The girl seems to prefer me kneeling with my nose ring loosely tied under the table. The flow of breast milk is easily countered with a very absorbent towel covering the surface. And she seems to enjoy listening to my bells which ring quite freely as I am forced to pose with thighs well spread.
The pain of the needles is somewhat mild compared to the electrolysis. But on the fourth day, Miss Avant-garde announces with verve that she will work in red. My larger bell is unhooked and the border of flesh very close to my outer labia begins to experience her handiwork. She works in rows and the discomfort of her needle grows as each one is begun on the outer perimeter then completed by pricking a portion of flesh at the very edge of the sensitive outer labia.
On one row I spasm with the pain.
“Hold still, Alexi,” she admonishes. “Or the needle may inadvertently leave its mark where you’ll most regret it.”
With the thought of the humming device touching my clitoris or inner lips, very much aroused by the ever-present dangling ball, I endeavor to hold myself perfectly still.
At about that time the sounds of carpentry cease. I calm myself envisioning Ms. Powers giving me a long sensual hand milking in my ‘new home’ as she phrased it. But then the girl finishes working between my thighs and begins to apply her craft to my head. Since I am bald with little hope of having my hair return, it is very simple for her to begin to blacken the left side where one of her penciled loops encircles my left ear and eye.
The cognition of the permanency of the procedure begins to settle in as her hand slowly moves across my forehead. Tears form and drip to the same towel that captures the essence from my nipples. The persistent hand keeps working but most cruelly, the skilled artist offers sardonic consolation.
“So sad, Alexi. Well just think. You’ll never have to wear make up again. And maybe we’ll surprise Ms. Powers with a nice bright red nose. Wouldn’t you like that? I can have it match your snatch.”
It is easy to remain stoical. I cannot speak. But the tears flow and the moisture prevents the girl from completing the left side of my face as planned. Instead she works the left side of my head, ear included.
Late that afternoon Ms. Powers again visits. She appears ecstatic with the progress and while I kneel circles the table as if viewing a piece of sculpture.
“The crimson is wonderful. It so very nicely highlights her charms and draws attention to her bells.”
They discuss the completion.
“Just an hour of work left. Maybe a little more. But I’ll need to do her face while she’s not tearing up.”
Ms. Powers nods as she releases the rope from under the table.
“She’ll be ready for tomorrow. When you’re finished Arthur will drive you back to the city.
“Come Alexi. I have something to show you.”
As always, to relieve tension on my nose, I follow the rope with alacrity, waddling while bells ring and balls caress. I am happy to be with Ms. Powers and away from the tattoo needles. Being proximate to the beautiful Mistress of the mansion while my balls knead my vaginal walls has the expected effect. I feel my wetness and hope I will soon be relieved of the dull ache in my breasts.
I am led toward the kitchen in the rear of the house. The help are quite amused as we pass through.
Then we step out the back door into the gloom of a mid autumn evening. It is cool and my nipples harden in response. Ms. Powers looks back and smiles at the pink points. But I am focused on the new wooden structure, which we are approaching. The many Fatipton dollars have been put to use building a scaled down barn. A larger building of similar design would go unnoticed in Iowa or Wisconsin. With its proximity to the beautiful Tudor mansion in the Catskills, it’s incongruous.
“Your new home, Alexi. The milking machine has not yet arrived but otherwise it’s ready for the Fatipton cowgirl.”
I am both shocked yet strangely gratified that the busy Mistress would take such time and effort for something to accommodate me... but a milking machine!
Ms. Powers pushes on a large wooden door. It slides to the side. A switch is flipped. The interior of the new structure illuminates under dozens of extremely bright halogen lights. We step inside.
The interior is a odd combination of barn and amphitheater. To the left are three curved rows each with six comfortable leather folding seats resembling those in a movie theater. They are permanently set into flooring, which is stepped upward from the low front row to the high rear row backed against the wall.
But the seats do not face a stage or movie screen. They are arranged for the occupant to view a carefully crafted contraption set near the right wall.
Propped up against the front row is a large mirror facing the device. It has been temporarily positioned and appears to be out of place.
“Let’s try this for size.”
Ms. Powers leads me toward the two vertical wooden poles running from the floor to a beam high above. My bare feet patter on a rubber surface. It is somewhat soft, giving slightly under my weight. She guides me so that I stand near the parallel poles, resting about two feet apart.
“Bend a little. Head between the poles.”
When I do so, she turns the right pole. Its base on the floor is offset. In turning, the right pole moves closer until it gently presses against my neck. She twists a little more until I move and feel the left pole pressing against the left side of my neck. Her foot presses a lever. The pole becomes secure and no longer moves. My neck and therefore my head are entrapped!
“Perfect.
“The design allows for some movement. Your wrists will be secured of course. Sometimes behind your back when you’re being hand milked for display. Sometimes to the poles. The tubes for the milking machine will be threaded through the piping in the floor.”
She looks down and my eyes follow. Just as in ‘3 stall’, where I spent so much time aboard Dr. Helga’s ship, it appears that my milk, when extracted by machine, will simply flow into tubing and disappear under the floor.
Over the shoulder of the imposing Ms. Powers I spy cameras attached to the walls in each corner. As opposed to various fixtures aboard ‘The Scarlet Letter’, no attempt has been made to conceal their presence. A large movable camera rests on a tripod to her right. Marvin’s videotape has obviously stimulated a degree of interest in recording my subjugation.
Ms. Powers reaches out and toys with my left then my right nipple.
“These will need to be worked. Tomorrow, after you’ve been properly colored, I have special little implements. I think you’ll enjoy them.”
Ms. Powers releases the rope from my nose ring and steps away. She moves and sits in a front row seat beside the mirror.
“Yes, the seats afford a wonderful view. Try kneeling, Alexi. There’s a floor drain that’s designed to accommodate your needs.”
With my neck entrapped, I kneel, sliding my head downward as I fold my legs. The rubber floor gives under the pressure of my knees. It is comfortable which oddly causes me consternation. It is evident that the flooring has been constructed to allow for the occupant of the contraption to spend long periods with head entrapped. And yes, the floor drain is perfectly positioned to accept all my excretions.
I shudder. The device and flooring have been designed for long-term bondage.
Then I see my reflection. It is the first time I have seen myself since the artist began her efforts. With the large nose ring and huge ovals of black covering numerous areas of my body, I appear alien to myself. The left side of my head is black, including my ear. Near my left eye, the artist’s unfinished work appears similar to a building under construction, the smooth black ending in scraggily lines like jagged uncompleted brick work.
The top of my right breast has been blackened, the affect of which is to highlight the pink of my nipple below.
My weight is upsetting. The diet of milkshakes, cheese and ice cream is evident. Except for pregnancy, I am more rotund than I have ever been. My tummy, thighs and upper arms all hav
e a curvature I have never seen on myself.
“Move forward and rise to your knees. The red appears marvelous.”
I do and in struggling to tilt my head up to see the mirror, find that Ms. Powers is correct. My pudendum has been tattooed a clownish shade of crimson, framing my clitoral bell and drawing attention to the larger spiked bell dangling beneath. I am permanently tattooed to very much resemble a cow. Tears form and again drip down my cheeks.
“Tsk. Tsk. Remember how much you enjoyed performing on the video tape, Alexi. From now on you’re going to perform for me.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
I awake grateful to have slept in my room on a soft bed. There may not be many more evenings of such comfort.
Angela enters for morning feeding and ablutions. Afterwards she gives me a pill, attaches my bell, threads the rope through my nose ring and leads me to the salon and Miss Greenwich Village.
I have not been milked in days. I crave the touch of firm fingers. However, as I am walked the dull ache begins to subside. I hear my bells but the pleasure of the moving balls and the titillation of my clitoris dissipates. The carpet begins to float. I stumble.
“Just a few more feet, Alexi. The pill will calm you for the last of your art work.”
I have been drugged.
The artist laughs at my efforts to walk. When I reach her table I am grateful to have a place to lie down. I can only present myself supine. To finish my face that is all that is required. I hear the buzz of the tattoo needle. I believe I sleep.
I awake in my new home. I do not know how I was moved but the insides of thighs are sore. The bell has abraded the skin thus I assume I have been carried with the bell loose to both ring and cause irritation.
I am lying prostrate on the rubber-coated floor. There is definitely some type of foam layering beneath, for it is surprisingly comfortable. My wrists are cuffed behind my back. I feel the slight pressure of the vertical poles against both sides of my neck.
Within a few minutes my head clears. I carefully pull my legs under me, slide my neck upwards, then kneel. The mirror remains propped up against the front row seat some ten feet to my front. I lift my head. I am greeted by the strange reflection of a hairless black and white beast. Miss Avant-garde finished her work. Not only is the left side of my forehead and face blackened but she has indeed colored my nose. At the nostrils it is the same bright red as my labia and causes my huge nose ring to appear even larger. The color cleverly fades to a pink at the bridge between my eyes.
I cry.
When the effects of the drug fully wear off, I rock my hips. My bells ring and the waves of pleasure from my balls and my clitoral piercing bring some consolation. With my arousal comes the need to be milked and the ache returns along with the slight involuntary flow. My essence drips to the floor and mixes with my tears.
Then I realize my tongue is sore. I open my mouth and look up into the mirror. Another jolt. A tongue of hideous purple reflects back. It has also been tattooed.
The outrageous coloring makes my tongue appear very long and I cannot help but stick it out and move it about. The red and pink nose and the many large black spots serve to frame the wet, trained and versatile appendage. Looking at it is shocking.
“It was my idea, but I never expected she could find the right shade.”
Ms. Powers!
She has been standing near the door.
“I hope you like the work. I paid the woman handsomely.”
She approaches. I turn my head as best I can. She carries a milking stool and a small bag. She is wearing her halter and short pleated skirt. My shock turns to a strange but pleasant anticipation.
“One more procedure, Alexi. It will be temporary.
“Rise up please.”
I remain on my knees but straighten at the waist. The reflection of my red pudendum flashes in the mirror. It confounds me to realize how much it calls attention to my intimate female anatomy.
Ms. Powers places the stool in front of me and sits down, gratefully blocking my reflected image. My breasts are at the level of her hands.
“I had these specially made. Very strong elastic rubber tubes. From what I have read, I can stretch those nice nipples about one millimeter per week. It will take time, but time we have.”
Ms. Powers produces what appears to be a set of tongs and pointed tweezers. She slides a very small rubber tube over the prongs. Two inches long and about the thickness of a pencil she pulls open the rubber wrapped prongs to demonstrate the flexibility.
She works deftly and encases my left nipple with into the tube. I wince when the tweezers are inserted into the length of rubber, pinch, and then pull the very tip to ensure that it is exposed.
“How does that feel? Like someone pulling on your nipple?”
I peer down to see my nipple surrounded by a two-inch rubber tube. A droplet of milk forms on the nipple tip. The tube is most tight. It indeed feels as though a set of firm fingers are squeezing and pulling. I obediently nod in response to her question.
“Each week I’ll change to longer tubes. As I said, the skin can be stretched.”
Ms. Powers prepares to do my right breast.
I wince again as my right nipple is pinched by the tweezers and pulled into an identical rubber tube.
“Randy is going to have a sibling in eight months or so.”
I smile in happiness. Yes, I have been impregnated! But my look of cheer gives away my thoughts, which Ms. Powers is quick to correct.
“No not you, Alexi. After viewing the video and fully understanding your needs, I instead had myself inseminated with Mr. Fatipton’s sperm. It will be the talk of the New York social scene, a Fatipton of mixed ethnicity, but billions speak louder then conventional social norms.
Had I hair, it would be standing from the shock of her announcement. I am stunned with disappointment.
“Don’t be so surprised, Alexi. Instead of bearing a child, you’re free to be subjugated, displayed, humiliated and milked at will... My will.
“Isn’t that what you truly enjoy most... what you crave... what most makes your glands open and your vagina moisten with arousal?”
With her effusive observation, she removes her hands. Both nipples stand at attention like tiny penises wearing condoms, except the tips are free to lactate, which due to my state of neglect and the pressure of the tight rubber tubes, they do.
But I don’t want my essence to flow! I am frustrated with my body, which so subserviently reacts to her supposition by in fact performing as she has so astutely suggested.
Pavlov again comes to mind as with the very implication of lactating, my Mistress can cause the flow to begin. I am overwhelmed with the notion that nothing, not even my glands, is mine to control.
“Goodness Alexi. I guess you’re over due. Well I have some friends visiting this evening. Perhaps I’ll milk you for them.”
Ms. Powers disappears and returns with a stainless steel pail.
“Meanwhile, try to leak into the bucket. I am told my child is going to be a male. That means there is a twenty-five percent chance he will suffer the same stomach affliction as Mr. Fatipton. Your breast milk will be collected as a precaution. He may be needing it for many years.”
My stomach turns with the realization that, not only will I not mother a billionaire but, in addition, I may spend the remainder of my procreative years lactating for Ms. Powers’ wealthy son. I am already envious of a child that is not yet born.
“I hope you find the flooring comfortable. You’ll be spending most of your time here. Matter of fact, I can’t think of any reason why should ever have to move. And with your new diet, you’ll probably have less and less desire to do so. Soon your entire body will to have the consistency of your breasts. Soft, warm flesh, quite malleable, deliciously tactile.”
My mind races in panic. I envision my body slowly plumping on the horridly high fat diet, my nipples stretching, whiling away the hours kneeling with my head and neck encased between the pol
es. The time is punctuated by the maid Angela, insouciantly jabbing my buttocks with my morning hormone injection and then taking delight in hosing me down and swathing my cherubic torso with a soapy cloth, mocking my bovine patterned coloring and my rapidly expanding girth. The highlight of my long day is a firm hand milking, unless of course Ms. Powers mandates that the dreaded milking machine be used.
Ms. Powers reaches into the small bag. She pulls out a tag and what appears to be a small stapler.
AI enjoyed watching that milkmaid work you on the video, Alexi. I want those precious nipples of yours long enough so that I too can milk them like cow’s udders. You’ll be the hit of my parties.
“One last addition... your name.”
The five inch long white plastic tag is imprinted with black letters spelling ‘Alexi’. Ms. Powers reaches to my blackened left ear. I hear a loud snap and a dull pain. She steps to the side. In the mirror is the Fatipton Estate’s new cow. My white nametag hangs from a staple callously and cruelly penetrating my ear. It is prominently framed by my recently blackened skin. My milk drips slowly but steadily. My crimson ringed nose and belled genitalia call attention to the ultimate in submission and humiliation. I cannot help but wriggle my hips. My bells ring for Ms. Powers. She smiles. My face gives away the indescribable wave of pleasure as the larger upper ball caresses my ‘G’ spot, my tiny bell diddles my clitoris and the lower ball kneads my inner lips. In arousing myself, I feel my lacteal glands open, further promoting the flow from my encased nipples.
I curse myself. Not just for my complete subjugation... but for my enjoyment of it.
But while my mind ruminates... my breasts drip into the bucket... slowly... steadily. Ms. Powers wordlessly steps back. She observes with a look of Schadenfreude. After many minutes the bottom of the bucket is more than coated with whiteness. She removes her short skirt to reveal a dildo harness beneath. Then she approaches, retrieving from the bag a black rubber phallus and dangling it before my face.
Ship of Remorse Page 19