The Bamboo Ceiling Ch. 12

"I'm so sorry, Daddy. Cinnamon knew better. And I taught her better than that. I'll make sure to give her a reminder tonight."

A visible shudder rippled through Cinnamon's body. Who the fuck was this woman?

As if responding to my internal question, Frank leaned back in his chair and smiled at James and me. He motioned toward the bartender.

"James, meet Frieda. My first and best girl."

Frieda, the bartender, covered her mouth and smiled as if she were embarrassed. The schoolgirl-like giggle that came from her lips made my stomach sick. Something about her kawaii demeanor in that moment filled me with a cocktail of terror and rage. I already hated Frieda. And I was terrified of Frieda.

"This little lady is the MVP around here," Frank continued, "She trains the girls and keeps them in line. I barely have to do anything around here!"

"Nice to meet you, Frieda," James beckoned toward the bartender politely with the envelope in his hand. "Now, Frank. I really need to get to work on these. Thanks again. Can one of your lovely girls show me to my room?"

"Of course!" Frank pointed at Sparkles, who was still sweating from Frieda's earlier display, "Sparkles here will show you your room. And Sparkles is here to serve guests. Don't hesitate to use her for whatever services she can provide you."

James grinned and exchanged a glance with Frank. Growing up, I'd noticed that, when it came to discussion of sexual conquests, white men often exchanged a specific, knowing glance with each other. I specifically noticed this behavior among the frat-boy jock types. It was as if that entire demographic shared a fraternal hunger for sexual exploitation.

James replied, still grinning, "That's thoughtful, Frank. But would you mind if someone with a bit more..." James hesitated, searching for the right word, "... oomph escorted me back?"

James conspicuously eyed Sparkles's backside with disappointment.

A cocktail of reactions swirled through my mind. On one hand, it disgusted me that James just turned down this escort because her ass wasn't pleasing enough to him. And it infuriated me further that he did so with such nonchalance and in front of the poor girl. On the other hand, I was glad that this poor girl would be (presumably) left in peace for the evening. At least from James's appetites.

Whether I wanted to admit it or not, I concurrently experienced some more shameful reactions. Specifically, I felt jealous that another girl--it didn't matter whether it was Sparkles or 'someone with more oomph'--would get James's cock tonight. I knew better than to attach myself to the idea of being James's 'one and only.' Hell, James had repeatedly brought girls home--including my sister--and bragged to me about these conquests. But until now, I had been the only sissy that James had been fucking.

Perversely, I felt some pride at the fact that James had turned down Sparkles. If he preferred a girl with a nicer backside, but repeatedly found pleasure in mine, then I could infer that I had a lot to offer in that department.

Frank's piggish laugh interrupted my rumination. "A man of taste. Sparkles!" Frank pointed at the girl and then at the door, "Introduce our guest to Cupcake. If you like 'oomph,' James, then you'll like Cupcake."

"Much obliged," James quickly stood up and reached the office door in a single step. He was stopped by Frieda's light, singsong voice.

"And what about your lady here," Frieda continued to glare hungrily at me. She looked like an ill-behaved housecat who was plotting ways to access her master's bird cage. "Will she be staying with you as well?"

James waived blithely behind him and continued walking with Sparkles in his wake. "You mentioned that you trained your girls? Have Kimmy spend some time with the others. Let her learn a thing or two."

With that, James was gone.

---

As the sound of James's footsteps faded, I could more distinctly hear a slurping from under Frank's desk. Cinnamon was still hard at work. Frieda's eyes lowered to watch Cinnamon bobbing her head in Frank's lab, then raised her eyes again to look at me.

"Daddy," Frieda addressed Frank without taking her eyes off me, "I bet Kimmy hasn't eaten in a while. Do you mind if I take her to the kitchen to put something in that tummy of hers?"

"Y-yeah," Frank said. He wasn't looking at Frieda. Instead, once James had left the room, Frank had laid his head back in his chair and closed his eyes. Cinnamon was about to have something in her tummy as well. "Sure. Just shut the door behind you. And make sure that the girls are cleaned up and ready for clients to arrive tonight."

"Yes, Daddy," Frieda's voice dripped seductively as she walked toward me, swinging her hips. "Come along, Dove. Follow Mommy to the kitchen, and we'll put something in that tummy."

As Frieda spoke, she pursed her lips into a pouty expression and lowered her voice. She spoke in an ostensibly sympathetic manner, but with an obvious undertone of sarcasm. I was also struck by her words' ambiguity; promising to 'put something in my tummy' didn't feel the same as promising me food. I did not look forward to whatever awaited me in the kitchen.

Frieda took my hand in hers and quickly led me to the opposite side of the room. We passed the tables, the chairs, the bench, and the ladyboys who lounged on the same. As James's live-in maid, I had never needed to learn to walk quickly in heels. Accordingly, it took all my calf and ankle strength to keep from falling over as Frieda pulled dragged me along.

"It's nearly seven o'clock, my dears," Frieda announced to the girls we passed. "If I hear one complaint that a client isn't greeted when he arrives, there will be hell to pay I swear to god!"

The working girls snapped from their dazed expressions at Frieda's shouting. They looked like mesmerized audience members in a cheap hypnosis show who had just been ordered to wake up. As if to accentuate her point, Frieda repeatedly snapped her fingers as we passed. As each girl sprung come to awareness, she eyed me up and down and then at Frieda in wonder.

Were they surprised to see a new sissy among their ranks? Was it that I wore--by far--the most expensive outfit in this room? Or were the girls simply worried for my well-being? It was difficult to devote much attention to the girls while keeping up with Frieda and without falling over. Eventually, we crossed the large room and through two swinging doors into what looked like an industrial kitchen.

As if to answer my internal questions, Frieda turned her head to address me.

"Don't take it personally if the other sissies don't warm up to you at first. Your master put much more effort into you than Frank put into them. I mean, fuck, whoever did your implants and your facial feminization surgery deserves a fucking prize."

I blushed. As offensive as it was that the most remarkable thing about me was forced upon me, I couldn't suppress the warmth that filled my tummy at Frieda's remarks.

"To top it off," Frieda continued, "Your makeup is impeccable. I hope that James keeps you around just so these girls can learn to fucking contour. We have most of them on hormones, but there's only so much you can do without good makeup."

My face blushed into a deeper shade of red. I learned to apply makeup early in James's conquest over me. But what had compelled me to become as skillful as I had? What drove me to study the art so deeply? I remembered the hours I'd spent watching online videos of drag queens and trans girls, learning to feminize my face. I remembered the tedious research into the best makeup for my facial structure and skin tone. Whether I admitted it to myself or not, I took pride in my appearance. And as I learned about myself in the airport the prior day, I lived to be seen. I lived to be ogled. I lived to be desired.

The brisk air in the cold, industrial kitchen gave me goosebumps. I'd discovered that, when your body was as clean-shaven and smooth as a baby's, goosebumps merely created annoying little bumps on the skin. They did nothing to keep my body warm.

Frieda pulled a plastic bottle from a high metal shelf. She also retrieved a large plastic tub. I couldn't read the writing, but I recognized the label's color and font as a popular protein powder brand. I stood timidly behind Frieda as she carefully measured two scoop of beige powder into the clear plastic bottle. My realization that I hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours seemed to cue hunger pains in my stomach.

"I-is that all I'll be eating?" I knew better than to speak without being addressed, but the sudden empty feeling had hit me like a locomotive. I immediately regretted the question.

Without dropping the bottle, Frieda spun counterclockwise, pivoting on her left heel. She drove her right knee into my stomach, forcing me to bend forward and lose my footing. The air rushed from my lungs as I bent downward. Frieda gripped the back of my head with her empty hand, digging her long nails into the base of my skull.

Initially, she felt as though, in one fluid movement, she would drive my face into the cold, concrete floor. But when she realized that I was far from putting up a fight, she used her grip on the back of my head to slowly guide me down to the floor. I caught myself with my hands and knees, and heaved repeatedly, trying to get air back into my lungs.

Frieda squatted toward the flow and, with her fingers still dug into the base of my head, turned my gaze toward her. Hovering above me, Frieda brought her face to within a few inches from mine and held my gaze for several moments. She didn't blink as her eyes pierced into mine. I felt as though she penetrated me with her eyes, forcing herself inside me.

As I caught my breath, I panicked. I could only manage short, staccato inhales. I didn't feel as though I could fully exhale. By contrast, I could hear Frieda as she slowly inhaled, maintaining eye contact. And I could feel her warmth as she slowly released each breath.

Eventually, Frieda spoke. She enunciated every word, as if me understanding what she had to say was the most important outcome in the universe.

"You. Do. Not. Speak. When. I. Am. In. The. Room."

Frieda continued to hold me in place, penetrating me with her eyes. After a moment, she dug her thumb and pinky nails deeper into the base of my skull at the side of my neck. My eyes widened, my eyebrows pointed upward, and my mouth opened in a silent scream. But I dared not make a sound.

"Your mouth," she continued, "Serves one purpose. It is not to speak. It is not to express any opinions from that stupid slut brain of yours. It is not to enjoy the pleasures of food. Your mouth exists to please white cock."

Frieda released my head and stood. She turned to face the counter but continued speaking.

"If you do speak, it will be when you're permitted to speak. And it will only be to please cock. As long as you're under my watch, the only sounds coming from your mouth will be whatever you have to say to make a client horny. Something like, 'Yes, Daddy,' or 'Fuck me harder, Sir,' or 'Please, Sir, give me that big American cock!' Otherwise, you keep your whore mouth shut."

I could hear Frieda turning on a sink tap, then shaking the bottle. I saw her retrieve something from a metal cupboard and attach it to the water bottle's tip.

"To answer your question," Frieda spoke while she worked, "Yes. This is all you'll be eating. It has the nutrients that Frank's 'assets' need to keep working. If we want to add any mass to your ass, thighs, hips, or tits, then that's what silicon is for."

As Frieda turned to face me, I was astonished at what she held.

In her right hand, she supported the protein-shake-filled bottle. In her left, she held a dildo. Specifically, it looked like a lifelike rubber model of a white cock, complete with foreskin, veins, and an artificial ball sack at the base. The bottle's tip had been screwed to cock's back end.

I squinted harder at the toy cock's tip and saw the rim of a metal straw that had been pushed through the toy's center and through the shaft. Frieda squatted down and reached under my chin. With the sharp nails of her thumb and pinky fingers, Frieda gripped and squeezed the sides of my jaw. To avoid the pain, I opened my mouth into an 'O' shape.

"Goooood girl," Frieda cooed as she pointed the toy cock's tip into my mouth.

My lips formed a seal around the tip, and I began sucking the protein mix through the straw and from the bottle on the other side. The contraption formed a perfect seal with my lips, so the flow of liquid was limited by how quickly Frieda squeezed the plastic bottle that she held in her other hand.

"Thaaaaaat's a good girl," Frieda spoke with that pursed expression from earlier, feigning a sympathetic tone. "Take Daddy's gift. This is the reward that good girls get."

I looked up and down the cock, and then at the bottle in Frieda's hand. A sharp squeeze from her nails let me know that this was an error.

"Eye contact!" Frieda snapped. "You're either admiring the white cock that's being shoved in your mouth, or you're maintaining eye contact with the one feeding you. Got it?"

I gulped some of the tasteless, bland protein shake and looked up at her. My eyes were wide with my inner eyebrows pointed upward. This was the same submissive facial expression that James often liked when I blew him. It seemed to please Frieda as well.

"Good girl!" Frieda's face lit up with delight at my expression. "We teach our girls that you only get sustenance from a white cock. White cock is your god. You serve it. You worship it. White cock fills you and feeds you. You only live because the white cock fills you with its reward."

Still on all fours and looking up at Frieda with my submissive expression, I subtly nodded.

"We want our girls to associate cock with that which sustains them. And we definitely want their mouths to water at the sight of cock. So, the sissies here only get to eat this way."

What? Was this some kind of Pavlovian conditioning? I remembered reading about Ivan Pavlov, a Russian physiologist, when I was an undergraduate student. Pavlov noticed that when he presented food to a dog, the dog's cheeks would fill with saliva. He called this the 'unconditioned stimulus.' Pavlov started ringing a bell when he fed his subjects, referring to the bell as the 'conditioned stimulus.' Eventually, after he had conditioned the dogs to associate the sound of the bell with food, Pavlov found that he could make the dogs salivate by ringing the bell, even where food had not been presented.

Likewise, had Frieda trained the sissies here to drool at the sight of white cock? Was this some (albeit primitive) method to mentally condition the girls here? Clearly, she must have had some success if she was going through the effort to force this on me.

"Thaaaaat's it," Frieda cooed, "Soon you'll be a slobbering mess as soon as a white man takes his pants off."

Yep. This was exactly what she was trying to do. But I soon learned that this wasn't the only part of the conditioning, as Frieda began pushing the shaft farther into my mouth.

"You're about halfway through your meal, Princess," Frieda continued pushing the shaft deeper, "And here's the deal. I'm going to push this aaaaall the way in. If you throw it up, you're not getting any more. Got it?"

I understood. This ritual wasn't only meant to train a sissy's mouth to water at the sight of cock. It was also meant to suppress the sissy's gag reflex. Eventually, if the sissy was only able to take in food when the artificial cock was shoved down her throat, the body would shut off the gag reflex and allow the thing all the way down. As primitive as this training method was, and as disgusted as I was by what Frieda has inflicted on so many of my 'sisters,' I was impressed by her ingenuity.

As Frieda pushed the toy deeper into my mouth, I relaxed my tongue and inhaled slowly through my nose. For better or worse, this wasn't my first rodeo. I relaxed the base of my throat, let my eyes glaze over, and slowly exhaled as the toy bottomed out.

I felt a twinge against my cage as the rubber testicles pressed against my chin. I typically only felt this sensation while on my knees servicing James's big white cock. And thus, the association made some blood start flowing to my clitty. Frieda hadn't been the first dom to train this bitch.

Frieda looked delighted when the bottle was finally empty. But it did little to quell my hunger pains. Indeed, as Frieda pulled the emptied toy cock from my throat, a low grumble from my midsection betrayed the hunger that I still felt.

"Awww," Frieda made a disgustingly cutsie little frown, "Is someone still hungwy?" Of course, having just fed me in the most demeaning way imaginable, the bitch had to add salt to the wound with baby talk.

"Well," she continued as she stood up and disassembled the toy from the bottle, "Frank's clientele should be here by now. We'll have something more in that tummy before you know it."

---

Frieda quickly shuffled me from the kitchen and back into the main room. Though nothing changed with the lighting, furniture, or decor, the room's energy was starkly different. Where before sat a dozen or so prostitutes lounging about, now there sat several white men at various tables, each of whom was accompanied by at least one sex worker. Further, there were at least twice as many girls in the room as there were when I first arrived. I wondered whether many of the workers just slept during the day.

With her hand on the small of my back, Frieda guided me toward one table. On the bench, sat an older man. He looked like he was in his late fifties or early sixties. He was tall and broad shouldered, but his torso and limbs were thin; even lanky. He wore simple grey trousers and a sweater. His clothes looked nice, and he was relatively well-groomed. But his skin looked dry, and his receding hair was greying. He wasn't ugly by any means, especially for his age. But he was no Prince Charming.

A Thai girl in a neon-pink top sat on the man's lap. She sat side-saddle on the man's left thigh, facing inward. Though she bowed her head, obscuring her features, she appeared to be maybe nineteen or twenty. At the angle of our approach, I could see that her hair came down to her shoulders and was cut completely square at the end. As we approached, the man pulled her body closer to him, sliding her ass up his thigh and closer to his groin. The gesture reminded me of a jealous toddler who pulls his toy closer to his body at a stranger's approach.

"Hey, Handsome!" Frieda bowed respectfully to the man. She pushed down on my middle back, signaling that I should do the same. "Is there room for one more?"

The man loosened his grip on his lap pet. I assumed that he was satisfied that Frieda was there to give him another toy, and not take his current toy away.

"Hell yeah!" He responded in a distinctly American accent. It didn't exactly have a southern 'twang,' but he subtly drawled his vowels. Tennessee was my best guess. "Come sit on Daddy's lap!"

How original.

Frieda threateningly jabbed a fingernail into the small of my back, pushing me toward the man. The gesture felt more like a threat than guidance. I obeyed her nonverbal command; I smiled as sweetly as I could, sauntered over to the man, and lowered myself onto his free thigh. He immediately wrapped his other hand around my ass, maintaining the same possessive posture that he held over my counterpart. Sitting so closely across from her, I could see that the gems on her collar spelled 'Lollipop.'

"There we go. This is more like it! I love how y'all do it here up in Thailand," the oaf pronounced it as 'Tie Land,' as if it were two separate words, "Y'all know how to make a fella' feel special!"