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“Pull the wooden thing straight back for me.”
Dr. Helga obliged and Marvin stepped back and again looked through the finder.
“Well, how about if we shave her head? There’s no hair anywhere else and the body paint will be more uniform.”
“That we can do,” replied the Doctor. “The handle won’t be needed for much until she drops the next child.”
“Excellent. Can they really lactate?”
Marvin finally summoned the courage to take up Dr. Helga on her offer and satisfy his curiosity. He bent over to Maria’s right nipple, almost hanging to the floor. He squeezed and her milk gushed out forming a sizable puddle near Marvin’s shoe. He jumped back and then laughed at his own reaction.
“Guess you never spent much time on a farm Marvin. Maria here is the best producer in 3 stall. We’ve got one better in 8 stall, but she’s a little plump and just gave birth so she’s not right for your video.
“But none of these girls have been milked in two days. So, the answer is yes, they’ll all produce for you and your camera, and kiss your feet in gratitude for the privilege of performing for you.”
Yes, I was to find out that Marvin made low grade movies and he was contracted to produce a short video for some wealthy Arab with a penchant for young lactating girls. But the proclivity was more involved than that and I would regretfully that find out.
“Well, I’ll need another. A girl with contrast.”
He walked down the row of poles with the kneeling girls humbly and silently staring up with the discomfort of the male presence. The atmosphere was similar to that of a ladies spa at a posh hotel being invaded by a man. Except for Linda and Susan, we were accustomed to being displayed in the lounge, but the stall had become a type of sanctuary.
“This one. Very nice light skin. Very expressive breasts, seeming to beg for attention.”
He had stopped in front of me, pointing. Then he smiled, reached down and squeezed my left nipple. Unlike Maria who tended to spurt downward, I sprayed and Marvin found his shoes and the cuffs of his gaily-colored slacks moistened with my milk.
“Fascinating...
“I’ll need their heads shaved for a final screen test. But they should fill the role.”
Spoken like Cecil B. DeMille, the casting call ended.
Chapter Nineteen
With trepidation, I knelt on all fours on the insemination table. Some guests had gathered about the windows to watch. I judged it to be late morning and it appeared some were drinking coffee. A third day had begun without a milking. My breasts ached.
It felt great, however, to have my yoke removed, especially for an extended period of time. It did not feel great to have my head shaved by a strange young woman who could only be described as the avant-garde of Greenwich Village. Her clothing was gaudy and the number of piercings about her nose, lips and ears were countless.
The table had been lowered so that my face was at the level of her shoulders and I had to remain perfectly still while she worked with an annoying smirk of self-confidence. It communicated the notion, ‘I may seem peculiar but you’re the one kneeling naked with your head and body shaven’.
I suppose at one time I would have found having my head shaved to be most traumatic. But having been in Dr. Helga’s care for over a year, I knew my body was no longer mine to control.
However, when the woman giggled as she lathered my eyebrows, my heart sunk. I could not imagine the eerie sight I would become without the thin strips of hair. I had spent much time plucking and preening them as a blossoming young teenager, but within a matter of seconds she pushed up the skin on my forehead to distance the area from my eyes then skillfully scraped my brow clean. She had apparently done the procedure before. For what purpose I could not know.
When finished, she smoothed a warm damp cloth over my entire body and gratuitously commented on the goose bumps she caused.
“Very nice clear skin. And so receptive to touch...”
She moved to my front, palmed my large hanging breasts and moved them about, staring into my face with a questioning look, which seemed to suggest ‘how did you let this happen to yourself?’ When a spray of milk resulted from a slight pinch of the nipple she giggled.
“Your nipples look like the udders of a cow. I won’t have much to do there.”
Finished with her inspection, she retrieved what appeared to be a pencil from a large suitcase on a nearby table. She returned and began drawing circular patterns on my skin with a felt tip pen. She worked methodically and diligently and in having me move about, drew everywhere… my shoulders, back, stomach, arms and legs. She even drew on my head, with a sweeping stroke of her hand traversing diagonally across my forehead down to where my eyebrows had been then extending back toward my ear. After some 45 minutes she asked me to stand.
“Turn for me... walk... kneel... crawl for me... good girl.”
It was debasing, being ordered about like a puppy by this Bohemian artist, not much older than me. She watched me move with an exacting eye. I became distracted by the smiling guests behind the glass. Had I been wearing clothing, I would appear to be modeling for the crowd of lecherous faces.
She directed me back to the table.
