Ship of Remorse Read online

  Some private sessions were less memorable than others. I returned to Dottie and Lottie’s cabin twice more, for example, and their method for enjoying the fruits of my feminine anatomy did not waver from the first visit.

  But there was a session with an odd couple whom I judged to be in their thirties, that age when the sexual urges remain strong but the need for variety in gratification rises noticeably.

  A very handsome couple, they took me back to their cabin, which once again was large. Special apparatus was waiting. It appeared to be a trapeze bar hanging from poles well secured to both floor and ceiling.

  The couple had obviously spent much time together for they wordlessly led and positioned me for the evening of entertainment.

  First the woman had me stand in the middle of the room while she diligently worked to encase my entire body in a clear plastic wrap such as that used to preserve food. She was most meticulous and spent the time to ensure the seams of the various layers over lapped and formed a seal.

  The sensation was very odd. I had not worn any clothing in months, thus nothing had touched my skin except the controlling hands of Dr. Helga, nurses and guests and the corrective end of a cane.

  But the clear plastic left me exposed and my hairless pudendum became a particularly curious sight when the moist pink of my labia pressed against the smooth, clear surface of the wrapping.

  As the woman worked her way up, she was careful to seal my breasts, flattening my protruding nipples within the plastic entombment. She laughed at the result but continued in her efforts.

  Meanwhile husband was setting up various restraint paraphernalia and when the women was finished, making certain the plastic was well sealed around my neck under the yoke, she retreated and undressed giving control to husband.

  As always when exhibited to the lounge guests, all us cowgirls had our thumbs secured behind us, presenting our breasts in a most obscene manner. And so it was in the couple’s cabin. Peripherally, in the lower field my vision could detect nothing but nipples and breasts, Dr. Helga’s lactation program, nutrition, and well-timed milkings having caused my breasts to swell enormously.

  So when encased in plastic, the pressure of the wrapping actually caused my flow to begin. The husband appeared ecstatic when he noticed the clear plastic begin to cloud with spots of milk about my nipples. But he continued working, clipping a cable onto the left end of my yoke then the right. Afterwards, he knelt and attached large firm ankle cuffs to which another pair of cables was attached.

  I looked to see the woman, trim and obviously the benefactor of much exercise, donning a latex suit. It was black. It was shiny. It was thin. And its one piece covered her entire body, ankles to neck. Getting into it was an amazing undertaking. It appeared the inside was lubricated.

  My wonderment over the latex suit was distracted as I felt the cables tighten. I turned my head as best I could to see the husband cranking a winch.

  “Hold steady. You’ll find you’ll be quite comfortable.”

  He proved to be right. My yoke, attached to cables, remained at normal level while my feet began to first move back, then rise off the carpet. Within a minute I was suspended in air, completely wrapped but for my face and head. My bell clanged.

  “Yes, very nice.”

  The husband moved about, unhooking the trapeze bar, drawing it under my hips then reattaching it. He adjusted various cables, spreading my feet well apart then lowering the yoke so that my waist and legs were suspended above my head and breasts.

  The woman, having finally slid her hands into the arms of the suit approached.

  “Lovely. She presents her glands very well.”

  Both hands palmed my covered breasts and began to knead. It felt good. My experience to date told me she was of the age to know how to properly milk a girl. First massaging the body of the mammary gland to enhance the circulation, I knew that next would come some vaginal stimulation, then a brief caress of the clitoris and I’d be begging to lactate for her.

  I could hear the husband removing his clothing and again the corner of my eye caught his hands and arms laying a sheet on the floor beneath me. It was more latex. Just plain black, and shiny.

  I moaned as the woman worked just the main part of my breasts. They ached. I needed to be relieved of two days of build up. I wanted to produce for her... to display myself and show what my feminine glands could do. I deliberately shook my head and neck, making the bell clang and sending a signal as best I could that I wanted more.

  Finally I felt the fingers of the husband working my labia. The sensation of being stroked through the thin plastic was decadently different. My juices flowed but were captured within my wrapping.

  He inserted a finger, pushing the plastic into my vagina. Then another finger and another. The woman slowly moved her own fingers down toward my nipples. They were leaking. I detected more cloudiness under the wrapping.

  Then the milking began in earnest. Husband located my clitoris. The woman began the firm squeezes and the draws of pinched fingers down the nipple to the end, where an eruption of milk met the plastic and stayed trapped within. She alternated breasts, emulating the milking of a cow, left hand then right... left hand then right.

  My flow began to fill the well-sealed wrapping. It bulged, the woman laughed. The husband fingered. He was good. He found all the buttons and timed the push of such with the woman’s strokes. My bell fell into the same rhythm. I felt the warmth of my own milk covering my torso. It was a most sordid feeling, bathing in my own essence.

  After a time, it appeared that the plastic wrapping was going to give way. The weight of the milk caused it to bulge and in places it hung well away from my body. The look on the face of the woman was that of pure pleasure, her fingers were controlling me, bringing me strange satisfaction, slowly harvesting my body of its most prized substance. She became flushed.

  “Now! I have to have it!”

  She stopped milking me and laid on the black latex sheet under me. Husband interrupted my slow masturbation and I felt his hands near my torso. With a small metallic object he poked holes into my wrapping. The accumulated breast milk at first dripped out to a low point on my body, then gathered to steadily begin to pour down onto the woman. She became ecstatic. First extending her tongue and letting it splash into her mouth then rolling about and letting it cover her latex suit.

  The fingers of her right hand moved to her crouch area and slipped into a concealed slit in the latex suit. There was no doubt as to their objective. Her left hand collected more essence and rubbed it about. She closed her eyes. Her right hand, fingers gone from sight, became quite busy. She moaned.

  The sight of the black latex being coated with the white of my glands provided a most perverse contrast. The husband moved back between my suspended legs. I expected to feel his wonderful fingers resume their exploration and manipulation, but instead the metal object worked between my buttocks.

  “You’ll do well to squeeze those luscious cheeks for me, my little cow. Daddy’s going to give you some of his juices in return.”

  ‘Daddy’s’ turgid penis began knocking on my rear portal. I had no choice but to let it enter. I was grateful for the remnants of lubricant from the afternoon rectal feeding.

  A thin stream of my breast milk continuously dripped onto the masturbating woman as husband entered me. Since I was suspended he merely stood in place and pushed and pulled on the trapeze about my hips to friction his huge erection. My bell rang. My sphincter, stretched by the daily insertion of the inflatable feeding nozzle, took the circumference, but it was tight.

  Meanwhile as I swung forward and back, my milk flew to different areas. The woman climaxed but then extended her tongue, trying to catch the rivulets as they flew about and landed all over her and the latex sheet.

  My mind raced trying to fully comprehend the most decadent scene unfolding. I closed my eyes. I was an object. A machine that they turned on and from which extracted pleasure. My half masturbated vulva was despera
te for attention. My breasts needed more stroking, even with the abundance of liquid covering the woman and the sheet. I had more to give. My over stuffed backside felt the hot, stiff phallus sliding in and out.

  The pair of male hands reached under me and stroked than squeezed my breasts and nipples. They were harsh and although I felt more flow it was not pleasant.

  “Squeeze, cow!”

  With all that was happening, I had neglected to properly service the husband’s penis. I began to time his strokes with Kegel-like squeezes of my sphincter. More milk flowed then I finally heard his shout of ecstasy and squeezed strongly. I felt his hot sperm explode where I had so often felt the slow flow of the cooler brown nourishing liquid. I also felt great wetness within the area of my wrapped vulva.

  When the husband, still impaling my rear portal, poked open the wrapping there, clear juices streamed down to the latex mat below. It was obvious I had once again ejaculated, but into the confines of the wrapping.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Within a month of the new regimen, the girls of 1 stall no longer appeared in the lounge. Instead some nine girls from 4 stall joined us. Unbeknownst to me, months before they had joined the ship in Norfolk and Charleston where a large presence of sailors seemed to indeed keep Dr. Helga well supplied with prospective ‘cowgirls’.

  Meanwhile I had became accustomed to the visits to the lounge and of being publicly milked. But what I could not become accustomed to were the special duties and fulfilling the most unusual requests of the guests.

  No girl could ever be prepared for such.

  One very eccentric woman, gray haired and in her fifties, took great delight in having me bend over a waist high bar while she stuffed my backside with shiny metal eggs. She took her time doing so, firmly pushing with her right hand while her left worked one nipple then the other.

  I was amazed at the number of the strange objects she was able to insert, for she was most deliberate, noting for me that the more she milked me the more relaxed my sphincter became and the more eggs I took.

  When finished with my anal opening, I felt absolutely stuffed. The last egg could not be fully inserted and I felt it peeking out my anus.

  But then she slipped two more eggs into my vulva.

  “Hold them for me,” she politely commanded. “We’ll visit some friends.”

  The woman then proceeded to walk me about the ship. Fortunately, with the weeks of vaginal exercise, I was able to hold the slippery eggs, though with my movement, they served to arouse me terribly.

  As we proceeded through the halls, she looked back to observe my reaction. Walking while holding the oblong spheres made me move like a duck, and I had to stop on occasion when very pleasant twinges interrupted my pace.

  The night’s lounge entertainment had ended by then and many guests were back in their cabins, happy to have a quick diversion before retiring.

  Their smiles and mocking laughter have forever been etched in my memory as the woman suggested with each visit that I ‘lay an egg’. And I did. But holding the vaginal eggs while expelling the ones in my backside took incredible concentration. Throughout the evening, time after time I squatted over a dish or bowl and pushed out an egg at each stop, hoping that the woman had counted the number. For the last two were most difficult and I pondered whether there were any left. They were finally expelled after many amusing minutes of pushing. For the last one, I found the Lamaze training to be particularly useful. The sound of the metal hitting the bowl was satisfying after displaying for the deviant guests the use of muscles I didn’t think any one would ever see.

  That evening ended back in the woman’s cabin. Finally permitted to push out the vaginal eggs as she held her hand patiently under the egress to my love nest, I nearly climaxed as the smooth, slippery objects opened my inner lips to escape.

  She slept that night with my head between her thighs. It was nice to be released from the yoke, but her oral demands were endless, waking every hour or so to demand my attention.

  On another evening of special duty, the same woman, evidently finding some attraction with my breasts among the dozens of others, or perhaps enjoying the prior night of endless cunnilingus, again selected me for special duty.

  This time she led me to her cabin where I was greeted by a trapeze device similar to that used by the couple. It did not take much effort to have this naked girl, thumbs restrained behind her back, hung from the trapeze bar upside down. Yes, the comfortably padded bar was lowered to the floor and placed under my bent knees. With my ankles secured up to the back of the yoke, the woman turned the winch and raised the trapeze bar until I was completely suspended with my head just off the carpet. My huge swollen breasts hung before my chin and nose. She laughed.

  “So much time spent milking the breasts. Did you know they can milk themselves?”

  I was not expected to answer and did not. She pulled up a chair, sat and reached down to my left breast, pulling upwards. I could not see everything she did, but felt her circling the elongated nipple from the very base with a very thin cord. She wound her way toward the end leaving the very tip exposed. It slowly engorged and turned bright red. She did the same with the right.

  “Dr. Helga will be happier if we collect the milk, won’t she now.”

  The standard stainless steel bowl was pushed on the floor under me.

  “Now, let’s get you started, shall we?”

  Her knowing hands reached up. Just at the height of her shoulders as she sat in the chair was my love nest, well exposed, hairless and with labia well spread by the trapeze bar which separated my knees.

  I knew what was coming. She inserted two fingers and began. What I didn’t expect was to see, within a minute; my breasts begin to give up their essence. Her diddling fingers sent the message to get ready to lactate. The pressure of the thin thread, tightly encircling all but the tip of the nipple, apparently provided the needed pressure to cause the flow. I began dripping into the bowl.

  “Yes, very nice Alexi. There are girls who can produce more, but few so eager to show off as you are.”

  She diddled a little longer, brushed my clitoris with the tip of a finger then stood and removed the chair.

  It was bizarre. I continued to drip into the bowl while she stepped back and poured herself a glass of wine.

  The woman then opened the door to the cabin. Knowing that anyone passing by in the hall was free to view me, hanging upside down and lactating without manipulation into the collecting bowl, caused great embarrassment and concern. And the very thought seemed to increase the rate of my flow!

  The milk slowly oozed to the tips of my nipples then steadily dripped to the bowl. The milking was slower than the machine and certainly slower than Dr. Helga or Nurse Inga but there was an incomparable level of diabolism in having a pair of thin threads and Earth’s gravity rob me of my precious fluid. So simple. So cunning. So evil.

  In time, guests exiting the lounge stopped in to view the woman’s handiwork. The reactions varied from curiosity to outright laughter. One woman giggled endlessly and could not resist standing before me, caressing my moist labia and ever so lightly toying with my clitoris. After which she marveled at my increased flow of milk. I also felt myself begin to flow from my vulva. Essentially, my vagina was also being milked! The rivulets formed a stream, which slowly ebbed down my flesh to my stomach.

  Mercifully, the woman finally curtailed the entertainment.

  “Can’t have her hanging upside down for too long,” she commented.

  As she unraveled the threads, my nipples began to spurt under her touch. She laughingly directed the milk into the bowl.

  After being released from the trapeze she gave me a standard hand milking. It drained me of the remaining fluid and felt very good. I again spent the night with my head between her thighs.

  Each morning after a night of special duty, Nurse Inga walked me back to the stall.

  After the third encounter with Josef, I came to expect the ‘chance’ meeting
.

  Nurse Inga definitely had an odd level of enjoyment in watching a girl fellate a virile young male. Or perhaps she liked providing Josef with a source of pleasure, as long as it was not her lips wrapped around the imposing shaft.

  So when Nurse Inga led me down the hallway of Josef’s cabin, and I saw his door ajar, I knew another aperture would be put to use. Yes, the pretense of ‘meeting’ Josef on his way to breakfast had been put aside. I learned to merely step into his room, kneel and wait until he chose to open his zipper.

  Happily for me there was the relief offered by the chamber pot as compensation. And feeling Nurse Inga’s hands toy with my labia as Josef pulled and pushed the handle on the back of my head added a degree of pleasure, however perverse, to an otherwise demeaning task.

  Over many morning stops, Josef patiently taught me the art of fellatio, and he did indeed like to have it ‘taken deep’. This entailed opening up my gullet and overcoming the ‘gag reflex’ which naturally occurs when an object, particularly as large and firm as Josef’s penis, is thrust past the back of the throat.

  On the first visit, I gagged and heard the sound of Nurse Inga laughing. And there was also the sound of my annoying bell, mandated to be worn by lactating girls when outside the stall. Josef’s pushes and pulls on my handle caused quite the cacophony and I often wondered if the occupants of nearby cabins could hear me fellating the most handsome sailor.

  Well, a girl has to do what a girl has to do, and many times as Josef rammed his stiff member to the very depths of my throat, I deliberately let my thoughts meander. The fat, the bald and the perverted at the men’s club came to mind once... how he had opened his zipper in a subtle offer of a high paying promotion to that of dancer in exchange for oral sex... how my pride caused me to ignore the hint thus relegating me to the waitressing job... and ironically, how I was servicing this young male for nothing more than a piece of candy, when he chose to offer it.

  Yes, the chronic pangs of hunger were still present and Josef knew it. After each explosion of hot semen seemed to have been injected directly into my stomach, he took great delight in mockingly inquiring...