Ship of Remorse

“A little icing for my cake. How nice of you to offer, Alexi.”

The guests laughed. Dr. Helga’s hand worked relentlessly and I felt more liquid. Then she worked my right nipple with equal results. Slowly, firmly, methodically. She was an expert. And after each squeeze and subsequent pull, I felt droplets and the sensation of sponge-like cake, meticulously absorbing from my flesh the wetness so deftly extracted without my acquiescence.

“There’s nothing like a good firm hand milking to begin a girl’s flow. We have wonderful machines, designed to be most tactile, but the human touch is important in establishing response to control. In a few weeks she’ll relish lactating for us. You’ll see her pine for the subtle pinch and draw of one of our experienced nurses. Once we start the hormones flowing, there will be no end to her lusty need to have these marvelously firm nipples squeezed as a vintner would harvest and squeeze ripe grapes. The process is most entertaining.”

Many guests murmured words of agreement. I silently sat and indeed helplessly provided the entertainment. I never realized how or how much my young nipples had to give. But according to the overheard conversation I would find out.

And so... Dr. Helga indeed had me for dinner.

Chapter Seven

After that fateful afternoon and evening, my life began an endless routine. Not quite a stuck phonograph record, for there were a few memorable instances outside the daily schedule, such as when a new girl joined the ‘3 stall’, the moniker for the area where I was kept.

A stall was just a series of posts in a large room. There a girl was restrained by simply attaching each end of her yoke to parallel vertical posts. Curious clear plastic tubing emanated from each post and ended in a conical shaped device with a suction cup attached. There could be no doubt as to their function as they dangled ominously proximate to our nipples.

At night we were secured low, forcing us to kneel on what was thankfully a padded floor. During the day, when not being exercised, bathed, examined, or subjected to some bizarre amusement, we stood.

Talking was prohibited, and many a girl found herself undergoing a trip to the washroom after commencing verbal communication, thinking no staff member was within earshot. Thus, it did not take long for me to conclude that not only were we being observed by way of one of the ubiquitous cameras, but highly sensitive microphones also served to monitor our actions.

The monotony was somewhat broken by Nurse Inga keeping us informed of the ship’s progress by way of casual small talk as she administered enemas or soaped our growing bodies in the huge communal basin in the washroom.

Mona, Sharon and I initially occupied the stalls in our section. Nine were unoccupied and remained so as no one joined us during the week in Philadelphia. Nor during the week in Baltimore. But as Nurse Inga predicted, a pretty brunette named Nancy was ushered into our stall area during our stay in Norfolk.

She was rather obstreperous. A street girl who Nurse Inga took particular amusement in breaking, for the first week Nancy’s yoke always seemed to be bent well back. Constant tears evidenced her anguish and when we took our communal ablutions, Nancy’s time bent over the enema bar seemed inordinately long.

Finally on one morning after some ten days, Nurse Inga strolled into our section and headed directly to where Nancy knelt. It took time to learn to sleep in a such a position, but with Nancy’s yoke severely contorting her shoulders I was surprised she slept at all.

Well, apparently my observation concerning her lack of somnolence was accurate. For as Nurse Inga began to push Nancy’s arms even further back in compliance with the program of daily increased torment, she broke down and cried. In gross violation of the rules, Nancy uncontrollably uttered some pitiful pleas between convulsive sobs and gasps for air. I could not hear all of the exchange but Nurse Inga seemed pleased and I found it most curious that the young nurse lifted her apron then stepped forward and stood over the kneeling Nancy. She was quite close and Nancy’s cries became muffled.

“Now that’s a good girl, Nancy. I think that tongue of yours should greet me just this way every morning. We’ll get to know each other better and the ligaments in your arms will be much more relaxed.”

After that morning, a broken Nancy humbly serviced Nurse Inga at the beginning of each day. I began to learn the utility of the wooden cylinder encasing the strange ponytail we were permitted. It was a handle and Nurse Inga used it each morning to direct Nancy’s head and the resulting oral efforts as the subjugated girl dutifully licked and licke

d. The ceremony put a strain on our bladders, for no one could relieve themselves, Nancy included, until Nurse Inga was satiated. It became quite the symbol of Nurse Inga’s authority and control, having us all watch her being pleasured while we knelt in fear of soiling the padding. But overall, Nancy’s oral ministrations resulted in a relaxed and festive nurse tending to our needs.

Yes, all our excretions were closely monitored. Every night at an appointed hour as I knelt with thighs separated by a rubber form beneath me, I awoke to the feel of young feminine hands parting my labia and the sound of whispered words, encouraging me to once again fill a proffered beaker. No matter how often the act is performed, doing so at the behest of a nurse no older than myself was disconcerting. One never becomes accustomed to it, and I often supposed that if a girl did, the diabolical Dr. Helga would devise some other form of simple daily debasement.

Each morning after Nurse Inga closely monitored our urinary functions, she would go from girl to girl and connect a tethering chain from the front of one yoke to the back of the next. When finished she would release us from the posts, hook a leash to the lead girl and take us to the dreaded exercise room.

No matter the condition of a girl’s belly, she was exercised every day under the close supervision of a trainer, most of whom were horrible termagants who in any other lifetime would be prison guards or, I concluded after one morning of particularly vigorous work, perhaps executioners.

The treadmill work was endless and exhausting. But ironically, no one looked forward to the end for then it was time for stretching. Not only were the contorted positions painful, but the level of humiliation was unsurpassed.

“Let’s see lots of pink, girls. We like pink here.”

With that command, we of the ‘3 stall’, lying on comfortable mats, would simultaneously raise our legs and spread, revealing all a girl had to offer.

“Now hold, girls. Nice firm tummies. Hold. Hold. Breathe and count one... breath and count two... breath and count three... breath and count four... breath and count five... and down.

“Rest.

“Now up and spread again...”

Thus the morning passed with the only thoughts occupying my mind being absolute obedience to the huge trainer, and wonderment as to what set of eyeballs were observing at the receiving end of the video camera above me.

After exercise, we were again tethered and led to the washroom. Thorough and high enemas, shaves, inspections, measurements and finally what Nurse Inga termed ‘bath time’ followed.

As written, the washroom had a tub the size of a small swimming pool filled with wonderfully warmed water and scented soap. Here we were permitted to frolic and although yoked, I found myself initiating homoerotic contact, brushing my thighs and buttocks against Mona or Sharon and with Nancy, we liked to rub our nipples together. Since there was no sexual contact, the frottaging served to take an edge off our frustrations. So despite the ever-present plastic dome situated directly over the tub, we played. And although my pregnant status diminished my hormone level and therefore for my drive, the austere conditions, with my hands restrained, served to cause my needs to accumulate.