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/njlist08.txt

Archive-author: Nurse Jones

Archive-title: The List -  8 of 20





     Afterward he washed me, unlocked my legs, and left me on the bed,

a jumble of conflicting emotions.

     He liked--in a deep psychological way--how I looked, I hate it; I

wanted him to love me as much as he could be made to, maybe even at

the cost I had paid, but if he was as weird as the evening's events

indicated, maybe I didn't want him as much as I thought; he had opened

a previously unknown (to me) dark inner closet and made himself

vulnerable to me in a way that gave me power over him in an odd way

(what if I told people what he did to me?). I had wanted to be closer;

now I am, but closer to what? To whom? Also, I had given him something

no one else would have. It will be hard for him to find anyone else

that would give him what he wants, if this is any indication of what

he wants. That makes me sort of special, doesn't it? Sort of?

     I was hungry, though, and in a few minutes I followed him into

the living room, my hands still locked to my thighs. On the way I

looked in the full length mirror. My hair had dried while it was

pressed against my head under the hood. It was slicked straight back

on my head; I looked like a sort of nordic Ratso Rizzo; in fact from

the front it looked almost like I didn't have any hair at all. I

couldn't do anything about it with my hands locked where they were.

     I wandered into the living room where he had already laid a fire.

It turned out he had prepared a light microwave meal while he left me

hanging from (well, not really hanging, but attached to) the bedroom

ceiling. He lit the fire he had laid, and we sat side by side on the

sofa while he fed me dinner in little bite-sized pieces. He caressed

me as he fed me, creating a second appetite and teasing me with both

the food and his fingers.

     When we had finished eating, he took out a present for me. It was

a thin gold chain that had a clasp on each end. He attached an end to

each of my nipple rings; the center hung in a gentle curve between my

out-thrust breasts. We both went into the bedroom to admire it in the

mirror, and he removed the strap that held my shoulders back, letting

my breasts and shoulders assume a more natural posture. The chain was

nice, but I still couldn't help thinking about my hair and feeling

sick inside. What has he done to me?

     He had more presents. He took me by the shoulders and stood me

facing the mirror, and told me to wait there. My shaved forehead and

slicked-back helmet of platinum hair was even less attractive than it

had been before I showered in the bodysuit. I wanted to fluff it up or

wet it and put curlers in it, or something. Anything.

     From behind me he produced a wig. It was a huge tangled mane of

black hair that reached to the center of my back. Suddenly I looked

great. Better, in fact, than I had ever looked in either my natural

color or as a blonde. The texture of the hair on the wig was much

nicer than mine had ever been, and it was much longer. While I was

checking myself in the mirror, turning this way and that, trying to

decide if I could pass for normal in public, he came back with another

wig, this time a blonde one in the same tangled mane style. Not

platinum blonde this time, but a more natural honey blonde. And he had

yet another: it was short and nearly matched my original color. I

could restyle it until it matched my real hair, he said.

     Finally, he put leather cuffs back on just above my knees and

locked the strap between them that forced me to take small steps; then

he unlocked my wrists and told me to shower, wash and dry my hair, and

put on my makeup. Afterwards, I was to put on just the stiletto-heeled

bimbo boots.

     Too much was happening at once that evening. He had shaved my

forehead. I hated that. I had learned for an absolute certainty that

my new appearance turned him on in a way that was nearly beyond his

ability to control. I didn't know how I felt about that revelation.

Still don't. There were wigs that I could wear so all was not lost: I

could still go out in public. But would I fool anyone? Would they be

able to tell? The wigs didn't look natural to me, even the one that

matched my old hair. The others were just too gorgeously magnificent

to be real hair. But then, no one here knows me except a few casual

acquaintances at the exercise spa.

     And most important: did this mean J was weird in the head? Worse,

am I weird? What would I be if I found it within myself to toler-

ate--even like--my appearance? Remember, I HAD agreed to it original-

ly, so there must be something there inside me. In fact, while we were

separated he had written about a slave fantasy in which he had shaved

my head for some minor infraction of the imagined rules of the scenar-

io, and I had responded with a similar fantasy in which I had submit-

ted willingly to this treatment, and more.

     I had originally started to write that letter just because I

could see it was something that intrigued J, but as I wrote I found I

actually got into the idea of total unconditional submission. But that

was as far as it went. It was only on paper and seemed attractive only

in an abstract theoretical sort of way. The practical reality was

something else. How could I get a job and go to work now? Exercise at

the spa? Even go shopping? And in the back of my mind was the ever-

present thought that he had said this was the beginning of my punish-

ment. What, exactly, did that mean, the beginning...?

     I wanted to discuss all this with him after I showered, but that

had to wait. When I came out of the bedroom, I had dried my hair and

put on the boots as he told me. His reaction was instantaneous and

unmistakable. He carried me back into the bedroom, unlocked my knees,

and made love to me with a renewed urgency. I don't suppose I'll ever

know what would have happened if I could have resisted him. I think he

would have stopped, but I can't say for sure. He wasn't really vio-

lent, but I felt completely helpless when confronted with the intensi-

ty of his need. Just seeing me this way had done this to him. I

chalked up another orgasm for that day. So did he.

     Afterward, in bed together, we discussed my feelings about what

had happened that day. He is very persuasive. It was clear that while

he was satisfied with our relationship before, he was becoming addict-

ed to it now. He didn't put in so many words, but I was somehow in the

process of trapping him. I admitted some of the same feelings to him,

although that day's events had almost cured my addiction. The practi-

cal aspects of my hair could easily be dealt with by using a wig, even

at a job and while exercising. I could stick with the stair and other

exercise machines rather than the aerobics until it grew back. I could

wear a short-haired wig and grow my hair into the same style so there

would be no conspicuous transition.

     And he wanted to have me as his own, as his possession, so that

there was no question that I belonged to him alone and absolutely.

Emotionally, for me, that was a strong argument in his favor. I

finally came to the conclusion that my real reservations all stemmed

from gut-level emotional reactions to being "different" and the

nagging fear that down deep he might be a little weird. But there was

also a kind of excitement at being different and having no-one know.

And weird or not, he loved me and I thought I could even love him

weird. I decided to reserve judgement until we had tried the wig out

in public. But I still hated what he had done to me.

     -*-

     The next day, we did just that. At the exercise spa, the guy who

runs the front desk complimented me on my hair. He thought I'd had it

done. The brown wig was shorter and slightly different in color and

texture from my old hair. No-one else even commented on the change.

That evening, he got out my white knit dress (nothing underneath,

naturally, but a pair of bandaids to hide my nipple rings) and I wore

the brown wig again. We went to the movies. I had missed "9 1/2 Weeks"

the first time it showed, but it was back again and we saw it. I think

he planned that especially. I thought it was a silly and juvenile

movie. I hate it when I get turned on by something silly and juvenile.

     We went to an intimate restaurant afterwards. He made me change

into the long dark wig in the car before going into the restaurant.

     I could get to like being wined and dined. It's great, having a

real income and living like people for a change. I have always insist-

ed that money isn't important to me, but having dinner at a good

restaurant and being pampered is a nice change from years of graduate

school for J while I worked nights at the hospital, and a house in the

country is a definite improvement over a studio apartment in Chicago.

At dinner, we talked about the List and how I felt about it. He drove

home the point that he felt "joined" to me by all this, more so than

before.

     As he talked about it, I realized we were doing things together

that set us apart from all the other people around us in the restau-

rant. I looked around at them and suddenly J and I had a wonderful

private very special secret together, and these people around us were

going to go home and be ordinary for the rest of their lives. But at

our table.... At our table there was something scandalous, wicked and

sexy just under the surface; I wasn't wearing a thing under my dress

but bandaids and nipple rings. If they only knew, I thought. All this

was hidden from them only by the thinnest facade; a fraction of an

inch of material. I felt I was living dangerously. I felt I should

brighten up their lives a little. Maybe take off my wig and leave it

as a tip. Didn't someone say that scandal is merely a compassionate

allowance which the gay make to the humdrum? I think it was Oscar

Wilde. (Hey, you should see the video version of "Salome." You know it

was that play that got him in very hot water with victorian England?

It is pretty raunchy, but fun when you think of the furor it must have

caused.)

     Still, (back at the restaurant) I had misgivings. At least he

understood them, and the further we went despite them was a measure of

the strength of our joining. Talking about it that way in public was a

kind of a turn-on, too, in a funny way. It made me feel that we were

so very different from the people around us, except for the thinnest

veneer of behavior and dress-- just enough that they hadn't quite

noticed yet. I know, I'm repeating myself, but it is a new feeling to

me, and I like it. I never felt daring before. It was almost as if we

were doing something outrageous right there among the other patrons.

     By the time we had gotten home that night, I had decided. J had

said that when he shaved my forehead it was the watershed of this

thing we were doing, but for me, that evening at dinner was the moment

when I made my first conscious decision to plunge in headfirst and

voluntarily begin the descent into this other side of my sexuality.

Fuck 'em I thought. And fuck Indiana, too. It wasn't even really a

decision, rather a voluntary relaxation of resistance, a letting go.

What the hell, why not? Where have I heard that before?

     Not that I haven't resisted--even rebelled--since, but after that

evening I fought against him as a matter of form, almost as a ritual.

My resistance lacks sincerity, and I rebel only by deliberately

feeding my own fears and letting them show, giving J my fear and

embarrassment as gifts rather than letting them rule me. It is a

strangely liberating experience to use and even enjoy my own fears; to

be afraid and still plunge ahead recklessly, always secure in the

knowledge that J is there and will keep me safe even though he is the

ultimate cause of my fears. There is a fundamental contradiction here

somewhere, I know. Again, if (despite the contradiction) you think I'm

not making sense, just remember that nothing makes sense. Where is it

written that anything has to make sense? Wouldn't it be awfully boring

if everything made sense?

     When we got home, we went into the living room, flopped down on

the sofa, and kicked off our shoes. He put his arm around me and sat

looking into the ashes in the fireplace. The time had come for me to

tell him my answer to his unasked question. I got up and went into the

kitchen. I ran some warm water in a basin and brought it back, putting

it on the floor in front of him. I could see a question on his face,

but I put a finger on his lips to silence him and went into my bed-

room. There, I stripped, fixed my makeup, and put on my leather

collar, ankle, and wrist cuffs. As a last touch, I put on my nipple

pendants and the thin gold chain connecting them. Then I smeared my

forehead with shaving cream and brought a towel, razor, and mirror

into the living room, where I settled on my knees in front of him.

     I began shaving the stubble off my forehead. When I was through,

I didn't look up at him: I kept my eyes lowered and waited with my

hands in my lap. He took my hands and stood, lifting me to my feet.

Together we went into the bedroom. I'm going to leave the rest of this

one to the imagination. He likes the Elizabethan look, though. I'm

convinced.

     -*-

     I decided to wear a wig all the time after that. Of course he

takes it off when he wants it off. But it's best if he doesn't grow

accustomed to (read bored with) my new appearance. The visual impact

is an important asset for me: it buys an instant and almost involun-

tary erection from him. I like that.

     He has told me to keep my forehead shaved, just like I keep my

pubic hair depilated. He told me not to use depilatory on my head

since he didn't know what the cumulative effect on hair follicles was.

That gave me pause to consider: the time between depilation has been

increasing. Am I damaging my hair follicles Down There? Anyway, every

day I brush my hair back out of the way and shave my forehead along

with my legs and underarms. More daily maintenance.

     The following day I wanted to give him a special surprise. First

thing in the morning, I asked him to lock my chain back on (the one

around my waist and between my legs), and he let me have the car keys

to go into town. I went to the local costume rental place in town,

where I bought some body paint and other stuff, and to an oriental

import house that sells cheap Indian body jewelry: silver plated

necklaces, belts, toe rings, bell earrings, etc. They will go with the

harem outfit.

     That afternoon, I fulfilled another fantasy. I spent the hours

after lunch preparing myself. One of the fantasies that I had written

to him about involved me as a kind of forest goddess (sounds hokey, I

know) that has green skin and tatoos of vines growing all over her

body. I covered myself (hair, too, blow-dried) with green food color-

ing (quite a job, that) and finished up with body-painting honeysuckle

vines growing up both legs, wrapping around my body, twining in

spirals on my bum cheeks and breasts, encircling my nipples and

growing around my neck and in tendrils around my arms, completely

covering me. I even had vines winding up the sides of my face to merge

with my eyebrows. It took me over two hours to get myself ready. I

finished at sunset and turned on some of the exotic dance music.

     Wearing nothing but my garnet pendants, I danced for him. I did a

kind of hip-grinding combination of exotic dance and the strip-tease

moves on one of the tapes he got, but there was nothing to strip off.

It won't do any good to try and describe the way I danced. Suffice it

to say that I shook a lot more than my pendants at him, and finished

up taking his clothes almost completely off while I danced. He was

turned on enough that he didn't mind helping me a bit there at the

end. I ended up with him deep in my mouth and we both lost track of

exactly when we made the transition from dancing to lovemaking. J had

two orgasms again. All I had to do was bring up the subject of my

forehead and how embarrassed I was over it and how I wasn't sure he

would like my forest goddess idea with a shaved forehead and all.

Downcast eyes and an embarrassed hand over my forehead and he was off

and running again.

     Afterward, the bed was a total mess (so were we). Green food

coloring and body paint and various precious bodily fluids were all

over the sheets. When we showered together to wash off the mess we

ended up making love again on the shower floor, both of us all covered

with soap. I think three in one evening for J is a record of some

sort. I know I set a "personal best" record.

     We sat up and rinsed while seated/sated in the steamy shower, too

exhausted to get up. Finally he turned off the water. We sat in a

delicious kind of daze for what must have been five or ten minutes,

the only noise was the water dripping from the shower head and our own

breathing. I mustered the strength to kneel, and I covered him with

body conditioner; I like the feeling of tending to him. Then I covered

myself in the most entertaining way I could manage. When we got out of

the shower I helped him to towel off the excess conditioner; he was

ready for an encore, and we could probably have gone again it we had

put our minds to it. But neither of us wanted to. I think the quality

declines after that many orgasms. I don't exactly know how many I

had--some of them kind of merged together and who's counting anyway.

There are only two possible numbers where orgasms are concerned: Not

enough, and enough. We'd had enough.

     I got his bathrobe and slippers for him and then put on the

fitted white muslin outfit. We sat and cuddled for the rest of the

evening, cooking and eating two of those great prepared microwave

dinners between cuddles. They're probably 98% cholesterol and 2%

preservatives, but they taste great. We fell into bed at 9:30 we were

so tired.

     -*-

     The next evening we were getting ready to go out for dinner again

and talking about this slave/master thing we are doing. He had bought

a white dress and some sandals for me and I was trying them on while I

told him that I was getting into this bondage thing but that there

were still some aspects that I couldn't handle, the main thing (after

my hair) was that we walk the edge of the ridiculous. I fantasize

about really calling him "Master" and taking an even more seriously

submissive role, but don't think I could handle the reality without

laughing. Images of Nazis in white boxer shorts and black ankle-high

socks dance uncontrollably through my head. J had a solution.

     "We need a new protocol," he said, and began to remove the dress

I had just put on. "You can start now just by NOT calling me by my

first name, and by making a habit of keeping your eyes lowered.

Whenever you speak or answer a question you will preface your words

with a phrase like: 'If it pleases you ....' We'll start with that for

a while and see how it goes. Of course, I'll punish you for mistakes.

You will have to figure out what forms of address you can use without

laughing, because the biggest mistake you can make is laughing. Once

the habit is established, it won't be a cause for nervous laughter. Do

you think you can handle that?"

     I thought about it, not paying attention while he got a paper bag

out of the closet. Three rules: No first names, lower the eyes, and

say 'If it pleases you.' And the fourth rule: no laughing about the

first three.

     "I think so."

     "So?" He was looking at me, waiting.

     I realized what he meant and after a moment of confusion I

lowered my eyes. There was a pause while he continued to wait. "If it

pleases you," I said. I don't know why, but lowering the eyes is a

great help. Maybe it is easier for the imagination to work without eye

contact. We know each other too well, and not having eye contact puts

some distance between us. I might have laughed out of embarrassment

then if I hadn't had my eyes lowered. Well, it was a start.

     The dress he had gotten me was several layers of sheer white

cotton, midi length with long sleeves and a high neckline, lots of

buttons in front. But after I had put it on, he had taken it off

again.

     "Just stand there," he said. He took a roll of white plastic cord

out of a paper bag and knelt by my ankles. Finally I noticed we were

doing more than getting me dressed.

     "What are you doing? I mean, if it pleases you, what ...?"

     "Just stand there," he repeated.

     I stood. He untied the straps of my new sandals. They are the

kind that wrap around the ankle several times in a crisscross pattern

and then tie further up the calf. He tightened them until they were

cutting into my skin, and tied the loose end of the roll of white

plastic cord to the top. It is that colored plastic leather substitute

that boy scouts use when doing crafts, weaving key rings and belts and

such. I think they call it gimp, or gymp or something. He began

wrapping the stuff tightly around my leg in a spiral. He spiraled up

my body and out one arm, where he tied it off and then did the same

thing on the other side. Then he spiraled up the first leg in the

opposite direction, making a crisscross pattern. It was very tight.

     He continued, wrapping me over and over, until my entire body was

covered in a tight webbing of the stuff. Every time a roll ran out he

pulled out another, white again, and tied them together. He was

careful to keep the arrangement symmetrical, left side a mirror image

of the right.

     He wrapped a flanged vibrator into my vagina. The webbing slipped

off when I moved so he superglued it back onto the vibrator. He didn't

turn it on, though. After a while I began to feel very weird. I was

free to move, but I felt ... contained. No matter what I did, moving

or not, I could feel the pull of the webbing. I felt awkward, as

though every movement I made was being opposed or deflected by some-

thing. Like being under water with currents or something. He worked

around my breasts so that when he was through they were flattened and

crisscrossed and held against my chest. Only my nipples protruded,

bulging out between the strands, pendants dangling.

     Then he put my dress back on and took me out to dinner. From the

outside I looked pretty good: A blonde (I was wearing the long honey

blonde wig) in a semi-diaphanous cotton dress. No boobs at all to

speak of. White leather sandals. The wrapping didn't show anywhere. A

close observer might have noticed that my sandal straps were tight,

but there were no close observers.

     We went to an Italian restaurant, but an expensive one. I walked

slowly, sat carefully, and ate sparingly. Even so, I spilled wine,

water, and food all over the place. I wish it hadn't been Italian food

and red wine. It was a new dress. The waiter didn't say anything, but

I really made a mess.

     Back at home, he cut away the strands holding the vibrator in. He

had used separate strands for the vibrator so that cutting them didn't

loosen the rest. He made love to me. I'm not going to tell you it was

the best lovemaking I had ever had, but it was definitely an interest-

ing experience. I never would have thought it would be. I imagine that

you probably are wondering what was the point? I don't know, but he

does good things to me, and I don't need a point. It is a little like

art, I guess. It was just there. Because.

     I kind of like being a blank canvas.

     After, as I lay panting on the bed, spread out flat on my back

and feeling as though I had fallen from a great height, he took some

bandage scissors and cut the strings one at a time, slowly. Then he

untied my sandals.

     All in all, a very satisfactory evening. I have no idea why, but

there it is.

     -*-

     Several days ago, he brought home a modem for his computer and

showed me how to log onto his work account to access the rn news

network. This is completely new to me. I have started reading the

entries under some of the headings like rec.arts.erotica and

alt.sex.bondage, although I haven't posted anything. Apparently I'm a

"lurker." Or at least I will be until he posts this entire document

and you read this. Jeez. I'm talking to people now.

     Hi, people. Two questions occur to me.

     Alt.sex.bondage seems to be the most sincere news discussion

group about sex. The little boys in alt.sex remind me of a lot of farm

boys back home in Indiana. They weren't getting any there, either.

When they boast about their exploits, it reminds me of the line from

Lao Tzu:

     Those who speak do not know, those who know do not speak.

     (Will ya listen to me? I may well be writing the longest autobio-

graphical posting in history. But it doesn't matter if I speak,

because I DO know. Maybe not everything, but some things. And besides,

I have no choice other than to write this. "He made me do it.") I'm

sure many of you that post in alt.sex.bondage actually do the things

you write about, but some of you seem to have lost the essence of what

I am doing with J. Maybe I'm wrong, but some of you seem to have

become technicians, going on about the relative merits of handcuffs

and leather cuffs. Others are advice-givers. Others enjoy shocking

their readers with their tales and comments. Others are almost politi-

cal ("what will we call ourselves/will society ever accept us ...").

These seem to be displacement activities. Am I right?

     My first question: I have just started to explore this stuff; it

occupies me almost full-time right now. Will it become so mundane and

familiar for me that I, too, will get into the 'lore' of bondage and

take up these displacement activities? Like writing this account, you

ask. Hmmm....

     Question two: I have often thought of what I would do if I could

go back to the moment when I lost my virginity and do it over

again--take more control and do it right--with the right person. I was

more concerned with enduring it than experiencing it. Youth is wasted

on the young, my grandfather used to say.

     But now I am losing another kind of virginity. I don't want to

look back with regret and wish I had done it right. Of course by the

time you read this, it'll be too late for advice, but it's a question

I can still ask: did we do it right? Post an answer. I'll read it,

promise. This is new to J, too. I don't know what I could have done

differently to control what happened. I suppose voluntary submission

is a kind of limited control. Sex the old way certainly is boring.

'Vanilla,' you call it. I like that. New usage. Will we run out of

interesting things to do and then be back where we started? Will this

path I have taken escalate to an ultimate boredom?

     Another question: who was Saltgirl? I liked her, but she seems to

have stopped posting. She seems sensible. Probably a midwesterner. So

anyway, a big hello to all you happytime hardcores out there in

leatherland, with special regards to Ctan, STella, Elf, and Saltgirl,

wherever you are. Maybe some day I'll join the out-of-the-closet gang.

The hell I will. I don't know who reads this stuff. Maybe my future

boss.

     -*-

     The next day we were showering and J was 'preparing' me for sex

again the way he almost always does when we are showering together, by

covering me with skin conditioner and exploring every orifice until I

was eager to have him inside me in any way he chose.

     Without actually saying so, I have signaled in every nonverbal

way possible that I was prepared to have sex in the one way we have

never had it. When his fingers were deep between my buttocks, inside

me, I would squirm against him, trying to push his fingers deeper. I

actually feel pleasure when he does this to me, and the responsive

noises I make indicate my sensations clearly, but he has never pene-

trated me ... that way.

     I have arrived at the conclusion he was toying with the idea but

that it repelled him somewhat. I must admit that my fascination with

the idea was tempered with a certain amount of apprehension: I had

never had anything that big inside me there. Also, I am perhaps overly

hygienic in my approach to sex. I like to be clean before and to wash

after. The preparation and the postcoital rituals are important to me:

he almost always leaves me a little excited afterward, no matter how

sated I was during, so cleaning up afterwards is an erotic experience.

The odor of soap evokes a more erotic response in me than the various

secretions our bodies make. It's conditioning, I guess.

     Anyway, I think the hygienic aspect might still be what bothers

us both most, even now. So while we were showering I made a tentative

suggestion. It was very difficult to bring up this subject for the

first time. ASB'ers probably already know that.

     "You must know that I get tremendously turned on when you do

that," I said, trying to approach the subject obliquely. Which was

difficult, considering that I was near orgasm and he had a number of

fingers deep inside various parts of me. He didn't answer.

     "If you want me ... that way ... I could clean myself. Inside, I

mean." He still didn't answer. "If it would please you," I added. We

both got more interested in other things at that point and further

discussion had to wait until later.

     I have worked in internal medicine, and prepped patients for

rectals before. I explained. Not all the gory details, but enough so

that he knew that I knew what to do.

     "I hadn't even thought-" he said.

     But the thought had obviously taken root. For the rest of the

week, in the back of my mind was the thought of what would come later.

     -*-

     I took a chance making that suggestion. You see, this whole thing

is something of a game. I can't seem too forward when I suggest an

innovation like that. He must take the lead and I must follow. Reluc-

tantly. And it is best for me when I can resist what he does to me,

even though I may secretly want it. That way the responsibility is

his. He has to believe that I am going along against my will, at least

to some extent--which has always been true up to now. He gets me so

turned on that I want to go forward despite a certain amount of

trepidation about what he will do to me. I am always afraid, but ready

to do the next item on the List, even though I don't know what it is.

It is only after he has started that I sometimes chicken out, even

though I agreed to it when we made up the List. But by then it is too

late. Still rushing in and fearing to tread. In fact, today, having

settled down a bit, I can even look back on when he shaved my forehead

with an equanimity that borders on sensuality.

     He must know by now that I have come to like what he is doing to

me. I am becoming addicted to him. But I have to walk a tightrope for

both of us. He would lose interest if I gave in too easily. I have to

fight it all the way. So we have these three silly rules just so I can

break them so I can be punished. Except that when he thinks I have

transgressed deliberately the punishment is much worse. He always

makes me regret it. Like this last time. He walks a tightrope too: he

always makes a time come when I myself don't know if I want him to

stop. After that, sometimes, I genuinely want him to stop, but he

never does. And if he did, I would be disappointed afterward. I knew

when we made up the List there would be some things that I would want

to stop, but I also knew intellectually that nothing on the List could

actually hurt me.

     There seems to be a lot of discussion on ASB about safewords. I

think I get more of a thrill working without a net. That's not true:

the List is my safety net, and I to hang onto that rather than a

safeword. I'd have to trust J either way, safeword or List, but the

List allows me to feel I have no net. I think a safeword would spoil

it for me somehow, although it sure would make life easier for J. He

watches me like a hawk. I like that. But he watches for real intolera-

ble pain, not just what I don't like. There's a grey area at the edge

of the limits set by the List. That's the terra incognita where we

play. He stays within the limits of the List, but takes liberties

insofar as the List and common sense let him. Maybe a safeword is

better. We're new to this and haven't really run into any genuinely

harmful situations yet.

     I have a sneaking suspicion that my presumptuous suggestion in

the shower is what earned me the rest of my punishment, even though he

later acted on the suggestion. If I get too forward, he takes control

again by doing something else awful to me. Remember the "rest of the

punishment?" Shaving my forehead was just the beginning? Well, it

would have come eventually anyway.

     -*-

     The smell of neatsfoot oil has become a turn-on for me. My next

punishment began with the leather straps. I don't need to describe

again how he immobilized me, except this time he left the strap

between my knees off so I could take normal-sized steps. My arms and

shoulders were still strapped back so that my breasts were unnaturally

prominent; strapped so far back that the chain between my nipple rings

was taut.

     He told me to follow him out to the garage, where he showed me

the contraption that he had kept covered with a sheet. It looked like

a wooden sawhorse--in fact he called it a horse--except that there

were two horizontal parts side-by-side instead of the usual one, and

they were separated by a space. And in the middle, on either side of

these pieces, were two blocks of wood shaped to form a tiny, smooth,

wooden saddle, also split down the middle by that same space. The

whole was sanded and varnished quite expertly.

     He let me see it. That was all. Then he took me back to the

bedroom, put the hood on me, and locked my collar to a chain attached

to the bedpost. I had to sit on the edge of the bed and wait, listen-

ing to him move around the house, wondering what he was doing, and

what the "horse" gizmo was for.

     Finally, he led me into the living room where he hooked the

shoulder straps to something overhead, and my ankles to something that

held them apart; blindfolded, I couldn't tell what. I also couldn't

fall, and I couldn't bring my legs together. He unbuckled the crotch

strap and I felt him begin to insert something into me. I squirmed

against it, but it was only a token squirm. I knew he had control.

Besides, it wasn't particularly large and didn't hurt, although I

could feel it was hard. It was well lubricated and completely pain-

less. I assumed it was a dildo. He did the same to my rear opening. I

squirmed harder against this second intrusion, but I was already

getting turned on by the first and ended up voluntarily relaxing

enough to accept the second device. He pushed the two deep into me and

held them, and I stood there, hooded, docile.

     I felt something heavy brush between my legs. I didn't know for

sure, but from the noise and the prelude, I expected it to be the

horse. He told me to sit. Slowly. As I did so he manipulated the

dildos inside me into position. I didn't know what he was doing at the

time, but I soon learned that he had slipped the ends of the dildos

into the slot in the seat of the horse and clamped them tightly (with

a wrench) into place with bolts that pulled the two parallel horizon-

tal pieces together to hold the dildos immobile. Once he began remov-

ing the hood and the other restraints, I also found that the two

dildos were nearly touching deep inside me, separated only by the

floor of my vagina and the anterior wall of my rectal cavity.

     When he was through I was completely unfettered: not a scrap of

leather anywhere on my body. Even my hands were free, for what good it

did me. The dildos were rounded and smoothed wooden dowels, each

covered with a condom to make it comfortable (and splinter-free, thank

God). They were clamped into position so that even if I tried to stand

up they wouldn't slip out. No matter how I moved, I couldn't get off

the horse without causing myself pain, maybe even damage. Yet there

were no visible restraints.

     "What have you done to me?!" I asked in an unsteady voice. I

looked around me, twisting as far as I could to see what he had done,

becoming increasingly nervous and uncertain. I felt over the device

that held me seated. The bolts were far too tight for my fingers to

budge them. I ran my shaking hands over both places where the dildos

disappeared into me; they were far too firm to be shifted. I wasn't

uncomfortable so long as I didn't try to move, but I had no choice

about getting free of the thing. I had to sit there and wait for what

came next.

     He told me he wouldn't free me until I had an orgasm while he

watched. With my hands free, I was able to masturbate, but it was

really embarrassing, sitting there in the middle of the room. To the

casual observer I would have looked like a naked woman sitting astride

a simple wooden sawhorse. Admittedly, a naked platinum blonde elizabe-

than woman with no pubic hair and a chain connecting her nipples, but

even so, you wouldn't have known that I couldn't get up.

     I really tried masturbating, but I just couldn't get into it. On

the horse, I just couldn't make it work. He stood in front of me,

hooked his finger under the chain between my nipples and pulled me

gently but firmly toward him. The horse would let me lean just so far.

My nipples stretched out to points in front of me.

     "Try again," he said, "harder." I was in too delicate a position

to resist him, and he knew it. I tried again, harder. I still could-

n't.

     He put the hood back on me, and strapped my wrists to my thighs

again, and my shoulders back in that unnatural position. I waited.

When he took the hood off again, there was a small end table in front

of me. On it were a pair of scissors, a basin of water, shaving cream,

a towel, and a razor.

     "Oh no, please!" I said. "I will do anything! Not the rest of my

hair!"

     He didn't answer.

     "I'm sure I could climax if you just let me try again..." No

response. "Master! I can call you Master now," I babbled. "I was

waiting to tell you! Truly! I can really do it! No problem!" He knew I

would have said anything to stop him, although my last plea caught his

attention, I could tell. He gave me an appraising look and shook his

head almost sadly as he picked up the scissors.

     It's no good begging when he's like that. I let out one last

whimpering cry as he stepped forward to begin.

     "Please? Master?" I whined, my voice breaking and dissolving into

a kind of hiccuping crying sob. He kissed me gently on the forehead

and started cutting right away, with no nonsense or teasing. I let out

a cry that sounded like I was in pain when he took the first cut. I

was crying openly, just saying "No, please, no, please, please,

please, don't, please..." over and over. I could see my hair falling

on the floor around me as he cut it away, but I didn't even try to

resist. I suppose I could have twisted my head from side to side or

something, but he would have won in the end.

     This time there was no mirror for me to see myself in, and I was

grateful.

     He lathered my entire scalp with the shaving cream and went to

work shaving my head while I whined and blubbered in frustration and

tugged ineffectually against the straps holding my wrists to my

thighs. I had figured that maybe my bangs didn't need to grow out to

the same length as the rest of my hair in order for me to be present-

able in public. I had figured maybe I could do something with a

bandanna. Now it will be half a year before I can go without a wig.

     He damp-toweled my scalp and kissed me on the mouth, muffling my

near-hysterical whimpering.

     "My God but you're beautiful," he said. "Now for the finishing

touch..."

     That focused my attention and stopped my crying immediately.

"Finishing touch?" I thought, "what's left to do to me?"



--



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