Ship of Remorse

Within weeks we girls of 3 stall were no longer required to attend the festivities in the lounge. Dr. Helga informed me that she had successfully impregnated me and I also heard her announce the same to Maria, Mona, and Nancy. Apparently the collected urine samples were indeed tested. But I had already suspected such was the case when my period was late.

Sharon evidently was not inseminated. I was shocked to hear Dr. Helga inform her that policy prohibited any girl from bringing more than three babies to term! With the enforced silence I had no way of knowing that Sharon had been on the ship that long.

“We’ll be returning to Boston in a couple of months, Sharon. Meanwhile I’m sure your breasts will keep producing for us.”

Dr. Helga reached out and gave her right nipple a quick but efficient pinch with her suggestion, demonstrating her control and causing a spray of milk to wet her shoes. She laughingly licked her fingers and mocked...

“I’m sure you’ll want to use contraceptives after leaving us. Or perhaps limit your sexual practices to oral stimulation.”

We were returned to the machine for most milkings. It was harsh and I believe not only caused more elongation of my nipples but faster than even the most aggressive and clumsy of the lounge guests. But on occasion, Nurse Inga would give one of the girls a nice hand milking, as a sort of morale boost. I looked forward to her touch as always and hoped she would select me.

Our rectal feeding was curtailed, our diet returning to the highly nutritious mush that Nurse Inga took great delight in spoon-feeding us.

During the ensuing two months outdoor exercise became more rare. When we were led to the deck I noticed that the angle of the sun was changing and the air was cooler. It was apparent the ship was headed north. But I noticed that Maria was receiving special treatment. The trainers left her outdoors in the sun for inordinately long periods and as a result her already brown skin began to turn to a deep bronze.

She was returned to the washroom late, therefore shortening her playtime. I missed rubbing nipple to nipple with her.

One morning, the tedium was suspended. I awoke earlier than normal and realized the ship’s engines had stopped. Nurse Katrina came in and took out Sharon. We had apparently arrived in Boston. We never saw her again.

Within days a girl named Linda joined 3 stall. She was petite and expecting of course. She didn’t listen well and I came to cringe watching the cane being applied to her cute backside.

Two days later came Susan, a redhead. She eventually was trained to orally service Nurse Inga, Nancy’s tongue having been deemed tiresome.

Observing the reaction of new girls while we ‘regulars’ were milked was somewhat amusing. There was always an indescribable look of denial as Nurse Inga went down the line and attached the suction cups. As the clear tubes turned white, extracting and collecting our precious fluids for the benefit of Dr. Helga, their eyes bulged, despite our looks of satiation. But then after they had their introduction to Dr. Helga’s affectations, becoming feminine fondue, their looks changed to bewilderment. We knew, of course, that in time their mammary glands would throb and ache as much as ours. And if the gifted fingers of Nurse Inga or Dr. Helga were not offered, then the machine would have to become an acceptable replacement to the daily goal of ridding our bodies of the liquid abundance.

Although they had not begun to lactate, it was nice to have fresh flesh to frottage against in the washroom. Both Linda and Susan were initially very shy. But over time, with the enforced abstinence, their hormone levels rose to that of ours. Thus they joined in and frolicked with us like sexually curious children, particularly after Nurse Inga gave their clean-shaven vulvas a rather sensuous swabbing with a warm, wet and soft washcloth. It was then that they realized there would be no further form of relief, masturbatory or otherwise, other than to press nipple to nipple, or quim to thigh with the cowgirls of 3 stall.

I didn’t count the days, but after some two weeks the ship again vibrated with the low hum of the engines. My geography suggested the next sizable port on the east coast was New York. The thought caused me to yearn for release. But even if Dr. Helga did bid me adieu, I would be back in New York in the same condition in which I had left it one year earli

er, broke and pregnant.

Since I knew the daily routine so well, my existence became most boring. The tedium was daunting and only broken by observing Linda or Susan endure some of the procedures for the first time.

Then something very unusual happened. A visitor came through our stall. A male visitor!

“Oh goodness, they’re just as I imagined. So docile and so nubile. Can I touch one?”

The man was in his forties and sashayed through the middle of the stall with Dr. Helga. His mannerisms were most effeminate. Yellow slacks, green shirt and a flowery ascot about his neck further evidenced a high degree of femininity. His head rapidly turned right and left attempting to take in the sight of half dozen lactating (or near lactating) naked girls before the view was snatched away like a Christmas present being prepared for wrapping.

I felt like an animal in a zoo.

“Of course you may touch, Marvin. If speech was permitted they would beg for the caress of your fingers, particularly about the nipples. For any liberties you take, we’ll include the standard charge in your employer’s bill. We’ll even teach you to milk them, for a fee.”

“Ohhh,” was Marvin’s reply, his hyperactive mind was already focusing on something else, for his right hand reached to an object hanging around his neck. It was a viewfinder. He trained it on Maria.

“That must be the special color we requested. Very nice, Doctor. A nice rich brown.”

We were all kneeling. Nurse Inga had been through the stall with beakers in hand emptying our bladders. We expected the next procedure was to be leashed for the trip to the exercise room.

Instead this strange ‘Marvin’ paraded through and stepped in front of Maria. He noticed the hollow cylinder entrapping the remnants of her hair. Then he circled the well-tanned naked ‘cowgirl’ staring downward, as if inspecting something for intended purchase.

“Ghastly thing. I can only imagine its purpose,” he exclaimed referring to the wooden cylinder in her hair.

He held up his viewfinder, framing Maria’s face and yoke.

“I assume this plastic thing around her neck can be removed temporarily, but the half head of hair and the thing in it is a problem.”

“It’s a yoke, Marvin. Yes it can be removed. But we can’t grow hair by tomorrow,” replied a calm and amused Dr. Helga.