Nusquam, Letting Down, Segment Two

Warned, 226 turns to silence as a white uniformed sizable women of color steps to the right of where I sit, grasps the end of the feeding tube emanating from my right nostril and connects to the feeding bag. When she lifts high and hooks it to a wall hook, I instantly feel the flow, involuntarily gushing to my stomach. When number 226 is similarly hooked up, I am shocked to see her long right nipple begin to secrete lactate.

She’s letting down!

“Machine milking later, 226,” the handler advises in the staccato of accented English. “You’ll give up much for us... no?”

With the mocking query, a dark hand lowers to the length of pink nipple flesh. Thumb and index finger pinch at the base then slip down the five or six inches to bring forth a burst of lactate that jets across the room, some droplets astonishingly landing near my feet. 226 emits a sigh of delight... not to be suppressed. The handler laughs, amused by her dominion.   

“And later some stretching... for your benefactor.”

The handler turns her attention to me.

“Part your feet further, 387. Lots of pink for the camera... always,” the words coming as a white rubber soled shoe pushes at right foot then left.

Obscenely spread, I look to where wall meets ceiling. Sure enough an unnoticed camera. red light blinking, presumably records. One of the five ‘P’s’, it seems I am presenting myself... my most intimate anatomy...  mons, shorn of all hair, chemically defoliated during indoctrination.

The handler departs and I sit watching the white sludge flow to 226's stomach, knowing that my feeding bag is similarly emptying.

“I trust your self esteem has been effectively diminished during indoctrination, 387. It makes the rest easier... having no pride. The degradation is unending here. And they’re good at dispensing it... very good. Your tits will soon be gushing like mine. And you’ll be sucking cock... and taking black cock where it will most humiliate. And all for your benefactor... whomever that may be.”   

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Tummy full... yet continuing to fill... the mysterious concoction forced into me brings languor. Glad that my indoctrination has ended, I reflect on the words of 226, her chattiness ending in sleep. The tethered collar leash too short to permit motion, she somehow dozes sitting upright, slumbering no doubt in exhaustion, knees well parted, labia displayed.

My circumstances are different from 226. I was not abducted in the night. For me the ordeal began with a certified letter stating that I had won a sweepstakes... the prize being a trip to a tropical isle... to one of those exotic enclaves for singles where clothing is optional and sex abundant. After five years of sexless marriage, the finalized divorce coming after months of being estranged from both husband and lover, the perceived scene seemed attractive. Finally to be away from my prudish exhusband, Roger Pearson, a wealthy businessman for whom intercourse was solely for procreation... which ironically never happened with his extensive travel. And also away from my exlover, who, when our affair was disclosed, chose to reconcile with his wife... explaining our many clandestine meetings as a mere fling with a white trollop... a meaningless dalliance.

Yes, Dr. Grayson Hubbard, noted neurosurgeon, was black. And in being blonde and blued eyed, he found attraction. And in him being well proportioned, handsome, erudite, attentive and most virile, I found attraction as well. So many late afternoons... so many hotels... so many orgasms... such ecstasy.      

Alienated from both ex lover and exhusband, no interest in entering the hurly burly of the singles scene, the letter, the travel offered by private jet, enticed. I called the ‘800' number. A woman offered more details, and I naively reported to Teterboro Airport for transport.

Boarding the plane, should I have been alarmed in being greeted and later served by a naked young male... seeming androgynous?

Yes, the flight attendant... such an introduction to the hedonistic vacation I envisioned in seeing his nude form shuffling from the galley of the sleek Gulfstream jet.

‘Welcome Ma’am. I’m Timmy... here to assure your flight is enjoyable.’

Steel bands about the elbows, wrists, thighs and ankles, with matching neck collar gleaming in the cabin lights. Such sordid quirkiness... such bondage... yet so youthful! And a tiny penis that seemed to beckon both inspection and laughter.

The lad served me, the elbow bands loosely tethered behind his back to restrict much movement. There was also a slim chain secured to his right ankle band to make him one with the cabin. The scene seemed to empower. I felt oddly superior.

Then I took the offered Mimosa. In being seated his tiny penis was at eye level, and he paused to let me visually examine, seeming to revel in the humiliation. The organ useless, but amusing, I could not help thinking of my pending week of pure lust... pent up desire, sexual frustration to finally end. No strings sex... and offered so kinkily... introduced by a naked nymph in restraints! 

Alas, the Mimosa was spiked! I recall the cabin door shutting, the engines spooling, the gentle motion of taxiing. But with the roar of takeoff, the cabin lights seemed to dim. I passed out, awakening with my own form in bondage... tight, confining. The rigorous indoctrination of Nusquam to begin.

In finally completing the many weeks of isolation, I found my own limbs and neck to be ringed in steel. The configuration permits a handler... or whomever... to instantly bind me in any manner... my hands and arms rendered useless by the cruel adjustable yoke. I also found myself to be tattooed...  number 387... and made glabrous... not a follicle remaining... the chemical depilatory strong and thorough.

I note the clear feeding tube of 226 is emptied of the thick white glop. Hopefully the flow into my bloated belly has ended as well. I speculate that the feeding bag is well over a quart, possibly two, the caloric intake well in excess of what I burn in my sedentary existence.  

I will fatten. 226 suggested I am to be plumped.