s curious appetite. For about my exposed and sensitive inner labia I felt a continuous dabbing. A soft, spongy material was gathering up the streaming evidence of my arousal only to be followed by the quiet sounds of chewing and swallowing.

  A male voice made a reference to ‘feminine fondue’ and indeed the soft substance caressing my lips and occasionally inserted into my vagina felt like small pieces of bread. Was this what Dr. Helga meant in having me for dinner?

  After a time, I felt Dr. Helga’s hand once again on my mons and he
r fingers spread to push open my clitoral hood. A tickling sensation followed. I wriggled in my bonds and released a reactive sigh with the intense pleasure.

  “Yes, little girl. A little feather will keep you flowing. Give it all to Dr. Helga now. You’re here to serve and to please.”

  I assumed the feather worked. I felt more bread, heard more quiet chews, more laughter emanated from the dinner guests.

  After an eternity, Dr. Helga either ran out of bread or my love pouch went dry. For I heard the sounds of dishes clanking and what I would describe as the sounds of a normal dinner being served.

  There ensued much conversation. And although my thoughts were running wild picturing Dr. Helga gleefully partaking in my sordid but tasty fruit, I learned much about the operation of the ship and the true motivations behind Dr. Helga’s offer of assistance to wayward girls.

  This incredibly perverted woman was indeed a noted Ob/Gyn. But she never performed abortions. Her goal was to provide an environment where certain ‘qualified’ girls could bring their offspring to term. Qualified being young, troubled, in need of guidance, and without close relatives or friends who would interfere with the good doctor’s endeavors. She was an unabashed lesbian! She reveled in the problems which young girls encountered with males and in graciously extending her skilled hand in ostensibly assisting them. Only there was a high price to be paid... complete and utter sexual servitude. But unlike that which one would find in bedrooms or other places of ‘vanilla’ intercourse.

  No. Dr. Helga had a ship whose paying guests included the notorious libertines of the world. Mostly female, some male, all wealthy and willing to pay handsomely to cruise the world and watch while the Janus-faced Dr. Helga opened her hand in feigned sympathy then closed it in a grip of sexual servitude.

  My mind drifted to back to the Iowa farm I had found to be so boring. And the times when the boredom was punctuated by abject fear as my stepfather hit me, or threatened to hit me, or worse threatened mom. Then it sped forward to the fat, the bald, and the perverted and how I had summoned the courage to strip and dance in his office. How, after my second try and his advice to avoid ice cream, he had arisen from his desk and deliberately let me see that his zipper was open.

  “Sometimes our dancers have to learn more than just dancing,” the fat, the bald and the perverted coyly suggested.

  But at the time, my thoughts were occupied by the stream of effluent that he had unwittingly squeezed from my nipple and the shocking conclusion I was forced to confront. Thus the relevance of his statement, as juxtaposed against my desire to dance and make a lot of money, was lost.

  I reflected, should my mental summation have been that each step of my journey had taken me lower into a bottomless abyss? What lay ahead? Would anything in my life ever be under my control?

  Before I could answer my own questions, I felt the familiar strong feminine fingers on my left nipple. A squeeze, a pull, another squeeze, a firm pull.

  “Ah yes. Here it comes. For you new guests, you’ll being seeing plenty of this aboard. Alexi here is just beginning to lactate. We’ll put her on our special feeding program in a couple of weeks and within two months she’ll be a fine producer.

  “But meanwhile there is no finer time then capturing that moment when a young teenaged girl first produces for her superiors.”

  “Yes, isn’t that so Alexi? So eager to please and display yourself.”

  I felt rivulets running down my stomach only to be sopped up again.

  “A little icing for my cake. How nice of you to offer, Alexi.”

  The guests laughed. Dr. Helga’s hand worked relentlessly and I felt more liquid. Then she worked my right nipple with equal results. Slowly, firmly, methodically. She was an expert. And after each squeeze and subsequent pull, I felt droplets and the sensation of sponge-like cake, meticulously absorbing from my flesh the wetness so deftly extracted without my acquiescence.

  “There’s nothing like a good firm hand milking to begin a girl’s flow. We have wonderful machines, designed to be most tactile, but the human touch is important in establishing response to control. In a few weeks she’ll relish lactating for us. You’ll see her pine for the subtle pinch and draw of one of our experienced nurses. Once we start the hormones flowing, there will be no end to her lusty need to have these marvelously firm nipples squeezed as a vintner would harvest and squeeze ripe grapes. The process is most entertaining.”

  Many guests murmured words of agreement. I silently sat and indeed helplessly provided the entertainment. I never realized how or how much my young nipples had to give. But according to the overheard conversation I would find out.

  And so... Dr. Helga indeed had me for dinner.

  Chapter Seven

  After that fateful afternoon and evening, my life began an endless routine. Not quite a stuck phonograph record, for there were a few memorable instances outside the daily schedule, such as when a new girl joined the ‘3 stall’, the moniker for the area where I was kept.

  A stall was just a series of posts in a large room. There a girl was restrained by simply attaching each end of her yoke to parallel vertical posts. Curious clear plastic tubing emanated from each post and ended in a conical shaped device with a suction cup attached. There could be no doubt as to their function as they dangled ominously proximate to our nipples.

  At night we were secured low, forcing us to kneel on what was thankfully a padded floor. During the day, when not being exercised, bathed, examined, or subjected to some bizarre amusement, we stood.

  Talking was prohibited, and many a girl found herself undergoing a trip to the washroom after commencing verbal communication, thinking no staff member was within earshot. Thus, it did not take long for me to conclude that not only were we being observed by way of one of the ubiquitous cameras, but highly sensitive microphones also served to monitor our actions.

  The monotony was somewhat broken by Nurse Inga keeping us informed of the ship’s progress by way of casual small talk as she administered enemas or soaped our growing bodies in the huge communal basin in the washroom.

  Mona, Sharon and I initially occupied the stalls in our section. Nine were unoccupied and remained so as no one joined us during the week in Philadelphia. Nor during the week in Baltimore. But as Nurse Inga predicted, a pretty brunette named Nancy was ushered into our stall area during our stay in Norfolk.

  She was rather obstreperous. A street girl who Nurse Inga took particular amusement in breaking, for the first week Nancy’s yoke always seemed to be bent well back. Constant tears evidenced her anguish and when we took our communal ablutions, Nancy’s time bent over the enema bar seemed inordinately long.

  Finally on one morning after some ten days, Nurse Inga strolled into our section and headed directly to where Nancy knelt. It took time to learn to sleep in a such a position, but with Nancy’s yoke severely contorting her shoulders I was surprised she slept at all.

  Well, apparently my observation concerning her lack of somnolence was accurate. For as Nurse Inga began to push Nancy’s arms even further back in compliance with the program of daily increased torment, she broke down and cried. In gross violation of the rules, Nancy uncontrollably uttered some pitiful pleas between convulsive sobs and gasps for air. I could not hear all of the exchange but Nurse Inga seemed pleased and I found it most curious that the young nurse lifted her apron then stepped forward and stood over the kneeling Nancy. She was quite close and Nancy’s cries became muffled.

  “Now that’s a good girl, Nancy. I think that tongue of yours should greet me just this way every morning. We’ll get to know each other better and the ligaments in your arms will be much more relaxed.”

  After that morning, a broken Nancy humbly serviced Nurse Inga at the beginning of each day. I began to learn the utility of the wooden cylinder encasing the strange ponytail we were permitted. It was a handle and Nurse Inga used it each morning to direct Nancy’s head and the resulting oral efforts as the subjugated girl dutifully licked and licke
d. The ceremony put a strain on our bladders, for no one could relieve themselves, Nancy included, until Nurse Inga was satiated. It became quite the symbol of Nurse Inga’s authority and control, having us all watch her being pleasured while we knelt in fear of soiling the padding. But overall, Nancy’s oral ministrations resulted in a relaxed and festive nurse tending to our needs.

  Yes, all our excretions were closely monitored. Every night at an appointed hour as I knelt with thighs separated by a rubber form beneath me, I awoke to the feel of young feminine hands parting my labia and the sound of whispered words, encouraging me to once again fill a proffered beaker. No matter how often the act is performed, doing so at the behest of a nurse no older than myself was disconcerting. One never becomes accustomed to it, and I often supposed that if a girl did, the diabolical Dr. Helga would devise some other form of simple daily debasement.

  Each morning after Nurse Inga closely monitored our urinary functions, she would go from girl to girl and connect a tethering chain from the front of one yoke to the back of the next. When finished she would release us from the posts, hook a leash to the lead girl and take us to the dreaded exercise room.

  No matter the condition of a girl’s belly, she was exercised every day under the close supervision of a trainer, most of whom were horrible termagants who in any other lifetime would be prison guards or, I concluded after one morning of particularly vigorous work, perhaps executioners.

  The treadmill work was endless and exhausting. But ironically, no one looked forward to the end for then it was time for stretching. Not only were the contorted positions painful, but the level of humiliation was unsurpassed.

  “Let’s see lots of pink, girls. We like pink here.”

  With that command, we of the ‘3 stall’, lying on comfortable mats, would simultaneously raise our legs and spread, revealing all a girl had to offer.

  “Now hold, girls. Nice firm tummies. Hold. Hold. Breathe and count one... breath and count two... breath and count three... breath and count four... breath and count five... and down.