Ship of Remorse

by Chris Bellows

  On occasion one of the more mischievous maids toys with me while awaiting Ms. Powers’ arrival. Her fingers never undergo the black light so she can work my labia with impunity, then laugh when I have to face Ms. Powers in a most excited state.

  When she arrives, the black light is turned onto the area surrounding my love nest. The glowing powder will easily be transferred to any fingers touching there so Ms. Powers must assure herself that it is thoroughly applied and the entrance to my pleasure hole will most definitely leave evidence of any penetrating digit or implement.

  When I return to my room, I must be careful with what comes near my vulva, for Ms. Powers takes great joy in examining various objects and fixtures, black light in hand, to make sure I have not utilized them to friction myself. In my more aroused states I often fantasize about the smooth brass doorknob and how pleasurable it would be to bend and stuff the wonderfully shaped object between my lips. But I fear Ms. Powers shining her light there, and know that the punishment would be severe if it were to glow back.

  Ms. Powers steps from her dressing room. She is naked except for a special leather belt. I stare at her finely developed body. She is marvelously proportioned with curves where a woman wants curves yet with evidence of strength, such as rippled abdominal muscles, not found on the average female anatomy.

  In her hand is a vibrator. Her sexual needs are insatiable, and I know my sleep will be interrupted throughout the night with the sound of buzzing and a kick of her foot, the signal to resume licking.

  Two straps hang from the rear of her belt. She reaches down and attaches them to my neck collar. She then lies on the bed facing away from me and pushes her fine buttocks toward me. As the crease between the rounded, muscled cheeks approaches my mouth, she pulls up the straps, shortening the distance between my face and her backside. When satisfied that my nose is firmly entrapped between her cheeks she buckles the straps. I will so spend the night, licking the rear bud of the potent Trustee of the Fatipton Estate. With the first application of my tongue she flips on her vibrator.

  “I always wanted a nice white girl servicing my sphincter. You’ll lick until I sleep. And I don’t want to hear your bell.”

  With my wrists still bound to my waist belt, and my head firmly secured with nose and lips between the rounded rear hillocks, I will spend the night. The balls within me seem to move with my breathing. I want to gyrate my hips, but if the bell sounds, I will be chastised. I divert my thoughts. I indeed lick, concentrating on her pleasure and not mine.

  The mechanics of servicing my benefactor are simple. Thus while my tongue flutters away, I once again recall that traumatic evening with Madam Chang in a New York hotel.

  “You’ve been such a good girl. I think you’ve earned a reward.”

  Madam Chang released me from the horrid table. My back was quite stiff, having had to maintain an arched position to relieve the tension from the hooks in my nostrils. She recognized the discomfort.

  “Come over here. I think this will help.”

  I was led by my collar across the room. There firmly attached to the floor by two poles was a brass bar resting horizontally at a level slightly above my waist.

  “Left foot on the bar then bend for me.”

  I complied but became concerned as once again the men and the naked servants began to gather. The pose left my shaven and lubricated pudendum most exposed and my labia separated. I felt the room air on my clitoris.

  “Yes. Very nice. My guests enjoy viewing a girl’s charms.”

  Madam Chang positioned herself behind me. Her left hand came around my torso and cupped my left breast then began to knead the soft body of the gland.

  “You need to be drained.”

  Yes, I did, and was grateful for the knowledgeable touch. But the fingers of her right hand begin diddling my genitalia and once again a perfectly smooth digit found its way between my well parted outer labia. With all the KY jelly, it easily slipped into my vagina.

  “Your buttocks are quite warm. The caning seems to have been appreciated. Just relax and show the nice gentlemen how good girls are rewarded. Bad girls find their other passage opened.”

  Two fingers slipped in as Madam Chang busily milked me. Then three. Then four. Her hands were small and smooth. I began to understand the reason for her modest manicure.

  She moved slightly in order to switch breasts. Milk was pouring to the carpet and in the silence the drops could be heard despite the softness of the material where they landed.

  The switch proved to be a diversion, for as she attacked my right breast, her right thumb folded under and I felt incredible tightness in my vagina despite the lubrication. Pangs of pleasure were overriding the slight discomfort. My own wetness flowed adding to the water-soluble jelly. My vagina turned to a river. Madam Chang softly laughed.

  She was fisting me and my Japanese audience watched raptly. She enjoyed the power, her hand penetrating to the very depths of my most intimate anatomy.

  “There are women who find they cannot go back to the penis after a good fisting. Do you want to know how deep I am? Can you feel this?”

  She clenched her hand and twisted. I moaned in both pleasure and pain. My lecherous viewers saw her wrist slowly rotate and laughed with the knowledge of what was happening... what I was feeling.

  Two zippers were lowered. And talented Asian tongues began to once again apply their oral skills with my oiled, naked and thoroughly penetrated body utilized as a catalyst for lust.

  Then she begin to thrust in and out. Slowly at first. Then faster. I began to scream in ecstasy. Her left hand left my breasts. I felt a pinch at my well-exposed outer labia.

  “Can you squirt for the nice gentlemen? You’ve been generous with your milk. Let’s see what else you can offer them.”

  I felt fingers move up toward my navel. The right hand twisted and thrust firmly and deeply. The searching fingers of her left hand found my lonely and exposed clitoris. She pinched between thumb and forefinger. Had I not been aroused the pressure would have caused intolerable pain. But in my excited state it was pure pleasure. I felt liquid hit the rug near my right foot. She was making me climax. I was having an orgasm before a dozen strangers. I closed my eyes in shame. But it felt so good.

  Madam Chang indeed had me squirt for her Japanese guests. I ejaculated on cue at her whim like a fountain she could turn on at will. My ignominious display met with much laughter and approval. I had never before felt such ecstasy.

  The hand slipped out and I fell exhausted to the floor. Someone carried me back to room 827 where I awoke.

  When I finally arose, implanted in my stretched and still wet vagina I found a small clear plastic cylinder. Inside someone had taken humor in folding a fifty-dollar bill.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The doctor’s prognostication concerning Mr. Fatipton’s health unfortunately began to become evident. Over the next few weeks he became weaker and weaker and I was only able to coax two more sperm samples of any reasonable size.

  His suckling was also sporadic, beginning a session with strong satisfying draws only to falter as his strength quickly dissipated. Thankfully, Ms. Powers would give me a firm and thorough hand milking every evening, which was essential if a proper level of lactation was to be maintained.

  Meanwhile, during his more conscious times, Mr. Fatipton took great delight in toying with the golden sphere peeking out between my flushed and reddened labia. Yes, Ms. Powers insisted that the balls remain in place, which made urination difficult. For any other girl it would be a simple matter to push the lower ball aside and do business, but I was not permitted to touch myself there. So, I had to request the assistance of one of the domestic help. It very much reminded me of the procedures aboard ‘The Scarlet Letter’ only Nurse Inga’s duty was fulfilled by one of the Estate’s precocious maids.

  Then the end arrived. I had just straddled Mr. Fatipton’s hips. His cracking voice, more feeble than ever, requested that I lift the little rubber apron. I did
and with a smile and an odd gaze, Mr. Fatipton stared, visually examining my shaven pudendum while my tiny bell freely rang and my gold ball glinted in the room light. Then he closed his eyes seeming to fall asleep.

  He did not awake.

  The funeral was private. I did not attend, remaining in my room for many days. My only contact was with the various maids who brought in my meals and bathed me every morning. Oddly, the rule of chastity was still enforced with my labia carefully powdered each morning. I could not fully understand this requirement to remain in a constant, frustrating state of arousal since there was no one for whom I needed to lactate. But since Ms. Powers was quite busy, there was no one to whom I could appeal.

  At first I was supplied with a breast pump. It was most dissatisfying to use but relieving my glands was paramount in order to inhibit the buildup of fluid and the resulting throb and ache.

  Then on the fourth day after Mr. Fatipton’s demise, the mischievous maid with the busy fingers entered my room. Her name was Angela and wore a smile I found to be more diabolical than normal.

  “Special orders from Ms. Powers. She has suggested you need to wear this.”

  She carried a tray. Next to a plate of food was the leather waist belt I had so often worn while tending to Ms. Powers’ carnal demands.

  “She also suggests that she has been busy with the attorneys and will return in a few days. Meanwhile, I am to attend to your needs.”

  The thought caused much concern. This was the girl, at least two years younger than me, who took such delight in applying the iridescent powder then surreptitiously fingering me to the very precipice of an orgasm. And now she would be in charge of my care.

  I could not help thinking that with Mr. Fatipton’s demise, the next step of our plan was to be executed. My previous pregnancies were not gratifying, the offspring having been brought to term aboard the peculiar ship. Therefore I was looking forward to carrying and bearing a child at the Fatipton mansion. It was such a wonderful facility, in beautiful countryside and with very attentive staff. And my child would be born wealthy, receiving all that the Fatipton billions could offer! Ms. Powers would continue as Trustee of the Estate well beyond Randy’s twenty-fifth year. And as the mother of Mr. Fatipton’s child, I would live royally, of course.

  But instead of being impregnated, I was placed under the care of this vixen Angela and her curious fingers while Ms. Powers was busy with other matters.

  My thoughts were distracted as the girl wrapped the belt around my waist.

  “Wrists please. Then you will have your shot and some lunch.”

  My daily hormone injection followed. Whatever the substance was, it caused abundant levels of prolactin. With Mr. Fatipton gone, I did not understand the need for it.

  Without use of my hands, it was necessary for the girl to begin spooning soup into my mouth. I sat helpless on the side of my bed. When some dribbled onto my left breast she frustratingly left it to stream down the body of my mammary gland until it reached my overly sensitive nipple. I wriggled and the girl laughed, watching my areola crinkle and turn to the two-inch point that so much resembled a pinky finger.

  In returning the spoon to the bowl, she playfully flicked it against my right nipple and it likewise turned to a pink dart.

  “Will they keep getting longer?”

  It was an appropriate question. My nipples were indeed continuing to grow. I had often wondered if there was a limit but was horrified to read somewhere that skin could probably stretch indefinitely, particularly with young flesh. With the girl’s question, I could not help thinking of a cow’s udders.

  She spooned more. The process reminded me of the many feedings of mush I had to endure from Nurse Inga. Thankfully, a sandwich was next, which the girl held as I bit, chewed and swallowed in minutes.

  “Lie back please.”

  Did I have a choice?

  Supine on my bed, the girl took delight in separating my labia as my clitoral bell rang in greeting. I felt the gold ball poke out, then as she pushed apart my thighs, my pelvic muscles contracted and I felt a twinge of pleasure as the ball was sucked back into my vagina.

  She giggled.

  “Can you do that again?”

  I refused to become the object of entertainment for the young strumpet. But she had other ideas. Her deft thumb and forefinger slid between my lips, grasped the sphere and pulled it out, the elastic cord easily giving way to her efforts. She examined and twisted it continuously, stressing the elasticity like a windup toy. With hands bound, I helplessly watched, feeling my pelvic muscles involuntarily tighten, holding in place the larger ball inserted deeply in my vagina. Then with a devilish look she extracted from her pocket the small brush normally used to apply the iridescent powder. She used it to tickle my pierced clitoris, glancing up to see in reaction the uncontrollable looks of pleasure on my face. She continued to twist with one hand while tantalizing my clitoris with the other.

  I moaned. The moisture in my sex turned to a river. She commented on the abundant flow and played on, knowing the havoc she was causing in the pleasure center of my brain.

  After a few minutes, sensing that an orgasm was imminent, she just stopped, withdrawing both hands and leaving my clitoris in an incredibly stiff and excited state. The cord began to unwind, simultaneously allowing the golden ball to be drawn back into my vagina while it slowly turned and frictioned my most sensitive lips.

  I gasped and pulled against the wrist cuffs. I needed to masturbate... to finish what she had begun, to bring myself to the forbidden climax.

  It was not to happen. The girl merely walked out, sniffing the air and commenting on the intense feminine aroma caused by my ripe and excited sex. As she shut the door, she laughed.

  My eyes followed her and spied the smooth brass knob as it turned and the door latched. It looked more inviting than ever. Durst I try? I spent the afternoon wondering what it would feel like to back against the closed door, bend and thrust my opened thighs against what seemed to be, in my extreme frustration, not only a lustily shaped object, but the only thing available for relief. I held out as long as I could. But, as dusk began to loom, instead of waning, my concupiscence seemed to increase. With hands immobile, I struggled to pull myself off the bed and approach the door. There I turned, bent over and stepped back. When I felt the cold metal against my outer labia I spread my legs. The knob was just a little high, forcing me to my toes. I paused letting my extreme body heat warm the cold metal. When warmed I lowered my buttocks and felt the wonderful penetration of the wide, smooth and hard surface. I frottaged feverishly, first rubbing up and down by bending and straightening my knees then thrusting back, forcing the broad knob to split my outer labia and penetrate as far as possible. My little bell serenaded my efforts. My breasts, nipples pointing, swung heavily then fell into a rhythm with the thrusts of my hips.

  I felt my climax approach, then heard activity in the hallway. I quickly slid from the doorknob. The room smelled of my odor even more. I feared that the destination for whomever was present was my room, and if so, the nature of my prohibited activity would easily be detected.

  I scampered toward the bathroom, hoping to forestall detection. In my state of arousal the sensation of my bell gyrating my clitoris, my ripe breasts bouncing and my naked feet cantering through the deep carpet felt amazingly sensual. As I crossed the threshold my hallway door, never locked under Ms. Powers’ rules, swung open. I turned in terror.

  It was Angela, carrying a tray with a milking bowl. I was more distressed to see with her was one of the young gardeners. When Angela saw my flushed skin and excited nipples, she smiled, fully cognizant of my masturbatory attempt. The young gardener sniffed the air and also smiled with the realization of what had been occurring.

  “I told you it would be fun, Julio.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Angela has me kneeling on a low table. She has been charged with the duty of attending to my needs, one of which is to relieve my breasts of the flow, well developed
over the years through special diet and hormones. Since Ms. Powers has mandated that I wear the waist belt with wrists secured, I cannot use the breast pump. Thus Angela will milk me.

  The irritating strumpet has brought one of the gardeners, probably even younger than her, to observe. I can only imagine what licentious interaction will occur after the virile youth watches my breasts being slowly massaged and my nipples spraying milk into the waiting bowl.

  I curse myself for being so lactogenic. In frottaging against the doorknob, the resulting arousal has caused my glands to be standing at the ready. Without the morning feeding which I normally provide to Mr. Fatipton, I am replete with milk. Julio, having pulled up a nearby chair is sitting very close. He is about to get the show of his life.

  Angela stands to my side, allowing Julio an unimpeded view of my breasts.

  “I’ll start with the left,” she succinctly suggests.

  Her fingers are clumsy and untrained. But my glands are full. As she squeezes and draws downward, my nipple seems to explode. Julio pushes back in surprise, then laughs. My eyes detect a bulge in his slacks.

  Yes, observing a completely naked, hairless and bound Caucasian girl being relieved of her essence must be quite the erotic thrill for the young Hispanic male. Angela pauses then squeezes and draws again. The result is the same, a notable splash in the bowl.

  It appears that a long evening is planned. With her deliberation, she seems determined to maximize Julio’s viewing pleasure, but judging from the bulge, he will soon need attention.