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Chapter Thirty-four
As the limousine again passes through the pillars, the last effects of the mild sedative dissipate. In the bottom of my peripheral vision is my new nose ring. When I look down, the hideous bronze bell rests on the leather seat between my well-parted thighs.
The sharp studs attached to its outer surface force me to sit with legs spread and my outer labia pleasantly rubbing against the soft warm seat cover.
The difficulty in walking out of the doctor’s office to the car was mitigated by the effect of the atropine. But as it wears off and the car makes very slight movements, the weight of the bell tugs on the elastic cord and gyrates my balls, sending pangs of pleasure throughout my genitalia.
As we approach the immense house I spy a truck loaded with lumber. The sounds of saws and hammers penetrate the car frame as Arthur pushes a button to open the garage door.
The Mercedes is expertly guided into the garage. There stands Ms. Powers. When Arthur opens the rear door he moves to the side. I peer out to see the Mistress of the Estate twisting a rope in her hands.
“Come, Alexi. Don’t be shy.”
She snaps her fingers twice and smiles. She knows the sensations caused by any motion of the new jewelry and bell are nearly impossible to withstand. I reach down with my right hand and carefully grasp the bell so as not to prick myself. The studs are that sharp. Holding it I then step out. Controlling the motion of the hanging implement helps.
I begin to speak, forgetting about the surgery. With the sound of the imperceptible utterances, Ms. Powers laughs and pulls off the flimsy sheet. I stand before her naked as she threads the rope through the large nose ring.
“Release the bell, Alexi. You don’t really want to face a caning so soon after your doctor’s visit.”
I comply. As it swings downward and clangs the studs force me to spread further. With the sensation of the initial swing my knees almost give out with the sudden feeling of ecstasy. Ms. Powers is amused.
“The new upper ball has been set adjacent to your ‘G’ spot. The lower one will still friction your inner labia. It’s designed so that as the bell moves and rings you’ll become one pleasantly aroused cowgirl.”
A slight tug on the rope and I feel a familiar acute pain that I have not experienced in months. The ring pressures an amazing number of sensitive nerve endings in my nose and nostrils. I lurch to follow Ms. Powers despite the clanging of the large bell and the incredible pleasure is causes.
“You’ll find your cortex overwhelmed Pain and pleasure with each step.. Walk with me. Minimize the pain”
I do indeed. Trying as best I can to ignore the deep sensations within my vagina in order to keep the controlling rope slack.
“The lumber and the sounds of carpentry are for your new home. It will be ready in a few days. Time now for some electrolysis.”
As I waddle behind Ms. Powers, walking with feet well apart, freeing the heavy bell to swing with each step, we enter one of the lower bedrooms. It has been quickly converted to what appears to be a salon. But there is no comfortable chair, just a plain table. Two women are awaiting me. One I recognize as the woman who I’ve been visiting for weekly treatments. The other, much younger and pretty, I learn is her daughter.
Ms. Powers ties the end of my rope somewhere under the table and leaves. The remainder of the day I spend kneeling on the flat surface as the two women work with nasty electrical instruments. When the mother works my eyebrows, I begin to cry, recalling the alien look such removal causes. The daughter just laughs and continues to sporadically do so throughout the afternoon. She comments to her mother about my scent, which is most noticeable when forced to remain spread for so long. On occasion she pushes my new bell, careful not to prick her finger on the studs. She is amused by my resulting moans of pleasure and the stronger wafts of feminine arousal.
Later I am led to my room. Dinner is served by a maid and is comprised of high fat foods with what appears to be a large milkshake. It is the first evening of my new diet. Ms. Powers henceforth will mandate only milk, various cheeses and plenty of ice cream.
I reflect on how carefully my diet was balanced and monitored aboard ‘The Scarlet Letter’ and how much exercise Dr. Helga demanded of us cowgirls. Now at the Fatipton Estate I am offered all the dairy products I want with the maid closely supervising to ensure the complete consumption of the large milkshake. And as for exercise, during my few months of tenure I was barely permitted to walk and would appear to be doing even less with the horrid bell in place.
The maid places me back into my waist belt with wrists cuffed. Mercifully, the bell is removed while sleeping, therefore I am permitted some degree of latitude in positioning myself on my bed.
I find myself undergoing two more afternoons of electrolysis which otherwise punctuate mornings and evenings of inactivity. I am not granted the relief of a milking. Then on a third afternoon, the woman very carefully inspects every inch of my exposed flesh. When finished she pronounces me hairless and so informs Ms. Powers with the recommendation she return for monthly maintenance visits.
“There’s always some stubborn follicle that will pop up somewhere,” she sums up with a very pleased Ms. Powers.
On the following day I am again brought to the makeshift salon. Though Ms. Powers had suggested she was to be contacted, I am still surprised to encounter Ms. Greenwich Village, the avant-garde artist who painted me for the video.
I guess one never can be accustomed to being led about by a nose ring, naked and with bells ringing (yes my clitoral bell continues to tintinnabulate along with the other). For when she looked at me and laughed, I flushed with shame.
“Yes, I remember her. The ship. I do a lot of kinky stuff but her I remember. Miss Elsie the cow. Some show
she put on with that other girl. I even asked Marvin for a copy of the tape. I usually don’t bother. I’m not into most of the scenes. I normally just throw on some body paint and move onwards.”
“But you are a tattoo artist? I was specific concerning my request.”
Ms. Powers’ FBI training as an interrogator surfaces. With her emphasis of the word ‘tattoo’ my ears perk.
“Oh. Yes. That’s really how I got started. Some movie directors saw my work and for certain productions wanted the actors to wear the same look. But no actor is going to let himself be permanently marked. So for movies and the stage, I paint.”
