Ship of Remorse

I casually tossed my garments onto a nearby chair. The manager was smiling, sitting behind his desk, quietly enjoying the show. When my nipples popped into view his smile turned to a stare. Then I removed the cute hat, baring my hairless head. I had not even grown much of a stubble.

“Whoa. Stop right there, little lady. The circus left town months ago.”

I explained that I had been traveling and had not had time to purchase a wig.

“You going to buy one for those tits too?”

Sitting on a large swiveling desk chair, he motioned me toward him. As I approached, he patted his knees, indicating I was to sit on his lap.

I thought I was mentally prepared after two years of abject humiliation aboard ‘The Scarlet Letter’. But most of the interaction there had been with women. The fat, the bald, and the perverted was a most repugnant male. I just wasn’t fully expecting the combination of bad odor, brash talk, and distasteful appearance. To make matters worse, my nipples crinkled in reaction to the excitement, apparently anticipating some form of interaction, despite my reluctance. The manager noticed and was amused. He took the sight of my erecting pink darts as a prelude for lust.

“Well, well. Nicely shaved below. Now that helps. Spread ‘em and have a seat.”

With his choice of phraseology, I could not help but recall the commands of the ship’s trainers as I laid on the exercise mat, parting my thighs in compliance and looking up to see so many deviant yet smiling faces glaring at my privates, exposed so well in the Caribbean sun.

I summoned the courage to sit, convincing myself that unless I found work, within thirty days my stipend of savings bonds would begin to erode, quickly.

“Not so shy any more. Good. I won’t ask what you been doing but your attitude has improved. That’s also good. We can always use girls who do what they’re told. You know, many customers come here to get away from nagging wives. Don’t need girls who play hard to get games or just say ‘no’.”

I had placed my hands on my head. I hated myself for the move, ingrained after months of Dr. Helga’s input, but it impressed the manager and since my huge breasts were practically pushed into his face as a result, he took it as an invitation, which he readily accepted.

As his left hand reached to my right nipple, his right slipped between my thighs. The degradation I had expected and mentally planned for began. I told myself to remain silent and to please him no matter what and to think about all the dollar bills that would be tossed my way working the club’s runway or better, the private room for table dances.

Two fingers slipped inside me. I decided to demonstrate some of my newly found talent. I latched onto the digits with my well-developed pelvic muscles pulling them in and at the same time massaging them with a rolling contraction. I had the strange woman with the metal eggs to thank for learning that trick. The manager was ecstatic, chortling as he wriggled his fingers in response.

“Like some kind of Tijuana act,” he smugly announced

He continued working his fingers. I felt my wetness begin. He rolled my right nipple between thumb and forefinger.

It was then that I regretted not having the time to use the breast pump. I sprayed him with milk.

“Whoa. If you’re pregnant you’re not going to be here long.”

I explained my condition, the second child having been born six months before. I did not explain Dr. Helga’s extensive hormone and lactation program. Who’d ever believe it?

“Ok. So you obviously need to feed the kid.”

I didn’t bother informing him of the adoption. I really needed the job.

“Yeah, we got a place for good girls who need some quick

dough. The question is, are you a good girl?”

I was prepared to answer. I retreated from his lap and went to my knees. He looked down with a smile and separated his thighs. Over time Josef had added several refinements to the many mornings of fellatio. And one I demonstrated by placing my hands behind my back, craning my neck forward and using my tongue and lips to locate his zipper. My well-trained and dexterous tongue found it and flipped up the tab, allowing my teeth to grasp the small strip of plastic. With a quick movement of my head I unzipped it then snuggled my face inward.

“You been working the wrong side of the tracks,” he suggested with a laugh. “But we kinda like that here. I think I got just the spot for you.”

His words inspired me and I worked toward his penis, which was not hard to find under the boxer shorts. It, in turn, was doing its best to find my lips, its semi erect shaft poking upwards.

I drew in the head. He was nowhere near the size of Josef. Therefore physically the nasty deed was easy. Emotionally, since I had been preparing for it for almost two years, I was able to put aside my disgust. Thus, I proceeded with as much relish as I could summon. Since the fat, the bald and the perverted probably had some sycophantic girl sucking between his thighs weekly, if not daily, I knew my fellatio had to make an impression.

It did. I took him slowly and deeply, prolonging the pleasure until I thought he would faint. Then I let him pump a bit and climax into the depths of my gullet. He came like a pubescent schoolboy.

After holding still and letting his penis soften, I carefully licked him clean, sucking in the very last drop of semen from the tip of his urethra and making sure he noted that I swallowed everything.

“You’re like a little vacuum cleaner,” he suggested with a smile. “Keep the head shaved. It adds a nice twist.”

I was pleased that he was pleased. I began to count all those imaginary dollars. He began scribbling on a pad. I remained kneeling, demonstrating my complete subjugation.