Ship of Remorse

“He seems to be dealing with it rather well. I did have his prostate gland left intact. He likes to receive an internal massage from by some gay stud in the City, if you get the picture. But I think he’ll soon find himself enjoying bending and spreading for me. I’m still experimenting with various strap ons. But since he is addicted to anal pleasure, it’s a simple matter to train him to receive it differently.”

I wince, interrupting Ms. Powers’ narration. The buzzing needle is working a sensitive area of my inner thigh.

My antagonist artist steps away for more ink. Ms. Powers moves directly to my front.

“Last night I had one of the maids strip down Randy and give him a good cleansing... inside and out. You’d be surprised how shy he has suddenly become for someone who has spent so much time in New York sex clubs. Amazing what a pair of simple snips will do for a boy’s modesty...

“Well, I used a nicely sized eight-incher on him. Not very long but it was stout with special bumps designed to best manipulate the male anatomy. Despite his protests I opened him up and pumped away. His scrotal sac is mostly healed and bringing him to an erection, knowing that over time each stand will become smaller and smaller, imbues a woman with indescribable power. After a few dozen thrusts, he actually ejaculated. And I had great pleasure reminding him that it was probably his last.”

Ms. Powers gathers up the leash to my nose ring then gently pulls upwards, forcing me to look into her forceful but smiling face.

“You may also enjoy the penetration Alexi,” she ominously declares.

The artist returns and Ms. Powers releases the leash. She pauses, analyzing my reaction. I bow my head in thought. My inner response to Arthur’s anal assault was rather curious, I reflect. Despite the discomfort and the humiliation, something deep within me caused to open the floodgates of my vagina. My genitalia were not touched yet the pleasure was most palpable. And though also untouched, my breasts oozed, forcing Arthur to afterwards retreat to a nearby car wash while the doctor operated in order to make the interior of the limousine presentable.

“You give it some thought, Alexi. There will be no vaginal penetration for you at the Fatipton Estate. In that respect you will live a life of complete chastity.”

Ms. Powers playfully taps my pierced and newly sensitized nose as she leaves with her empty coffee cup. There is a reason she told me the story of Randy’s fate and her message is received. As powerful as she was before Mr. Fatipton’s death, she is now omnipotent.

I cannot help but turn my head and watch as she walks to the door. She wears a tight sleeveless pullover dress, which ends at mid thigh. The thin fabric outlines her amazing buttocks... hillocks serving to store impressively potent muscling. The sight causes my mind to wander and I picture myself kneeling, thighs spread, after a young maid has spent an afternoon cleaning out my backside and degradingly coating my sphincter with a thick layer of lubricant. I wait with apprehension wondering how large on object Ms. Powers will choose.

I daydream that at last the door opens and my benefactress approaches wearing black leather halter, dildo harness and nothing more. She smiles, stands before me and introduces a hideous phallus of prodigious size. Knowing fingers slip it under the crouch piece. She rubs my baldhead

then disappears from sight behind me. I soon feel the bulbous head introducing itself and with a slow, steady and overwhelming thrust it becomes buried in my back passage. My bells ring, perhaps in reaction to her powerful motion, perhaps in celebration of long needed attention. She pumps and I also envision, as she penetrates with sang-froid, her large hands encircling my torso to find my ripened mammary glands. As I have come to understand over the past few days, my milking now awaits the fancy of the Mistress of the house. No longer can I expect daily or twice daily relief. All future lactation is for the amusement of Ms. Powers and I realize that if my breasts are to be drained, providing the hormonal release that I crave, I will need to inveigle, wheedle, coax and cajole.

So offering my backside for the pleasure of Ms. Powers will have its advantages. I shudder with the thought that the moment I savor most, when her strong black fingers squeeze, pull my elongated nipples, and force my essence to freely flow for her amusement, will come only with the discomfort and humiliation of anal penetration.

Yes, I will submit to the phallus Ms. Powers. But I find it difficult to stifle a growing concern over my planned impregnation. Mr. Fatipton died weeks before and Ms. Powers has made no mention of plans for insemination.

But alas, I had recently spent a morning at the doctor’s office. Perhaps it was done while under the effects of the Atropine.

Yes, that’s why I will not be afforded vaginal penetration. Since Ms. Powers has already had me impregnated, for procreation any further penetration is superfluous. As for sexual climax... well that’s not for me to have.

Chapter Thirty-six

Over the ensuing days, each morning I am fed, injected with hormones, carefully sponge bathed to assure the artist’s lines remain then led to the salon. There Miss Greenwich Village continues to slowly work her tattoo needles over major portions of my body. Neither Ms. Powers nor any maids massage my nipples.

While I long for relief, the artist indeed takes her time. She is very much amused on the third day when my breasts begin to give up milk with a constant ooze, either dripping to the table if I am kneeling or collecting and then dribbling down the body of my mammary gland when lying supine.

The girl seems to prefer me kneeling with my nose ring loosely tied under the table. The flow of breast milk is easily countered with a very absorbent towel covering the surface. And she seems to enjoy listening to my bells which ring quite freely as I am forced to pose with thighs well spread.

The pain of the needles is somewhat mild compared to the electrolysis. But on the fourth day, Miss Avant-garde announces with verve that she will work in red. My larger bell is unhooked and the border of flesh very close to my outer labia begins to experience her handiwork. She works in rows and the discomfort of her needle grows as each one is begun on the outer perimeter then completed by pricking a portion of flesh at the very edge of the sensitive outer labia.

On one row I spasm with the pain.

“Hold still, Alexi,” she admonishes. “Or the needle may inadvertently leave its mark where you’ll most regret it.”

With the thought of the humming device touching my clitoris or inner lips, very much aroused by the ever-present dangling ball, I endeavor to hold myself perfectly still.

At about that time the sounds of carpentry cease. I calm myself envisioning Ms. Powers giving me a long sensual hand milking in my ‘new home’ as she phrased it. But then the girl finishes working between my thighs and begins to apply her craft to my head. Since I am bald with little hope of having my hair return, it is very simple for her to begin to blacken the left side where one of her penciled loops encircles my left ear and eye.

The cognition of the permanency of the procedure begins to settle in as her hand slowly moves across my forehead. Tears form and drip to the same towel that captures the essence from my nipples. The persistent hand keeps working but most cruelly, the skilled artist offers sardonic consolation.

“So sad, Alexi. Well just think. You’ll never have to wear make up again. And maybe we’ll surprise Ms. Powers with a nice bright red nose. Wouldn’t you like that? I can have it match your snatch.”

It is easy to remain stoical. I cannot speak. But the tears flow and the moisture prevents the girl from completing the left side of my face as planned. Instead she works the left side of my head, ear included.

Late that afternoon Ms. Powers again visits. She appears ecstatic with the progress and while I kneel circles the table as if viewing a piece of sculpture.