Ship of Remorse

Ms. Powers produces what appears to be a set of tongs and pointed tweezers. She slides a very small rubber tube over the prongs. Two inches long and about the thickness of a pencil she pulls open the rubber wrapped prongs to demonstrate the flexibility.

She works deftly and encases my left nipple with into the tube. I wince when the tweezers are inserted into the length of rubber, pinch, and then pull the very tip to ensure that it is exposed.

“How does that feel? Like someone pulling on your nipple?”

I peer down to see my nipple surrounded by a two-inch rubber tube. A droplet of milk forms on the nipple tip. The tube is most tight. It indeed feels as though a set of firm fingers are squeezing and pulling. I obediently nod in response to her question.

“Each week I’ll change to longer tubes. As I said, the skin can be stretched.”

Ms. Powers prepares to do my right breast.

I wince again as my right nipple is pinched by the tweezers and pulled into an identical rubber tube.

“Randy is going to have a sibling in eight months or so.”

I smile in happiness. Yes, I have been impregnated! But my look of cheer gives away my thoughts, which Ms. Powers is quick to correct.

“No not you, Alexi. After viewing the video and fully understanding your needs, I instead had myself inseminated with Mr. Fatipton’s sperm. It will be the talk of the New York social scene, a Fatipton of mixed ethnicity, but billions speak louder then conventional social norms.

Had I hair, it would be standing from the shock of her announcement. I am stunned with disappointment.

“Don’t be so surprised, Alexi. Instead of bearing a child, you’re free to be subjugated, displayed, humiliated and milked at will... My will.

“Isn’t that what you truly enjoy most... what you crave... what most makes your glands open and your vagina moisten with arousal?”

With her effusive observation, she removes her hands. Both nipples stand at attention like tiny penises wearing condoms, except the tips are free to lactate, which due to my state of neglect and the pressure of the tight rubber tubes, they do.

But I don’t want my essence to flow! I am frustrated with my body, which so subserviently reacts to her supposition by in fact performing as she has so astutely suggested.

Pavlov again comes to mind as with the very implication of lactating, my Mistress can cause the flow to begin. I am overwhelmed with the notion that nothing, not even my glands, is mine to control.

“Goodness Alexi. I guess you’re over due. Well I have some friends visiting this evening. Perhaps I’ll milk you for them.”

Ms. Powers disappears and returns with a stainless steel pail.

“Meanwhile, try to leak into the bucket. I am told my child is going to be a male. That means there is a twenty-five percent chance he will suffer the same stomach affliction as Mr. Fatipton. Your breast milk will be collected as a precaution. He may be needing it for many years.”

My stomach turns with the realization that, not only will I not mother a billionaire but, in addition, I may spend the remainder of my procreative years lactating for Ms. Powers’ wealthy son. I am already envious of a child that is not yet born.

“I hope you find the flooring comfortable. You’ll be spending most of your time here. Matter of fact, I can’t think of any reason why should ever have to move. And with your new diet, you’ll probably have less and less desire to do so. Soon your entire body will to have the consistency of your breasts. Soft, warm flesh, quite malleable, deliciously tactile.”

My mind races in panic. I envision my body slowly plumping on the horridly high fat diet, my nipples stretching, whiling away the hours kneeling with my head and neck encased between the pol

es. The time is punctuated by the maid Angela, insouciantly jabbing my buttocks with my morning hormone injection and then taking delight in hosing me down and swathing my cherubic torso with a soapy cloth, mocking my bovine patterned coloring and my rapidly expanding girth. The highlight of my long day is a firm hand milking, unless of course Ms. Powers mandates that the dreaded milking machine be used.

Ms. Powers reaches into the small bag. She pulls out a tag and what appears to be a small stapler.

AI enjoyed watching that milkmaid work you on the video, Alexi. I want those precious nipples of yours long enough so that I too can milk them like cow’s udders. You’ll be the hit of my parties.

“One last addition... your name.”

The five inch long white plastic tag is imprinted with black letters spelling ‘Alexi’. Ms. Powers reaches to my blackened left ear. I hear a loud snap and a dull pain. She steps to the side. In the mirror is the Fatipton Estate’s new cow. My white nametag hangs from a staple callously and cruelly penetrating my ear. It is prominently framed by my recently blackened skin. My milk drips slowly but steadily. My crimson ringed nose and belled genitalia call attention to the ultimate in submission and humiliation. I cannot help but wriggle my hips. My bells ring for Ms. Powers. She smiles. My face gives away the indescribable wave of pleasure as the larger upper ball caresses my ‘G’ spot, my tiny bell diddles my clitoris and the lower ball kneads my inner lips. In arousing myself, I feel my lacteal glands open, further promoting the flow from my encased nipples.

I curse myself. Not just for my complete subjugation... but for my enjoyment of it.

But while my mind ruminates... my breasts drip into the bucket... slowly... steadily. Ms. Powers wordlessly steps back. She observes with a look of Schadenfreude. After many minutes the bottom of the bucket is more than coated with whiteness. She removes her short skirt to reveal a dildo harness beneath. Then she approaches, retrieving from the bag a black rubber phallus and dangling it before my face.

“If you’d care to use that nice purple tongue your new friend needs lubrication.