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For another man, his voice sounding quite old, I massaged and pinched my nipples to send streams of breast milk shooting across the small four foot by four foot booth. His breathing became heavy. Although rules ostensibly forbid the customers from playing with themselves, it was really just a pretense to collect more money. For an extra twenty dollars they did whatever they wanted. The old man was wheezing heavily when I heard a final, stifled cry of ecstasy.
The constant sound of quarters being slid into slots then rolling down to a collection box was most memorable. Every time I heard a pair of quarters fall, I knew that I had to continue what I was doing for another twenty seconds. The special requests were paid for and arranged beforehand, of course. But to keep the eyeholes open, quarters were still mandated and no matter the customer or the terms of his prearranged show, the coins had to keep rolling.
Then the long day of unspeakable humiliation finally ended. I reported to the area outside of Ernie’s office stark naked. There was no place for modesty and besides, customer’s were not permitted in the vicinity. My clothes hung on a simple hook with my valuables locked away in a small locker.
“Nice touch with the bowl,” an approaching Ernie commented. “Big tip there. Not many girls can do that the first time.”
There was no point in describing how for two years I did almost the same thing on Dr. Helga’s floating clinic, with the added feature of a pair of pretty female hands touching my most intimate parts.
“Well here’s your take. The house’s cut against new girls is high. We put some aside and bonus it to you if you’re still here after six months. Don’t like training girls just so they can go to the competition.”
I almost laughed with the notion of the seedy, filthy establishment having competition. There certainly couldn’t be anything else comparable, even in a city the size of New York.
But the bag Ernie handed me curtailed all thoughts of humor. I was being paid in quarters. My face gave away my disappointment. The two-year dream of having dollars tossed at my naked dancing body burst. It was a dose of cold water I’d never forget, being handed a bag of coins after spending the day completely degrading myself for latent perverts.
Ernie quickly turned away.
“Get here a little early tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder. “I’d like to see you do that bowl thing on top of my desk.”
Chapter Twenty-four
The slow flow of semen into the collection vessel turns clear. This indicates that the pump has come to extract pre-ejaculatory fluid from the prostate gland. It is harmless but if we continue to extract it, it will just be more difficult to collect potent sperm on the next attempt. I pull away the pump. Ms. Powers nods in agreement. Mr. Fatipton will have pleasant dreams and tomorrow morning will suckle my breasts with renewed vigor.
I right his garments and pull up the sheet. We tiptoe out the door.
“Did he finish you?”
I shake my head.
“Report to my room in fifteen minutes. Remove all your attire. I have Randy in suspension again and have to check on him.”
She turns and with envy I watch her rounded, firm buttocks stroll away. The layers of well-developed muscle ripple with each step. In contrast, my naked white body, with my high fat, high lactose diet combined with my daily hormone injection, resembles that of the Pillsbury doughboy, especially with my shaven head. Only this doughboy is adorned with a pair of obscene, pink and stretched nipples. Thus I find looking at Ms. Powers’ fine physique to be frustrating. Still, I believe some find me to be pretty. And Mr. Fatipton seems to enjoy my company.
I start toward my room. I cannot but help picturing myself as waddling after observing the athletic movements of Ms. Powers.
In the upper hallway I pass James, the head butler. I nod with a shy smile, acknowledging his prominent status within the household. With my reddened, well used nipples protruding before me, forced to the shape of pencil points by the feeding harness, and the sound of my little bell tingling from my most intimate location, I find myself uncomfortably walking about before the males of the household.
But rules are rules and I am comforted knowing that within minutes, Ms. Powers will be sensuously milking me of my remaining fluid. As two more male servants exit their
rooms for a night out, I force myself to think of other things besides my nakedness and my ringing pierced clitoris. My employment at the peep show comes to mind.
The evening of the first day I arrived back at my hotel room. It was early evening. The ‘action’ in the booths falls off at that hour as office guys ‘working late’ eventually leave and go home to their wives. The more experienced girls are assigned the late shift, there being fewer customers, but those that remained were the high paying, most libidinous of males with the most bizarre requests.
I piled up my quarters. $25.75. I tried to imagine paying my sizable hotel bill in the following month with the large accumulation of coins such an obligation would require, or paying any other significant obligation, for that matter.
My breasts ached and I assembled my pump. What little milk I had sprayed about in the booth left my glands in more need than if I had not touched them at all. I stripped, laid on the bed and pumped. My flow began, but I had a depressing feeling of emptiness. There was no satisfaction. I thought about the wizened clerk and his prognosticating words. I hated doing it but I called room service. When I gave my name, a male voice replied with a snicker before I could ask for the clerk.
“Maurice will be there in a minute, Alexi. He says you should remove your clothes,” he added with outright laughter.
How obnoxious. And he had the temerity to use my first name!
I hung up. Angry with myself. My weakness. The day of thorough humiliation, for $25.75.
But my needs were more than a cheap plastic breast pump could satisfy. Yes, the clerk was correct concerning assistance, somehow seeming to know me more than I knew myself.
My glands required human touch. My psyche required the strange thrill of embarrassment... the degradation of being used with wizened fingers awkwardly squeezing then drawing down the length of my nipples.
That evening, Maurice had me kneel on a small rug while leaning over the edge of the hotel room bathtub. Out of habit, I spread for him and after both his hands simultaneously worked both right breast and left, his left hand slipped back and masturbated me as his right alternated from nipple to nipple.
