Ship of Remorse

by Chris Bellows

  When finished, it felt as though my nipples and genitalia were on fire. And the bright red certainly made the areas appear as such.

  But Marvin was pleased.

  “Wonderful,” he exclaimed as he looked into his viewfinder.

  “Take them to the set before the color fades.”

  Nurse Katrina knotted a coarse rope through my newly inserted nose ring. She did the same with Maria and we were led out of the insemination room and toward the lounge, where I had spent so many evenings performing for the benefit of the guests.

  Stepping into the large room was like entering a Hollywood movie set. Marvin and his crew had built what appeared to be the interior of a barn, complete with watering troughs and hayloft.

  Bright lights were strung everywhere. Three large cameras were set to capture any activity within the ‘barn’ from various angles. Out of view, were dozens of Dr. Helga’s guests, priapic males along with the equally concupiscent females, eagerly awaiting the director’s call of ‘action’.

  After a brief run through, Marvin called for a full rehearsal. Then the room became even brighter as more and more lamps were illuminated.

  Nurse Inga, appearing innocent and almost prepubescent in her cute white ruffled blouse, suspenders and short skirt took in hand the coarse ropes. She gave her wrist a quick flick. The resulting tension on the rope was excruciating. Dr. Helga’s device had pierced my septum where so many nerves seem to congregate and Nurse Inga’s simple message needed no repetition. Follow her leading tugs or feel the consequence of incredible pain.

  And so when Marvin finally did call out ‘action’ Maria and I found ourselves being led about the set like barnyard animals. And I can assure the reader that this barnyard animal was most docile and eager to relieve as much tension as possible from the heavy rope knotted to my large brass nose ring.

  “The body make-up is very well done.”

  Ms. Powers’ observation brings me back to the present. Yes, Maria and I look like cows. Her bronzed skin is randomly covered with large white spots. I in turn am painted with black spots, one of which covers the left side of my forehead and sweeps downward over my missing eyebrow. The woman had even taken the time to paint my left eyelid and ear.

  I had not before seen myself. I sit in shame. At one point I close my eyes, too humiliated to watch, whereupon Ms. Powers objects.

  “You look like such a nice cow, Alexi. I think you should watch.”

  She reaches down and painfully pinches my right nipple to emphasize her point, sending a jet of milk toward my feet. I resume watching.

  Nurse Inga, dressed as a Teutonic farm girl, leads us about. Our crimson nipples are uncanny and draws the rapt gaze of the viewer. With arms pulled back and thumbs connected to more decorative wooden yokes, our mammary glands appear to be enormous. As I recall neither of us had been milked for days before filming and the screen shows Maria’s breasts bouncing rhythmically with each of her steps, seeming to be begging for attention.

  Two stanchions, similar to the poles in 3 stall, had been erected. After a time the screen shows Nurse Inga leading us to them, pulling downward until we kneel and then untying the ropes. As Nurse Inga attaches our yokes to the stanchions, one camera zooms in on my face to show a close up of my nose ring. Its gauge is heavy, about half the thickness of a pencil, and is three inches in diameter, hanging almost to my chin.

  The camera zooms back then the scene shifts as spliced into the video is a different angle. This is from the rear and obscenely displays our buttocks. A command is heard from Nurse Inga. I spread my knees in response to show to the camera my sphincter and more prominently my labia, reddened for the benefit of the viewer by Nurse Katrina’s rubber slapper.

  “You must tell me how your genitalia came to be so nicely colored,” comments Ms. Powers. “Such wonderful contrast, the bright red lips against the black and white.”

  She is most correct. The Prince certainly got his money’s worth. For into the scene come two hands to further separate my cheeks. My clitoris peeks out as a result. Ms. Powers laughs.

  “I am told by the hotel clerk that this video is quite rare and expensive and I can see why. Girls rarely allow themselves to be so exhibited.”

  I become flushed as I watch the same hands caress my labia and toy until a notable degree of moisture forms. The close up is extreme. In response to watching, I rock my hips recalling the strangely enjoyable sensation of being half masturbated under the bright lights, before the guests and with cameras rolling.

  The angle returns to the front view. Nurse Inga places the stainless steel pail under Maria. Amazingly, her nipples, slapped repeated just minutes before, begin to harden. It is a Pavlov-like response to the pail and Nurse Inga’s proximity. Maria’s glands react to the mere prospect of being milked. Days of liquid await the dexterous fingers of the costumed farm girl. I can hear the guests of Dr. Helga laughing in the background as the nipples erect to the size of small penises.

  But Nurse Inga just stands and playfully twists Maria’s ear.

  “Would you like to give some milk?” her accented voice suggests to Maria, the script calling for simple and easily translated dialog.

  Incredibly, the lens moves in to see Maria’s untouched breasts begin to lactate. Again the unseen audience laughs, this time with Nurse Inga joining them.

  After another pause the recognizable soft but firm hands I grew to covet move into view. They grasp Maria’s nipples, hanging down toward the bucket, like cow’s udders. With the first delicate squeeze and draw an impressive squirt of white splashes to the bottom of the bucket.

  “Quite a girl, that one. You had some interesting friends, Alexi.”

  Ms. Powers chuckles with her understatement. I nod in agreement. I had seen Maria milked so many times I had forgotten about the abundance of her flow.

  Nurse Inga’s hands begin to work up and down. With each motion a spurt is sent into the pail. Very light sighs can be heard from Maria. The relief is most soothing and on occasion the camera view changes to the rear to display Maria’s widely spread thighs and the evidence of her excitement streaming down her thighs.

  I envision the Prince viewing the video with some subservient and naked young female fellating him to ecstasy. Marvin’s cinematography is of high quality. Maria appears to be ever so much like a human cow, without doubt piquing the Prince’s odd proclivity.

  After many minutes, Nurse Inga pushes the half full bucket under my mammary glands. They are already dripping. In listening to Maria’s essence being extracted my nipples likewise respond in a Pavlov-like manner.

  Nurse Inga begins to milk me. The camera zooms in on my face.

  “This is what concerns me, Alexi. Look at your face. The expression of complete gratification as the farm girl humiliates you before the camera. You’re naked and painted to look like an animal, yet you are enjoying it.”

  As with Maria, a rear spread shot flashes to the screen. I am even wetter then my cohort cowgirl, my arousal having had more time to develop while Maria’s essence emptied into the bucket.

  “You did not tell me about such experiences. I did not realize your need for submission and abject humiliation was so strong. I could have been much more accommodating over the past few months...

  “But it is not too late. I have reconsidered my plans for you. The imagination can be fascinatingly unlimited and in manifesting fantasies the Fatipton Estate won’t run out of money, I assure you.”

  We continue to watch the antics in silence.

  Nurse Inga’s hands fall into a continuous rhythm, which the accomplished milker knows is important in maximizing the ultimate quantity of extraction. Since my nipples have stretched remarkably and Nurse Inga’s hands are small, she can grip them with her fists and manipulate her fingers to provide the initial squeeze and downward pressure. The tips of my nipples peek out the bottom of her hands and are aimed at the pail. Thus, an ongoing rippling of her closed fingers causes a cadence of splashes to be heard and camera c
lose ups show the spurts gushing into the half filled bucket. Occasionally she pulls downward, enhancing the circulation to my glands. I realize now that she is an extraordinarily accomplished milker of young females and Marvin has done well in exhibiting her skills.

  My flow rate was never as large as Maria’s, but I could amuse Dr. Helga’s guests for lengthy sessions, particularly with someone as skilled as Nurse Inga. And so the video becomes notably repetitive as Nurse Inga works my breasts and my comparatively lesser flow does not seem to diminish.

  I imagine the Prince to be most impressed and wonder indeed if the time required to drain my essence could be compared to that required of a cow.

  Finally, the spurts lessen and Nurse Inga slows the rhythm accordingly. Aboard ‘The Scarlet Letter’, the ‘cowgirls’ were most professionally milked, with great care taken to ensure that the breasts were completely drained. This promoted even more flow and as I watch Nurse Inga work I accordingly give up my very last drop. I wish the maids at the Fatipton Estate were so attentive.

  The camera moves back as Nurse Inga releases our yokes, retrieves the ropes and threads them through our nose rings. Carrying the milk pail in one hand and pulling the two ropes with the other, the camera follows her as she leaves the set. Cheering guests can be heard in the background.

  Ms. Powers turns off the video. She is wearing a smile but there is devious thought behind it.

  “On the table please, Alexi.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  It has been so long since I have been adequately drained. My heart leaps with her command to kneel as I have so often done when her fingers work to relieve me of my milk.

  When Ms. Powers disappears into her kitchen and returns with the milking bowl, I know the dull ache will at last subside. I lean forward in eager anticipation, allowing my enormous glands to hang. They appear to be large water filled balloons with my pink nipples resembling the extended filling neck. It feels as if they will explode and on some lonely evenings I have fantasized about having them pricked by a pin and watching milk gush like oil from a well.

  “That farm girl had interesting technique,” Ms. Powers observes. “And I never realized how aroused you become in merely showing yourself.”

  Ms. Powers encircles my left nipple in her right hand, thumb and forefinger near the body of my mammary gland. She closes her grip. It feels wonderful, warm and firm.

  “But my hands are larger than hers.”

  It is true. However long my nipples have become, the tip reaches only to the forefinger of Ms. Powers’ closed fist. Therefore any attempt to emulate Nurse Inga’s method would result in the milk spurting within Ms. Powers’ hand and not into the waiting bowl below.

  “We’ll have to change that.”

  Ms. Powers begins to milk me utilizing her thumb and index finger. But her tone of voice hints at her eagerness to utilize my nipples like cow’s udders, just as Nurse Inga did on the video.

  “Tomorrow Arthur will drive you to the doctor’s office. As I said, I want certain alterations made. I found that nose ring to be most becoming. It portrays your stature here at the Estate very nicely. And I’m going to have the doctor do a little stitch and tuck on your vocal cords. Nothing permanent, but since you don’t need to talk here we can be more accommodating.”

  She pauses. The sound of a particularly large stream of milk bursting into the bottom of the bowl interrupts her. After all, it has been awhile...

  “And it appears that you enjoy your balls. The doctor is going to arrange a more permanent configuration. You may have some difficulty walking about, but you really won’t need to go anywhere.”

  More squeezes. More spurts. I have never given up so much so fast.

  “When you return in the afternoon the woman will be here for your electrolysis. It’s all going to go, Alexi. Permanently. If you leave us, you can always return to that peep show. You’ll be quite the attraction.”

  The phone rings. Ms. Powers steps away to answer. The exasperation of pausing is indescribable and a small stream continues to drip to the bowl as Ms. Powers talks.

  She returns.

  “That was easier than I thought. It seems the director of your video left his office address imprinted on the final frames of your milking extravaganza. My agents contacted him and he very nicely gave us the phone number of the make-up artist. I was very impressed with her work”

  Thankfully the conversation ends. Ms. Powers concentrates on draining me. My hips begin to work. My little bell sounds and my balls work to provide much needed vaginal stimulation. I do not climax, of course. But Ms. Powers keeps me on the edge for an hour. I nearly fill the bowl twice. My vaginal juices flow down my thighs to the table.

  With the last of her manipulations, little milk flows. The immense change in hormone levels causes a glow, which I can only describe as a stupor. My nipples are worn to a frightening abraded pinkness, but I barely feel the irritation. When Ms. Powers guides me from the table I realize my knees are wet. I have been kneeling in a puddle caused by my own arousal.

  I am privileged to spend the night with tongue endeavoring to service Ms. Powers’ backside. She is very meticulous in tightening the straps on her waist harness and though my nose and lips are forced deeply into her rear crevice, my air supply is sufficient. I lick with much gratitude.

  The next morning Angela leads me on leash back to my room. There I am released from my waist belt and collar, bathed and once again powdered about my labia.

  An interesting garment is supplied. It is a simple sheet with a hole in the middle for my head. Angela drapes it over me. With my head poking through the hole, the sheet rests on my shoulders but barely reaches my waist, just covering the top of my buttocks and mons. My breasts cause a huge pair of silhouettes under my chin. I cannot see my toes.

  But it is nice to have not only some covering but also have my hands free. For the first time in many days I can walk without concern of losing my balance.

  Angela supervises my walk to the mansion’s garage. There Arthur awaits with an unctuous smile holding open the rear door of the long black limousine. But as I get closer, his expression changes to a glower in viewing my partially exposed pudendum. With my tiny clitoral bell performing its function of titillating me it also calls attention to my privates.

  I enter and sit, eagerly preparing to view the scenery of the mountainous countryside. On previous trips to the doctor’s office, Ms. Powers was with me and I was occupied licking her boots for most of the ride, thus viewing very little.

  The engine starts. The garage door opens. We exit. It is amazing to realize that with the car moving at moderate speed it requires five minutes or more to exit the Estate. The Fatipton land holding is vast and I fully realize its enormity when the stone pillars and tall iron gates finally flash by the window.

  We enter the main road. The car accelerates. I sit back and relax as best I can. Ms. Powers has insouciantly described the procedures to be performed, and although I recall the pain of the Dr. Helga’s nose ring with trepidation, I convince myself all will be simply and easily done.

  Then the car slows and turns. There are no buildings. The road narrows and a wooden sign reads ‘Hiking Trail’ with an appropriate arrow. We stop. The door opens. Arthur enters the rear passenger area. His unctuous smile has changed to one of evil. His hand moves to his zipper.

  “I don’t think you’ll tell anyone, Miss. And I understand you’re rather experienced.”

  Did I have a choice? I instinctively moved to the floor and knelt. Julio had obviously spread the word.

  We arrive at the doctor’s. The clever Arthur had planned for his dalliance in the woods and though he used me well for some twenty minutes we arrive on time. With just a moderate degree of haste, I am led to the receptionist. My hands pull down on the hem of the sheet in a futile attempt at modesty. Fortunately the only person in the reception area is a young male, evidently awaiting his wife.

  The receiving nurse looks up to see my brief attire
and stifles a giggle.

  “I think we can take you right to the examining room.”

  I am grateful but soon find myself with sheet removed and being restrained to a table. Recollections of Dr. Helga’s insemination room come to mind and with them consternation. When the nurse lifts my left ankle to place it in a stirrup, I begin to panic. When the right is also secured, the object of my concern comes into view.

  With legs parted, Arthur’s semen begins to ooze from my sphincter. The nurse notices and this time she laughs loudly.

  “You’ve been quite the naughty girl.”

  Yes, I tried to fellate Arthur, taking him deep in my throat, sucking and simultaneously swishing and lapping away with my tongue. But after several minutes he pulled back.

  “I’ve seen Bobby’s dogs take such great interest in your charms,” he calmly explained.

  With that he rolled up my sheet, knelt behind me and penetrated my rear portal like a canine. He was rather large and though I had been penetrated there by so much and so often, I had trouble accommodating him. It was painful but my expressions of discomfort seemed to spur him to double his efforts. Eventually, he climaxed strongly and deeply, and the evidence of his sodomy dribbles into view, humbling me before the unfamiliar nurse.

  The nurse retrieves a tissue and begins to professionally dab from about my anus the remnants of Arthur’s lust.

  “We have many girls like you visit us,” was her simple comment, spoken with a disapproving sarcasm.

  She gives me a very piquant liquid to drink. By the time the doctor enters, I am conscious but my mind keeps wandering off in barely controllable daydreams.

  “Atropine,” the doctor explains. “Some of the procedures will be uncomfortable.”