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A laughing Dr. Helga replied.
“That’s for me. You know I insist on the privilege.”
The fingers withdrew.
“Besides, she’s only in her fourth month. Since it’s her first child, initially there won’t be much flow.”
I heard chairs move and felt a large pair of hands, one on each thigh.
“Relax, Alexi. Enjoy. You’re here to entertain. Stripped and spread open. Isn’t that what you want?” Dr. Helga’s voice inquired. “Isn’t that how you like to appear, showing off your young body... being watched... looked at... examined?”
I detected Nurse Stolgren and her psychological handiwork. My mind said ‘no’ to the posed questions. My dripping vagina replied otherwise. A finger easily slid past my gooey vaginal lips and without effort entered my prized feminine portal.
“Yes, I think I’ve found the answers.”
Dr. Helga laughed. I heard many other voices join her, both male and female.
Chapter Six
Over the next hour I received a most debasing lesson on what Dr. Helga meant with her statement ‘having this strumpet for dinner’.
Stripped of all clothing, hands secured to my yoke, legs and thighs well separated and restrained I sat while Dr. Helga took all I had to offer. I was like a fertile tree, covered with overly ripe fruit from which Dr. Helga calmly and deliberatively plucked whatever she desired. ‘Luscious’, ‘sweet’, ‘succulent’ were her descriptive words. And frustratingly, the more humiliated I felt the more my juices flowed. Yes, flowed only to be gathered up for Dr. Helga’s curious appetite. For about my exposed and sensitive inner labia I felt a continuous dabbing. A soft, spongy material was gathering up the streaming evidence of my arousal only to be followed by the quiet sounds of chewing and swallowing.
A male voice made a reference to ‘feminine fondue’ and indeed the soft substance caressing my lips and occasionally inserted into my vagina felt like small pieces of bread. Was this what Dr. Helga meant in having me for dinner?
After a time, I felt Dr. Helga’s hand once again on my mons and he
r fingers spread to push open my clitoral hood. A tickling sensation followed. I wriggled in my bonds and released a reactive sigh with the intense pleasure.
“Yes, little girl. A little feather will keep you flowing. Give it all to Dr. Helga now. You’re here to serve and to please.”
I assumed the feather worked. I felt more bread, heard more quiet chews, more laughter emanated from the dinner guests.
After an eternity, Dr. Helga either ran out of bread or my love pouch went dry. For I heard the sounds of dishes clanking and what I would describe as the sounds of a normal dinner being served.
There ensued much conversation. And although my thoughts were running wild picturing Dr. Helga gleefully partaking in my sordid but tasty fruit, I learned much about the operation of the ship and the true motivations behind Dr. Helga’s offer of assistance to wayward girls.
This incredibly perverted woman was indeed a noted Ob/Gyn. But she never performed abortions. Her goal was to provide an environment where certain ‘qualified’ girls could bring their offspring to term. Qualified being young, troubled, in need of guidance, and without close relatives or friends who would interfere with the good doctor’s endeavors. She was an unabashed lesbian! She reveled in the problems which young girls encountered with males and in graciously extending her skilled hand in ostensibly assisting them. Only there was a high price to be paid... complete and utter sexual servitude. But unlike that which one would find in bedrooms or other places of ‘vanilla’ intercourse.
No. Dr. Helga had a ship whose paying guests included the notorious libertines of the world. Mostly female, some male, all wealthy and willing to pay handsomely to cruise the world and watch while the Janus-faced Dr. Helga opened her hand in feigned sympathy then closed it in a grip of sexual servitude.
My mind drifted to back to the Iowa farm I had found to be so boring. And the times when the boredom was punctuated by abject fear as my stepfather hit me, or threatened to hit me, or worse threatened mom. Then it sped forward to the fat, the bald, and the perverted and how I had summoned the courage to strip and dance in his office. How, after my second try and his advice to avoid ice cream, he had arisen from his desk and deliberately let me see that his zipper was open.
“Sometimes our dancers have to learn more than just dancing,” the fat, the bald and the perverted coyly suggested.
But at the time, my thoughts were occupied by the stream of effluent that he had unwittingly squeezed from my nipple and the shocking conclusion I was forced to confront. Thus the relevance of his statement, as juxtaposed against my desire to dance and make a lot of money, was lost.
I reflected, should my mental summation have been that each step of my journey had taken me lower into a bottomless abyss? What lay ahead? Would anything in my life ever be under my control?
Before I could answer my own questions, I felt the familiar strong feminine fingers on my left nipple. A squeeze, a pull, another squeeze, a firm pull.
“Ah yes. Here it comes. For you new guests, you’ll being seeing plenty of this aboard. Alexi here is just beginning to lactate. We’ll put her on our special feeding program in a couple of weeks and within two months she’ll be a fine producer.
“But meanwhile there is no finer time then capturing that moment when a young teenaged girl first produces for her superiors.”
“Yes, isn’t that so Alexi? So eager to please and display yourself.”
I felt rivulets running down my stomach only to be sopped up again.
