Bondage sex stories

Back to More Free Bondage, BDSM, and S&M Sex Stories

www.FetishClub.com - Unlimited 5-Day Trial
Bondage, BDSM, Domination and Submission movies & pictures only at Fetish Club! Only $4.95 to Join!



Archive-name: Bondage/njlist05.txt

Archive-author: Nurse Jones

Archive-title: The List -  5 of 20





The List

     Column 1

       Item 9



     Monday again. The swelling has finally gone down on my nipple.

There was a slight infection but Neosporin antibacterial ointment took

care of it. I'm symmetrical again, but I'll keep treating them until I

don't feel any unusual sensitivity when the rings are disturbed. It's

probably not necessary, but I still cover them with band-aids. J can

even make a band-aid a sexual thing. Those round things that look like

nipples were too small, so he had me make larger circular ones of

flesh-colored "ouchless" plastic surgical tape with sterile gauze

stuck in the middle. They cover my nipples completely, and from a

distance he says it looks like I don't have any nipples at all. Like a

department store mannequin. Interesting concept. They don't bother me

any more, though.

     As I look back over this account, it appears that the only thing

we do is have sex. That's not true. Sex may be the only thing I write

about, but we do lots of other things together, and I have lots to do

during the days when he is at work. Cleaning up this gawdawful barn of

a house, for one thing. And I have made curtains for my room, done

some weeding, normal stuff like that. I sound terminally domestic, I

know, but I'm used to a long and busy work day. I'm still adjusting to

not having to eat over the sink or in my car. I get hyper and have to

do something, so I made curtains, okay?

     I exercise on his weight bench in the garage almost daily: he has

moved a big full-length mirror in there for me; one end of the garage

is like a little carpeted mini-spa. And of course I read--and write

this. And check out the usenet. It's nice to feel I have a pipeline to

the outside world.

     So after working at St. Hectic and living in a big city, the

restful pampered schedule is welcome, and the sex is pretty powerful.

Overwhelming, but in a good way. Well, maybe "good" doesn't describe

it. I don't feel like a good little girl anymore (small loss). Maybe

fantastic is the correct word, because I am living out a fantasy. I

could almost go for the life of a full-time "kept woman." Almost.

     But our slave/master relationship IS full-time, for now. We don't

turn it on and off, and it gets a little tiresome sometimes, even

though I asked for it to be real. He doesn't push it by making me

scrub floors or do degrading things. What I'm trying to say is he

doesn't use me for slave labor to do things he doesn't want to do. But

I do have to cook almost all the meals and wash the dishes. He says

that is my reminder of my (temporary) status. His turn will come, he

says. When we were both on tight schedules in Chicago, we shared the

household stuff 50/50, so I don't mind.

     We were a little ginger with sex right after I got pierced:

Either me on top being careful or rear entry. It wasn't really neces-

sary, but J thought it was, so we did. Being entered from the rear is

a position we had previously almost never used since I found it

relatively unsatisfying, but J has fixed that problem. First we tried

it with me on all fours. He had taken foreplay to his usual extreme

again, teasing me until I was a babbling nymphomaniacal bundle of

uncongealed nerve endings. I felt like a dog in heat; on my hands and

knees with my collar on, I even looked like one. When he penetrated

me, though, it still wasn't satisfying. I just couldn't climax. It

helps me to have an orgasm if I can straighten my legs and flex my

thigh muscles, and you can't do that on all fours. Also, my clitoris

isn't stimulated as much in that position.

     Then he tried a variation: with us both on our left sides, kind

of propped up by pillows, still penetrated from behind. I was able to

lift my right leg and spread myself open in front, so that he could

stroke and caress all of me (even my breasts, carefully), and more

importantly, so could I. In fact, he TOLD me to stroke myself while we

were making love this way. You can't do this in the missionary posi-

tion, so this was new to me. He took my hand in his and guided it to

my clitoris while he continued thrusting from behind.

     As I have said before, I am reluctant to masturbate in front of

anyone else, even J. I was still reluctant this time, and withdrew my

hand, but he whispered over my shoulder, "I can't force you to enjoy

this, but there are other things you can be made to do." He guided my

hand back. "If you don't..." A thinly veiled threat was all it took.

His control, my body. There was nothing I could do. The implied threat

of that gag is enough, and I'm sure his imagination isn't limited to

that particular "minor discomfort".

     So I did it. He continued stroking from behind and caressing in

front, but I was in complete control of my own orgasm; it was almost

as though I were in complete control of his lovemaking. I brought

myself to the edge and held myself there, and all the while he contin-

ued to plunge into me and caress my front. It was like having four

hands to caress myself with. This time I drove myself crazy, teasing

and hesitating on the very edge. My nipples became erect under the

bandages. They ached deliciously already from the excitement, and now

the ache was even more intense--almost a stinging sensation as they

hardened. Which made me even hornier. We'll have to try that position

again after my nipples heal.

      -*-

     Yesterday he had me pluck my eyebrows until they were pencil-

thin. I did this my last year in high-school and my first two years in

college, but fashions change and I let them grow out full again--until

yesterday. But I always preferred them thin. Anything goes these days

anyway, so I don't mind. I think I look better this way. I'll leave

the heavy eyebrows to Brooke Shields. I understand she is popular in

Russia. She probably reminds them of Brezhnev.

     I need depilatory again today, too. This will be the third or

fourth time. I know it sounds like I'm self-absorbed, but I have

always liked "working" on myself, whether it is with makeup, eyebrow

tweezers, shaving my legs, brushing my hair, exercising, or whatever.

You would think that after a while I would get tired of self-mainte-

nance, but I still get a kind of sensual pleasure out of it, even now.

     I don't think I'm narcissistic, because I enjoy the physical act

of doing these things rather than the results. Sounds like I'm justi-

fying something, I know, but the preparation is more important than

the finished product. Maybe a bit like a craftsman who likes his job.

I take a lot of time with it, and try out new and different variations

whenever I can. I have a tendency to make myself look too artificial,

although a little artificiality is attractive, I think. Needless to

say, I have about a ton of partly-used experimental makeup.

     Several times when things were slow on the night shift at the

hospital (a rare thing, believe me) I even removed some of my own

moles: I anesthetized the area with topical benzocaine, then injected

subcutaneous xylocaine and burned the little suckers right off. Did as

neat a job as any dermatologist, too. That's partly why I have such

perfect skin. I got nearly all of them.

     I guess the point is that I like "working" on myself, and don't

see decorating my nipples, depilating, and plucking my eyebrows as a

burden, but rather another aspect of self improvement and maintenance,

just like doing my nails; until I go back to work, I will have plenty

of time for this kind of thing, so why not indulge? Besides, it's a

turn-on knowing I'm getting ready for sex.

     It's not just polishing and perfecting myself that fascinates me,

though. I like being able to change myself, too. I have experimented

with just about everything about me that can be changed: my hair, my

makeup, my clothing styles, everything. It's almost like a compulsion

to try something--anything--else. I get a thrill out of being some-

thing different than I am, I guess. It's a good thing "do-it-yourself

plastic surgery" isn't a reality: I would probably do it. Really. It

doesn't sound like a very healthy self-image now that I write it down.

     When I got back from the spa the post office had left a note that

my sewing machine arrived at the local post office. I shipped it and

some other stuff from Chicago before I drove down here. I'm going to

pick it up myself tomorrow. I should have used U.P.S.

     I would have done a better job with the curtains if I had waited

for it to arrive, but I was antsy.

     -*-

     Tuesday. J has started on some kind of project. You're going to

think this is weird. Even I do. I didn't know what he was doing at

first: yesterday evening he tied me on the oak table again, the same

as before, but with my legs straight on the top of the table, ankles

tied at the edges, and with a plastic drop-cloth under me. He scotch-

taped saran-wrap over my sex and then covered me from just below my

breasts to my upper hips with petroleum jelly. That part was a little

sexy, but I was mostly mystified. Then with me craning my neck to

watch, he mixed plaster of paris in a big bucket on the floor by the

table. At that point I had figured out that he was going to make a

plaster cast of my front. I was half right. Anyway, tying me down was

just to keep my attention.

     When he smeared the plaster over my lubricated torso, it was kind

of an interesting feeling, cool and slippery at first but warmer as it

began to set. He had imbedded strips of cloth in the plaster partly to

strengthen it, and partly to tie it into the other sections of the

cast when he added them later. When he pulled it off it was an unbro-

ken and faithful copy of my lower body. He freed me then, and told me

to wash myself off. I had been dismissed.

     While I cooked dinner he sawed and filed the edges of the cast

smooth, and after we had eaten he told me to get my shower cap and

come to the garage. While I watched, he covered the edges of the mold

with wax and had me stand. He fitted the cast against my front.

Naturally, it was a perfect fit. He strapped it tightly in place with

old belts, and had me help support it with my hands.

     He covered my breasts, neck and shoulders with petroleum jelly,

band-aids and all, and mixed more plaster. He explained that he wanted

my breasts to hang naturally for this part of the cast, so I had to do

it standing up. The shower cap was to keep my hair up out of the

plaster. He built up the already-finished mold of the lower front of

my body by adding on to its upper edge until he had a mold of me from

my upper thighs to my uplifted chin. I kept asking him why he was

doing this, but he just told me I would find out. Finally, he said he

would use the gag if I didn't just stop asking questions. The mold was

quite heavy at this point, and it was only half done.

     He sawed and filed the rough edges until he had a complete

impression of the front half of my torso, and again he fitted it to

me. It required a little squirming, but it was still a perfect fit.

Then it was back to the oak table, where he put the mold with the

interior up and had me lie face down, fitting myself into it. He

supported me with pillows under my forehead and legs, and then plas-

tered my entire back then, neck to hips. After it had set, the two

plaster halves separated neatly where he had wax papered the edge of

the front half. The final product was a huge and cumbersome mold of my

torso. I can't figure out why he made it. He still hasn't told me. I

don't even know why he had me write about it in such detail. It wasn't

really an erotic experience. I told him it would have been much easier

if he had used the water-activated cast material they use for broken

bones. You can get it from any medical supply store.

     -*-

     Wednesday. My sewing machine arrived okay. I picked it up today.

He put my chain on again last night after he came home from work. I

don't mind, except that during week days when I'm not at the exercise

spa or out shopping I like to put on what few clothes I have (total

clothing: the knit dress, the black thong, my exercise outfit, and the

sheer cotton) and now the knit dress doesn't look good any more with

the chain under it. Besides, it's too nice for around the house. I can

slip the thong through the waistband of the chain and wear it under-

neath if I want, because it unsnaps at the crotch, but it's not very

comfortable; the dress and the pants present problems in topology if I

try to wear them under the chain.

     He didn't tie me down this time when he put the chain on. I

suppose I knew what was coming though, so it wouldn't have mattered

anyway. Certainly I didn't fight it. In fact I held the torch for him,

like an assisting nurse. If he would just leave the crotch chain

unlocked, I could wear those sheer cotton pants under the chain. The

waist would still be welded on. Oh well.

     Now that my sewing machine is here, maybe I can make some more

clothing. As it is, I have to wear my exercise leos with shorts and a

t-shirt everywhere I go, and pretend I just came from the spa. Anyway,

I got some material and patterns. I'll get started this afternoon.

      -*-

     As soon as he proofed this, J "forbade" me to make any clothing

without his approval.(!) Of course, he prefers it when I have to wear

sexy clothing--which is all I have (except the exercise stuff). I have

a really sexy short black knit dress in my luggage that I could wear

if he would unlock the crotch chain (yes, that's a hint).

     My period is due soon. I have to get him to unlock the chain for

it. I'm not sure he would if I just asked. After all, it would be for

convenience rather than necessity. I can perform all my bodily func-

tions by just pulling the waist chain down and the crotch piece to one

side. Listen to me. People in the midwest don't discuss bodily func-

tions; I don't think my mother even HAS any bodily functions, and here

I am discussing "feminine hygiene" on public (pubic?) TV. Monitor.

Whatever. I still have to learn computerese. At the hospital I really

just followed a cookbook when I learned the computer at the nurse's

station. But I'll learn more. Several times I've wanted to post

something on ASB and didn't really know how.

     Anyway, my period might be a problem with the chain. I have an

idea that might work. I have been saving it for when I really need

something from him. I'll tell you if it works.

     -*-

     Thursday. Well, it worked, sort of. I am not sure it was a great

idea, but I'll put it down here anyway. I have never been terrific at

oral sex. I am reluctant to do it in the first place (due to a vesti-

gial but typical midwestern conflation of hygiene and morality), and

have never been able to make it very satisfying for him. Plus I gag

reflexively if I hold even half of him in my mouth. So anyway, last

night I put on my black thong (under my chain), and some formal black

heels. I made myself as stereotypically sexy as I could. I couldn't

put pantyhose on with the chain and ankle cuffs, but I put body makeup

and powder on my legs and behind, right up to the thong, to make my

skin perfectly smooth and even. I fixed a great chicken dish with

desert and fruit; I gave him the works. I even ate by myself earlier

so I could wait on him hand and foot before and during the meal,

pouring his wine, bringing the courses one at a time, everything I

could think of from candle light and incense to little touches like

brushing my breast against him while serving his food.

     Afterwards, dishes cleared, with him sitting on the sofa by the

lit fireplace, I by his feet, I made my well-rehearsed pitch in that

same artificial style that marks all our master/slave conversations. I

guess it's role playing.

     "J, I have a favor to ask of you. Before I ask, I want to do

something for you that I haven't been able to do before. It isn't an

item on the List; well, it is, but I want to go beyond the List for

you in this.

     "You know I can't control my gag reflex when I try to take all of

you in my mouth," I continued (too embarrassed to look him in the

eye), "but I think I might be able to with your help and patience."

Actually, didn't need much help at all to do this, but his patience

was essential.

     Without telling him what I intended, I started undressing him.

When he was nude, I told him I had to go into my bathroom to prepare

myself. I had filled an old perfume atomizer with an OTC liquid

topical oral anesthetic, twenty percent benzocaine (which is a pretty

potent percentage). I looked myself in the mirror, calming myself for

a few seconds before I went ahead.

     I had practiced the day before, so I knew it worked. I just

didn't know if it would work well enough. I sprayed the back of my

throat while, with my mouth wide open and tongue depressed, I said the

magic vowel, "EE". Of course with your tongue depressed it doesn't

come out "EE", but your vocal cords are best positioned for exposure

to the spray, and if you take a deep breath first so you don't have to

inhale the vaporized anesthetic, and try not to swallow while your

salivary glands go into overdrive, the anesthetic will stay on your

throat lining long enough to numb it. You learn a few tricks working

ENT and internal medicine.

     After several applications, each time spitting out the residue

rather than swallowing, the back of my throat had that thick feeling

that accompanies numbness. The rest of my mouth was beginning to feel

tingly, too. Now I could apply the anesthetic directly to the back of

my throat with a cotton swab without triggering a gag reflex. I rinsed

my mouth well with water so I didn't reduce his sensitivity (that

would defeat the purpose for sure).

     Almost as an afterthought, I brought the hand mirror. I wanted to

see what I looked like while doing this for him. You have to under-

stand: this was a very daring thing for me to do. He is the only

person I have ever done oral sex for (no-one, not even J, has ever

done it to me. In case I didn't tell you, he's a midwesterner, too.)

and I have only done it a few times for him, and not well even then.

My heart wasn't in it. I have never really gotten over the feeling it

is unhygienic, and I've never given him an orgasm that way. But I'm

working on it.

     When I went back out to the living room and told him I was ready,

my voice was different, or maybe because I was excited it just felt

different, kind of husky and low. No... it definitely sounded differ-

ent.

     A single touch of my hand and he was ready. He didn't even know

what he was anticipating, but he obviously knew it was something. He

leaned back on the sofa and I knelt between his legs on the fleeced

rug. I took him into my mouth and sucked on the end of his penis,

rotating my head around and pressing my near-numb tongue against the

underside. With every heartbeat I could feel him pulse larger and

larger in my mouth.

     Tentatively, I slid forward. When he reached the back of my

mouth, I didn't gag. I almost did, but it was so easily controlled it

was forgotten in seconds. So far so good. I stroked back and pushed

forward again, this time a little deeper. He was in firm contact with

the very back of my mouth and I was still in control, so I went with

that for a while and experimented with trying to relax my throat and

get the feel of it. He felt larger than I had hoped he would, but not

too large that I couldn't slide forward a little more.

     Finally he was in contact with the back of my throat, and my

breath was shut off. I backed off, gagging slightly but unnecessarily.

I needed to learn to coordinate my breathing. I took a few deep

breaths, inhaled, and tried again. Again, I took him to the back of my

throat a few times experimentally, and tried contracting my throat

around him. He gave a slight moan. Good sign, but I had my own prob-

lems to concentrate on. I pushed a little more, getting the feel of

going even deeper. I could tell he wanted to push, but was keeping

strict control of himself. I kept this up for a while, getting accus-

tomed to the feeling. I was too slow and tentative to give him an

orgasm, but one step at a time. I even tried swallowing motions,

although I couldn't really complete the action. I actually had him all

the way in! I was secretly exultant.

     I had propped the mirror against the arm of the sofa so I could

reach it and look at myself while I had him inside. I had to open my

mouth very wide, and had to use my lips to keep my teeth from scraping

him, so I looked a little funny, but no more unattractive than with

that gag (I don't believe it, but J tells me I look beautiful with

that gag in). When I take him all the way in, though, my throat is

distorted: kind of distended like a croaking frog. It looks weird,

like I have an iodine deficiency or something. You can tell he's in

there even from the outside. Not to mention the inside.

     I continued experimenting until the anesthetic began to wear off.

It doesn't last long. But even then I was able to take him all the way

in. So I kept on. It's really just a knack. My gag reflex seemed to be

under control enough for me to continue, but my throat finally began

to feel weird, so I ended up stopping before he had an orgasm.

     J was pretty turned on, though. Basically I had worked him into

quite a state, but hadn't given him release. I could see he was almost

in pain. It gave me a secret feeling of power. And pride. I was

delighted with myself. He was delighted with me too: he recognized

that what I had done was quite an accomplishment for me, and made our

subsequent lovemaking particularly tender and special for me. He seems

to know all the right things to do, when to change the tempo, shift

positions, everything.

     This morning when I got up I was a little hoarse, and I'm afraid

I hammed it up a bit more than was necessary to get sympathy I didn't

really deserve. I think I could try it again, maybe this time with no

anesthetic. I discovered that caressing the end of his penis with my

lips and tongue, and only occasionally engulfing him completely has

the best effect. J says a mouth is not designed to be a substitute for

a vagina, but it can be very interesting nonetheless. The oral sex is

incredible, he says, but even so, it's not as fulfilling as normal

frontal sex. Whatever that is. I haven't had normal sex since we got

back together, although a lot of it has been frontal.

     Anyway, he unlocked the chain for me. Now it is just a belt with

the crotch piece hanging down, which I wear to the side. It looks kind

of pretty. I like gold. The link where he welded it is kind of burned

looking, though. I wish it could be re-plated. He told me I didn't

have to do the "deep throat" routine just to persuade him, though. He

would have unlocked it for my period if I had asked.

     -*-

     Friday. My period is here, and neither of us likes sex during

this time. I know some don't mind, but I do. Thank goodness he gave me

some panties from my suitcase, too.

     My nipples aren't healed yet, but now I can see how they will

look. I love them. While they are just resting, inverted, the little

rings half protrude from their hiding places. I haven't shown J yet.

I'm really excited about them. Can't wait until I can put other

jewelry on them. Small pendants and such. I wish I had thought to get

some while we were in the piercing clinic in San Francisco.

     -*-

     Saturday. I'm in big trouble. Or at least I will be when J reads

this. I bought a package of hacksaw blades on a shopping trip in town

after we got back from San Francisco. I don't know what possessed me,

I suppose I thought of them as insurance in case I really needed to

get out of this situation I'm in. My feelings oscillate between a

temptation/fear to explore bondage more deeply (at least I can call a

spade a spade now: Bondage. Bondagebondagebondage) and a feeling of

shame at what I have done and what he might make me do. I'm a sort of

combined midwestern fool and an angel, wanting to rush in and fearing

to tread at the same time. Anyway, I thought of the hacksaw blades as

insurance. And a personal proof that I have at least a vestigial

intention to resist this ... process. I was going to say experiment,

but it's more than an experiment.

     But I've decided to let J find them.

     (They are laid flat under the rug in the living room,

     J, behind the big sofa. There are three of them)

     I'm doing this because not betraying you is more

     important to me than insurance.

     Besides, the only times I have considered escaping were when it

was clearly impossible for me to use a hacksaw anyway...

     ++++ Note from the Future ++++

     This is a load of bull. I wanted to show J I was committed to

him. That's why I told him about the hacksaw blades. And I wanted to

give him cause to take the next step--to punish me. That's why I

bought the blades in the first place. I could have just buried the

blades in the woods while he was at work and he would never have

known. But I didn't. I was in a rush to descend to greater depths

without having to admit to myself that this was what I wanted. I've

got all that sorted out in my mind now. At least I know what I want.

     ++++ End of Note ++++ ... So tomorrow you will know, J, but

before you punish me I want you to remember why I told you this

voluntarily: I love you and am yours to do with as you please.

     I think my nipples are almost healed now. I can move the rings

with only a little tenderness, and they've stopped exuding fluids and

crusting up. One or two more days of antibacterial ointment should do

it.

     -*-

     Sunday. J didn't read yesterday's entry, so I have a reprieve.

I've been extra good. Last night I told him I wanted to make something

really sexy to wear for him. He told me to make a body stocking. What

he means is a unitard. It will be easiest to modify one from [store

name deleted] rather than make one from scratch. It has to be black,

and cover me completely. The instructions were detailed.

     I guess this is our week for arts and crafts. In addition to the

body stocking, J has been fitting me for something. I'm not sure what,

but he has measured my thighs, waist, hips, upper and lower arms in

several places, inseam, sleeve length, neck, everything. He then

disappears into the garage where I hear pounding and scraping noises.

And machines. I'm not allowed to watch. I think he's too preoccupied

to proofread my latest entries. Maybe he won't read them at all. I

wish he'd hurry up and finish his project, though. Actually, he says

it's three projects, all to do with me. Anyway, I miss using the

weight bench, since it's locked in the garage while he's at work.

     I've been practicing my exotic dancing religiously every day. I

even think I'm getting pretty good. I can make my stomach undulate in

a very interesting way, although it looks a lot sexier than it feels.

J has unlocked my chain so I have more freedom of movement, although

it wasn't really a hindrance. I loop the loose end and lock it at my

waist, letting it hang at my hip. It looks kind of nice that way. Of

course I can't get it off, since it is still welded (or whatever)

around my waist.

     -*-

     Monday: This morning I went out and bought a black unitard body

stocking and a yard of lycra. Finding black gloves was pretty diffi-

cult. They aren't lycra, and all of the black material I bought is in

different shades of black. It's surprisingly hard to match black. But

I will start on it later this afternoon. I am to be covered from my

toes to my fingertips, with a zipper from the middle of my back, down

between my legs, and up to my front neckline. The neckline will be a

rollover turtleneck that, when unrolled, has a zipper along the top

edge under my chin, zipping to a hood--a ski mask with no openings. It

will cover my head completely.

     He says to make it very tight, so I bought the body stocking a

size too small. All I really have to do is sew the gloves to the

sleeves and make some feet to attach to the ankles, then work on the

hood.

     -*-

     Tuesday. My period will be over tomorrow. He STILL hasn't read

the latest entries (about the hacksaw blades). Normally he sits at the

computer and proofs them while I cook dinner, but now he is working in

the garage every evening. Sometimes he lets me exercise while he's

working and I can watch what he is doing, but I can't really tell what

he is making. It involves leather, and I have a pretty good idea what

it is for. I'm not a complete idiot. But he also keeps two things

covered up with old sheets. One is three feet tall and sits on his

workbench. The other is on the floor. Sometimes the smell of leather

is strong on his hands and in the garage. Sometimes it is solvents of

some kind. I think the plaster mold of me, whatever it was for, was a

failure, though. I saw it all broken up in a cardboard box last night.

Today it is out by the garbage cans.

     I've been having trouble perfecting a design for the black hood.

It's a kind of Catch-22: It doesn't quite fit right, and I can't see

to correct it while I have it on. J said cut slits for the eyes and

sew them up last. He also said I should leave small holes for my

nostrils. I said that I can breathe through the material, but he said

to do it anyway: I might need to breathe more quickly, he said. Hmmm.

I also had to cut off the thumbs of the gloves and sew them up. And he

doesn't like the way the leotards squash my breasts. He wants me to

build shaped, conical cups into the front to cradle me like a bra.

I'll look like Darth Madonna. Won't be able to hitchhike, though....

     As one of the witches in Macbeth says, "By the pricking of my

thumbs, something wicked this way comes..." Wasn't that the title of a

good Ray Bradbury novel? Something about people made into sideshow

freaks by the circus owner. 'Something Wicked' was the title, I think.

Good yarn. Another one for you SF B&D fans on the net: 'The Real

Story' by Stephen R. Donaldson. I found it on the bookshelf here in

the house. The rest of his stuff seems to be rather dull dungeons and

dragons fantasy but this is about 80% B&D. Don't miss it if you can,

as Samuel Goldwyn didn't say.

     -*-

     Wednesday. Last night I told J that I thought my nipples were

healed completely and showed him. They really have healed perfectly; a

little sensitive, still, but healed. The tiny rings that pierce them

are barely bigger than the nipples themselves. When they aren't erect,

only half the ring protrudes from the little folds in my areolas. He

had been saving a small surprise for me, the dear. He'd bought a pair

of very small pendants for me. They are gold with tiny garnet tear-

drops at the ends. They are sweet. I remember them from the shop in

San Francisco. He put them on for me. They dangle and brush against my

areolas when I move; they make me feel sexy--more aware of myself. He

said he still thought the band-aids were sexy. Hmmmm.

     Then he put something else on me. It was a kind of a leather g-

string, but the strap between my legs was much wider than a string. It

smelled strongly of leather. Actually, it is neatsfoot oil and wax, he

says. It has two belt buckles in front, although it really doesn't

need more than one, with a central wide strap between my legs. Very

wide. The end of the strap buckles to the waistband behind my back. He

pulled the strap very tight between my legs. Very tight. I think he

was just trying it on for size, though, because he let me take it off

after a few minutes. We made love afterwards, and it was satisfying

(three orgasms, countthemthree) but not quite as fulfilling as the

first few times after I came here. I wonder if bondage can become

boring.

     He has all of next week off, and says he will spend it all with

me.

     Depilation time again.

     -*-

     Thursday. He proofread last night. My God. What have I done. I've

never seen him so remote. I wonder what he's going to do. I'm only

half looking forward to it. I mean, everything he has done to me so

far has been a turn-on. But I'm a little nervous now, the way he's

been acting. Usually there are hints that he's just kidding. Well, not

kidding, exactly, but playing a role. Not any more, though. He told me

to follow him out to the living room, where he made me pull back the

rug and give him the three hacksaw blades. He took them, then locked

me in my room.

     At bedtime he came back and told me to use the bathroom. Then he

relocked my chain, pulling it up so tight in back that he had eight

links left over beyond the lock. It was compressed tightly --not quite

painfully but certainly uncomfortably--between my labia, forcing them

apart and pushing them to the sides. The chain was held taut and

rigidly in the crevice of my behind; I could feel it against the hip

bones at my waist, it was pulling down so hard on them. I couldn't

even get a finger under it very easily in places. He locked another

length of chain to the leftover loose links at the center of my back

and with another lock, attached a some heavy weights from his weight

bench. A ball and chain. He left me that way all night. I barely

slept. I wonder if he really thinks I trust him so little I have to

keep hacksaw blades around. That's really not the reason.

     This morning he loosened the chain, but left the weights on. At

least I can move around, but I have to carry the weight with me

wherever I go. I haven't heard the last of this. He didn't say a word

to me this morning. I'll keep working on the body suit. All that is

left is the hood and the zippers at the neck. It's not going to be

easy working around my chains. I can put the bodysuit on over them,

but the chain will have to protrude from the neckline while I am

trying it on. Before he proofed the last entry I had asked if I could

make an exotic dancer's outfit. He said yes, but I don't have all I

need to finish it. At least I'll get started. Maybe he'll be pleased

if I dance well for him.

     Sorry if this is disjointed, but I'm a little preoccupied. I

don't know what he's going to do to me, but the tight chain isn't the

last of it.





The List

     Column 1

       Item 10



     Friday afternoon. Well, I knew he'd do something; now I'm a

platinum blonde. How's that for an opener? I don't believe I let this

happen. It's really my fault. I did it to myself.

     I objected, sort of. Well, I begged him not to make me do it. I

could have just put my foot down, and said no, but it would have

ruined everything. I knew deep down it was fruitless to try and change

his mind. Somehow, he persuaded me to go through with it. Besides,

it's an interesting change. I look really different.

     Changing my hair color is on the List, after all, and J is right

when he says that I can always dye it back. I guess I was mostly

worried about getting a job, which I'll have to do fairly soon.

Platinum blonde hair is not the conservative kind of image a nurse

should project. Would you let Madonna inject anything into your

bloodstream? Don't answer that. You probably would.

     I think patients feel more comfortable trusting their lives to

Florence Nightingale. Not that I look remotely like Madonna, but if it

weren't for having to get a job, it actually looks pretty good. Still

bushy, though. It's not the total disaster I thought it would be. My

hair is frizzy enough without being weakened by bleaching, though. Now

it's even frizzier.

     I thought at first that having my hair bleached was my punishment

for buying the hacksaw blades, but now that I think about it, it

couldn't have been, since J had made the appointment well ahead of

time, which means he had planned this--maybe from the beginning. He

told me that I might have to convince the hairdresser to make me a

blonde, since it was a big change, so I actually had to cooperate in

doing this to myself. I had agreed to it as part of the List, and he

has always been very persuasive, so I agreed to go along with it

(secretly, I've always wanted to try being a blonde, although not

necessarily a platinum blonde).

     As it turns out, it was a kind of avant garde place where all the

hairdressers are punk. The guy didn't even blink an eye when I told

him what I wanted. He would have given me a purple mohawk if I had

asked. They had scheduled nearly the whole morning for it when J

called, and it took that long to do. J had me go without my contact

lenses, and he told me not to look in the mirror while the hairdresser

worked, but I couldn't help it. I had to look when he asked me how I

liked it. So I had an out-of-focus glance at myself, but that's all.

     When we got home, the first thing he did was to pull out more

chains and small locks. The chains aren't particularly heavy--not like

the dramatic clanking iron ones you find in dungeons in the

movies--but there are no seams in the links and they are plenty strong

enough. I've tried to break them. And I am positively festooned with

chains. First he put real handcuffs on my wrists, but joined by a one-

foot length of chain with a ring in the middle. Then "handcuffs" (I

guess they are leg irons) on my ankles, joined by a slightly longer

chain. A length of chain joined the ring between my wrists to the

chain joining my leg irons, but it passed through a ring on the

waistband padlock of my ever-present chain g-string. I can take short

steps, and since the chain slides through the loose ring at my waist,

I can lift my hands as far as my face if I'm not walking. By crouching

I will be able to wash my hair. I don't know how long I'll have to

stay like this. The various cuffs chafe if I move around too much and

it's boring, sometimes, being in the house alone during the day.

     But other times my nipples go erect while I'm hobbling around the

place and I think about him coming home and I wonder what he's got

planned for the evening.

     He had taken time off from work for the hairdresser's appointment

and chaining me after. After putting these chains on, he left me like

this and went back to work. It's slow going, typing with chains

hanging from my wrists. I make a lot of mistakes, and it rattles

against the printer under the table. Before he left, he said that

neither the bleaching nor the chains were my punishment for the

hacksaw blade episode. They were just preventative. The punishment is

still to come. I can't even really practice my exotic dance routine in

this getup. At least I can sew and read.

     I can't see myself going to the exercise spa anytime soon, even

without the chains. I've gotten to know a few people there on a casual

basis, but not so casual that I could show up with platinum blonde

hair and not raise eyebrows. I know, Madonna has platinum blonde hair,

so what's the big problem anyway? What's so special about that look?

She puts her cones on one at a time just like the rest of us, right? I

don't know. I guess I'm just not Madonna. Maybe I could have gone out,

but I didn't get the chance, really. I certainly couldn't go out now.



--



bondage sex stories, bdsm sex stories, stories, sex, bdsm, s&m stories, domination, submission, erotic fiction, sado masochism, BDSM stories, free sex stories, free bondage stories
BDSM Sex Stories - Bondage Discipline Dominance Submission Sadism Masochism

Back to More 1st Sex Stories


See All Our Feature Hardcore Sites!
Fetish Club, 1 Asian Porn, Fetish Cinema , XRated TV , V Girl, Massive Hardcore