She puts down her glass and works with vigor. I feel my vaginal wetness also begin to flow. I move my hips. Ms. Powers smiles with the sound of my bell. She knows I am desperately trying to bring myself to orgasm, having the motion of the small bell titillate my clitoris.
“Your little bell reminds me that I have a gift for you. But I’ll have to make sure you’ve been a good girl first.”
Yes, my little bell. Very easy for her to refer to it as such. But the trauma associated with the adornment can never be forgotten. It was in my second week at the Fatipton mansion when Ms. Powers decided I needed something to remind me of my place.
“You’re a bit haughty, Alexi. I’ve arranged for a decoration which will serve to remind you of your stature.”
The next day, Arthur drove me to the doctor’s office for the first of many monthly gynecological exams, a procedure with which no girl is ever comfortable.
Well, while lying with thighs parted and with ankles secured in the obligatory stirrups, my labia were not only spread open with the standard speculum, but an odd device was also utilized to pull my back and up on my clitoral hood. I had never before experienced the sensation of such coolness and exposure there. It felt as if my clitoris was standing like a small penis before the macho doctor and irritatingly pleasant nurse.
They exchanged the most embarrassing comments, speaking as if I was n
ot present, comparing my little bud to a variety of obscene objects. Then I heard a click and felt an enormous sharp pain.
It was that quick. Like being shot. My clitoris was pierced and a little ring permanently thrust through the opening and then welded closed. I did not have time to protest, not that it would have done any good.
The nurse made gratuitous comments about how adorably submissive it made me appear and when she attached the little bell took the time to explain that both it and the piercing ring were pure gold.
“Every girl likes to wear jewelry,” she cheerily suggested. “And it nicely keeps the hood out of the way.”
But her laugh was diabolical, causing me to wonder whether she would willingly submit her own pudendum to such intrusion. I gathered she just enjoyed watching it done to others.
Ms. Powers continues milking then wrings the last drops from my left nipple. Next she gives my right a few strokes, ensuring that Mr. Fatipton has indeed suckled it dry.
She takes away the pot and returns with the battery-operated black light. Shining it on my hands, there are some remnants of Mr. Fatipton’s sperm but no traces of the special iridescent powder she has dusted about my labia every morning after having me bathed.
“Good girl, Alexi. You know how I want you. Completely chaste.”
She puts down the black light and lifts the front of her skirt. Her nicely trimmed pudendum flashes into view, rich brown with that wonderful pink slit topped by a hood begging for the attention of my lips.
“A little taste?”
Chapter Twenty-five
Ms. Powers is insatiable. How she remains standing while my tongue laps away, I will never understand. The short skirt lays atop my hairless head as I work her labia then part her lips and thrust my tongue in and out. I can hear small sighs of pleasure and feel her thighs move apart. Thus I know my tongue has affect. But otherwise she just stands and lets me work. My bell rings, adding a chimed cadence to my endeavors. My fingers need to play. My own organ needs attention. But it is forbidden.
I let my mind turn to other thoughts. My trained tongue and lips will not surrender until she gives the command to stop. But I need to divert my attention from my own very wet vagina.
At the end of my second week at the peep show, the demands became repetitive. I thought of myself as a veteran and if asked, felt that I could very accurately predict the day’s requests. I remember reflecting on how seemingly mundane the daily hours of debauchery had become.
Then a strange thing happened. Yes, even stranger than being asked to relieve myself in a bowl. It was mid afternoon when I heard quarters drop. The bright lights illuminated and a single pair of eyeholes opened. The hour indicated to me that some dipsomaniac had probably panhandled some money but not enough for a bottle and was thus seeking a quick glimpse in place of cheap wine. In response to the sound and light, I quickly smiled and spread further, as trained.
“A customer is a customer,” Ernie always chirped and accordingly I flashed as much pink as I could.
But then I heard the voice.
“Lie on your back, assume the knee-chest position and spread your labia please.”
The words were precisely spoken in an accented monotone. And compared to other demands to which I had responded, were not entirely outside of the cosmology under which the Tenth Avenue establishment operated.
What was strange was the gender of the speaker. It was a woman and the accent was Asian. She was most stern and authoritative.
“Wider please. Wider. Good. Now on your knees. Display your breasts for me. Yes, and now the nipples. Squeeze. Firmer.”
Crisply spoken and of course with the commands to squeeze I sprayed. But my feminine observer did not skip a beat in reaction.
“Squeeze again. Good. Now on your tummy. Yes bend your legs back for me. Now spread your buttocks for me.”