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“The crimson is wonderful. It so very nicely highlights her charms and draws attention to her bells.”
They discuss the completion.
“Just an hour of work left. Maybe a little more. But I’ll need to do her face while she’s not tearing up.”
Ms. Powers nods as she releases the rope from under the table.
“She’ll be ready for tomorrow. When you’re finished Arthur will drive you back to the city.
“Come Alexi. I have something to show you.”
As always, to relieve tension on my nose, I follow the rope with alacrity, waddling while bells ring and balls caress. I am happy to be with Ms. Powers and away from the tattoo needles. Being proximate to the beautiful Mistress of the mansion while my balls knead my vaginal walls has the expected effect. I feel my wetness and hope I will soon be relieved of the dull ache in my breasts.
I am led toward the kitchen in the rear of the house. The help are quite amused as we pass through.
Then we step out the back door into the gloom of a mid autumn evening. It is cool and my nipples harden in response. Ms. Powers looks back and smiles at the pink points. But I am focused on the new wooden structure, which we are approaching. The many Fatipton dollars have been put to use building a scaled down barn. A larger building of similar design would go unnoticed in Iowa or Wisconsin. With its proximity to the beautiful Tudor mansion in the Catskills, it’s incongruous.
“Your new home, Alexi. The milking machine has not yet arrived but otherwise it’s ready for the Fatipton cowgirl.”
I am both shocked yet strangely gratified that the busy Mistress would take such time and effort for something to accommodate me... but a milking machine!
Ms. Powers pushes on a large wooden door. It slides to the side. A switch is flipped. The interior of the new structure illuminates under dozens of extremely bright halogen lights. We step inside.
The interior is a odd combination of barn and amphitheater. To the left are three curved rows each with six comfortable leather folding seats resembling those in a movie theater. They are permanently set into flooring, which is stepped upward from the low front row to the high rear row backed against the wall.
But the seats do not face a stage or movie screen. They are arranged for the occupant to view a carefully crafted contraption set near the right wall.
Propped up against the front row is a large mirror facing the device. It has been temporarily positioned and appears to be out of place.
“Let’s try this for size.”
Ms. Powers leads me toward the two vertical wooden poles running from the floor to a beam high above. My bare feet patter on a rubber surface. It is somewhat soft, giving slightly under my weight. She guides me so that I stand near the parallel poles, resting about two feet apart.
“Bend a little. Head between the poles.”
When I do so, she turns the right pole. Its base on the floor is offset. In turning, the right pole moves closer until it gently presses against my neck. She twists a little more until I move and feel the left pole pressing against the left side of my neck. Her foot presses a lever. The pole becomes secure and no longer moves. My neck and therefore my head are entrapped!
“Perfect.
“The design allows for some movement. Your wrists will be secured of course. Sometimes behind your back when you’re being hand milked for display. Sometimes to the poles. The tubes for the milking machine will be threaded through the piping in the floor.”
She looks down and my eyes follow. Just as in ‘3 stall’, where I spent so much time aboard Dr. Helga’s ship, it appears that my milk, when extracted by machine, will simply flow into tubing and disappear under the floor.
Over the shoulder of the imposing Ms. Powers I spy cameras attached to the walls in each corner. As opposed to various fixtures aboard ‘The Scarlet Letter’, no attempt has been made to conceal their presence. A large movable camera rests on a tripod to her right. Marvin’s videotape has obviously stimulated a degree of interest in recording my subjugation.
Ms. Powers reaches out and toys with my left then my right nipple.
“These will need to be worked. Tomorrow, after you’ve been properly colored, I have special little implements. I think you’ll enjoy them.”
Ms. Powers releases the rope from my nose ring and steps away. She moves and sits in a front row seat beside the mirror.
“Yes, the seats afford a wonderful view. Try kneeling, Alexi. There’s a floor drain that’s designed to accommodate your needs.”
With my neck entrapped, I kneel, sliding my head downward as I fold my legs. The rubber floor gives under the pressure of my knees. It is comfortable which oddly causes me consternation. It is evident that the flooring has been constructed to allow for the occupant of the contraption to spend long periods with head entrapped. And yes, the floor drain is perfectly positioned to accept all my excretions.
I shudder. The device and flooring have been designed for long-term bondage.
Then I see my reflection. It is the first time I have seen myself since the artist began her efforts. With the large nose ring and huge ovals of black covering numerous areas of my body, I appear alien to myself. The left side of my head is black, including my ear. Near my left eye, the artist’s unfinished work appears similar to a building under construction, the smooth black ending in scraggily lines like jagged uncompleted brick work.
