So. Dr. Helga was having me for dinner.

I sat on a dining table in a rather large room. Before Dr. Helga entered I was blindfolded and told to remain motionless. My feet and calves dangled over the edge and my ankles were secured under the table in a manner, which forced apart my legs. When a waitress came along, I felt a plate placed between my thighs. The edge brushed against my outer labia. It was cold. My body eventually warmed it. 

Nurse Inga had spent the remainder of the afternoon in the washroom carefully measuring and recording various parts of my anatomy. I soon learned one reason was to fit me into the odd plastic yoke similar to that I had seen on the girl with Nurse Sourpuss.

It was surprisingly comfortable, designed to snugly fit about my neck and lock closed. The main function was to hold my hands well out to the sides. With my elbows bent downwards, my hands were held upwards at the ends of the yoke. This was accomplished by simply encircling the knuckles of each thumb with a thin but strong strip of plastic (I had seen similar strips used in place of handcuffs) and attaching such to the yoke.

Thus, no longer did I need to be reminded to keep my hands on my head. I could not move them at all.  

The yoke was cleverly designed so that the position of my hands could be adjusted. Nurse Inga initially demonstrated this feature by pushing the two ends of the yoke back. This forced back my arms and hands and served two purposes. One was that my breasts were thrust forward in a most obscene manner, a sight that seemed to amuse Nurse Inga to no end. The other was that, as my arms moved back, various ligaments and muscles stretched, slowly increasing the level of discomfort to the point of absolute torment.

Nurse Inga had locked the yoke in a most extreme position, set well back she allowed the anguish to slowly build. As tears formed, she admonished.

“Bad girls have been known to wear the yoke like that for many hours. Of course the body adapts, but then we can move the yoke further back.”

The message was received. The price to be paid for disobedience could be very slow and prolonged pain.   

As I sat in darkness, the sound of much activity around me returned my thoughts to my situation on the table. The room was being prepared to serve dinner and with my nakedness I was again most embarrassed. Occasionally someone caressed one of my nipples and I heard soft laughter amongst the voices.

“She’s a beauty this new one,” one female voice plainly enunciated, evidently standing before me as a set of fingers stroked my left breast.

Curiously, Nurse Inga’s large and deep enemas served to relax me, a result that I would not have believed during the long ordeal. My thoughts diverted to the late afternoon escapades with Nurse Inga.

After finally emptying my bladder and giving up the requisite urine sample, Nurse Inga weighed me then had me sit while she exhaustively measured every part of my body. She then disappeared in a storage room and returned with the yoke. After ensuring that it fit snugly about my neck without impairing my breathing she removed it and led me to a horizontal bar. Above it dangled numerous tubes, nozzles and hoses. There was no question as to the purpose. After she adjusted the bar to the height of my waist she just pointed and I knew to bend over it.

“Dr. Helga likes her girls with nice clean backsides. You may as well get used to this. It is the first of many.”

My ankles and were strapped to the sides as were my wrists. With my buttocks pointing straight up and my face just about on the floor, Nurse Inga inserted a rather stout nozzle, inflated it, and unceremoniously turned on a valve.

“Nice and slow for you, Alexi. At least for the first one. It’s best to relax and take it, for one way or the other you’re to be cleansed, completely.”

Over the ensuing months I was to learn that Nurse Inga was most correct. Dr. Helga’s enemas were obligatory and the professional staff was relentless in dispensing them. I let the broad bar hold my weight as I felt my lower belly slowly fill.

Meanwhile Nurse Inga retrieved a pair of scissors. Within minutes the front of my head was devoid of hair just as that of the extremely pregnant girl. When finished she took the time to also shave that portion of my scalp.

Young but knowledgeable hands paused to reach down and prod my belly. The pressure felt immense. Nurse Inga detected the same.

“Time to expel. Just let it all go. The floor is well drained.”

She removed the nozzle. I did not need to be told twice. My bowels exploded. I closed my eyes in shame.

The release took several minutes. The young virago coaxed me to push everything out then inserted another nozzle. This time she devilishly inflated it further, turned a valve and momentarily disappeared.

She returned carrying a tray of paraphernalia I could not see for she remained at my side as my bowels again began to fill.

She swabbed my right buttock with a moist cloth. Then I felt her apply a liquid. Next I heard the sounds of a bottle being opened.

“You’re getting your number. It’s a nice big ‘3'. That means you’re expecting in March and will be stalled with the other girls in the same stage of pregnancy. Right now there are only two others. But we’ll be stopping in Philadelphia, Baltimore, Norfolk, Wilmington, Charleston, Savannah and Miami so you’re bound to have more company. Norfolk is always surprising. Lot’s of sailors you know. They keep us very busy. You would think Dr. Helga had them on commission.”

Nurse Inga pleasantly explained as I felt her painting my flesh. Little did I realize the full significance of my ‘number’.

“It’s indelible ink applied after I swabbed on a special chemical to open up your pores. Some day it will come off, but only after utilizing the right solvent, which we won’t use until we’re through with you.”

Effectively I was being branded like a head of cattle. With the frequent use of the term ‘stall’ perhaps that analogy was appropriate. 

Nurse Inga stepped away with what I imagined to be a brush and jars. When she returned, she slowed the flow of water giving her artwork an opportunity to dry before the next evacuation. She placed a chair in front of me and sat. In her hand was a wooden cone identical to the one I spied intertwined in the hair of the number eleven woman. She spoke as I felt her gather my hair and insert it into the hollow cylinder of wood.

“You don’t and probably never will like me. That is not part of my role. But there will be times when you’ll beg for my attention and most times you shall have it, although afterwards you may later curse yourself for asking.”

Her fingers worked my strands of remaining hair.

“There are not many mirrors here on the ship so you’ll probably rarely see yourself. But you’re not here to look pretty. Therefore you’ll learn that this little addition to your hair style can be quite useful despite its dramatic appearance.”

With that she grasped the cylinder and pulled. With my hair firmly attached to it, my head moved accordingly. Nurse Inga chuckled with self-satisfaction as she moved her hand about directing my head like that of a puppet.

“Looks no longer matter. You’re here to please Dr. Helga and bear a child... maybe more than one.”

More than one? These words shocked me and riveted my attention despite the hand of this young harridan pulling my head about and despite my overly filled intestines.

My thoughts returned to my present predicament on the table as I heard voices. One was that of Dr. Helga but there were male voices! I tugged my feet against my bonds. As with the scruffy sailor in the hallway, I did not want my shame and humiliation observed by a man, crew member or not. And here I sat spread open and blindfolded.

“Oh, she is sweet,” a mature male voice commented. And I felt fingers on my right nipple. A soft caress and then a firm squeeze.

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.