Ship of Remorse

Dr. Helga began her usual breast massage. Only this time a large stainless steel bowl was placed under my low hanging breasts. And as her fingers worked to my nipples, an explosion of milk hit the bottom of the bowl with a notable metallic sound.

It was most humiliating and I closed my eyes. But Dr. Helga worked and despite my shame her fingers felt good. Somehow she knew my throbbing glands begged for her attention and over 30 minutes time they gave all they had to give.

“So the baby you didn’t want will find a home. You’re well taken care of, both food and shelter. Nurse Stolgren says your psychological profile fits into our program very nicely. For what more could a girl ask?”

She posed her question as her busy fingers continuously pulled and squeezed.

The bowl was close to full as my flow slowly diminished. The pleasure was turning to a feeling of irritation. Her fingers were quite firm and the tugs were vigorous. The sensation of calm pleasure turned to moderate torment. I squirmed, futilely attempting to release my nipples from the experienced hands.

She laughed.

“Yes, my dear, I know it’s uncomfortable. But we need to maximize the discharge. You’re going to be very surprised at your level of production and the strong desire you’ll develop to lactate for me... and my guests of course. We know girls here.”

With another half dozen strong tugs, I was dry.

“Yes, that’s very good for the first time. But you’ll do better.”

She left the bowl sitting in front of me and stepped to my rear. For the next half hour I was again forced to perform Kegel exercises for the amusement of her inserted fingers despite my soreness.

Thereafter, she left. With the other girls being exercised, I was alone for the first time since I arrived on the ship five months before. Alone except for the overhead camera and the presumed microphones, that is.

I reflected on my situation and Dr. Helga’s words. Perhaps it was wrong to plan or hope for an abortion. Maybe I was better off being cared for and knowing that my child had a home. But at what price?

A young nurse came in and carefully removed the bowl. Later when the other girls returned, the nozzle of the nutrition bag was inserted. Despite having brought the child to term, we were still being fed intra rectally. And Maria’s breasts seemed to still be growing!

For the month after delivery, we were lactated each morning and late each afternoon. If not hand milked, the tubes dangling from each post were used and the cups on the ends seemed to perfectly encase my nipples. Maria’s cups were larger than mine and I concluded such were custom fitted, thus the reason for the extensive amount of time measuring my anatomy on day one.

Nurse Inga was quick in attaching the devilish soft circles of rubber, and since an unseen machine provided the suction for the tubes, the cups instantly adhered to the supple flesh of our nipples.

Nurse Inga also knew how to best begin a girl’s flow, gently caressing each breast with one hand and inserting two or three gloved fingers into our vaginal passage with the other. It wa

s amazingly effective and she laughed as she proceeded down the row of posts and watched as the actions of her hands caused the clear plastic tubes to turn white with the flow of breast milk.

Where the milk went was an open question. Evidently, it flowed into the post and presumably down into more extensive tubes or pipes within the flooring of the stall. But wherever it went, I was sure it was being carefully accumulated for the benefit of Dr. Helga’s pocketbook, judging from the way the breast milk from a hand milking was so carefully collected and handled.

After a month of recovery, sometime in April we all returned to the outdoor deck for morning exercise. With our more shapely figures came not only the assorted faces peering down at us over the railing, but also the sight of camera lenses and the sounds of numerous clicks.

Yes, our daily show was being recorded and on occasion a sardonic male laugh could be heard and the more chirping laughter of females.

With our flatter stomachs, new exercises, including very revealing bend and stretch movements became mandatory. And when Maria’s amazing mammary glands touched the deck while she bent forward at the waist, I could sense the wonderment and awe expressed by way of the increased decibel level of the noise above.

But it was ‘pink’ that was demanded and the trainers made sure the observers got their share. For sometimes, as a girl bent at the waist, a trainer would stand to the rear and pull apart the well separated buttocks even further, pausing as numerous clicks recorded the glistening inner labia and the perhaps the peeking vermilion tip of a clitoris as the girl underwent the utmost level of humiliation.

Such exposure seemed to be my destiny, for more than any other girl; the trainers positioned me in the most revealing of poses, demanding that I hold while clicks and laughter followed.

I often thought about the alternative. But there really was none. My conclusion was to endure and wait until the ship once again docked in some east coast city and my posts in 3 stall would be needed for a newly expecting girl.

Little did I know my role was just beginning.

Sometime in late April, Nurse Inga skipped our morning milking. Instead she just slowly feathered our nipples, then caressed each breast until the drops of white liquid evidenced the beginning of a flow.

When she finished this tantalizing action, she paused to look at the five of us, panting and expectantly waiting for our throbbing breasts to be fully milked. They were not.

Instead, with her smile of wickedness, she led us to the exercise deck. There, during various movements and forced positions some of the girls involuntarily gave up breast milk.

Maria was flowing like a leaking water pail. The cameras above clicked rapidly.

After ablutions, Nurse Inga took us back to the stall and attached us to the posts in a kneeling position. Normally, in mid afternoon we were hitched standing so we knew something different was going to happen.