Ship of Remorse

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Over the next hour I received a most debasing lesson on what Dr. Helga meant with her statement ‘having this strumpet for dinner’.

Stripped of all clothing, hands secured to my yoke, legs and thighs well separated and restrained I sat while Dr. Helga took all I had to offer. I was like a fertile tree, covered with overly ripe fruit from which Dr. Helga calmly and deliberatively plucked whatever she desired. ‘Luscious’, ‘sweet’, ‘succulent’ were her descriptive words. And frustratingly, the more humiliated I felt the more my juices flowed. Yes, flowed only to be gathered up for Dr. Helga’s curious appetite. For about my exposed and sensitive inner labia I felt a continuous dabbing. A soft, spongy material was gathering up the streaming evidence of my arousal only to be followed by the quiet sounds of chewing and swallowing.

A male voice made a reference to ‘feminine fondue’ and indeed the soft substance caressing my lips and occasionally inserted into my v****a felt like small pieces of bread. Was this what Dr. Helga meant in having me for dinner?

After a time, I felt Dr. Helga’s hand once again on my mons and her fingers spread to push open my c******l hood. A tickling sensation followed. I wriggled in my bonds and released a reactive sigh with the intense pleasure.

“Yes, little girl. A little feather will keep you flowing. Give it all to Dr. Helga now. You’re here to serve and to please.”

I assumed the feather worked. I felt more bread, heard more quiet chews, more laughter emanated from the dinner guests.

After an eternity, Dr. Helga either ran out of bread or my love pouch went dry. For I heard the sounds of dishes clanking and what I would describe as the sounds of a normal dinner being served.

There ensued much conversation. And although my thoughts were running wild picturing Dr. Helga gleefully partaking in my sordid but tasty fruit, I learned much about the operation of the ship and the true motivations behind Dr. Helga’s offer of assistance to wayward girls.

This incredibly perverted woman was indeed a noted Ob/Gyn. But she never performed abortions. Her goal was to provide an environment where certain ‘qualified’ girls could bring their offspring to term. Qualified being young, troubled, in need of guidance, and without close relatives or friends who would interfere with the good doctor’s endeavors. She was an unabashed lesbian! She reveled in the problems which young girls encountered with males and in graciously extending her skilled hand in ostensibly assisting them. Only there was a high price to be paid... complete and utter s****l servitude. But unlike that which one would find in bedrooms or other places of ‘vanilla’ intercourse.

No. Dr. Helga had a ship whose paying guests included the notorious libertines of the world. Mostly female, some male, all wealthy and willing to pay handsomely to cruise the world and watch while the Janus-faced Dr. Helga opened her hand in feigned sympathy then closed it in a grip of s****l servitude.

My mind drifted to back to the Iowa farm I had found to be so boring. And the times when the boredom was punctuated by abject fear as my stepfather hit me, or threatened to hit me, or worse threatened mom. Then it sped forward to the fat, the bald, and the perverted and how I had summoned the courage to strip and dance in his office. How, after my second try and his advice to avoid ice cream, he had arisen from his desk and deliberately let me see that his zipper was open.

“Sometimes our dancers have to learn more than just dancing,” the fat, the bald and the perverted coyly suggested.

But at the time, my thoughts were occupied by the stream of effluent that he had unwittingly squeezed from my n****e and the shocking conclusion I was forced to confront. Thus the relevance of his statement, as juxtaposed against my desire to dance and make a lot of money, was lost.

I reflected, should my mental summation have been that each step of my journey had taken me lower into a bottomless abyss? What lay ahead? Would anything in my life ever be under my control?

Before I could answer my own questions, I felt the familiar strong feminine fingers on my left n****e. A squeeze, a pull, another squeeze, a firm pull.

“Ah yes. Here it comes. For you new guests, you’ll being seeing plenty of this aboard. Alexi here is just beginning to lactate. We’ll put her on our special feeding program in a couple of weeks and within two months she’ll be a fine producer.

“But meanwhile there is no finer time then capturing that moment when a young teenaged girl first produces for her superiors.”

“Yes, isn’t that so Alexi? So eager to please and display yourself.”

I felt rivulets running down my stomach only to be sopped up again.

“A little icing for my cake. How nice of you to offer, Alexi.”

The guests laughed. Dr. Helga’s hand worked relentlessly and I felt more liquid. Then she worked my right n****e with equal results. Slowly, firmly, methodically. She was an expert. And after each squeeze and subsequent pull, I felt droplets and the sensation of sponge-like cake, meticulously absorbing from my flesh the wetness so deftly extracted without my acquiescence.

“There’s nothing like a good firm hand milking to begin a girl’s flow. We have wonderful machines, designed to be most tactile, but the human touch is important in establishing response to control. In a few weeks she’ll relish lactating for us. You’ll see her pine for the subtle pinch and draw of one of our experienced nurses. Once we start the hormones flowing, there will be no end to her lusty need to have these marvelously firm n*****s squeezed as a vintner would harvest and squeeze ripe grapes. The process is most entertaining.”

Many guests murmured words of agreement. I silently sat and indeed helplessly provided the entertainment. I never realized how or how much my young n*****s had to give. But according to the overheard conversation I would find out.

And so... Dr. Helga indeed had me for dinner.