It is only the dinner hour that inhibits a third go round. Julio professing the need to eat as the young lovers again recover from a second cacophonous pair of orgasms.
I can hear him dress inches from where I remain blindfolded and kneeling on the table. In finishing, a hand reaches out and one last squeeze of my right nipple produces a sizable spurt and the subsequent sound of spatter in the bowl.
“She fun,” Julio exclaims in broken English as his footsteps move toward the door.
I hear the tray being removed and the sound of giggling voices as the hallway door opens and closes.
I am left alone with the pillowcase over my head, breasts throbbing, my vagina in desperate need of attention.
What seems like hours later, Angela returns. She removes the pillowcase and feeds me.
“Ms. Powers called and gave me instructions. I told her of the strong fragrance in your room and she concluded the same thing I did. Your complete chastity is mandatory. Therefore you’re to remain in the waist belt and not to be milked until she returns. She also suggested you wear this.”
Angela held up my neck collar and leash.
“We’ll check on you during the night.”
With hands secured, there can be no resistance while she buckles the collar around my neck. The leash is clipped to the bedpost. The brass doorknob, my last refuge for gratification, is beyond reach.
Angela’s last task is to remove the blanket and top sheet from my bed. I am to rest without covering.
My adrenaline subsides and I eventually sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night a maid enters, unclips my leash and leads me into the bathroom. In place of the toilet she directs me to squat in the bathtub. There she reaches between my thighs, parts my lips and pulls aside my golden ball, clearing my passage for relief. The young girl titters as my flow begins, impressed with her own control.
Hours later, Angela enters. It is close to dawn and I find it odd that she has arisen just to visit me. But then the ubiquitous brush emerges from her pocket. She holds it up and I cringe with the thoughts of the insufferable pleasure it brings.
“Ms. Powers’ orders,” she laconically explains, as she pushes apart my thighs.
For the next twenty minutes the pretty vixen gently caresses first my labia, then satisfied that they have been adequately flushed, slowly glides the soft bristles up to my clitoris. She comments on my wetness. Her last act is to once again twist the golden ball, winding the elastic cord so that it slowly rotates. She leaves but long after the sound of her footsteps fade, I feel within my pouch the effect of her mischief.
I eventually sleep. Within what seems like minutes the door opens. It is Angela with food. The sun indicates that it is just past dawn. I am fed and given my hormone shot. This time her pocket carries a feather.
“Spread for me... yes that’s a good girl.”
Being commanded about by such a young girl is angering. But I am helpless to resist, thus I part my thighs to once again display myself to the precocious strumpet. Again my most sensitive female charms are sensually stroked. This time with my arousal, my nipples awaken and without touch begin to drip. They are sadly neglected and in need of milking.
Angela smiles, purses her lips and softly blows right and left on the crinkled darts. They harden more in reaction, the contraction magically causes more flow. It’s as if the glands are no longer mine but hers to do with as she desires.
“Ms. Powers will be pleased.”
Chapter Thirty-one
The routine continues for the next few days. My breasts not only ache but leak constantly. Angela takes great delight in feathering my cli
toris, which causes the flow to begin in earnest. But I am not milked, only feathered. At one point she exclaims that my clitoral bell will wear itself out and thereafter I find myself in ankle cuffs, lying spread open with feet secured to the bed posters.
As a result, I can no longer move enough to arouse myself. It is only by way of Angela’s hand, which seems to present itself every two or three hours, that my vaginal passage is turned into a river and my breasts turned to leaky faucets.
Finally, after several days, an eternity in which I was fed like a baby and had many embarrassing episodes of having a bedpan slid under my buttocks, Ms. Powers returns.
She noiselessly enters my room, sashaying to my bedside and displaying an aplomb that I envy.
“Good morning, Alexi. You’re flowing rather nicely.”
Yes, I am leaking again. Cloudy white liquid is streaming down my neglected breasts to my stomach. She reaches out and pinches, emphasizing her observation by sending a geyser into the air.
“Do you know why you’re being punished?”
I have a good clue, but feign innocence and shake my head.