I slowly arise, being careful not to disturb the slumbering Master. I twice push the button on his bedside table. It is the signal for Ms. Powers. Within a minute she opens the bedroom door without knocking. She has been waiting nearby.
The tall handsome woman walks with purpose, not in a masculine way, but far from effeminate. A woman in her mid thirties, her physical condition is superb. Lengthy workouts in the mansion’s gymnasium are in evidence. She wears a black pants suit so tight that it appears to be a leotard.
“Do you think we can get any tonight?” she asks softly.
I nod. It is an interesting phenomenon of the male anatomy that with age tumescence often manifests itself most firmly during somnolence. As I resume straddling the Master’s calves I look down to see his penis remains comparatively stiff. I bend and take it in my mouth. My sleeping Master stirs in his sleep, my efforts bringing a peaceful look of pleasure.
Ms. Powers strolls to the bathroom. A cabinet opens and closes. She returns with a modified breast pump.
“I never would have thought of such a device, Alexi. You have such a devious mind.”
Yes. It was my idea to merely change the shape of the suction cup to one that would fit closely over the tip of Mr. Fatipton’s somewhat emaciated penis. Then with the proper coaxing, sperm could be extracted. Slowly and methodically Ms. Powers and I can suck male essence from the Master’s loins. We have been doing so for months. The collection, kept in a basement refrigerator, has been growing. Randy may soon have a half brother!
I suck. Ms. Powers reaches down and massages the perineum. If Mr. Fatipton could only know how much he is enjoying himself.
I feel the organs begin to boil. I have felt the male climax so often, I can time it precisely. Holding the pump in my right hand, I pull away my mouth and instantaneously substitute the pump’s suction cup for my lips. Sure enough as Ms. Powers continues her massage and I squeeze the bulb, sperm slowly flows into the collection vessel. We smile.
My next child will be mine to keep and will be born a billionaire. There is fairness in life after all, I think to myself.
We remain silent. It is paramount that we not wake our sperm donor, thus I let my mind wander and memories of my brief employment at the peep show return.
Yes I humbly squatted in the booth. It was better than the stall aboard Dr. Helga’s ship. I was free to move my limbs. But keeping my knees apart to afford the best ‘sample’ to a potential customer was tiring. A small video camera in each booth projected the images of all the girls onto a collection of television screens. A customer could thus chose which booth he wished to observe based on the grainy TV images. To attract the most customers, the girls were encouraged to squat as obsequiously as possible and in the most sordid of poses, indicating a willingness to comply with the most decadent of requests.
I made sure my shaven and oiled vulva shined directly at the camera. On my first day I received much attention, my wet lips seeming to invite busy masturbating fingers. Ernie was correct; I was commanded over and over again to play with myself before the various pairs of peep holes. After the years of forced abstinence, it felt strangely good.
Performing for the groups was simple, mainly college boys collectively gathering their courage to sit and satisfy some masturbatory male fantasy.
It was the more mature, single voices I quickly learned to dread. These were the true perverts, demanding poses and acts no wife or girl friend would ever consider, should they even have the nerve to ask.
Yes, spread shots were common. Masturbation, as written. But for one customer, Ernie slid a bowl into the booth. I found myself squatting over it and emptying my bladder before a pair of dark evil eyes peering through holes not more than a foot away.
For another man, his voice sounding quite old, I massaged and pinched my nipples to send streams of breast milk shooting across the small four foot by four foot booth. His breathing became heavy. Although rules ostensibly forbid the customers from playing with themselves, it was really just a pretense to collect more money. For an extra twenty dollars they did whatever they wanted. The old man was wheezing heavily when I heard a final, stifled cry of ecstasy.
The constant sound of quarters being slid into slots then rolling down to a collection box was most memorable. Every time I heard a pair of quarters fall, I knew that I had to continue what I was doing for another twenty seconds. The special requests were paid for and arranged beforehand, of course. But to keep the eyeholes open, quarters were still mandated and no matter the customer or the terms of his prearranged show, the coins had to keep rolling.
Then the long day of unspeakable humiliation finally ended. I reported to the area outside of Ernie’s office stark naked. There was no place for modesty and besides, customer’s were not permitted in the vicinity. My clothes hung on a simple hook with my valuables locked away in a small locker.
“Nice touch with the bowl,” an approaching Ernie commented. “Big tip there. Not many girls can do that the first time.”
There was no point in describing how for two years I did almost the same thing on Dr. Helga’s floating clinic, with the added feature of a pair of pretty female hands touching my most intimate parts.
“Well here’s your take. The house’s cut against new girls is high. We put some aside and bonus it to you if you’re still here after six months. Don’t like training girls just so they can go to the competition.”
I almost laughed with the notion of the seedy, filthy establishment having competition. There certainly couldn’t be anything else comparable, even in a city the size of New York.
But the bag Ernie handed me curtailed all thoughts of humor. I was being paid in quarters. My face gave away my disappointment. The two-year dream of having dollars tossed at my naked dancing body burst. It was a dose of cold water I’d never forget, being handed a bag of coins after spending the day completely degrading myself for latent perverts.
Ernie quickly turned away.
“Get here a little early tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder. “I’d like to see you do that bowl thing on top of my desk.”
Chapter Twenty-four
The slow flow of semen into the collection vessel turns clear. This indicates that the pump has come to extract pre-ejaculatory fluid from the prostate gland. It is harmless but if we continue to extract it, it will just be more difficult to collect potent sperm on the next attempt. I pull away the pump. Ms. Powers nods in agreement. Mr. Fatipton will have pleasant dreams and tomorrow morning will suckle my breasts with renewed vigor.
I right his garments and pull up the sheet. We tiptoe out the door.
“Did he finish you?”
I shake my head.
“Report to my room in fifteen minutes. Remove all your attire. I have Randy in suspension again and have to check on him.”
She turns and with envy I watch her rounded, firm buttocks stroll away. The layers of well-developed muscle ripple with each step. In contrast, my naked white body, with my high fat, high lactose diet combined with my daily hormone injection, resembles that of the Pillsbury doughboy, especially with my shaven head. Only this doughboy is adorned with a pair of obscene, pink and stretched nipples. Thus I find looking at Ms. Powers’ fine physique to be frustrating. Still, I believe some find me to be pretty. And Mr. Fatipton seems to enjoy my company.
I start toward my room. I cannot but help picturing myself as waddling after observing the athletic movements of Ms. Powers.
In the upper hallway I pass James, the head butler. I nod with a shy smile, acknowledging his prominent status within the household. With my reddened, well used nipples protruding before me, forced to the shape of pencil points by the feeding harness, and the sound of my little bell tingling from my most intimate location, I find myself uncomfortably walking about before the males of the household.
But rules are rules and I am comforted knowing that within minutes, Ms. Powers will be sensuously milking me of my remaining fluid. As two more male servants exit their
rooms for a night out, I force myself to think of other things besides my nakedness and my ringing pierced clitoris. My employment at the peep show comes to mind.
The evening of the first day I arrived back at my hotel room. It was early evening. The ‘action’ in the booths falls off at that hour as office guys ‘working late’ eventually leave and go home to their wives. The more experienced girls are assigned the late shift, there being fewer customers, but those that remained were the high paying, most libidinous of males with the most bizarre requests.
I piled up my quarters. $25.75. I tried to imagine paying my sizable hotel bill in the following month with the large accumulation of coins such an obligation would require, or paying any other significant obligation, for that matter.
My breasts ached and I assembled my pump. What little milk I had sprayed about in the booth left my glands in more need than if I had not touched them at all. I stripped, laid on the bed and pumped. My flow began, but I had a depressing feeling of emptiness. There was no satisfaction. I thought about the wizened clerk and his prognosticating words. I hated doing it but I called room service. When I gave my name, a male voice replied with a snicker before I could ask for the clerk.
“Maurice will be there in a minute, Alexi. He says you should remove your clothes,” he added with outright laughter.
How obnoxious. And he had the temerity to use my first name!
I hung up. Angry with myself. My weakness. The day of thorough humiliation, for $25.75.
But my needs were more than a cheap plastic breast pump could satisfy. Yes, the clerk was correct concerning assistance, somehow seeming to know me more than I knew myself.
My glands required human touch. My psyche required the strange thrill of embarrassment... the degradation of being used with wizened fingers awkwardly squeezing then drawing down the length of my nipples.
That evening, Maurice had me kneel on a small rug while leaning over the edge of the hotel room bathtub. Out of habit, I spread for him and after both his hands simultaneously worked both right breast and left, his left hand slipped back and masturbated me as his right alternated from nipple to nipple.
It was most humiliating. Kneeling with hands on head, watching his hand squeeze and draw and my white essence squirt into the tub then down the drain. But I needed it, craving his touch and the strange desire to kneel naked while he extracted my various bodily juices. His laughter and unabashed enjoyment were both irritating and arousing.
The milk collected in the center of the tub and steadily streamed to the drain. When he detected a diminishing of the flow he deftly found my ‘G’ spot, hooked his fingers then firmly rubbed my vaginal wall. He was expert. He had me climax like I had never done before.
‘Maurice’ laughed mockingly.
“Call anytime, Alexi,” he suggested with a wicked smirk.
He left me on the bathroom floor, demonstrably sniffing his fingers on the way out. The small area rug was soaked. The old man’s experienced hand had made me ejaculate. I pondered whether it was the events of the day that had spurred such a need and reaction.
When I arrived the next morning at 10th Avenue, Ernie had the bowl sitting atop his desk.
“I won’t let you fall,” he suggested as his hand patted the newspaper-covered surface.
“Up.”
I put the parsimony of the prior day’s pay out of my mind and stepped first onto his chair and then onto the desk. I squatted over the bowl, remaining on my toes with my thighs widely parted, hands on head. Ernie nicely helped. Standing directly to my front he placed his hands on my knees and pushed them further apart. I felt my outer lips separate allowing the room air to cool my inner labia.
“Be a good girl for me, Alexi.”
I was good. The bowl slowly filled.
It was an interesting way to begin a day of degradation, filling Ernie’s bowl while the other girls, arriving to prepare for work, stopped and watched with smiles.
That second day I earned $31.25.
I arrive back in my room and remove apron and feeding harness. I rinse both then exit for Ms. Powers’ room. Now I have no covering at all, and with my feet sinking into the lush carpeting and the ringing of my little bell no longer muffled by the rubber apron, I feel even more self conscious walking about naked among fully clothed servants.
Thankfully Ms. Powers’ room is two floors below mine, thus in utilizing the back stairs I only encounter one worker, an off duty gardener walking up who stares as my breasts bounce with each step downwards.
The door to Ms. Powers’ room is ajar. I enter. I know where she wants me and how, kneeling on the low coffee table in the lounge area of her apartment.
As I position myself she enters. Punctual as always, she smiles with the display of my eagerness.
“Randy’s been bad again and getting harder to control. He’s counting the days until his twenty-fifth birthday when he thinks he will gain the advantage. But meanwhile, his disobedience costs him dearly. I just added some scrotal weights.”
Laughing, she steps into her small kitchen and returns with a pot.
“Wait until he meets his little baby brother.
“The left again?”
I nod. She knows Master Fatipton always starts with my right nipple and prefers to drain it rather than alternating. I place my hands on the back of my head fully displaying both my huge glands and eagerness. She places the pot on the table beneath me. She reaches out and gives both my nipples a brief pinch. The milk hits the pot with a hollow metallic sound. The spray from the left is particularly strong.
“I need to get comfortable.”
She teasingly moves to her bedroom, looking back with an enticing smile. She knows that to start the flow then walk away leaves me throbbing for more.
“The doctor says Mr. Fatipton has little time left,” she calls from her bedroom. “Less and less of your nourishment is being digested. I’m going to miss the old gent. But I think we’ve got enough sperm to impregnate you at least twice. And with your history of fertility that should be enough.”
She steps from the bedroom wearing her halter and short skirt. I know that under the flimsy pleats she is naked. I will soon be begging for permission to explore beneath.
She pours herself a glass of wine and returns.
“Where else could I work where I get to play with my own little white girl. Nice and plump and full of milk.”
She playfully squeezes with her free hand then draws down much more firmly. A spray erupts, coating the sides of the pot then running to the bottom.
“I think you’re flowing better than ever, cowgirl.”
She puts down her glass and works with vigor. I feel my vaginal wetness also begin to flow. I move my hips. Ms. Powers smiles with the sound of my bell. She knows I am desperately trying to bring myself to orgasm, having the motion of the small bell titillate my clitoris.
“Your little bell reminds me that I have a gift for you. But I’ll have to make sure you’ve been a good girl first.”
Yes, my little bell. Very easy for her to refer to it as such. But the trauma associated with the adornment can never be forgotten. It was in my second week at the Fatipton mansion when Ms. Powers decided I needed something to remind me of my place.
“You’re a bit haughty, Alexi. I’ve arranged for a decoration which will serve to remind you of your stature.”
The next day, Arthur drove me to the doctor’s office for the first of many monthly gynecological exams, a procedure with which no girl is ever comfortable.
Well, while lying with thighs parted and with ankles secured in the obligatory stirrups, my labia were not only spread open with the standard speculum, but an odd device was also utilized to pull my back and up on my clitoral hood. I had never before experienced the sensation of such coolness and exposure there. It felt as if my clitoris was standing like a small penis before the macho doctor and irritatingly pleasant nurse.
They exchanged the most embarrassing comments, speaking as if I was n
ot present, comparing my little bud to a variety of obscene objects. Then I heard a click and felt an enormous sharp pain.
It was that quick. Like being shot. My clitoris was pierced and a little ring permanently thrust through the opening and then welded closed. I did not have time to protest, not that it would have done any good.
The nurse made gratuitous comments about how adorably submissive it made me appear and when she attached the little bell took the time to explain that both it and the piercing ring were pure gold.
“Every girl likes to wear jewelry,” she cheerily suggested. “And it nicely keeps the hood out of the way.”
But her laugh was diabolical, causing me to wonder whether she would willingly submit her own pudendum to such intrusion. I gathered she just enjoyed watching it done to others.
Ms. Powers continues milking then wrings the last drops from my left nipple. Next she gives my right a few strokes, ensuring that Mr. Fatipton has indeed suckled it dry.
She takes away the pot and returns with the battery-operated black light. Shining it on my hands, there are some remnants of Mr. Fatipton’s sperm but no traces of the special iridescent powder she has dusted about my labia every morning after having me bathed.
“Good girl, Alexi. You know how I want you. Completely chaste.”
She puts down the black light and lifts the front of her skirt. Her nicely trimmed pudendum flashes into view, rich brown with that wonderful pink slit topped by a hood begging for the attention of my lips.
“A little taste?”
Chapter Twenty-five
Ms. Powers is insatiable. How she remains standing while my tongue laps away, I will never understand. The short skirt lays atop my hairless head as I work her labia then part her lips and thrust my tongue in and out. I can hear small sighs of pleasure and feel her thighs move apart. Thus I know my tongue has affect. But otherwise she just stands and lets me work. My bell rings, adding a chimed cadence to my endeavors. My fingers need to play. My own organ needs attention. But it is forbidden.
Ship of Remorse Page 12
