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Then the end arrived. I had just straddled Mr. Fatipton’s hips. His cracking voice, more feeble than ever, requested that I lift the little rubber apron. I did
and with a smile and an odd gaze, Mr. Fatipton stared, visually examining my shaven pudendum while my tiny bell freely rang and my gold ball glinted in the room light. Then he closed his eyes seeming to fall asleep.
He did not awake.
The funeral was private. I did not attend, remaining in my room for many days. My only contact was with the various maids who brought in my meals and bathed me every morning. Oddly, the rule of chastity was still enforced with my labia carefully powdered each morning. I could not fully understand this requirement to remain in a constant, frustrating state of arousal since there was no one for whom I needed to lactate. But since Ms. Powers was quite busy, there was no one to whom I could appeal.
At first I was supplied with a breast pump. It was most dissatisfying to use but relieving my glands was paramount in order to inhibit the buildup of fluid and the resulting throb and ache.
Then on the fourth day after Mr. Fatipton’s demise, the mischievous maid with the busy fingers entered my room. Her name was Angela and wore a smile I found to be more diabolical than normal.
“Special orders from Ms. Powers. She has suggested you need to wear this.”
She carried a tray. Next to a plate of food was the leather waist belt I had so often worn while tending to Ms. Powers’ carnal demands.
“She also suggests that she has been busy with the attorneys and will return in a few days. Meanwhile, I am to attend to your needs.”
The thought caused much concern. This was the girl, at least two years younger than me, who took such delight in applying the iridescent powder then surreptitiously fingering me to the very precipice of an orgasm. And now she would be in charge of my care.
I could not help thinking that with Mr. Fatipton’s demise, the next step of our plan was to be executed. My previous pregnancies were not gratifying, the offspring having been brought to term aboard the peculiar ship. Therefore I was looking forward to carrying and bearing a child at the Fatipton mansion. It was such a wonderful facility, in beautiful countryside and with very attentive staff. And my child would be born wealthy, receiving all that the Fatipton billions could offer! Ms. Powers would continue as Trustee of the Estate well beyond Randy’s twenty-fifth year. And as the mother of Mr. Fatipton’s child, I would live royally, of course.
But instead of being impregnated, I was placed under the care of this vixen Angela and her curious fingers while Ms. Powers was busy with other matters.
My thoughts were distracted as the girl wrapped the belt around my waist.
“Wrists please. Then you will have your shot and some lunch.”
My daily hormone injection followed. Whatever the substance was, it caused abundant levels of prolactin. With Mr. Fatipton gone, I did not understand the need for it.
Without use of my hands, it was necessary for the girl to begin spooning soup into my mouth. I sat helpless on the side of my bed. When some dribbled onto my left breast she frustratingly left it to stream down the body of my mammary gland until it reached my overly sensitive nipple. I wriggled and the girl laughed, watching my areola crinkle and turn to the two-inch point that so much resembled a pinky finger.
In returning the spoon to the bowl, she playfully flicked it against my right nipple and it likewise turned to a pink dart.
“Will they keep getting longer?”
It was an appropriate question. My nipples were indeed continuing to grow. I had often wondered if there was a limit but was horrified to read somewhere that skin could probably stretch indefinitely, particularly with young flesh. With the girl’s question, I could not help thinking of a cow’s udders.
She spooned more. The process reminded me of the many feedings of mush I had to endure from Nurse Inga. Thankfully, a sandwich was next, which the girl held as I bit, chewed and swallowed in minutes.
“Lie back please.”
Did I have a choice?
Supine on my bed, the girl took delight in separating my labia as my clitoral bell rang in greeting. I felt the gold ball poke out, then as she pushed apart my thighs, my pelvic muscles contracted and I felt a twinge of pleasure as the ball was sucked back into my vagina.
She giggled.
“Can you do that again?”
I refused to become the object of entertainment for the young strumpet. But she had other ideas. Her deft thumb and forefinger slid between my lips, grasped the sphere and pulled it out, the elastic cord easily giving way to her efforts. She examined and twisted it continuously, stressing the elasticity like a windup toy. With hands bound, I helplessly watched, feeling my pelvic muscles involuntarily tighten, holding in place the larger ball inserted deeply in my vagina. Then with a devilish look she extracted from her pocket the small brush normally used to apply the iridescent powder. She used it to tickle my pierced clitoris, glancing up to see in reaction the uncontrollable looks of pleasure on my face. She continued to twist with one hand while tantalizing my clitoris with the other.
I moaned. The moisture in my sex turned to a river. She commented on the abundant flow and played on, knowing the havoc she was causing in the pleasure center of my brain.
After a few minutes, sensing that an orgasm was imminent, she just stopped, withdrawing both hands and leaving my clitoris in an incredibly stiff and excited state. The cord began to unwind, simultaneously allowing the golden ball to be drawn back into my vagina while it slowly turned and frictioned my most sensitive lips.
I gasped and pulled against the wrist cuffs. I needed to masturbate... to finish what she had begun, to bring myself to the forbidden climax.
It was not to happen. The girl merely walked out, sniffing the air and commenting on the intense feminine aroma caused by my ripe and excited sex. As she shut the door, she laughed.
