Ship of Remorse

“You may have to touch them up a bit,” the Doctor added to the body paint artist.

“There may be some tears.”

Nurse Katrina began with Maria. Since she was already strapped to the table, with a quick release of a latch and a turn of a crank, the section under her breasts fell away and the section securing her legs parted. Since her mammary glands hung nearly to the floor a button was pushed and the table rose.

“Tie them off tightly, Katrina. Three or four minutes shouldn’t hurt”

Nurse Katrina tied off Maria’s nipples with short, stretches of elastic resembling rubber bands. When done, she pinched and pulled on each one. Amazingly, no milk appeared.

“Crisp and firm, Katrina. They need a good shade of red for the camera lens.”

The huge nurse stepped back and pulled a strip of flat, hard rubber from her pocket. She extended her arm out to the side and viciously swung with the motion of a tennis stroke. With the sound of a light splat, the tip of the device glanced off Maria’s right nipple. She screamed. The nurse swung again, hitting the left. Another scream. Then another swing to the right.

Dr. Helga’s face broke into a most diabolical smile. The faces about the windows were focused intently. I wondered if the numerous cameras were recording the event.

After a dozen swings, Nurse Katrina moved to the bottom of the table. There, with legs widely separated Maria’s feminine charms were obscenely presented, outer labia spread, inner labia glistening in the bright lights, her clitoris peeking back under a hood forced to reveal its hidden jewel. Utilizing an underhand motion, Nurse Katrina resumed slapping. The strokes were more moderate, but the resulting sound from Maria was the same.

When finished, Maria’s nipples and genitalia were the color of crimson. Miss Greenwich Village dabbed away her tears and touched up her paint. Dr. Helga turned to me.

“Up on the table Alexi. You’ll also need to have some color added.”

***

As humiliating as the past year had been aboard the strange ship, I could not possibly be prepared for what followed.

Maria and I were filmed, extensively, thoroughly, in color, under bright lights and before the ubiquitous collection of Dr. Helga’s guests. They laughed and cheered as Marvin and his crew made an erotic movie of us two lactating females, painted to appear as cows and led about by a rope threaded through our pierced and ringed septum’s. Nurse Inga milked us in a demonstrable fashion, deliberately appearing to be working the udders of a cow rather than the sensitive pink nipples of young girls. Marvin commented afterward that the Prince would be most pleased with the results.

Yes, I was eventually released from the ship. In time and at Dr. Helga’s whim, not mine. But I end this part with the filming because it punctuated my memory of the years aboard ‘The Scarlet Letter’ and I found the ensuing year to be repetitive and unworthy of recording with pen and paper… though as for that the perverted and licentious guests came and went as we sailed from port to port, and occasionally a new arrival would use my naked, servile and lactating body in some newly degrading manner, though not entirely remarkable.

And so, after another tour of the Caribbean, and a second pregnancy, the ship returned to New York and I found myself freed to once again attempt a normal life... a pursuit which became equally frustrating and humiliating.

But that’s another story…

Part Two

Chapter Twenty

Recording the events of the past few years has a therapeutic effect. The pages of my journal fill rapidly and what was initially remembered as intolerable humiliation aboard The Scarlet Letter’, slowly turn to more mellow recollections. But the clock indicates it is time for Mr. Fatipton’s evening feeding, thus I drop my pen. Ms. Powers does not tolerate tardiness.

I remove my robe and move to the bathroom. A full-length mirror reflects my entire naked image. It’s something with which one can never become accustomed. My breasts are huge with nipples that resemble small penises as they react by erecting in the cool room air. I remain shaven. What little hair that grew back after I left the ship, Ms. Powers insisted be removed.

“Strict antisepticism when interacting with Mr. Fatipton,” she cautioned me more than once.

Thus, hair with its potential for filth is considered a health risk. But gratefully my eyebrows were allowed to grow in, otherwise I am without hair, between my thighs, under my arms, atop my head. The weekly electrolysis appointments are wearing and expensive. But with Mr. Fatipton’s wealth, money is no object.

The sound of my clitoral piercing breaks the silence as I reach for my apron. Ms. Powers decided that my little bud was too well hidden and most painfully she had it pierced to hold back the covering hood. Playfully, she thought a tiny bell would be a nice addition and sure enough, Mr. Fatipton always smiles as its ring announces my arrival.

The rubber apron hangs on the back of the bathroom door alongside my feeding harness. I tie the apron about my waist, careful not to touch my pudendum. Ms. Powers will definitely be checking my hands at some point. The special powder dusted about my labia will glow eerily under a black light, thus any trace found on my hands will result in harsh punishment.

The feeding harness requires some manipulation in order to don it properly. It resembles a brassiere, except the cups are of thin, stretchable translucent latex and the straps are much stronger, designed to pull back my shoulders and thrust forward my breasts. A small hole in each cup is where my large, elongated nipples are to be presented. Pulling the pink darts through the openings is a chore, and many times my flow will begin just from lightly pinching and forcing the oddly shaped areolas into full view.

With the base of my nipples tightly encased in latex and the clitoral piercing gently caressing my bud, I begin my journey to Mr. Fatipton’s bedroom. The walk is relatively long. Mr. Fatipton’s mansion is vast and my room within the servant’s quarters is on the fourth floor and well to the rear of the massive structure. Occasional twinges of pleasure cause my step to falter.

As my naked feet pad down the deeply carpeted hallway, I pass the room of Randy, Mr. Fatipton’s profligate son. I can hea

r through the closed door the sound of Ms. Power’s voice and the sound of slaps.

He has apparently once again displeased the powerful trustee of Mr. Fatipton’s huge estate, and I picture the tall and amazingly powerful black woman cuffing the twenty year old son, right cheek and then left, as she lectures him. Ms. Powers is a defacto governess. Though Randy is approaching his majority, he will attain it penniless, having to either rely on Ms. Powers and the assets under her control for support, or find some level of ‘dreaded’ employment until age 25, at which time the wealth of the estate passes to him.