Chapter Thirty-seven
I awake grateful to have slept in my room on a soft bed. There may not be many more evenings of such comfort.
Angela enters for morning feeding and ablutions. Afterwards she gives me a pill, attaches my bell, threads the rope through my nose ring and leads me to the salon and Miss Greenwich Village.
I have not been milked in days. I crave the touch of firm fingers. However, as I am walked the dull ache begins to subside. I hear my bells but the pleasure of the moving balls and the titillation of my c******s dissipates. The carpet begins to float. I stumble.
“Just a few more feet, Alexi. The pill will calm you for the last of your art work.”
I have been drugged.
The artist laughs at my efforts to walk. When I reach her table I am grateful to have a place to lie do
