Ship of Remorse

Thus, Randy must accept the blows of Ms. Powers’ controlling hand, comforting himself I’m sure with thoughts of the revenge he will slake when it is his turn to head the Fatipton Empire, said to be in the billions.

But Randy is not aware of an often overlooked provision in the trust agreement. That is, if there is located another direct descendant of Mr. Fatipton, the trust remains under the control of Ms. Powers until that descendant attains age twenty-five. The provision was added as a protective clause. After a lifetime of debauchery, there was the concern among Mr. Fatipton’s advisors that an illegitimate son or daughter would come forth after his death and, in being neglected in the estate documents, have the ability to cause the estate structure with its huge sums and intricate planning to be torn asunder. The provision stalls that scenario, leaving the control with Ms. Powers until legal planning can be reformulated.

Ms. Maxine Powers is very much aware of the provision. Educated as an attorney, trained by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I have learned over my months of employment that no detail escapes her attention. She is most intelligent, disciplined and devoted to Mr. Fatipton. But in dealing with Randy, she has no compunction in meting out what is due him after he returns to the mansion from a forbidden evening of indulging in controlled substances and high risk sexual interaction with persons of questionable gender.

My journey continues, within minutes reaching the decorative carved wooden door of the Master of the house. I knock lightly and enter. With the sound of my tiny bell, Mr. Fatipton stirs from a light nap. For a man nearly 90 years of age, his hearing is remarkable.

“Is it dinner time, already?”

His baritone voice squeaks and cracks with age. But in listening to his occasional reminiscences, it is amazing that he is still of this Earth. Taking great risk in business at an early age, some time in his late thirties he placed himself in early retirement and attempted to spend every dollar he earned on rich food, expensive wine, and beautiful women. The food and wine served to aggravate his rare genetic stomach condition. One of the women, finally bringing him to the alter in his late sixties, left him with Randy. She died in a skiing accident. And the money never left him. It continued to amass faster than he could spend it, his crew of proficient executives growing the various interests at an alarming rate.

I close the door and slowly approach his bed. He lies supine with his head propped up by a large pillow. I know he likes to watch me walk, naked but for the apron loosely hanging over my shaven vulva and the translucent feeding harness which hides very little. My clitoral bell rings, bringing a smile to the wrinkled face of one of the wealthiest men in the world. His eyes follow every bounce of my abundant breasts. Although the feeding harness is tight it is heavily burdened by the sheer weight of my mammary glands. Even in his ninth decade, the life of lechery has ingrained him with an inextinguishable appreciation of the young, the naked and the submissive female. My nipples harden with the anticipation.

Mr. John Bares Fatipton can only be nourished with human breast milk. His delicate stomach rejects almost all other forms of sustenance. Yes, the life sustaining liquid can be purchased and imbibed through a nippled bottle or straw, but when one’s net worth is measured utilizing ten digits, one has the luxury of hiring the likes of me. Young, shapely and, thanks to Dr. Helga’s program, lactating like a dairy cow.

When I reach the side of his bed I humbly await instructions. He prefers to vary the positions by which he savors me. He pauses in thought. I look down to see my right nipple giving up milk. Just being in his presence causes my glands to begin to produce. That combined with the titillating walk through the house with my breasts bouncing, my nipples pressured by the latex feeding harness and the tiny bell vibrating to remind me that my clitoris has been woefully neglected. All of which arouses me and assists in bringing forth the most sensuous of reactions from the lactating female... the insatiable need to be suckled

He laughs seeing the dribble.

“I often wonder if you need me more than I need you.”

He is somewhat correct in his observation. After the two years on the ship, a breast pump just doesn’t relieve the aching and throbbing. Psychologically, having my essence extracted by hand or mouth is the only way the need seems to be satisfied.

“Straddle me. Hands on the bed frame.”

I know the position all too well. I crawl unto the bed and kneel over his hips. One knee lies on his right side, one on his left. I feel my labia open and my little bell rings freely. I lean over and grasp the top of the bed frame. He slides further down under the covers allowing my huge breasts to hang over his face. His head sinks into the overstuffed pillow. I slowly lower my torso. His lips catch the stiffened, long and pink right nipple and the premature dribble is licked away. Then he draws the entire length of the two-inch appendage into his mouth.

The long slow feeding begins. Initially his tongue and lips feel cold, but the friction of his strong efforts to suck warm both his mouth and my nipple. I feel the throb begin to dissipate as my flow begins in earnest. The sensation turns to a wonderful glow. I feel my vagina moisten. The fragrance of my undouched sex begins to waft throughout the room. The Master of the house is not too busy to notice the aroma. He forces back a smile, my odoriferous genitalia evidently reminding him of younger and what must have been most libidinous days. It is by Ms. Powers orders that I am so ‘naturally’ presented, as the French would suggest.

“Mr. Fatipton’s eyesight is failing. He may require your scent in order to acknowledge your presence,” she suggested with her characteristic educated laugh.

As the Master recalls his robust youth, my mind also wanders as my nourishing essence is drawn away in a process that on some evenings may last for an hour...

Chapter Twenty-one

During the autumn of the second year aboard ‘The Scarlet Letter’, about the same schedule was followed, sailing down the east coast and stopping at numerous ports. Dr. Helga’s program was growing rapidly. 3 stall had 2 more girls upon leaving Miami for the slow cruise about the Caribbean. Thus eight girls awaited for all the ‘buns in the oven’ to bake.

The procedures were identical. My second child arrived on schedule after which me and the other girls of 3 stall became erotic fodder for the debaucherous cannons of the guests.

Then my fortune turned. With the prolific results of the previous year’s tour of the east coast, Dr. Helga estimated that 3 stall would become overcrowded with the next trip. Not wishing to pass up opportunities for more ‘feminine fondue’, that bizarre ritual of sitting naked and blindfolded while Dr. Helga partook in the essences of expecting teenagers, a decision was made not to inseminate me again.

Therefore, when the ship reached New York, I was to be released!

When New York finally arrived I anxiously sat through a most memorable parting interview. Once again sitting naked before Nurse Stolgren, she asked many questions, apparently attempting to elucidate any propensity on my part to report the ship’s practices to the authorities.

After an hour her hand moved under the desk and a minute later a young nurse entered with the flimsy cardboard box taken away two years earlier by Nurse Katrina. In it were my clothes.

“If you’d care to sign this release, there is an envelope you can have. Inside are 10 savings bonds totaling $10,000. There is also the address of a hotel with a room prepaid for a month. Most girls have found that to be suff

icient time and money to find employment.”

The release contained various statements to which I was to swear under oath... that I received proper care, that I was not mistreated and that my offspring were willingly given up for adoption, among other falsehoods.

After I paused for a moment’s thought, Nurse Stolgren added,

“Or we can arrange for a quick visit to the insemination table before releasing you...”

The money was more than enough to tide me over until the fat, the bald and the perverted took me back at the men’s club. (Yes, I was that confident my newly acquired skills would not be over looked).