Ship of Remorse Read online

  “My own little invention. A hollow dildo. But it’s not a toy to be played with. It’s full of semen for you, close to half a pint. When Nurse Katrina says you’re ready, I insert it. Stroke you a few times and squeeze. Works every time. It’s rather a lot of sperm, but as I said I don’t like to do things twice.

  “Some girls fight it, trying not to orgasm. But in time you’ll succumb. Every girl does eventually. But feel free to resist. Your struggles provide for a most entertaining display for my guests. Watching a nubile girl being thoroughly fornicated both anally and orally is the highlight of the cruise. And when its time, like it or not you’ll be awash in sperm. Everywhere.”

  Dr. Helga curtailed her verbal torment, Nurse Katrina evidently signaling that she had felt the expected reaction of my genitalia.

  Yes, I tried to fight off the orgasm. But being filled with large stiff penises, and with Nurse Katrina’s trained fingers working within my love pot, I really didn’t stand a chance.

  “Feather the clitoris. Get ready boys.”

  I felt the smooth, lubricated dildo enter. Yes, a feather began working my little bud. After a minute or two Dr. Helga counted.

  “One... two... three.”

  For the first time after dozens of sessions of fellatio, Josef pulled back until the bulbous head of his member was no longer deep within my throat. Instead, it filled my mouth. He paused and looked down at me with a mocking smile then with a laugh pulled his male trigger to release an explosion of thick hot semen into my orifice.

  At the same time Helmut pulled his trigger. Liquid heat filled my back passage.

  “Good boys.”

  A laughing Dr. Helga gave the dildo a slight squeeze. I felt it spurt. The feather again worked my clitoris. I nearly fainted from an overwhelming wave of pleasure. My mouth was full of Josef’s male essence. He remained pressing against my face with his hips, keeping his softening manhood in my mouth.

  Then I felt her squeeze again... and again, and a fourth time. She staged the release of inseminating juices to coincide with certain orgasmic contractions.

  “Be a good girl and swallow for Josef. He’s worked so hard for you.”

  When he pinched my nose I could no longer breath with his penis and semen blocking my mouth. As the room began to darken, I indeed swallowed. It reminded me of my mother forcing me to eat a raw egg as a sick child.

  I’m not sure how long I was unconscious. When I again became cognizant of the room lights and all that was around me, I felt Nurse Katrina’s fingers working about my labia. Josef was still standing in front of me. He pointed to his semi erect organ. My training told me he wanted it licked clean. I humbly extended my tongue.

  Then Helmut dismounted and I had to extend him the same courtesy. I was grateful for the enema. I licked him clean as he milked me as a lark, evidently a rare privilege afforded to the crew, which he enjoyed immensely.

  The table was then tilted. My feet and legs rose. My head approached the floor.

  “Nurse Katrina has clamped shut your vaginal opening. I also like to use gravity to ensure that the sperm gets a good opportunity to enter your cervix. You’ll be returned to the stall in an hour or so.

  “Meanwhile, enjoy the feeling. You’re full of sperm and have been well rutted.”

  Yes. I felt as if I was floating in male juices.

  They left and I slept, naked and spread in the well-lit windowed room. I had a strangely pleasant dream. One in which Nurse Inga bathed me in a tub filled with thick, sticky substance then used it to lubricate her hands and fist me to orgasm.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Over the next few days Mona and then Nancy were also led out of the exercise room. It would not have done any good to warn them. There was nothing that could prepare a girl for such trauma.

  Within weeks we girls of 3 stall were no longer required to attend the festivities in the lounge. Dr. Helga informed me that she had successfully impregnated me and I also heard her announce the same to Maria, Mona, and Nancy. Apparently the collected urine samples were indeed tested. But I had already suspected such was the case when my period was late.

  Sharon evidently was not inseminated. I was shocked to hear Dr. Helga inform her that policy prohibited any girl from bringing more than three babies to term! With the enforced silence I had no way of knowing that Sharon had been on the ship that long.

  “We’ll be returning to Boston in a couple of months, Sharon. Meanwhile I’m sure your breasts will keep producing for us.”

  Dr. Helga reached out and gave her right nipple a quick but efficient pinch with her suggestion, demonstrating her control and causing a spray of milk to wet her shoes. She laughingly licked her fingers and mocked...

  “I’m sure you’ll want to use contraceptives after leaving us. Or perhaps limit your sexual practices to oral stimulation.”

  We were returned to the machine for most milkings. It was harsh and I believe not only caused more elongation of my nipples but faster than even the most aggressive and clumsy of the lounge guests. But on occasion, Nurse Inga would give one of the girls a nice hand milking, as a sort of morale boost. I looked forward to her touch as always and hoped she would select me.

  Our rectal feeding was curtailed, our diet returning to the highly nutritious mush that Nurse Inga took great delight in spoon-feeding us.

  During the ensuing two months outdoor exercise became more rare. When we were led to the deck I noticed that the angle of the sun was changing and the air was cooler. It was apparent the ship was headed north. But I noticed that Maria was receiving special treatment. The trainers left her outdoors in the sun for inordinately long periods and as a result her already brown skin began to turn to a deep bronze.

  She was returned to the washroom late, therefore shortening her playtime. I missed rubbing nipple to nipple with her.

  One morning, the tedium was suspended. I awoke earlier than normal and realized the ship’s engines had stopped. Nurse Katrina came in and took out Sharon. We had apparently arrived in Boston. We never saw her again.

  Within days a girl named Linda joined 3 stall. She was petite and expecting of course. She didn’t listen well and I came to cringe watching the cane being applied to her cute backside.

  Two days later came Susan, a redhead. She eventually was trained to orally service Nurse Inga, Nancy’s tongue having been deemed tiresome.

  Observing the reaction of new girls while we ‘regulars’ were milked was somewhat amusing. There was always an indescribable look of denial as Nurse Inga went down the line and attached the suction cups. As the clear tubes turned white, extracting and collecting our precious fluids for the benefit of Dr. Helga, their eyes bulged, despite our looks of satiation. But then after they had their introduction to Dr. Helga’s affectations, becoming feminine fondue, their looks changed to bewilderment. We knew, of course, that in time their mammary glands would throb and ache as much as ours. And if the gifted fingers of Nurse Inga or Dr. Helga were not offered, then the machine would have to become an acceptable replacement to the daily goal of ridding our bodies of the liquid abundance.

  Although they had not begun to lactate, it was nice to have fresh flesh to frottage against in the washroom. Both Linda and Susan were initially very shy. But over time, with the enforced abstinence, their hormone levels rose to that of ours. Thus they joined in and frolicked with us like sexually curious children, particularly after Nurse Inga gave their clean-shaven vulvas a rather sensuous swabbing with a warm, wet and soft washcloth. It was then that they realized there would be no further form of relief, masturbatory or otherwise, other than to press nipple to nipple, or quim to thigh with the cowgirls of 3 stall.

  I didn’t count the days, but after some two weeks the ship again vibrated with the low hum of the engines. My geography suggested the next sizable port on the east coast was New York. The thought caused me to yearn for release. But even if Dr. Helga did bid me adieu, I would be back in New York in the same condition in which I had left it one year earli
er, broke and pregnant.

  Since I knew the daily routine so well, my existence became most boring. The tedium was daunting and only broken by observing Linda or Susan endure some of the procedures for the first time.

  Then something very unusual happened. A visitor came through our stall. A male visitor!

  “Oh goodness, they’re just as I imagined. So docile and so nubile. Can I touch one?”

  The man was in his forties and sashayed through the middle of the stall with Dr. Helga. His mannerisms were most effeminate. Yellow slacks, green shirt and a flowery ascot about his neck further evidenced a high degree of femininity. His head rapidly turned right and left attempting to take in the sight of half dozen lactating (or near lactating) naked girls before the view was snatched away like a Christmas present being prepared for wrapping.

  I felt like an animal in a zoo.

  “Of course you may touch, Marvin. If speech was permitted they would beg for the caress of your fingers, particularly about the nipples. For any liberties you take, we’ll include the standard charge in your employer’s bill. We’ll even teach you to milk them, for a fee.”

  “Ohhh,” was Marvin’s reply, his hyperactive mind was already focusing on something else, for his right hand reached to an object hanging around his neck. It was a viewfinder. He trained it on Maria.

  “That must be the special color we requested. Very nice, Doctor. A nice rich brown.”

  We were all kneeling. Nurse Inga had been through the stall with beakers in hand emptying our bladders. We expected the next procedure was to be leashed for the trip to the exercise room.

  Instead this strange ‘Marvin’ paraded through and stepped in front of Maria. He noticed the hollow cylinder entrapping the remnants of her hair. Then he circled the well-tanned naked ‘cowgirl’ staring downward, as if inspecting something for intended purchase.

  “Ghastly thing. I can only imagine its purpose,” he exclaimed referring to the wooden cylinder in her hair.

  He held up his viewfinder, framing Maria’s face and yoke.

  “I assume this plastic thing around her neck can be removed temporarily, but the half head of hair and the thing in it is a problem.”

  “It’s a yoke, Marvin. Yes it can be removed. But we can’t grow hair by tomorrow,” replied a calm and amused Dr. Helga.

  “Pull the wooden thing straight back for me.”

  Dr. Helga obliged and Marvin stepped back and again looked through the finder.

  “Well, how about if we shave her head? There’s no hair anywhere else and the body paint will be more uniform.”

  “That we can do,” replied the Doctor. “The handle won’t be needed for much until she drops the next child.”

  “Excellent. Can they really lactate?”

  Marvin finally summoned the courage to take up Dr. Helga on her offer and satisfy his curiosity. He bent over to Maria’s right nipple, almost hanging to the floor. He squeezed and her milk gushed out forming a sizable puddle near Marvin’s shoe. He jumped back and then laughed at his own reaction.

  “Guess you never spent much time on a farm Marvin. Maria here is the best producer in 3 stall. We’ve got one better in 8 stall, but she’s a little plump and just gave birth so she’s not right for your video.

  “But none of these girls have been milked in two days. So, the answer is yes, they’ll all produce for you and your camera, and kiss your feet in gratitude for the privilege of performing for you.”

  Yes, I was to find out that Marvin made low grade movies and he was contracted to produce a short video for some wealthy Arab with a penchant for young lactating girls. But the proclivity was more involved than that and I would regretfully that find out.

  “Well, I’ll need another. A girl with contrast.”

  He walked down the row of poles with the kneeling girls humbly and silently staring up with the discomfort of the male presence. The atmosphere was similar to that of a ladies spa at a posh hotel being invaded by a man. Except for Linda and Susan, we were accustomed to being displayed in the lounge, but the stall had become a type of sanctuary.

  “This one. Very nice light skin. Very expressive breasts, seeming to beg for attention.”

  He had stopped in front of me, pointing. Then he smiled, reached down and squeezed my left nipple. Unlike Maria who tended to spurt downward, I sprayed and Marvin found his shoes and the cuffs of his gaily-colored slacks moistened with my milk.

  “Fascinating...

  “I’ll need their heads shaved for a final screen test. But they should fill the role.”

  Spoken like Cecil B. DeMille, the casting call ended.

  Chapter Nineteen

  With trepidation, I knelt on all fours on the insemination table. Some guests had gathered about the windows to watch. I judged it to be late morning and it appeared some were drinking coffee. A third day had begun without a milking. My breasts ached.

  It felt great, however, to have my yoke removed, especially for an extended period of time. It did not feel great to have my head shaved by a strange young woman who could only be described as the avant-garde of Greenwich Village. Her clothing was gaudy and the number of piercings about her nose, lips and ears were countless.

  The table had been lowered so that my face was at the level of her shoulders and I had to remain perfectly still while she worked with an annoying smirk of self-confidence. It communicated the notion, ‘I may seem peculiar but you’re the one kneeling naked with your head and body shaven’.

  I suppose at one time I would have found having my head shaved to be most traumatic. But having been in Dr. Helga’s care for over a year, I knew my body was no longer mine to control.

  However, when the woman giggled as she lathered my eyebrows, my heart sunk. I could not imagine the eerie sight I would become without the thin strips of hair. I had spent much time plucking and preening them as a blossoming young teenager, but within a matter of seconds she pushed up the skin on my forehead to distance the area from my eyes then skillfully scraped my brow clean. She had apparently done the procedure before. For what purpose I could not know.

  When finished, she smoothed a warm damp cloth over my entire body and gratuitously commented on the goose bumps she caused.

  “Very nice clear skin. And so receptive to touch...”

  She moved to my front, palmed my large hanging breasts and moved them about, staring into my face with a questioning look, which seemed to suggest ‘how did you let this happen to yourself?’ When a spray of milk resulted from a slight pinch of the nipple she giggled.

  “Your nipples look like the udders of a cow. I won’t have much to do there.”

  Finished with her inspection, she retrieved what appeared to be a pencil from a large suitcase on a nearby table. She returned and began drawing circular patterns on my skin with a felt tip pen. She worked methodically and diligently and in having me move about, drew everywhere… my shoulders, back, stomach, arms and legs. She even drew on my head, with a sweeping stroke of her hand traversing diagonally across my forehead down to where my eyebrows had been then extending back toward my ear. After some 45 minutes she asked me to stand.

  “Turn for me... walk... kneel... crawl for me... good girl.”

  It was debasing, being ordered about like a puppy by this Bohemian artist, not much older than me. She watched me move with an exacting eye. I became distracted by the smiling guests behind the glass. Had I been wearing clothing, I would appear to be modeling for the crowd of lecherous faces.

  She directed me back to the table.

  “You have a habit of parting your thighs when you move,” she commented.

  With my mandated silence I could not explain that one of the ship’s rules for ‘cowgirls’ was that feminine charms be well displayed.

  “Spread.”

  I parted my knees and felt the pen work as she added lines right up to my perineum, rear opening and the area where my labia parted. Then she had me lay on my back and spread again. The crowd of guests was getting
quite a show as she added lines around my mons and well-exposed lips.

  Again I was directed to stand and move about.

  Walking, kneeling, crawling, she seemed satisfied with her handiwork. Directing me onto the table she returned her suitcase. After a pause she approached with an artist’s paintbrush and a jar of black liquid. She smiled.

  “It will not be permanent.”

  Working much more quickly, she painted in the large circles and ovals she had drawn, creating large black spots over every part of my anatomy. It was humiliating. This ‘cowgirl’ was being painted to look very much like a cow!

  I began to hear some of the guests making ‘mooing’ sounds from behind the glass. Tears began to form. I closed my eyes and torpidly remained kneeling while the irritating woman plied her craft.

  Minutes later, as she was finishing, Maria was led into the room. Her breasts looked larger than ever. The three days of neglect was the longest period I could remember without fingers or suctions cups draining our glands of the accumulated milk. As I felt my breasts throb, I thought that I would indeed kiss Marvin’s or anyone else’s feet for the relief I craved.

  I stood to the side while Maria was shaved and her flesh similarly patterned by the woman’s pen wielding clever hand. She had learned from my body and worked quickly, covering all the pertinent areas, and leaving the nipples and labia untouched. With little pause Maria’s circles were filled in with white paint, contrasting most curiously with her dark brown skin. When finished, her bright pink nipples were glaringly highlighted and her labia obscenely peeked out between her spread thighs.

  It was a bizarre sight, a hairless white on brown human cow. Half of Maria’s face was covered with white paint. I could only imagine what I looked like in black on white. I would find out... but not for many months.

  Dr. Helga entered. Nurse Katrina followed her with a tray. She approached me with a smile.

  “Well, Alexi. Very becoming and photogenic... hands on head.”

  I complied as Dr. Helga picked up an instrument from the tray presented by Nurse Katrina.