Archive-name: Series/thelist.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List
[This version varies from the version in the Bondage directory.
It was gathered from different sources. Both have been included
for your enjoyment, although they are substantially similar!]
-*-
Prologue
Dear Michael Who Has Great Puns,
Thanks again for offering to post this for me. Nobody else
even offered. In fact, all I got was a flood of E-wannafucks from
people with nurse fetishes. Some of them were pretty icky. It was
nice to get a letter rom someone that seems normal. So you get
the dubious honor of handling my tale ;-) Of being IN it even :)
because this is the beginning of it.
Yours gratefully,
Nurse Jones
Dear Everybody Else On ASB,
I imagine that most prologues are the last part written.
This one was. I wrote it at the last minute before sending this
to Michael. If I can make this thing work, the next 12 files
will contain a nearly true account of what happened to me during
the Spring of 1991. I say "nearly true" because I have changed
details that might identify us. I'll just be "M". Our physical
descriptions are accurate. And I am really a nurse from Indiana,
but everything else that might identify us is false. Please, as
a favor to me, don't take it as a challenge to try and trace it
back to me. I'm not ready to come out of the closet yet. I
don't think J (I'll call him that) is either.
Feel free to copy it (except for profit), but hey: give
credit where it's due. Besides, I made a notarized copy last
April. Then I sent it (on diskette by anonymoUS mail) to some
ASB regulars that give real names in their sigs. I asked that
they post it for me. It never appeared. Then came wizvax. I
reread and rewrote it just for the hell of it and here it is. I
don't have a spelling checker. J tells me I misspelled
"embarrasment" all the way through.
At the end of the diary, it appears that I left J to get my
head back together. I'm back, and we're married now, so it has a
happy ending even if it doesn't look that way.
It is called "The List" and it is in two columns. This is
Column One. We started Column Two before we got married. If you
like column one I'll post column two. Sorry if this doesn't make
sense. You'll have to read it to have any idea at all what I'm
talking about.
I tried to make it as readable as possible, recreating
dialogue and putting in my own thoughts as I went along. You're
probably tired of the undiluted screwing you read on
rec.arts.erotica and alt.sex.bondage anyway. And since what
follows really happened, maybe you'll forgive me for writing
about what went on inside my head as well as inside the rest of
my anatomy. Also, mistakenly believing that hindsight improved
the clarity of my vision, I couldn't resist going back and
screwing up the sponteneity of the first writing.
If I tell you it's a true story, you'll think, "Yeah, sure,
right. Where have I heard that before." But it is. So there. If
I tell you my top "made" me write it, you'll say, "that's how
they all start," but he did. It was kind of a bargain that we
made, J and I, before I even knew the news net existed.
Before I knew a lot of things.
The List
Column One
Item 1
He's at work now, but he told me to start writing this while
he is gone. So here I sit, not knowing where to begin. So I
made the big "H" at the beginning just for something to do. I want
you to understand that I am doing this because J told me to, not
because I think anyone should know what happened last night. He
says I am to write it in the first person, just like I were
telling it to a stranger, rather than to him. It is, ultimately,
part of the bargain we made.
Okay, I said that. What next? I just don't know where to
start. Earnest Hemmingway said always start with the first true
thing. I guess I'll begin at the beginning, and when I come to
the end, I'll stop. Hey, it worked for Alice in Wonderland,
someone I have a lot in common with at the moment.
Six months ago, we were living together in Chicago where I
was working as a nurse. He got a terrific job offer and had to
move. I didn't want to give up the security of my job, so we
split up. We said it would somehow only be be temporary, and I
stayed behind in the windy city.
Neither of us was particularly happy with the separation,
and we wrote to each other almost daily. The letters got pretty
steamy, and we began trading fantasies -- fantasies we had never
discussed when we lived together. We started with pretty tame
stuff like being on a tropical island together, or in a snowbound
cabin, but gradually we escalated to fantasies of being each
other's slaves, B&D, and so forth.
Every letter I wrote included comments on his last letter
and a new fantasy of my own. He did the same. We became a two-
person literary critics circle. I think it was easier to write
about these things than to talk about them face to face, maybe
because broaching a subject like this for the first time requires
such delicacy. You have to be absolutely sure you get the words
right before you say them. You can't go back and edit a
conversation the way you can a letter.
The months wore on; he became assured of success at his new
job and bought a house, while I began to feel more and more
isolated and left behind. I was working three 12-hour night
shifts a week, sleeping days, exercising less and less, reading
his letters, and doing little else. I saw no-one, didn't even go
to the movies. Our fantasy life -- in letters -- grew until, as
I became more and more lonely, it occupied most of my waking
thoughts and I came to want to act out those fantasies. I wanted
desperately to get back together with him. Move in with him and
live with him again. I could quit my job -- I would be able to
get a nursing job anywhere. But he didn't ask me to, and I
couldn't bring myself to ask him. Midwestern pride, I guess.
After we had explored our fantasy life pretty thoroughly
he wrote a fantasy in which he came to visit me and we arranged
to get back together and live out the fantasies we had written
about. In my next letter I commented that I thought that was the
one I liked best, and we began to write seriously about actually
doing it, planning explicitly to get back together. The character
of our letters changed: we wrote more practical fantasies --
things that we could actually do, and how we would do them. And
we planned for the future. I was to quit my job and get a job
where he lived. Nurses are in demand everywhere, although
salaries are lower in the South. I was getting pretty tired of
Winter in Chicago anyway. You could freeze to death on the way
to stand in line to sort out the phone bill the company screwed
up if it wasn't for the muggers being so tightly crowded onto the
streets that you didn't have room to freeze in the first place.
Besides, I was tired of being lonely. Once I had made the
decision, my mood changed dramatically. Suddenly, instead of
being lonely, sexually frustrated, and obsessive about getting
and writing letters, I was OPTIMISTIC, lonely, sexually
frustrated, and obsessive.
We got together briefly before I left Chicago. J had
written a letter telling me he would visit. Our last few letters
had carried a long list of fantasies back and forth between us.
We added to the list every time it changed hands. Ultimately it
contained nearly everything we had written about and some new
things we hadn't. In his final letter he told me he had a chance
to come back to Chicago on a job-related trip and wanted to see
me. About that list.
Below is a part of the letter, copied verbatim (so I keep
letters.):
"I want you to understand something clearly before I arrive.
We have been very close, but the last four months have put a
distance between us that our letters have only partly
bridged. When you come [down here] we will be trying
something neither of us has done before. The newness will
perhaps be the best and most exciting part of it. We may be
starting something new for us in a larger sense, too. When
you come, I want you to feel that you are coming to something
new, and I want to feel anticipation -- maybe even a little
apprehension?
"For this reason, even though I will be visiting you in a
few days, I don't want to just start up where we left off. I
don't know if I can adequately explain this, but I don't want
my visit to act as a transition from our old relationship to
the new. Instead it should be a break. A point of
demarcation. I don't want my visit to be 'business as
usual' for us.
"The fantasies we have written about are part of what is
pulling us back together. I don't know if an active fantasy
life is a sound basis for a relationship, but if we are going
to do this, I want to do it right. Fantasies are killed by
reality; fortunately the time we have spent apart has removed
some of the reality from our relationship. Fundamentally, I
know you are the person I love and trust. That is still the
most important reality. But almost as important: we have
learned new things about each other through our letters,
things that make each of us, to a certain extent, strangers.
I want to meet you for the first time again, now that I
realize you're not exactly the person I thought I knew. Can
you understand that? And if I believe there is a large and
mysterious territory to be explored inside your head -- which
I am beginning to realize is the case -- so much the better.
Fantasies take root in the unknown, not the commonplace.
"So I'm not going to throw you across the bed the minute
I walk in the door, though we have both waited a long time
and I will want to. We will take care of our plans, sleep
apart, and I will come back here to wait for you. Can you
stand that? Can you stand me being a stranger?"
There was more, but that is the relevant part. When he
arrived I forgot completely, of course, and went to kiss him.
He pulled away from me. It was an interesting evening. We both
knew we were horny as hell, and we covered some of the sexiest
topics of conversation I have ever heard, but we didn't have sex.
We barely touched. I was not happy about it.
Instead, we got out paper and went over the list of
fantasies and scenarios that we had accumulated. We cut the
items out with scissors so each was on a separate slip of paper.
It became a kind of game. We added to the list. Anything we had
written about or read about -- anything. From feathers and g-
strings to piercings to tatoos to bondage. Even hypnosis,
although neither of us knew any more about it than we had read in
a popular book on self-hypnosis. Things we wanted to do to each
other, things we wanted done.
Then there followed an hour of negotiation during which we
paired up our slips of paper. If you wanted to do that to me,
then I would get to do this to you; if I do that for you, then
you do have to do this for me. The price of column 1 is column
2. The result was a two-column list of equal and opposite
(re)actions.
The deal was this: if one of us does something on the List,
that automatically gives the other the right to do the
corresponding thing from the other column. Fair is fair. His
list ended up longer than mine: I wasn't able to come up with as
many ideas as he did, so some things got left off. Still, it was
a long list. There were things I really didn't want to do and
things I really didn't want him to do on the List, but they were
paired with fair retaliations and things I wanted bad enough
that I would agree to his wants. Eventually it became clear that
some things had no single equivalent, and that sometimes several
scenarios had to be added together to achieve a balance. Any
later changes were to be agreed on by both parties and balanced
just the way the list was. Is.
[Note from the Future: Writing and posting this on electronic
mail was one of the things on the List, by the way. In my
column, that is. At the time I had only a hazy idea what e-
mail was.]
We both got excited just making up the List, but still he
wouldn't make love. He took me out to dinner instead, and we
talked. We had a booth, fortunately, because that conversation
was a very intimate one. I told him in very general terms what
turned me on, and he did the same; we kind of danced around,
getting more and more honest with each other. We traded
admissions that neither of us had ever thought we would voice
aloud. It was by far the most open verbal discussion I had ever
had about my inner desires. We told each other of fantasies that
were so unrealistic they could never be made reality, but they
did give us insights into each other's motivations. Things like
experiencing what it would be like to be the opposite sex, or
stupid little fantasies like mine about being an alien that is
able to change the shape of my body and his in interesting ways
and that comes to earth and has sex with him, captivating him
with my alien biology. Our conversation got steamier and
steamier, but still we acted, on the surface, like we had just
met. We didn't even touch. It was actually very erotic,
especially with all those people around us that didn't know what
we were talking about.
Imagine the excitement of a mysterious and sexy stranger
that you don't have to worry about whether he is safe (i.e. not a
pervert or HIV positive) and that you KNOW you will be bedding
eventually. Yet he is still mysterious. Safe danger.
We made plans for the future. It would take me a while to
quit my job and find a sublet for the appartment. Our part of
Chicago is full of student rental property and the demand for
appartments is seasonal. In the end, there were two more months
of letters and frustration while I tried to sublet.
But our plans, at least, were finalized that night. On a
flip of a coin, while we were waiting for desert, he won first
choice on the List, and he chose that I would be his slave for a
month, to start the day I arrived at his place in [deleted].
Over desert, I asked him what he wanted to get out of that
month; I got some very interesting answers. So interesting we sat
there until the restaraunt closed and talked about it. Actually
I was trying to get him so turned on he would change his mind
about waiting until I came south. Anyway, it was an education to
learn what he wanted. I am tempted to say that there were layers
upon layers of psychology to peel away, but it was really just
very complex and convoluted.
He wanted to control me -- at least for a while, the month's
duration of the List. But he doesn't want simple submission -- I
am supposed to resist ... but it has to be more than resistance
against him; he seems to want me to resist something in myself as
well. If possible, I should discover that part of me that likes
to be controlled and I should fight against that as well as
against the more superficial physical control permitted by the
list. As I say, it is covoluted.
He wants me to search my own mind to look for these
tendencies and see if I can bring them out, almost the way an
actress looks within her own experience to find something to make
a performance more convincing. It was clear from the turn our
letters had taken that there is something there to find; he was
sure of it. So am I, but I don't know what, exactly.
(I have an inkling after last night.)
But he didn't want acting; if what he was looking for just
wasn't there, he didn't want me to pretend it was.
Another convolution: Knowing that I was willing to do this
for him became a kind of a second layer, a hidden backdrop to the
more superficial physical aspects.
So letting him know that I was doing this willingly --
despite my superficial (but real) resistance (I told you it was
convoluted) -- became another undercurrent. More than a second
kind of submission, it was something akin to a gift that proved
my love and trust, because it would necessarily be something
voluntary that he could neither force nor control.
Remember: all these psychological undercurrents are not
reality; this is what he WANTS reality to be. I have no idea what
it actually is. Maybe they are the same. Sort of.
And of course, it has to be for him alone. He wants to know
that. This is an ironic twist. My mother -- and all my friends,
too -- always told me that the best way to keep a man is to make
him think he might lose you: let him know that you can get
another man any time you want. But I have learned something from
J that he didn't mean to teach me. What he wants in our
relationship can't be very easy to find; I mean, even bringing up
the subject of bondage was an almost insurmountable obstacle in
itself. It would be almost impossible for him to find anyone
else that could be the kind of person he wants. If I can be that
person, I will be irreplacable. He'd never find another one like
me, never. If, somewhere inside, I'm really like that, I'll have
him trapped, tied (bound?) to me by the fact that I'm the only
one that he will ever find that can give him what he needs.
Maybe I am that kind of person. I certainly feel that way
right now, after the first day. If I could feel this excited
about our relationship forever, I guess I WOULD be that kind of
person.
So anyway, there we were in the restaraunt. After all that
talking, I felt like a little applied theory, so I asked him what
he would do first when we started. I looked him straight in the
eye and gave him my most brazenly innocent look across the table.
I can wear my innocence at such a rakish angle it makes me seem
positively debauched. He got the message.
He told me he would wait until we were in a public place,
like a restaraunt (thrill) and he would reach into his jacket
pocket and take out a manila envelope. He paused significantly
and looked me straight in the eye right back again.
Then he reached into his jacket pocket (chills, excitement)
and took out a manila envelope. My heart started thudding and my
breath became short. He was going to do something right then, I
realized. I don't know if he improvised this or not. Now that I
think about it, he must have, because he took some papers out of
the envelope before he gave it to me.
"Go into the ladies room, and put all your underwear in
this," he said.
I did. Bra, panties, pantyhose. I gave him the envelope.
As I sat there, feeling increasingly sexy, he gave me
detailed instructions for several outfits I was to make during
the next few weeks while I was waiting to come to him. I know
it's not a very good career move to be good with a sewing
machine, but I am. And I am NOT a housewife type, as will become
clear after you read about last night. First I have to fill you
in on the rest.
By the way, he kept his promise: he never touched me that
night; the bit with the underwear was just him being him.
-*-
It is a comfortable two-day drive to his new house from
Chicago, although I could have made it in one. I arrived at
about four in the afternoon. Actually, it is not a new house: it
is old. I can't tell you exactly where it is, but it is a really
luscious house. [He also won't let me use the clinical names for
parts of the body that nurses know so well, so if I seem a
little victorian in my language, now you know the reason why. In
fact, he gives a LOT of instructions about everything, not just
how to write this.]
I can say we live in a very warm climate -- almost
Mediterranean. The house has high ceilings (twelve feet in the
living room), tile floors, a red tile roof, and lots of stucco
arches. And a fireplace with a magnificent mantle. It's one of
those pseudo-Spanish houses that were so popular in the 1930's.
It's still nearly unfurnished, even though he's been living here
six months. Men are hopeless.
There is a rather cavernous living/dining room, with two
sofas (one large, one small) and an armchair clustered around the
fire place, and a big oak table with two chairs in the middle of
the room. There is a deep fluffy white rug in front of the
hearth. No curtains, almost no other rugs, no pictures on the
walls except in the (ahem) master bedroom.
He carried my suitcases into the house; our footsteps on the
tile floors echoed in the near-empty rooms. Half the light
switches don't work and the place needed (still needs) sweeping:
sand had been tracked into the house and made a scritching noise
underfoot against the tile floors. In fact, with the exception
of my bedroom, the whole place is only superficially clean.
There are quite a few cobwebs and the windows are dusty. Dead
roaches the size of small mammals.
He put my luggage in the spare bedroom. My bedroom. It is
spotlessly clean and furnished completely in white. The bed is
an old-fashioned single, iron, in a sort of early-hospital style,
painted in white enamel. Walls: white, chest of drawers: white;
simple chair and bedside table: both white. No rug, no curtains,
no pictures on the wall, and nothing in the closet. A bright
overhead light and a small nondescript reading light on the
bedside table. That is the total contents of the room. I could
feel like a nun if it weren't for last night.
Somehow, it bothers me a little that he went to all that
trouble to prepare my room for me. All in white, I mean. It's
just a little odd.
Normally, separate bedrooms would be something you would
associate with elderly conservative couples or people on the
verge of divorce, but we weren't even married. We were SUPPOSED
to be living together, so this was verging on weird and I wanted
an explanation. Which I got. It was nothing more than an
enforced continuation of the newly distant relationship he had
written about and that we had formally started during his visit
to Chicago. We had grown apart somewhat, he said, and he wanted
to keep it that way for a while longer. Somehow it was nicer in
theory than in practice. I guess the bedroom had made me feel a
little alienated.
"Besides," he said, "you are my slave now, and not
supposed to ask questions." I had almost forgotten. Well, not
forgotten, but I wasn't in the habit of thinking that way. It
definitely made him feel a bit like a stranger. He said it like
I was one.
[Note from the Future: Near the end I was spending most
nights in his bedroom, but we kept separate bedrooms to the
very end. Somehow this made our relationship more exciting
rather than less intimate. It had a special significance
when one of us went to the other's room.]
As I said, he had won first choice on the List. I am to be
his slave for the first month. During this month he will do many
of the other items on the List. By agreeing to the List two
months earlier, I suppose I had already agreed to this, even
though at the time I hadn't considered that the choice of one
month of slavery would allow him to work through quite a few of
the other items on the List before I even got my first turn. But
it is enough that my turn would come.
He must have wanted to put me off balance from the
beginning. When my car was unloaded, he told me to change from
my jeans and sweatshirt to a blouse and skirt with heels, nothing
underneath. The act of changing my clothing, even in the privacy
of my room, was somehow charged with erotic anticipation. I felt
small and defenseless -- almost like I was a prisoner in
Dracula's castle. I know it sounds melodramatic, but the house
seems so big after the studio appartment in Chicago. Even as I
sit typing this in broad daylight the echos make it seem a bit
empty and spooky. And chilly. There is a dessicated bird corpse
on the floor of one of the screened porches. At least I swept up
the dust and roaches.
Yesterday evening, when I came out of my bedroom it was
getting darker; there was a shaft of late-afternoon sunlight
slanting through the cavernous living room. He was waiting on
the armchair; he told me to pour myself a glass of wine and sit
on the sofa. There were even little sandwiches. He had never
made little sandwiches before. Little formal ones. I was
famished, but puzzled over the sandwiches. They were so
uncharacteristic.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"Okay," I said, "maybe a little chilly." A little
attempted underwear-less humor there. Very little. He just
sipped his wine and watched me eat without expression.
Between mouthfulls, I couldn't seem to stop talking. "So,
when do we start?" I asked, in a cheerful, businesslike voice, as
though we were going to paint the livingroom or something.
"Now," he said in a neutral tone, still expressionless.
I suddenly became aware that he was looking at me. I mean
really LOOKING at me. Most men are surreptitious about looking
at women. They pretend they aren't looking and then sneak a peek
when they think you aren't going to notice. This was different.
His gaze was travelling over my body without regard to what I
might think, as though he didn't care. I was abruptly aware of
my lack of underwear; I crossed my legs and tugged at my skirt as
though such adjustments could make my discomfort go away. He let
his eyes rest on my chest and I crossed my arm in front of
myself.
"Don't," he said.
"Sorry," I blathered unnecessarily. I unfolded myself and
tried to appear casual. My damned nipples were erect, though.
"So, what'll we do first?" I said brightly, now a summer camp
counsellor. I just couldn't stop my mouth. He didn't answer
right away. I don't know if he was considering what he would do
or just letting the suspense build, but he waited until the
silence stretched to its (my) limit. I stuffed another sandwich
in my mouth just to give it something else to do.
Finally, he told me which item on the List would be first.
He just told me the number, though. I hadn't memorized the List
and didn't know what he was referring to; obviously, I hadn't
done my homework.
"You have your copy of the list, don't you?" he said.
"Yeah, somewhere in my luggage ..."
Then he gave me instructions on what to wear, and told me
that I would find everything I needed in my bathroom, but he
kept me in suspense as to what the list actually said I was to
do.
"Take your wine with you, he said. Suddenly I realized he
meant "now." Right now. I went to my room and tore through my
luggage to find my copy of the List. The numbers on the List
were only for reference; the order didn't mean anything. The
item he chose, therefore, by default, became Item One in this
account. So here it is, Item One.
As I said, he really did intend to put me off balance. Sort
of like pushing me in at the deep end. After all the time we had
spent apart I felt we were nearly strangers and needed to get
reacquainted. Perhaps that's why he did subtle little things that
put me off balance, like make little finger sandwiches. Perhaps
that is why he wanted me to come to him feeling exposed and near
naked, but naked in a new way. A way that would make me FEEL
naked, the way you would in front of a stranger.
He wanted me to remove my pubic hair.
I know many men think this is sexy, but I have never
understood why. As a nurse I had seen nearly everything, but I
never thought there was anything particularly erotic about
shaving there, especially with the itchy stubble I knew would
come later. Maybe I associate it with pre-op, too. Did I tell
you I was a R.N.? But there was no razor in the bathroom. Just a
tube of depilatory and scissors.
At this point he has begun exercising his editorial control
over what I write. I wrote -- and twice had to rewrite and
expand --the next paragraphs until he was satisfied with them. I
wouldn't otherwise have put in such detail.
I had to be extremely careful, as the directions have all
kinds of warnings about burning delicate membranes. I sat in the
bathroom for a few minutes just looking at myself in the mirror,
thinking: what am I getting myself into? But it was too late to
change my mind, and anyway I didn't want to. So here goes, I
thought. I pinched a curl of hair between my fingers and snipped
it off close. Starting at the top, I worked my way down, not
thinking about it, just snipping away until I ended up with one
foot up on the edge of the bathtub and my head between my legs.
When I finished and came up for air, the remaining stubble was
almost invisible; I looked quite naked. I stood for a moment and
looked in the mirror, wondering if this was really what J was
expecting -- hairless nakedness.
The depilatory comes in a tube like toothpaste and is pink.
It smells slightly reminiscent of the chemicals they put in home
permanents. I put the stuff on very carefully, using the round
end of my nail file like a butter knife. I followed the
directions and waited the requisite time with my legs held apart
to avoid burning myself. Then I scraped it off with the nail
file; if you are patient enough to wait for it to work, it really
does the job. For some reason there were a few hairs that just
wouldn't dissolve, so I plucked them with tweezers. At last I
was done. I'm glad he didn't watch, because I had to get into
some pretty embarrasing positions to do all this without being
burned by the stuff.
I went straight into the shower without looking at myself
again. The faint but icky depilatory smell definitely required a
shower and soap to get rid of, followed by a body conditioner
all over (Even though he didn't tell me what the List item
actually said, he was very detailed in his instructions as to how
I should prepare myself for him). The conditioner had to be
unscented "Unicure" hair/body conditioner, already there in the
shower; he told me not to rinse it off: just rub it in and towell
off. As I rubbed the conditioner over my skin I began to see that
maybe ther was a point to this preoccupation with hairlessness.
It felt like I had a whole new erogenous zone down there, so
slick and silky and, ... well ...
After I towelled myself dry, I felt really smooth and soft
all over, especially Down There, so that when I finally put on
the outfit I had made (on his instructions weeks before), I felt
like a velvet hand slipping into a velvet glove.
I had made it out of a soft, very sheer, muslin-like white
cotton from India. It is very tight and it took a lot of
tailoring to get it to fit right, since it is not made of
stretchy material. The bust is tailored to fit my breasts
exactly, and "underwired" with elastic. I stick out. The top has
long sleeves that are just barely loose enough for me to squeeze
my hands through to get my arms in; the front zips from the
waist to a high lacy collar that would look very demure on a top
that wasn't skin-tight and practically transparent. The pants
are also skin-tight, except below the knee, where they flare to
become bell-bottoms. Very 60's. The legs are so long that I have
to wear heels -- high ones -- to keep from tripping over the
cuffs. I have some white open-toed high-heeled sandals that go
with it nicely. Nicely? Somehow, "nice" doesn't seem to apply
after last night.
Last night, the crotch was the really embarrasing part.
There isn't even a seam in front to help conceal my sex. It's
just tight, sheer, and thin. In fact, there is a very tight g-
string-like elastic in back that holds the muslin close over my
newly hairless sex and pulls the back of the pants tight against
my cheeks and deeply into the cleavage of my bottom. When I made
the outfit I thought I would have pubic hair to cover me, but
last night I was so ... visible.
Still following his instructions, I brushed my hair out and
put on my makeup. I was procrastinating, taking unnecessary care
with my makeup and adjusting my outfit, examining myself in the
mirror: anything to avoid going out into the living room where
he was waiting. I really didn't want him to see me like this.
After all, we hadn't seen each other naked for six months, and he
would see a lot more of me than I had ever shown anyone before.
Again, I have to add something here. He told me to. I
wouldn't have written this at all, because I have always been a
little ashamed of this, but as I said, he makes me put in stuff,
details I would rather leave out, in this case. But here goes.
Real soon now. (If you haven't noticed, I am procrastinating
again.) There's another reason I didn't want to go out there and
let him see me dressed like that. It's irrational, I know,
because he had seen be completely naked before, but there it is.
I have unusual nipples. They have always been a source of acute
embarrasment to me.
They are inverted.
You have no idea how long it took me to type those three
words; every time I have to deal with this I look for all kinds
of ways to say it without actually saying it, but in the end I
just had to type it and the hell with it. They're inverted.
This is silly, because I'm used to them. It's not a big deal,
really. The tips of my nipples are turned inward so that all that
is visible externally is the areola, with just a little
horizontal slit across the middle where the nipple should be.
It's not all that uncommon; I have seen girls in P.E. classes
that have the same condition on one or the other of her tits.
It's just that both of mine are that way.
It's not like they're repulsive or anything, and they would
be perfectly functional if I had children. They even look normal
when erect, it's just that when they aren't, I don't have
nipples, just areolas. I haven't known very many men, partly
because of shyness over this problem, and all of them have been
surprised, and I think slightly repelled, by my breasts. All,
that is, except J. Other men have made me feel like a freak, with
questions like "What's wrong with them?"
One even asked me, "Is there anything else you haven't told
me about?" Asshole. Assholeassholeasshole.
Sorry, I don't normally use language like that, but he was
an asshole. Like maybe my day job is in a sideshow, or something?
A real Mr. Sensitivity, huh? Before I walked out on that
evening's entertainment, I told him to be fruitful and multiply,
only not in exactly those words. He was a jerk anyway. In high-
school I was young and stupid enough to be impressed that he (at
20) owned (well, had a mortgage on) his own house (well,
double-wide trailer).
Imagine, at that age boasting he was a self-made man. He
was an example of what can happen when you don't follow the
directions.
Sorry, I went off on a tangent.
Anyway, J has never commented on my nipples except to say
that I have the most beautiful breasts he has ever seen, all the
more so because they are special that way.
Special like the special olympics, but nevermind.
Still, I was hesitant coming out into the living room,
embarrased for no good reason, trying to cover myself, one hand
casually fiddling with my lace collar (and incidentally covering
my breasts with my arm), while the other hand was draped casually
(I hoped) over my southern overexposure. The room was nearly
dark, and he was sitting in an armchair in the shadows. I could
tell he was fully dressed, but couldn't see his face to judge his
reaction. I was feeling awfully exposed, and really needed some
reassuring words right then. I didn't get any.
There was a small sofa sitting under a recessed light in
the ceiling. He didn't get up; he just told me to stand in front
of the little sofa, under this very bright light. Like a
spotlight.
I couldn't see much of anything outside that little pool of
light, and I felt awkward, as though my legs were different
lengths. He told me to put my arms at my sides and stand up
straight. Hesitantly, I did as he told me, uncovering myself. I
was nearly shaking with nervousness. That afternoon I had been
cruising along the Interstate, and now I was in a totally
different world.
"Hold your shoulders back and stop slouching," he said. I
took a deep breath and tried to relax and regain some composure,
some dignity.
"Turn around. Bend over and lean on the seat with your
elbows. Legs apart." I tried to lean on my hands.
"Your elbows," he repeated. So much for dignity. My rear
was up in the air for all to see.
"Straighten up. Pull your waistband up so your pants are
tighter in the crotch; smooth the front so I can see all of you
better. Good. Now tell me how you feel right now."
"Embarrased," I whispered. My voice wasn't working. I
cleared my throat and tried again.
"Embarrased," too loudly. I couldn't look up from the
floor; I was not handling this well. It seemed a long time
before he answered.
"Tell me why."
"Its these clothse," I answered.
"I've seen you with less than that on before."
"I know, but ... not like this. I mean, not having any
hair ... there ..." I stammered, all the while thinking: dammit I
should have more composure than this -- nurses aren't supposed to
be ashamed of the human body. Nurses are supposed to be cool and
professional -- in charge.... I straightened my shoulders again.
"No, the hair isn't it either, but nevermind. Come over
here."
I walked over to him and stood by his chair. I tried to keep
from slouching to show that I had kept my dignity, and I ended up
feeling (and looking) like an army recruit trying to look
military on her first day at boot camp.
He ran his hand up the inside of my thigh. I couldn't help
shivering. He slipped his hand lightly back and forth over the
thin cloth that was held so tightly against my nether lips. His
fingers became more insistent, and I could feel myself and the
cloth of my pants becoming wet. I was still shivering with
nervousness. I was, throughout the evening, acutely aware that I
had no pubic hair. For some reason, whatever I was feeling, that
was on my mind. I just hadn't gotten used to it, I guess. I
still haven't.
I felt shaky and nervous. I was I wasn't afraid, exactly,
just aware of my nakedness and uncertain about what was coming
next. I knew he wouldn't depart from the List, but there was an
awful lot on that list, and after all, I hadn't even kissed him
for six months -- had only seen him once in all that time -- and
he was practically bringing me to a climax in a strange house
under very weird circumstances. I think he meant it to be that
way, but I was NOT comfortable.
He stood and kissed me. Finally. He must have sensed that
I need some reassurance. I could feel his stiffness as he
pressed against me. This is what I wanted, I thought, feeling
myself to be on surer ground. I ground my hips against him,
suddenly getting more deeply into the whole scene. His kiss
became more passionate, our tongues probing.
Abruptly, holding my shoulders in his hands, he separated
himself from me. Although he is slender, he is at least eight
or nine inches taller than I and quite strong; I could sense a
shudder of suppressed emotion despite the firmness of his grip on
my upper arms. I stood there breathing unsteadily, my eyes shut.
God, I was horny. He told me to go back and stand under the
light. I could feel the wetness between my legs; I was sure it
showed as a patch on my front. Again, I tried to cover myself
with my hand.
"No," he said. "Dont. You have nothing to be ashamed of
with me, and you know it." He paused. "Don't you?"
"Yes, I know," I whispered, looking down, determinedly
ashamed.
"Then why are you?"
"It's the spotlight."
"No, its not. Try again. I've seen you nude in full
daylight before, and I've seen more of your body than I can see
now, even without hair. And from closer up. Think about what's
bothering you, and tell me."
He waited silently while I thought; I finally came out with
what it was I didn't want to tell him. "I don't just feel nude.
I feel naked. I...I think it's because I haven't seen you for so
long. It's a little like being in front of a stranger." He
waited. And waited. "And it's because you're dressed and I'm
not," I rushed ahead, "its not fair and its humiliating and I
feel vulnerable and it's not like I imagined it would be." I
covered myself with my hands again as if to say 'so there', but I
stayed under the light, trying not to look awkward, looking out
at where I thought him to be, still unable to see him.
Again the silence. Finally from the darkness he said, "Good.
Sit down." My ears told me he had moved from the armchair to
stand by the unlit fireplace, but I still couldn't see his face.
I sat, relieved. At least I could hold my legs together
while sitting and hide myself a little that way. With my prim
little lace collar, my legs held tightly together, and my hands
folded neatly in my lap, I must have looked like a caricature of
the proper victorian virgin. Except that I was blushing through
transparent clothing and my nipples were erect and positively
aching. Sounds like material for a romance novel, I know, but
they were.
"I don't want you to feel humiliated. Believe that. But your
embarrasment is something else. I want that. As a kind of gift
to me," he said. "Can you understand that? As a gift...?" I'm
not sure how, but I seemed to sense him in the darkness, staring
at me, very intent on my answer. Maybe it was something in his
voice.
I hadn't thought much about the fine line between
embarrasment and humiliation. Somehow, though, I could
understand the idea of embarrasment as a gift. Don't ask me how
or why. "Allright," I said, and suddenly it really was allright.
My embarrasment surfaced; I stopped trying to suppress it, and
it all came out, but it was okay: I could show it. He wanted --
even valued it. I lowered my eyes to the floor, blushing
furiously, making no effort to hide my discomfiture. I took my
hands out of my lap and let my legs part a fraction of an inch,
deliberately letting myself feel more embarrased, really acting
the part -- only not acting, because I really was feeling exactly
what I was acting out. Or at least acting out what I was
feeling. Well, it was more honest than whatever I had been doing,
anyway.
"Now," he said, "what are you feeling? Do you like this?"
"No. I don't," I said, truthfully, I think. I'm not sure.
"Do you feel ... excited?"
"Yes." I realized that that was definitely true, whether I
liked it or not.
"Do you want it to stop?"
Another pause. "No," I said, "... no."
"Remember, you're my slave. I'm going to tell you to do
something now that you might find funny, but I don't want you to
laugh. Take it seriously. While sitting there, I want you to do
something -- anything -- that you think I will find sexy." As he
said this he turned to the fireplace and lit the fire that was
laid there. His back was to me.
Act sexy? He made it sound so much like a homework
assignment, I almost did laugh. I had no idea what to do.
Pretend to be a porn star? Blow kisses? Pout and squirm
seductively like they do in bad x-rated movies?
I tentatively put my hands up to my breasts and rubbed my
nipples lightly with my fingertips. They were already erect from
the coolness of the evening and the excitement. I didn't know
where to go from there, so I kept rubbing, even though the entire
tips of my breasts were already very sensitive, even though my
areolas were puckered up and hard, aching. I was still excited.
But I didn't know what to do next. Then I had an idea. I would
take off my top: do a strip tease. Yeah, that's it. My hands
went to the zipper at my throat and pulled it halfway it down.
"Stop." I froze. "Lean back against the arm of the sofa and
close your eyes." I did. "Stroke yourself again." I did. I found
it was a lot easier to follow instructions than to make it up on
my own. I really wouldn't make a good stripper anyway. I don't
know the moves.
"Put your hand lower." What did he want me to do? My hand
crept down to my waistband. "Lower." Did he want me to
masturbate? I wasn't ready for that. I wouldn't. Not with him
watching me. It was just too kinky. "Lower," he repeated, more
insistently. I put my hand down, more to cover my nakedness
than to do what I thought he wanted. I could feel the wetness
from when he had carressed me, and for some reason I was acutely
aware of my hand resting on my sex. But I wouldn't masturbate, I
just couldn't, not in front of him. And as I sat there, neither
of us saying anything, I began to think maybe he wouldn't ask me
to. He had pushed me right to the edge of what I would do, and
he seemed to know it. He let me just sit there, covering myself,
extremely aware of how insecure and exposed I was, wishing I
hadn't gone as far as I had, wishing I hadn't removed my pubic
hair, feeling, not exactly frightened, but very uncertain that
this was something I wanted. And just a moment before, when he
kissed and caressed me, I had been brought to the edge of a
climax. It was a real roller coaster ride.
"I know this has been hard for you," he began, "but I have a
reason. You remember the evening we made the List. We also
discussed our motivations. I told you things about myself that I
have never told anyone. And will never. And you told me some
things too. Do you remember?" I nodded, uncertain where he was
headed, but I said nothing. He flipped a wall switch and the
spotlight went off. His face was lit from below by the
firelight. I didn't move. My hand stayed where it was, my
attention split between what he was saying and the focal point of
my hand.
"You said that one of the things that you sometimes wanted
was to have someone else take charge. That sometimes you got
tired of constantly having to deal with everything. I'm sure it
was partly the daily pressure of your job that made you feel that
way. You wanted sometimes to be the one that was cared for and
protected; you wanted to belong to someone and to have someone
that you could depend on, someone you could be sure of. And at
this moment, you don't feel that way, I know. But I want you to.
I want to make you mine. Completely. This is my way of doing
that. I know you well enough to be sure you would be far too
embarrased to let anyone else see you with no pubic hair. When
you removed it for me you took a step toward becoming mine."
I was concentrating on my hand. You talk too much, I
thought. He went on.
"That's why your embarrasment is like a special gift to me.
It's something I know you wouldn't give anyone else. I don't
want you to even be ABLE to give to anyone else. I want you
totally for myself; I want you completely committed to me, and
everything I do over the next few weeks will be to make you into
that person. I want to possess you totally."
Well, it was something like that. I wasn't concentrating
fully, but I got the gist. He seems to adopt a formal mode of
speech when he talks about the psychology of our relationship.
Almost as though he had rehearsed what he said.
Still, I was beginning to see. It DID give me a warm
feeling to know that he wanted for me to belong to him. Belong
with a capital 'B'. Like a slave. I was beginning to see there
were layers beneath the surface of this 'game'-- things he had
thought about more than I had. As he continued to talk, I began
to understand exactly where we were going, what was happening.
At least I began to relax a little and feel comfortable.
Everything started to fall into place. When he said he wanted me
to be his slave he didn't mean as a servant; he meant someone
with unreserved and absolute commitment. I dismissed the thought
that this had been in his mind from the beginning, six months
ago, even before we started writing those steamy letters. As he
droned on in the same vein (he does tend to over-explain things
sometimes) my mind wandered off on a tangent.
Ironically, what he wanted would give me a kind of power
over him: it would be hard for him to find anyone else that
would be willing to commit so deeply to him: the List contained
some pretty personal stuff; not many women would go that far.
And whatever he did to me, it was a measure of his commitment,
because the List gave me license to respond in kind. However much
he made me open up to him, he made himself just as vulnerable if
I choose to exercise my rights. Vulnerable to me. My last
coherent thought of the evening was:
The List is my safety net. He would not go beyond its
limits. It is also a direct and tangible gauge of our
commitment to each other.
I wasn't thinking with the clarity those words imply, but
the ideas were there, and I gained comfort from the thought.
I became abruptly aware of my hand, still resting There,
where he had told me to put it, and I stopped thinking
altogether. I couldn't concentrate on anything else he was
saying. I could only feel the weight and warmth of my hand
resting on my smooth, hairless mons, through the damp, sheer
cloth. I could feel every thread of the material. I became aware
of the tightness of the elastic between my buttocks, the tautness
of my breasts.... The temptation was irresistable to press down
slightly with my hand. My eyes drifted shut and my hips moved,
seemingly on their own.
Suddenly I was jerked to my feet. I found myself facing the
fireplace; he was behind me holding my wrists tightly by my
sides. I struggled feebly against him, to cover myself, but I
couldn't move.
"We could stop now if you say the word. Once again: do you
want to go on?" he said. "Total commitment?" I understood what he
was asking, but still I couldn't think. I didn't even understand
why he was asking. It seemed so unnecessary to say anything. I
know one should avoid cliches (like the plague?), but time really
did seem to stand still. The fire crackled and flickered. I
could feel the warmth on my front through the filmy cloth, his
breath on my neck. I stared down into the fire, not moving, not
breathing, suddenly at peace, serene, and, oddly, more in control
of myself than he was.
It's funny how such an important decision can be made with
so little effort. I felt as if I had been fighting a war all my
life and in the middle I simply decided to give up and wander off
the battlefield. I wanted so much to give up. So, idly, almost
carelessly, with a single word, I abandoned the fortress I had
unknowingly defended for a lifetime.
"Yes."
-*-
Column 1
Item 2
J told me to write this such that people will want to read it.
So for dramatic effect I should have stopped at the word "Yes",
but that wasn't the end of last night. Besides, I have time to
tell the rest: he won't be home from work for a while, and I
don't have to get ready for him yet.
He took my car keys and suitcases with all my clothing when
he left this morning. All I have to wear is the sheer cotton
outfit (you know about that one already -- I wore it last night)
and a lycra one that he also had me make while I was in Chicago.
Neither one is practical or warm, or even very comfortable, and
it's late February. It's warm here (compared to Chicago) but
not that warm. He also left me all my shoes and boots, my
fleece-lined knee-length overcoat (thank God -- I'm wearing it
now, and nothing else, as I write this), toiletries, and some
books I had brought. The television is near-useless: the house
is so rural that cable isn't even available. I can't start my
car, even if I had clothing, so I guess I will read, and write.
Maybe I will do a little gardening once I get my feet on the
ground. There are ten acres of partly wooded land to grow stuff
on, and I've wanted to try a garden of my own ever since I moved
into Chicago. My mother kept one back home in Indiana.
This is quite a change for me. A few days ago I was
spending my last night in the old appartment, sleeping on a
mattress on the floor after the yard sale; now here I am nude in
an overcoat sitting at a PC wondering when planting time for
vegetables is. Life's a funny ol' thing, that way. Best not to
dwell on the incongruities. I laughed about it last night, and
learned my first lesson the hard way.
Last night, when I agreed to try this (by this, I mean This
Whole Thing, not just the writing), I felt a wierd combination of
relief at having made a decision, apprehension about what would
come later, sexual excitement, of course (why do I say of
course?), and at the same time a kind of serenity: a sense of
freedom that comes from not having to care what comes next. You
wouldn't think apprehension and serenity would go together, would
you? It was like I was outside myself, watching myself worry
about the future and at the same time thinking: the apprehension
is okay, I can "get into" the experience; it somehow doesn't
bother me that I am apprehensive: I am floating above it all.
Does that make sense? Reading back over it, I can see how you
might think it nonsensical to achieve a completely relaxed state
of nervous apprehension, but it was a very real sense of ...
release, I guess. As the feeling fades, I wish I knew how to
recapture it; last night I really had it going strong.
Sorry about all the introspection. You probably want me to
get to the "good stuff" but if I'm going to have to write this,
I'm going to "do it my way." Mah own se'f. Besides, I know that
if I just "tell it like it was" without any explanation, there's
no way you could possibly understand why a previously
conservative (in my social attitudes, not my politics)
midwesterner would agree to do these sorts of things.
My growing attitude of 'what the hell, why not' got me into
all this that night when he visited me in Chicago and I agreed to
leave and to go with the List. It led me to take the next steps
last night, when I said to myself 'what the hell, what will it
hurt to give him what he wants and remove my pubic hair,' and
later, 'what the hell, I'll follow through with the whole bargain
and live the part, what difference will a month make?' Besides,
I really wanted so much to belong to him, and for him to want me
to belong to him. So anyway, I said 'Yes.' Okay?
At that word, I felt him relax behind me, and I knew he had
been relieved to hear the answer. I relaxed too, not because I
was relieved, but because I liked leaning back into him, letting
him enclose me in his arms.
Still standing behind me, he ran his hands over my body, up
over my breasts, lightly caressing my nipples through the filmy
cotton, down my front and between my legs. I moaned and pushed
against his hand, trying to send him the message: I am ready. He
caressed me more firmly: I was getting wet again. He put one
hand on my front between my legs and one behind, exploring both
halves of me through the flimsy cloth. Again my breath was
becoming ragged. I turned in his arms and asked, "Now can
we...?" I had been in various states of arousal all through the
evening. So had he, but he was in control and he wasn't going to
let it end yet; he whispered "Not yet," and that was okay, too.
I was still floating, you see. I just went with the flow. But I
remember feeling a secret glow of anticipation when I realized
that at least he had used the word 'yet.' He caressed me again,
this time slipping his hands inside the waistband of my pants,
over my satiny smooth heavily-conditioned skin, and down to
explore and excite me more.
When I was once again on the razor's edge, he pulled away
and said, "Strip." He sat down in the armchair again and just
watched me. I stayed by the fire where it was warm; when I had
collected myself, I unzipped my top. It's hard to take off
without tearing because it's so tight and at the same time so
delicate. I kind of had to wiggle and shake to get it off my arms
behind me without ripping it. That made my breasts kind of
bounce, and I felt the embarrasment coming back; I checked to see
if he was watching, but he was looking into my eyes rather than
at my body. He kept his eyes on mine as I kicked off my shoes and
slid my pants down over my hips. They are so tight around the
thighs that they don't just fall down by themselves, I have to
pull them down, so I had to bend over (I don't BELIEVE I'm
writing this!).
I tilted my head up, all the while looking directly at his
face. My eyes never left his. I could feel my breasts hanging
down between my arms as I pulled the pants down to my ankles and
then off. Funny the everyday things you can suddenly become
acutely aware of. The tile floor was freezing on my bare feet.
When I stood upright I I was chilled despite the fire. I began
shivering; I think it was mostly (but not totally) the cold. I
held the clothse to the front of my lower body with one hand,
trying to cover and warm myself. I hugged my breasts with my
other arm. My nipples were erect again, and I was shivering with
cold and, once again, embarrasment. He was still fully dressed,
remember.
"Drop the clothse," he said. This time, voluntarily, I put
my arms at my sides, leaving myself uncovered. Suddenly I really
was cold. I was shivering violently, but I forced myself to stand
erect and face him squarely, keeping my eyes directly on his. I
had lost my sense of benign detachment. There is nothing like
physical discomfort to do that for you. I was no longer a third
party in the room, floating and watching two strangers act out a
scene in a play.
I was totally focused on keeping control of my shivering
body. It was stupid. I should have given in and told him I was
too cold, but I could see that he knew. I could have asked; he
was probably waiting for me to, but I wanted to prove something
to him -- I don't know what, but something, and it meant standing
there as long as I could. Silly. Silly and stubborn. He smiled
a little; his eyes left mine and travelled slowly down my
twitching body. My jaw was clenched to stop my teeth from
chattering, because they would have. My hands were fists at my
sides, arms and legs stiff, stomach muscles tense with effort.
His eyes lingered on my hairless sex, which by now was covered in
goose bumps: I'm sure I looked like a plucked chicken. His gaze
travelled back up my body to my face. I was on the edge of losing
control.
Suddenly he stood, stepped over to me, and picked me up,
cradling me in his arms. He carried me down a hall and into his
bedroom.
Blessed warmth! The room was such a relief! It seemed almost
hot after the living room. He put me on the bed and told me to
get under the covers. I got up on my knees on the bed and
crouched to pull back the comforter; I was shivering so violently
it took me two tries to even grasp the covers to pull them back.
There was a toasty electric blanket somewhere under me. God that
felt great.
While I was thawing out, I looked around the room --
remember, at this point all I had seen was the living room and my
bedroom, with a few glimpses of other rooms we had walked by. I
could see an adjoining bathroom; the bed was in an alcove with
mosquito netting hanging from an arch over the alcove. There is
a sink right out in the bedroom, as though the bedroom had once
been used for something else. He lit a candle and put it on a
small shelf in the alcove. I could see some paintings on the
wall that I didn't recognize, landscapes. I knew he hadn't had
them in Chicago. We had slept on a heated waterbed in Chicago,
but this was a futon. Quite a change. We'll be sleeping on grass
mats next. There were speaker grilles overhead in the ceiling,
but no music was coming out.
There were four metal eye-rings set in the ceiling, too,
over the bed. They are new additions, I think. There were crumbs
of ceiling plaster on the floor. He pushed the heavy, old-
fashioned oak door shut with an unnecessarily loud bang. He had
my attention. I watched him from a warm, cosy nest; I was
floating again, detached, but watching. He moved a chair to the
foot of the bed, a heavy oak armchair; it looked like a piece of
old office furniture. Then he came over and sat on the edge of
the bed and stroked my forehead with his hand.
"How are you? Warmed up?"
I nodded.
"Good." He leaned down and kissed me. His hand felt good
through the covers. "I have a kind of test for you. But not if
you're still cold."
"I'm okay," I said, a little apprehensive. "What test?"
"You have to sit in the chair. The room is warm, though. I
think you'll be okay."
"Okay," I said, looking at the chair. When I didn't move he
slowly pulled the covers down to my waist. I sat up. The chair
was facing me at the foot of the bed. It seemed ordinary enough.
I really wanted to ask what he was going to do, what this test
business was.
He took my hand gently and stood up, waiting for me. He held
my hand by my fingertips as though he were going to be gallant
and kiss it, and when I got to my feet he held it as though I
were Cinderella stepping down from her coach.
The chair was quite ordinary, but it seemed enormous when I
sat in it. My toes barely reached the floor. It occurred to me
that it looked a bit like one of those old-fashioned Hollywood
electric chairs -- the kind they executed James Cagney in so many
times.
He sat on the foot of the bed in front of me and showed me a
roll of black tape. The kind electricians use. He peeled off
about a foot and held it across my wrist.
I could see he was going to tape my wrists to the arms of
the chair. He didn't wrap it around, though, he just held it
there and looked at me for a reaction. I was scared. I couldn't
help it. Even though I trust him completely, we had never done
anything like this before. I guess I was seeing a side of him
that was completely new, and I immediately thought of hidden
psychoses and serial killers and ritual murders with candles and
Charles Manson and I was a million miles from home and nobody
knew where I was and I was so far out in the country nobody would
even hear me scream, and they would probably never even find the
body parts.
I stiffened up a bit.
I didn't say anything, but I must have looked as scared as I
was, because he stopped and asked me if I was still okay. I
nodded, looking into his eyes for some sign of what he was really
thinking. Up to this point he had been unreadable, but something
in my expression must have touched him because he kind of melted.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
Something about his expression brought me back to reality.
I could see that concern for what I was feeling was uppermost in
his mind.
"Yeah. Really," I nodded, still looking at him like a
trapped rabbit. My heart was pounding. I had a lot of
confidence in his character, but the consequences of misjudgement
were unthinkably horrible. The very worst thing that can happen
is when someone you love turns out to be a different person.
That's what makes Invasion of the Body Snatchers and The Exorcist
the two most horrifying movies ever made.
I was scared, I admit it.
He wrapped the tape around my wrist and the arm of the
chair three times and cut it with his Swiss army knife. Both
wrists. He walked around in back of me and bent over my shoulder
to kiss me behind the ear. He taped my elbow to the back of the
chair arm, and my upper arm near the shoulder to the vertical
part of the back.
He knelt at my feet and gently separated my legs. He paused
again.
"You okay?"
Hesitant nod.
He taped my ankles and knees to the legs and corners of the
chair, opening and exposing me. Then he ran a band of tape
across my breasts and around the back of the chair. It went
right across my nipples and squeezed my breasts flat.
Standing beside me, he bent to kiss me and put his hand
between my legs. He didn't try to stimulate me, he just put his
hand there. My nipples had been erect since I sat down. They
were trying to be erect under the tape. He slid his hand up to my
breast. I pulled with my wrists against the tape.
He stopped and turned the chair to face the full length
mirror. I could see myself, legs apart, exposed. I was grateful
that the candle light was dim. He stood behind me and leaned over
my shoulder. One hand went back to my sex, and he began to gently
stroke and probe while kissing the side of my neck and nibbling
on my ears. That really gets me going, the ears. It always does.
I was still nervous, watching him, but I also responded to his
hands and became wet.
He continued, and I realized that this was his idea of
torture. In retrospect, I know it's illogical, but somehow my
mind concluded that this meant he wasn't Charles Manson. I got
more and more turned on, and finally I was fighting the tape out
of horny frustration rather than fear. He kept me going, teasing
me, until I was right on the edge again and stopped. I just
couldn't seem to come, but I was extremely turned on.
He cut the tape behind my back and released my breasts. He
began peeling it off slowly from both sides while standing in
front of me; he was watching my face closely, and as he pulled he
made the two tugging, almost-painful points of detachment move
symmetrically toward my nipples. My breath quickened as they
zeroed in. I moaned and closed my eyes so that I wouldn't be
embarrased by him watching me. Funny how the mind works
sometimes.
He kissed me again. He's a great kisser. The average guy
seems to have a theory that putting his tongue down your throat
proves he's a passionate lover. Not that I have anything against
tongues, it's just that they don't automatically impress me. J
does, though. Impress me, I mean.
"I guess you passed the test," he said. I don't know what
test, but I suspect he wanted to know if I trusted him, and he
wanted me to know I could trust him. At least I haven't been
afraid since; if he were going to do something perverted to me he
would have done it then, I figured.
Anyway, he cut me free of the chair. I was still pretty
hot. Relieved and hot. I guess the excitement, apprehension, and
foreplay are a pretty deadly combination. I will admit I was
afraid, even though I trust him much more than I would anyone
else -- afraid to be taped to the chair that way. He could have
done anything to me. I would like to be able to say that my
trust was stronger than my fear, but I don't know. My panic was
held in check partly by my reluctance to offend him with
mistrust. A midwesterner is the only animal that will allow a
sense of etiquette to overcome the instinct for self
preservation.
He told me to get into bed. I did, still turned extremely
on.
He released the mosquito netting over the bed-alcove; I
thought idly: no mosquitos in February. The netting formed a
curtain so that the alcove became a warm, candle-lit intimate,
private and secure little world. But those eye-rings. I noticed
four more on the corners of the bed, but it just didn't matter.
Floating again. He took something from the bedside table, tossed
it to me, and told me to put it on. I examined it. A blindfold.
Suddenly visions of a man wearing a Nazi SS uniform hat,
with a leather jockstrap and black socks held up by garters
flashed through my mind, and I laughed. Snorted, actually. J
looked at me impasssively, pausing with his shirt half
unbuttoned. His mouth smiled a very small smile. His eyes didn't
join in the fun.
I hadn't thought about it at the time we made up the List,
but I was going to be one of Those People. It was just too, too
ridiculous. True, as I had told J, I fantasize about being tied
down and forced to have fantastic orgasms until I was too
exhausted to cry for mercy, but somehow I didn't connect my
fantasies with that ludicrous leather-scene reality.
He asked me what was going on in my head, and I explained,
still suppressing giggles and snorts. He nodded thoughtfully,
paused, and flipped the comforter off my nakedness.
Instinctively, my hands flashed to cover myself again, but I
couldn't stop laughing.
He took something out of the bedside table. Suddenly he
rolled me over on my stomach and straddled my back. One at a
time he pulled my arms to my sides and pinned them there with his
legs. Still laughing, I twisted left and right to try and see
what he was doing. I couldn't. Gently, he twined my hair in his
hand and pulled my head back. He didn't try to hurt me, but I
had to arch my neck back and lift my upper torso off the bed to
relieve the pulling on my hair.
"Hey, come on..." I tried to say. Something was forced
against my half- open mouth. He held it there with one hand and
continued to pull gently but insistently on my hair with the
other.
"Open your mouth," he said, "all the way."
I tried to say 'It IS open,' but it just came out a garbled
burble and the thing slipped in a little more. I couldn't shake
him loose or force it out with my tongue, and he couldn't get it
in any further unless I opened my mouth more. We remained at
this impasse for a moment more, until I foolishly tried to say
something else around the object and he forced it in a little
more. Finally, still smiling to myself, I capitulated and
relaxed my jaw as much as I could. I decided to go along with it
and make the effort not to laugh. He compressed the object with
his fingers and pushed -- gently, but enough. It went in. It
felt huge. Suddenly it wasn't such an effort to stop laughing. I
couldn't even smile. Or even move my lips enough to make it look
like I would have smiled if I could have. I had never seen -- or
even heard of -- a "ball gag" before.
He took his hand away and it stayed in my mouth. I couldn't
open my mouth wide enough to push it out with my tongue, and my
hands were still held at my sides. It tasted slightly of rubber.
Hey, I thought, beginning to wake up to what was going on.
I felt him pull a strap behind my head; he buckled it in
place. Then I heard a click. He got off me. The second my hands
were free, I reached up to pull the thing out of my mouth, but
the strap held it securely. Beginning to panic, I reached around
in back of my head to undo the buckle and my scrabbling fingers
found a miniature paddlock. The strap wouldn't slide off over my
head. Again my hands went to the thing in my mouth. It wouldn't
budge. It felt like a rubber ball about the size of a racquet
ball. The strap went through the middle of it. It didn't matter
that my hands were free, I couldn't budge it. Pointlessly, I
tried to say something, I don't remember what. He turned his
back on me, threw the mosquito curtain aside, and walked out into
the bedroom. I got up and ran after him and grabbed him by the
arm. I ran around in front of him so I could make eye contact,
and tried to say "I won't laugh," but I just made a muffled
"Aaaah Ah Aaaah" noise. Looking up at him, I tried to make my
eyes talk since my mouth couldn't. Hey, come on, I was thinking.
You didn't really mean to do this to me, did you? This is a
mistake, right? Right?
"The answer is no," he said, "this is lesson time." He
walked out of the room, leaving the door open. I stood there
bewildered for a moment, not knowing what to do next. Then I ran
into the bathroom to look for scissors or a razor to cut the
strap. When I turned the light on I caught sight of myself in
the mirror. My face was grotesque. My mouth was held open -- wide
open -- my lips stretched around this THING, my lipstick smeared.
My eyes were round and frantic above it. My hair was wild,
tangled around the strap. My shaking hands fluttered uselessly
around the gag, feeling at the corners of my poor mouth and
around the back of the strap. I banged medicine cabinet doors
open and rummaged through the dressing table drawers, but there
was nothing I could use to cut it. He knew there was nothing.
That's why he'd left me alone.
I ran back out through the bedroom to the living room. He
was sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, looking into the
fire. He even didn't look up. I ran toward my bedroom where my
toiletries were -- I knew there were scissors there. The hall
door was locked. So was the kitchen door. I just stood there not
knowing what to do next. I walked back to the living room and
stood in the doorway. Obviously, I wasn't going to get around
this without his help. I needed to get control of myself. I
went to the desk and scribbled on an envelope: 'PLEASE TAKE IT
OUT!!!!!!' and handed it to him. Without looking at it he said,
"Sit down." I sat.
"Are you in serious pain?"
I thought a moment, took a long shaky breath (in through my
nose: I could only exhale, mumble, and drool around that thing in
my mouth). "Aaahh," I said, shaking my head 'no'.
"Is it on the List?"
"Aaaaha," I nodded, wiping saliva from the side of my mouth
with my hand and wiping it on my naked hip. Bound and gagged, it
was there on the List.
"Then think about it until you know what to do," he said.
"You don't have to be a rocket scientist."
So I sat there on the sofa, knees together, hands folded in
my lap, again the prim victorian except for, well, just about
everything. I was helpless. He already had complete control, so
he couldn't want that. I knew it all started because of my
laughing over the blindfold. Really, it was as much nervous
laughter as humorous. I often react to unfamiliar situations
with a nervous laugh. I have embarrased myself several times by
laughing at absolutely the exact wrong moment, like when someone
said his dog was dead and I thought for some reason that he was
kidding, and he really liked the dog. I could have died. I've
never gotten over having said that. Sometimes I twitch with the
sudden embarrasment when I remember it.
But it's not fair to punish someone for a nervous laugh.
That's like punishing someone for a hiccough. Of course, I
couldn't explain that to J. I couldn't explain anything.
I looked at him again. He was still looking at the fire.
He wanted me to DO something, not say something. That was fairly
obvious, even to a non-rocket scientist. I wiped more saliva
from the side of my mouth. I was getting cold again, so I got up
to go into the bedroom for the comforter. I looked at him to see
if he objected. He didn't even look up. I was at liberty to do
anything I wanted. Sort of.
While I was getting the comforter, I noticed the bedside
table was open; it was where he had gotten the blindfold. The
drawer had a heap of chains and leather and padlocks in it. I
wrapped the comforter around myself and after another mournful
glance in the mirror, went back out. God, I looked awful. He
glanced up, but said nothing.
I sat back down. My jaw was starting to ache a little, and
I had to wipe my face again. He wasn't going to let me just back
out of this gracefully. I had to apologize? Anything to get it
off. I picked up the envelope from the floor where he dropped it
and wrote: I'M SORRY. He didn't even look at it. I moaned in
frustration. Obviously action was what he wanted. I had agreed
to be his slave, so I had better start acting like one. So I got
down on my knees by his chair and waited. He looked at me. I
said "Aaaaah?" He had to know it was "Please?" He reached out
and stroked my hair. He was remarkably tender for someone who
had just done this to me. The bastard. For a moment I thought he
was going to take it off, but he just stroked my hair again, and
then stopped. I waited. That wasn't it, but I was getting warm.
Then I had a bright idea: the blindfold. Duh. I wish I
could tell you my real name. It's derived from an old Sioux
indian word meaning "not-rocket-scientist."
I got up and went into the bedroom. The blindfold was on
the pillow. I looked at the open drawer again, and lifted out
some of the stuff in there. There was a jumble of light-weight
chains and four short leather straps with buckles and rings. They
looked like extra-small dog collars with those buckle tongues
that have a hole for a dog tag. Or a lock. There were lots of
little tiny paddlocks, just like the one that I was sure was on
the back of my neck. They were all open, but no keys were in the
drawer. The chains didn't look particularly heavy duty, but I
knew they would be stronger than most people. Stronger than me.
There was one large strap like the others. A collar. Well, I was
supposed to be a slave. It seemed like a good time to start
acting like one.
I took the whole drawer out of the table and carried it out
into the living room. I got down on my knees again and put the
drawer on the floor in front of him. At least he was looking at
me instead of the fire. One by one I took the things out of the
drawer and put them on the floor between us. He rewarded me with
a faint smile, but didn't move.
I picked up the small straps, and put one on each wrist.
Then one on each ankle, hurrying against the growing discomfort
of the gag. I kept looking up at him and fumbling with the
straps, looking to see if I was doing the right thing. I had to
wipe my mouth again. Then I put on the collar and buckled it. My
jaw was really beginning to ache. I looked up at him again. At
that stage I would have begged sincerely if I could have spoken.
He glanced down at the drawer. The locks. I snapped them
through the tongues of the strap buckles. I had trouble with the
collar. I couldn't see it and my hands were trembling. He helped
me.
I sat back on my heels and waited. He motioned me to come
closer. I moved over next to him, still kneeling on the
comforter. He reached down again and stroked my hair, but didn't
do anything about the gag. I was getting desperate. The ache had
turned to real pain. I was starting to cry, which just made my
jaw hurt more. I put my arms around his legs and through my
tears tried once more to say "Please?" but I was crying and
shaking from the cold and my nose was running, and my begging
just came out as a kind of high-pitched whine. He reached down,
picked up the blindfold, and handed it to me. With shaking
hands, I put it on, at my absolute limit.
"Pick up the chains," he said. Kneeling there, I felt
blindly for the drawer and gathered the chains into my hands,
still squeaking, whining, and sniffing. It really hurt. I was
feeling what cynical doctors call 'minor discomfort.' He picked
me up and carried me into the bedroom and put me on the bed. The
chains rattled and I felt him pull my legs apart and lock my
ankle straps to the chains. I could think of nothing but my poor
mouth. Then he chained my right wrist.
At last I felt him working the lock at the back of my neck.
Then the buckle. The strap was loose. I reached to remove the
gag, but he held my left wrist and forced it back, and locked it
to the last chain. I still couldn't push the gag out of my
mouth. I moaned, and remember thinking I probably sound -- and
look -- just like those leather and bondage people. But I didn't
feel like laughing this time. I was completely beaten. I would
have given anything just to get that thing out of my mouth.
Anything.
"I'm going to take it out now. Don't say anything for the
rest of the night." Gently, he took it out and let my mouth
close. It hurt to close it after having it held open so far for
so long. I had probably had that thing in my mouth for only
ten or fifteen minutes, as I think back on it now, but it had
seemed like an eternity. The ache starts in your jaw and spreads
to pain in your ears and throat. It hurts to swallow, like I were
spraining something. My ears were ringing when he finally took it
out.
I heard water running in the bathroom, then felt him wipe my
nose and face with a warm, damp washcloth; he spread the
comforter over me, and pulled it up to just below my breasts.
Then he kissed me gently, taking care with my mouth, which
despite the extremity of my earlier pain, had almost stopped
hurting. Certainly kissing didn't hurt. He kissed me again,
through the blindfold, near the corners of my eyes. He can be so
tender. When he wants to be.
I felt him sit on the bed beside me. He stroked my face
gently with the backs of his knuckles. Chained the way I was, I
should have felt exposed, helpless, and naked, especially with
the blindfold and not being able to see what he was going to do
next, but somehow I didn't feel the nakedness as acutely; oddly,
that was because I was blindfolded. I wonder if ostriches really
hide their heads in the sand to feel safe. Of course not.
Silly. My first and middle names together translate roughly as
"Not-rocket-scientist-who-is-stupider-than-ostrich."
Safe is different from helpless, though, and I was helpless.
Safe and helpless. His kisses and caresses were nonsexual at
first, and comforting. I was warm and toasty, and realized that
nothing was required of me but that I keep my big fat mouth shut.
Anyway, I couldn't do anything in this position but passively
accept whatever he chose to do. I was not responsible for
anything.
His kisses became warmer and I became more and more
detached. Let him kiss me, I thought. Let him do anything he
wants. After what just happened I don't have to do anything but
lie here. My lips won't respond to his. And they didn't. It was
like I was there in the room watching this happen to someone
else, someone numb. He got under the covers with me and his
hands began to move over my body, his caresses more sexual. I
realized he had undressed sometime after I was blindfolded. His
hand slid down my stomach to just below my navel. And ever so
lightly, lower, where my skin turns to silk. My breath caught and
stomach muscles betrayed me by tightening involuntarily, as
though I had been tickled.
His hand slid lower still and cupped my hairless sex,
stroking gently. I was determined not to respond, and again my
detachment returned. He continued to stroke. My skin felt so
smooth down there; I could see the point of the hairlessness, I
thought for the second time. But I was determined not to respond.
Not to move. I could have an orgasm and he would never know, I
thought. I was becoming more and more detached; floating, almost
dreaming. His caresses became more insistent; his fingers
entered me. Still I didn't respond. I deliberately relaxed.
This is going to be hard to explain. As he continued to
stroke and kiss me, I remained detached, but my body began to
move through no effort on my part. Sounds like I'm making this
up, I know. It was as if I was watching from outside, still
completely relaxed, and my body was acting on its own. I watched
my body's hips move first, ever so slightly, pushing against his
expert hand. He stroked more gently, searching and probing,
finding exactly the right spot. My hips began to move
rythmically. His hand left my sex and moved up to my body's
breasts. A gentle stroke and my nipples came awake. I felt his
lips on my nipples, sucking and nibbling gently. They were
erect, hardened. He continued, becoming stronger, more insistent,
until they began to ache. Suddenly his hand was at my sex again.
My body gasped and arched, pulling against the chains. My knees
lifted up, my legs bent as far as the chains would let them.
I stopped, frozen and watched as my body's breathing become
ragged. I watched him position himself over me and slowly --
very slowly -- enter me. My body was already shuddering on its
own. He supported his weight with his arms so that he was almost
suspended above me. My spreadeagled body was floating
weightless, penetrated, and quivering with excitement. He began
moving ever so slowly and gently with what felt like enormous
but controlled strength -- strength held in reserve.
My body was gasping and panting involuntarily, drawing in
great gulps of air and making the same incoherent whining noises
I had earlier when I was crying, gagged. Then my back arched off
the bed, my limbs pulled all the chains suddenly taut, and my
body held itself rock still, almost vibrating, not breathing. My
throat made a little squeak, and he made one more powerful,
expertly timed thrust, the slowest of all. I don't think I was
even climaxing yet, but it was as good as any orgasm.
He stroked me again, slowing the pace until it was
almost imperceptibly slow. I was on the very edge. My body had
to start breathing again: suddenly I started panting frantically
and spasming uncontrollably against the chains. His weight
descended on my body, pinning me to the bed. Spasm after spasm
wracked my body, but he held me immobile. The chains tautened
rythmically as I pulled at them, and my head tossed back and
forth. He slipped his arms under my shoulders and held my head
immobile between his two hands. His mouth came down on mine,
hungry. His hips moved rhythmically now, no longer gentle.
Finally the dam broke. My orgasm seemed to last forever and ever
and ever and ever.
-*-
As I lay there exhausted, almost getting my breath back, I
felt him inside me, still hard. As soon as he felt I was ready,
he began again, this time for himself alone. Slowly at first,
then, keeping himself on the edge, slowly, ever so slowly, with
pauses to prolong his pleasure. I built to a second orgasm, and a
third, while he had his way (Listen to me! I'm even sounding like
a victorian midwesterner. Had his way.... Sheesh!) but he didn't
notice. He used me until he was shudderingly, gaspingly, through
with me. I wish I hadn't been blindfolded. I would have liked
watching his face. But on the other hand, all things
considered.... Well, why fix it if it works, as grandad used to
say. Not in exactly this context, though.
I drifted off and vaguely remember him cleaning me up,
unlocking the chains, and carrying me back to my bedroom.
-*-
When I woke up this morning, I was in my own bed, and the leather
cuffs, anklets, and collar were still on. It was just barely
sunrise, and I ached deliciously almost everywhere. I went to
the bathroom. I was a mess: my eyes were two big smudges where
my mascara had run under the blindfold last night. After a quick
pee and a wash, I dashed back to a warm bed just in time for him
to come into my room with coffee and hot english muffins. He was
fully dressed already, and after a quick kiss and a few
instructions, he was on his way to work.
The instructions were to start writing this. After a good
lie in, I got up and poked around the house. His bedroom was
locked, but the rest of the house was open to me. It wasn't
until I noticed that my suitcases were gone (cute trick) that I
realized I hadn't considered leaving him -- even during the worst
part of last night. He didn't need to take my clothse to keep me
here, but still, it gives me a kind of warm feeling that he did.
He should know better, after last night. I'll stay.
Well, that's enough for now. I have to get ready for him
and I'm tired of typing anyway. Wordstar says I did 27 pages.
Stream of consciousness writing and Mrs. Cooke's typing class, I
guess. He'll be home in another hour, and tomorrow is Saturday.
-*-
Well, he seemed satisfied with what I wrote Friday. It's Sunday
now; I don't have time to tell you about Friday night and
Saturday now. Later, though. It looks like this is going to
turn into a diary. In fact, he said he was surprised I wrote so
much. Still, he had me go back and add in some stuff, like the
part about my nipples. I hated that. And some other stuff, too.
I had to change the names, places, etc., "to protect the
innocent" (the guilty, actually) so it couldn't be traced to us.
So if anyone ends up reading this, it has been edited. But not
bowdlerized, so don't feel cheated. He makes me put in stuff,
not take it out.
I'm supposed to tell you more about myself, what I look
like, why I'm doing this, what motivates me. I only have an
hour, so today's entry will be short and factual. I am five feet
two and one half inches, one hundred and eight pounds. So for my
adult life I have had a choice between "short" and "petite"; I
don't like either. Altitudinally challenged? I wear a lot of high
heels. Old fashioned, I know, but I'm a midget without them.
When I wear running shoes, people say "Wow, I didn't know you
were so short." Wow. Thanksalot. I say.
Light brown hair, longish, but to be honest the quality of
my hair leaves something to be desired. It is kind of coarse and
kinky with lots of little tight curls. It looks like I've had a
bad permanent and need another, but I haven't and I don't. My
hair will never be smooth and shiny like in the TV adds. Every
time I wash it, it bushes out like an afro and gets unruly. It
was down to the middle of my back in high school, but since then
I have been shortening it until it is a little longer than
shoulder length. It's really inconvenient to keep it pinned
under a nurses hat, but J doesn't want me to cut it, and I
haven't since we met. I would like to try it short, though.
My complexion is clear, my eyes are blue-grey, and together
I think they are my best features. My eyes are large, and I
enhance them a lot with makeup. I am not beautiful, but I'm
certainly not unattractive. I think somewhere between pretty and
"handsome" (definitely not butch, though) might fit me. Despite
my size, 'pert' has never been said of me, thank God. I'm also
definitely not the cheerleader type. My friends all say I am
unconventionally attractive. Back home in Indiana, I never had
trouble attracting men, even men who like conventional movie
star-type beauty, but then, most of the boys in my home town were
such jerks I didn't bother much. And all the conventional movie
star type beauties left as soon as they could. So did everyone
else. So did I. Even an ostrich would have left.
In my home town three bowling shirts is considered a
complete wardrobe. The guys were more interested in cars and
beer. It was unmanly for these types to actually talk to a
woman; getting the attention of one of these specimens just
wasn't worth it, believe me. Sort of like saddling a cow: it can
be done, but it's a lot of work and what's the point? These
bucolic wags would stand around the back of a pickup and belch
witicisms like "No man should plant more garden than his woman
can hoe," and then guffaw. Then some buffoon that was so dim he
hadn't heard that one before would laugh and spray beer out
through his nose and that would be the high point of the
evening. Do I sound bitter?
So through most of my high-school years I kept that
wholesome "don't-touch-me-there farm girl look" and didn't wear
much makeup until my last year. Then I met an older guy I
thought I liked and started wearing makeup to be more "mature".
That lasted two weeks until at a critical moment I discovered he
had a mirror over his bed. Talk about tacky. It should have had
a sign: Objects Appear Larger Than They Are. Besides, he didn't
like my nipples. So when that didn't work out I decided to go to
college. So I was a virgin until I was nineteen, and then again
until I was twenty-two (so I'm a little slow). That was when I
met J.
I read a lot, exercise a lot, and keep fit, but I haven't
yet achieved that lean, hard, sinewy look that many of the women
at the exercise spa "up north" had. I still have smooth rounded
curves, but I'm working on a "hardbody". I'll have to join a spa
here. Okay, okay, my measurements are 34-23-34, and I wear a B
cup. Happy now? (Thankyousomuch for reminding me, J.) My
shoulders are narrow, and my upper body strength needs a lot more
development.
I have good legs; in heels, great, in fact. Long for my size.
My hips are rather wide, but that is because my legs are set
further apart than one finds in most women; actually my thighs
are slim. There is just a wider space between my legs than most
women have. I don't know why I have to tell you this -- I never
even thought about it until J had me add the last few sentences.
J says it makes me look great in jeans. I guess he's thought
about it. The space between my legs, I mean. I hadn't until now.
I tan easily, but don't go in for it, it's so hard on the
skin; also, where I come from, a tan means you are a farm hand. I
suppose some would describe me as pale. Others might describe me
as very pale. But I have good skin, so I'm not pasty and pale,
just pale. I try to keep my skin as perfect as possible (no junk
food). It is very fine (small pores), and I am proud of my
complexion. I do wear makeup, though, maybe a little more than I
need to. I just like putting it on, okay? Still a little girl
playing with mom's makeup, I guess.
I'm nearsighted enough that I definitely need glasses when I
drive, but I wear contact lenses instead most of the time. I
have a pair that makes my eyes look very blue, but they looked so
artificial I got another colorless pair. Too flambuoyant for a
midwesterner. Someone might think I was trying to be different,
God forbid.
So I'm just a midwestern farmgirl -- except for the makeup.
You've seen women that have absolutely perfect makeup? You know
the ones: lips crisply and perfectly outlined, the corners of
their mouths painted sharp, eyeliner neat with sharp corners,
eyeshadow a perfect blend of shades, mascara unclumped, eyebrows
neatly lined, skin smooth, uniform, and powdered. They look
like they spend too much time on their faces. Well, they do: I'm
one of them. On the other hand, there are a lot of women out
there who could take a little more care with their appearance.
J thinks I spend so much time on my makeup because I like
to keep everything under perfect control. He thinks I use makeup
to compensate for what I percieve to be other out-of-control
imperfections. I suppose he means my hair. Or my nipples. They
have been an embarrasment, but I don't tihnk they have shaped my
life. Maybe he's right. I just haven't been able to convince
myself that he is telling the truth when he says he actually
prefers them the way they are. Hell, he says he likes me without
makeup, too. He just thinks he does. Or likes to think that he
he would. Men.
My friends tell me I'm a typical midwesterner in my
attitudes. It's true. My family never ever discussed sex. I
was never told the "facts of life." In the midwest, embarassment
has been promoted from an emotion to a way of life. We just don't
discuss these things. Thank God for sex ed. in school.
Hey -- I'm multiorgasmic. I wish that meant something
important, but it really just means J is a sensitive lover. I
never thought much about it before, probably because I wasn't
that way with any other guys. My orgasms are almost predictable
(not boring, though). With J I nearly always start with a small
fluttery frissant near the beginning and then have a major one in
the middle. He works to make that one enjoyable and always waits
for me before he has his. About half the time I have a third one,
but the second is almost always the best. Sounds predictable and
boring, I know, but I know (knew) so many girls that don't have
them at all, I feel lucky. Things might change now, though. We
are definitely exploring new territory.
I have to add something else here. I don't even believe it,
but he says put it in anyway. He says I have an aloof and almost
cruel looking face. Something about the shape of my nostrils, for
God's sake. Cruel aloof nostrils? Come on. He says it's one of
the things that attracted him to me initially. I'm neither.
Really.
Motivations. We've talked about this a lot. Being in charge
of the nurses on an entire floor usually means I have to organize
and direct the people around me. I'm really not cut out for
that: it's a part of my life that's genuinely not under my
control, and yet my job demands that I be able to exert control
and I get caught in the middle. My personality just doesn't
carry the necessary weight. I guess we all have aspects of our
lives and jobs that require we be forceful. I fake it well, but
still I am faking it. Maybe that's why I have this dual urge to
give up and get out from under responsibility on the one hand,
and to exert complete and unquestioned control on the other.
Hence the two- column List(?) It seems to express the same
duality. J feels the same pressures in his job, and in many ways
the two columns reflect these two sides of our personalities.
Here's my theory: It seems certain that the differences
between male/female (dominant/passive, whatever) roles and
behavioural patterns are the result of social -- maybe even
biological -- evolution. If so, it follows that they are a
socio/biological adaptation imposed on a pre-existing background
psychology that is almost certainly more gender-intermediate than
either of those two stereotypic extremes. It then follows that
there is an unexpressed "more feminine" side to males and an
unexpressed "more masculine" side of the female psychology. Both
of these sides are perfectly "natural." Perhaps much of what is
regarded as deviant sexual behaviour (that is, deviant from the
acceptable stereotypic extremes of the male-female spectrum) is
the unguarded expression of those natural but sexually
intermediate feelings.
On the other hand, I had a younger nurse working on my floor
once that was 6'1" tall and would have been georgeous but she
wanted to be petite. She slouched, and was shy, and managed to
look unattractive just because she wasn't comfortable with
herself. I would have killed to be six feet tall, so I was
always trying to seem taller: I adopted good posture as a way of
life and tried to project confidence rather than diffidence. Odd
that our lives can be more affected by what we want to be than by
what we actually are.
Anyway, I'm required to be more dominant in my job than
comes naturally to me. I hate that, and would often prefer to be
passive and not have the responsibility. At the same time,
because I am sometimes (being female and short) unable to exert a
strong dominant influence, I would like for just once to control
someone or something without being challenged. I want both, I
guess. I've only felt that sense of control when downhill
skiing. I'm a pretty good skiier, and really feel an
exhilarating sense of domination over the mountain. I wonder if
it could be that good to dominate a man....
Or maybe I'm just justifying my facination with the List by
inventing complex pseudo-psychological excuses. Publically, I
have always claimed to be repelled by such things, but privately
I'm drawn to "the dark side" of my own nature. If I see erotic
literature on a bookshelf, I am embarrased in case anyone I know
should see me looking at it, but simultaneously I want to find
out what is in it. Repelled and attracted. What a mixed up prude
from Indiana.
After reading this manifesto of a hyper-prude, if you could
see the outfit I'm wearing right now, you'd wonder if I was the
same person. But I vas only followink ordersz, mein fuhrer. I'm
wearing what he told me to.
Oops. J is driving up the driveway. Time to go. I'll fill
you in on the weekend while he's at work tomorrow. O.K., I've
admitted all. No more pop-psych. And that's it for today anyway.
Fun and games time....
The List
Column 1
Item 3
Well, it's Monday. I'm sitting here at the computer wearing the
second outfit he had me make. Actually, I didn't make it from
scratch, I modified it from a spandex exercise leotard. Black,
naturally. Why is it men like black so much? It's one of those
french cut "thong" designs with just the thinnest behind in the
cleft between my cheeks. He had me modify it to show more of me
on either side of my sex in front. I guess even then he was
planning on me being hairless down there. This is going to take
some getting used to, I guess.
Anyway, he thing is made a little more comfortable by
wearing pantyhose underneath. Of course they just HAVE to be
charcoal gray sheer-to-the-waist. More instructions. It unsnaps
under the crotch, too, for easy removal -- and access, too, I
guess. I had to lower the scoop neckline, front and back, and
enlarge the armholes so that my breasts are all-but-completely
exposed. A half-inch either way and a nipple would peek out. Men
really go for the obvious, don't they?
I was wearing this on Friday evening when he came home from
work, although without the pantyhose, because they looked funny
over the leather ankle cuffs. I actually could have cut the
cuffs off, since I now have the run of the house and could get at
the scissors. But why bother: I don't want to escape from
anything now anyway. That sounds suspiciously like the old joke
about not needing to fix the roof when it's not raining.
Idle thought: I think he likes my makeup the way it is
despite what he says. (I described it in my first entry about a
century ago.) He hasn't told me to change it, and when he kisses
me hello, he is careful not to mess it up. That comes later
(messing it up, I mean).
By the way, he has a business trip to San Francisco
scheduled for later this week. He's taking me along! He told me
on Saturday when he took me shopping for some new clothse.
But I haven't told you about Friday night, yet. It was a
warm night, warm enough to leave the windows open, but we had the
sinful luxury of a fire in the fireplace anyway. Early Spring
breezes and a fireplace in February.... I could get to like the
South.
Just now, as I was typing, my mother called from Indiana to
find out if I survived the move from Chicago. Her only exposure
to the Deep South was watching the movie Deliverance, so she was
worried. It felt weird sitting at the kitchen table chatting on
the phone with my mother while wearing this outfit. If she could
have seen me, I don't know which one of us would have been more
embarassed. 'Dueling prudes' would have been the theme song if
Deliverance had been made in Indiana. She wants me to get
married. I guess all mothers nag about that. Mine seems to have
plans about how my entire life should be, and what I should be
like. She lays me out on this pattern -- like a dress pattern,
but of herself -- and worries and snips and prods away at any
bits don't fit the pattern. Her strategy is to wear you out.
We're too embarrased to actually come right out and argue in
Indiana. We shut oven doors a little more noisily than is
absolutely necessary. Or I read a book and turn the pages
pointedly. A New Yorker could be in the middle of a war in
Indiana and not even realize it.
Anyway, I was going to tell you about Friday. It wasn't
nearly as traumatic as Thursday night had been. No gag, or
anything like that. We made love on a big fuzzy rug in front of
the fireplace. No, not a bear rug, some kind of Greek thing, made
of white wool, with about an eight (yes, 8) inch pile. It's like
a cloud. When it gets dirty, you just wash it in a washing
machine and let it shrink.
Anyway, we made love on the rug there by the fireplace. I
can see it now over the top of the monitor. Remember that I had
not seen him naked yet? At least not for six months. He still
hasn't let me. Not that he has anything to be ashamed of: he has
a teriffic body. One of the world's great asses. No, he's not
hiding his body: he wants to prolong my embarrasment and
discomfort at the inequality of the situation. There's nothing
more unequal than being naked when your partner is fully dressed,
especially the way I am naked and exposed Down There.
First, from my bathroom, he had me bring the blindfold and
some unscented talcum powder -- why is it that men don't like
pretty smells? Then I had to strip again for him. I tried to
make it more seductive this time. I'm determined to learn to do
it like a pro, but privately. But I think he likes embarrasment
more than a smooth act. He got both: I was doing my clumsy best
to do a seductive strip. I felt like a total ass, trying to
pretend I wasn't blushing furiously. It may never feel natural
to be so naked when he's so dressed, but then maybe a true pro is
one that knows how to keep her amateur status.
When I was through, I knelt in front of him. He had me put
on my own blindfold again. No hassle this time. I was a good
girl. At his direction, while still kneeling and blindfolded, I
began undressing him. I was getting excited. This was more like
my good old soft-core fantasies. When I had him naked, I took
him in my mouth, still kneeling. As deep as I could take him
without gagging. That is something else I wish I could do. I
think. If it's not bad for me. I bet there aren't many that can
do the Linda Lovelace routine. Unfortunately I'm not one of them.
Oral sex is something that I am trying to like.
So I tried, and gagged a bit; he noticed and gently tangled
his hand in the hair at the back of my head and pulled me away
from his erection. Still holding my head back, he knelt in front
of me and bent to kiss my exposed throat. I shivered as his
hands traversed my flanks. If it bothers me he doesn't want me to
do it. Sometimes.
Gently, he laid me on my back and began to massage my body
with the talcum powder. From my neck to my toes he spread and
rubbed, relaxing and kneading me. I went totally limp, turning
into jelly in his hands. Powdered jelly. My legs, which I had
been holding together instinctively in the approved midwestern
fashion, drifted apart a bit. He put the talcum powder
everywhere. Over my breasts, between my legs, over my already-
satiny and hairless mons. Then he rolled me over like a sack of
flour and began on my back. After covering and deeply kneading my
back, arms, and legs, he finished with my backside.
Gently he caressed the soft powder into my rear crevice.
Deeper and deeper. His fingers did everything but penetrate me
there. My body was completely covered in talcum powder from the
neck down. In my mind's eye I looked like a blindfolded marble
statue. His hands still worked on my crevice, relaxing me,
probing without penetrating. I wasn't ready for that, and I
think he knew, because he didn't try to force me. At first I was
nervous that he would, and contracted involuntarily at his touch,
but as he continued to massage with the talcum powder, my trust
grew and I relaxed completely. I deliberately concentrated on
relaxing my rear opening. That's pretty daring for someone like
me. I'm not even sure it's LEGAL to relax those muscles in
Indiana.
Still he continued to tease and stroke. Preparing me
physically; I was completely ready. My buttocks rose to meet his
hand, clenching to grasp and draw him in (more daring still), but
he told me to relax. I tried. The anticipation and nervous
excitement I felt were mixed with more than a little
apprehension; I had never tried this before. It is one of those
things that facinate and repell me simultaneously. But still he
teased, and did not attempt to penetrate me. My heart beat
faster but he kept telling me to relax. It is a funny feeling,
concentrating on letting your body become mush while your heart
won't stop thumping. Finally I settled down. I had no muscles
whatever, just a tiny core of expectancy. I was jello. Melted
passive jello. He could have done anything with me. I wanted him
to.
"Get up on your hands and knees," he said. I did. I was
disoriented, coming back to reality blindfolded from such a
physically relaxed state, but I managed to wobble to all fours,
and knelt there swaying. His hands continued to work on me, both
sides, under and above simultaneously. I began to moan and thrust
my buttocks against his hand again, trying to grasp his fingers
to signal my readyness. And I was ready. Even eager to try it.
IT. That is further than I had ever dreamt I would actually go.
And I wanted to go further!
But it was not to be. He just wanted to show me how far I
could be persuaded to go. I was dripping with anticipation.
Literally and figuratively.
"Straddle me," he said. He was on his back beside me. He
helped me, half lifted me, onto him. I could feel his erection
between my thighs. I was on all fours again, but he was guiding
himself inside me. I was really ready now. I slid onto him
slowly, carefully (I am small there), gradually accepting all of
him inside my now-quivering body. He held me still, preventing
me from rubbing against him. My vaginal and stomach muscles were
twitching and contracting involuntarily, and it took several
moments for me to regain control of myself. Eventually, I was
able to sit there with him inside me without going completely
crazy, although my breath was not at all steady. What now, I
wondered.
"Take this," he said, "give me a rubdown." I reached out and
fumbled in front of me. My hands found the talcum powder
container. What a time to pick for a rubdown. My mind was on just
one thing, and it wasn't talcum powder rubdowns. I sprinkled some
on his chest and began massaging it in, spreading it over his
upper body and arms. As I rocked back and forth, rubbing his
chest muscles, I felt a warm glow begin to spread from my center.
I spread powder over myself, too, massaging my own breasts,
something I wouldn't have done if I hadn't been blindfolded.
However natural it might be, it seems so narcissistic -- almost
masturbatory -- to stroke one's self, especially if someone else
is watching. I wouldn't do it on my first night, but this time
the blindfold somehow freed me from that inhibition. Since I
couldn't see his reaction, I wasn't responsible for responding to
him; I could do what I liked.
I imagined him watching, and I was aroused by my own
exhibitionism. I didn't have to guess how he felt about what I
was doing: I could feel him huge inside me, and I deliberately
made my little show more provocative, until I was stroking the
entire front of my body, crotch to blindfold, and panting
theatrically.
While I was busy showing off, my first orgasm caught me by
complete surprise. With a sharp intake of breath, I dropped the
talcum and steadied myself with my hands on his shoulders while I
convulsed on his hips; I started rocking wildly back and forth,
trying to reach for another orgasm. But as great as it was, an
orgasm in that position still isn't as satisfying as one with
full frontal body contact. He pulled me down onto his chest and
our fronts were suddenly one long satin interface. The talcum
powder gave our bodies the feel of living velvet melding
together, each sliding luxuriously against the other. I felt so
silky and smooth! All over. It was like the satin-smooth,
sensitive surface of my hairless sex extended over the entire
surface of my body, enveloping him. Us. I enclosed and enfolded
his body in mine and we came -- slowly -- to the first
simultaneous orgasm that we had ever had.
This is not something I can write about. I have deleted
several inadequate attempts, and have decided that an orgasm is
hard enough to describe. Simultaneous is perfection, and I am not
a writer capable of perfection. Still, you may applaud at this
point if you wish.
-*-
The List
Column 1
Item 4
The next day, Saturday, we went shopping at the Mall. Sounds
mundane, right? Well...
Around ten in the morning, he took off my collar and wrist
and ankle straps, and told me to put on my makeup and the same
white high-heeled sandals I had worn the first night -- nothing
else. I did as he asked, not knowing what was coming. Then he
held my fleece-lined coat out for me. I slipped into it.
Standing behind me with his arms around me, he hugged the fleece
lining against my bare skin and said over my shoulder, "Time to
go shopping."
"Like this!?" I said, hoping he was kidding. He wasn't.
Jeezus, I think. He's taking me out in public like this! It
wasn't cold, but I didn't know if I could handle it. It sounded
tittilating and exciting on paper, on the List, but now...
"Don't button the coat," he said. We walked side by side to
the car, my coat flapping, exposing my extreme nakedness. I
looked down at my body. It was too much. I balked at the car; I
knew that if I got in, I wouldn't be able to stop this. I just
stood there undecided, looking at him as though he would tell me
what to do to solve this problem.
"Are you refusing to go?" he asked.
"We agreed to no public humiliation," I said, "it's not fair
to keep my coat open."
"If you do as I say there will be no public humiliation," he
said, emphasizing the word 'public.' "You have to trust me. Are
you trying to bargain with me?" he said with that same look that
he had just before he put the gag in my mouth last Thursday.
"No," I said hurriedly. "It's just that I...I..." I got
into the car, hoping it wasn't too late to avoid whatever he had
in mind. I could see it was something. It wasn't worth breaking
the bargain over, though. I got in. You have to trust.
He told me to pull my coat up around my hips so my bare skin
was on the cold seat. I did, and tried to pull the coat around me
as best I could to keep the rest of me warm. We really drove to
a shopping mall, and he got out of the car, came around and
opened my door and told me to get out. I did, holding my coat
closed. Then he told me I could button it, thank God. I looked
around the immense parking lot -- only a sea of cars, no people
in sight -- and said, "I can't believe I'm really doing this."
Then we really did it.
We went into the mall. I felt all eyes were upon me, that
everyone knew. He put my arm through his and led me into a dress
shop. We wandered around looking at dresses (he looked, I
pretended to look while I worried about people unmasking me -- as
though, even if someone did somehow know, they would whip off my
coat and have me arrested). A a shop assistant came up and asked
me if she could help. Somehow I was expecting him to answer for
me, but he didn't. He just looked at something on one of the
racks. I stammered "Just looking, thanks," and as she walked
away I realized with an idiotic thrill that she didn't suspect
anything. Of course she didn't. Idiot. J had found a dress in my
size. It was a long-sleeved mohair-like knit turtleneck in
white, not really a mini, but well above the knee. He knew my
size. He handed it to me and told me to try it on. The
assistant came up to us again and showed me to a changing room.
"Can I take your coat for you?"
Oh God. "No, thankyou," I said, praying. Fervently.
"Let me know if I can help you." ThankyouGodOThankyou.... I
swear, if she had asked me why I wanted to keep my coat, I would
have said 'Oh, for sentimental reasons.' I couldn't think of any
other reason. Total blank. Idiot.
In the changing room I slipped the coat off, the dress on,
smoothed it down and looked at myself in the mirror. It was
obvious to me that I wasn't wearing anything underneath it, but I
didn't know if it would be to anyone else. The dress was (is)
very form-fitting. At least I couldn't see through it. Or at
least I thought I couldn't. My nipples aren't dark enough to show
through, and, of course, no dark pubic hair. If my nipples
didn't become erect -- which of course they did immediately --
no-one would notice a thing. I look okay without a bra. I mean I
don't sag much. J says I sag just exactly the right amount,
whatever that means; I always thought ANY sag was too much, but
he insists that's not true. Something about the way they slope,
or something, he says. Men. I waited and tried to concentrate
on other things until my nipples stopped performing.
I came out and modeled the dress for J, expecting the shop
assistant to show up any moment with a security guard: "That's
the one, Officer." When she did show up, I was afraid to even
look at her in case my guilty expression gave me away. I really
don't think she could tell, though. At least she kept a straight
face while she told me how nice it looked, trying to make a sale.
Of course, my nipples betrayed me immediately, erect and
screaming, "Here we are! Look! Over here! No underwear at all!
Call the police!" She probably would have had me arrested if she
hadn't been on commission. She rang it up and took J's credit
card.
"Would you like me to box it for you?"
"Um," I said wittily. We Hoosiers are known for our wit.
"Why don't you wear it," said J. Then to the shop assistant,
"Would you get the lady's coat, please?"
My eyes bugged out, and when she had gone I whispered
fiercely, "She'll see I wasn't wearing anything!" He smiled
benignly. "There's no other dress in the changing room!" I
explained, thinking he didn't understand and that he was the
stupidest person on the planet. He just smiled. I wanted to
hide. I hit him. He smiled some more. Somehow, without resorting
to any logical thought process, my mind had concluded that this
must be a crime like shoplifting, except that instead of leaving
with three dresses on under your coat .... Well, there has to be
some rule about leaving with the right number, right? Anyway, I
was about to be apprehended. "I'm sorry, madam but you must leave
the store with a minimum of TWO dresses. It's the law. You
should know that, you're from Indiana."
As she came back out with the coat and a worried look, he
took it smoothly and thanked her, took my arm, and strolled out
the door. She was about to say something, but instead she looked
back at the changing rooms with a puzzled expression. I don't
think she figured it out. As they say about the South, "It ain't
the heat, it's the stupidity." I think this one actually WAS
stupid. Maybe she was from Indiana. Also-not-rocket-scientist.
We'd done it! My nipples sprang up again. I asked for my
coat. "Are you sure you want it," he says.
Sure? Of course I was sure. I whispered, "I'm still naked
under here, remember?" Talk about stupid. He looked at me
without saying anything. I thought over what I had just said,
and realized it sounded ridiculous. Everyone is naked under
their clothing. For some reason that sign you see on restaraunt
doors comes to mind: "No Bare Feet."
I have an okay body, and I have gone without a bra before.
Wot the hell, why not? I took his arm, leaned against him, and
we strolled slowly out of the mall. And I mean strolled. I could
feel the soft fabric shifting against my skin, and the thrill of
what I had just done made me feel on top of the world. Floating.
A man walking with his wife watched me go by, and I knew he was
admiring my body, not gaping at a naked person under a dress.
Well, maybe he was at that. His wife watched me too. When we had
started out for the mall, I couldn't believe he was really doing
this. Then we really did it. Then I couldn't believe we had
really done it. I still can't. But we really really did it.
At the car J said, "Do you want to have lunch somewhere?"
I looked him straight in the eye and said, "If you like, but
what I really want is to go home and change into my everyday
clothes." He smiled, knowing what I had to wear at home, and
unlocked the door. He opened it for me, and I got in, this time
pulling my dress up around my waist without being told. The last
half of the drive home is on a two lane rural road. When we were
out of the city traffic, I pulled the dress off over my head and
said "I don't want to get my only dress wrinkled, do I?" I rode
the rest of the way nude in the car beside him. Pure devilment.
And when we got out of the car at the house (which is safely
isolated in the middle of the ten wooded acres) I left him at the
car and strode ahead to the house in nothing but my shoes. I
waited by the door for him to open it. I was so full of myself.
Idiot. I'm thinking of changing my name to Definitely-not-
rocket-scientist.
-*-
The List
Column 1
Item 5
I don't know what had come over me. I had suddenly become
daring, deliberately doing outrageous things on my own, without
being made to. It felt great. Dangerous, but safe at the same
time. I felt I could handle anything on the List and maybe even
a few things that weren't on it.
When we were back in the house, he mentioned that he, too,
had noticed a change in me. I just smiled and went to get my
collar and cuffs. I call them cuffs, but they aren't handcuffs,
just brown, polished cowhide with little holes to lock on the
buckles. He has done some leatherwork as a hobby. In fact, he's
quite a handyman: he can do electronics, cabinetwork, carpentry,
plumbing, bodywork (on cars, on cars) and stuff like that. The
garage is a regular workshop, full of tools. He says he's been
waiting years to have a workshop. It must be nice to have a real
salary after so many years of school. Nurses don't get real
salaries. It only sounds real to high-schoolers.
I digress. After I had gotten the cuffs he told me he had
something special in mind for after lunch. We ate, I naked, he
fully clothed, then left the dishes on the breakfast nook table.
"Do you think that by 'strutting your stuff' you have
somehow made up for questioning me and hesitating at the car door
this morning?" he said. "Now put on your cuffs," he said,
striding toward the living room. He seems to enter this
artificial 'master mode' when he's about to do something to me.
Like he's reading from a script or something. I ran along side
him, fumbling with the cuffs, playing along.
"I thought you would be pleased," I said, "I did it for
you."
"And I sensed a little more than the desire to please in
your actions. There was pride and a touch of rebelliousness.
You were playing today's game to win." He really talks that way
when we're ... well ... doing this kind of stuff.
"No, really!" I protested, unconvincingly. He took my head
between his hands and held my face so I had to look him in the
eyes. He said nothing, just looked skeptical.
Okay, so taking off my dress unasked and then leaving him
standing by the car was, maybe, more than was strictly required
of me. "Well ... maybe ..." I hedged, not really admitting it, my
eyes sliding away from his.
"Besides," he said, releasing me, "you were fully dressed
the whole time, and nudity in a car with tinted windows on a
country road or in an isolated woods isn't really all that
daring. You know what they say about a tree falling in the woods
when there is no-one there to hear it..." He was right. I was
only brave when I was safe. But still, it felt ... exciting.
I was hopping on one foot trying to buckle a cuff around my
ankle and convince him at the same time. It didn't work; he
ignored me.
He told me to take out my contact lenses and lie down on the
dining room table and wait for him. The table is a heavy oak
refectory table. The top is three inches thick and made from a
single piece of wood from the trunk of a large tree. Long and
narrow, it weighs a ton, and is a beautiful antique. It was also
cold on my back. I laid myself out on it, legs together, fingers
intertwined on my stomach, and waited, like in a doctor's office,
staring at the ceiling. He came back with a tool box from the
garage, and a soft nylon rope. He tied my wrist cuffs together
under the table with my elbows hooked over the edge. My legs hung
over either side of the table and were similarly tied, my feet
pulled nearly together under the table by a rope tied to each
ankle.
It was a very awkward and ungraceful position to be in.
Despite my newfound inner 'coolness' (read cockyness), I was
becoming very embarrased again. By lifting my head and looking
down the length of my body, I could see my badly out-of-focus
reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. The table was wide
enough to hold my legs well apart, and with my knees hooked over
the edges of the table, I really couldn't get into a position to
pull them together -- which I really wanted to do: even though I
am nearly legally blind without glasses, I knew the view was
grossly, GROSSLY embarrasing, and I was grossly embarrased. I
have felt far less exposed and vulnerable in front of my
gynecologist.
He was standing behind my head, so I had to watch him in the
mirror or try to lift my shoulders and twist to the side to see
what he was doing. Rattling noises. Metallic scraping and a
hissing noise. In the mirror, I could see well enough to tell he
was lighting a blowtorch!! [After he read this, he told me to
correct it to propane torch, as if such details would have made
any difference to the way I felt.]
"What are you going to do to me!?" I cried, my voice
cracking, suddenly on the edge of hysteria. I wasn't absolutely
sure if I should actually BE hysterical or not, but I was not
going to pretend to be cooler than I felt.
He looked at me impassively, a look I had seen before. "You
haven't learned yet, have you? You're going to have to learn to
trust me," he said, and left the room.
I DO trust him, but Jesus, a BLOWTORCH! That's REAL scary
stuff. I was entitled to some kind of reassurance, wasn't I?
Some explanation? Well, I had already had all the explanation I
was going to get: "You have to trust me." I clung to the fact
that he seemed to care whether I trusted him, since in my
position he could have done whatever he wanted regardless.
He came back with the gag and stood beside me at the head of
the table. He put his hand on my chin, holding my lower jaw.
"Open up," as though he were about to give me a tablespoon
of castor oil.
"Please don't... I won't talk ..." I was scared.
"Open up."
"But I..."
Gently, he put the gag against my lips and waited, patient
but implacable. What did it matter? No-one could hear me anyway.
I couldn't get loose, so I could either go along with this
gagged, or could just go along. I looked into his eyes for
a long moment, trying to find reassurance, feeling a little
scared again. Imagine Bambi caught in your headlights: that's
how I felt. I stretched my mouth open, keeping my eyes on his. My
lips would have quivered if the gag hadn't been pressing agaiinst
them. In it went. He didn't even bother with the strap this time.
I couldn't get it out without a free hand.
A small, heavy bag plopped onto the table next to my head. I
twisted and rolled my eyes to get a look at it, loose ends of the
gag strap flopping. He folded a wet towel and laid it on my
abdomen (Josef Mengele/operations/scalpels/Charles Manson/body-
parts-found-in-the-woods-by-hysterical-campers flashed through my
head. I have an unfortunate imagination.), and out of the bag
poured a small heap of gold-colored chain. (I asked later: It is
only gold-plated steel; otherwise I would be worth a small
fortune right now.) The chain was "Y" shaped, the three pieces
joined in the middle to a ring about an inch in diameter. He
lifted my lower back up and passed the chain under me, adjusting
the ring under the center of my back.
I wasn't thinking very clearly or I would have been relieved
at the sight of chains. It could have been plastic garbage bags
and a meat cleaver. Well, knowing J it couldn't have been, but my
imagination was in overdrive.
He pulled the ends of the chain together. They overlapped
and he adjusted them until there was no slack at all, fastening
them with an open link of the same chain. With some large pliers,
he bent the open link back into shape, and went back to lighting
the torch. I twisted my head this way and that, watching
everything, bug-eyed.
The noise was what startled me. I had never been that close
to a blowtorch before, and loud noises scare me. It popped and
made a kind of hissing roar. Actually, it wasn't that loud, but
the fact that that roar was being made by a very hot flame was
not a reassuring thought, believe me. You can imagine what I
thought. Oh, he doesn't need a meat cleaver, he's got a blow
torch. I'm such an idiot. I can say that now.... Then I was
hanging by a thread from the fact that he cared whether I trusted
him even though I was totally helpless and he didn't need to
pretend to care. Somehow, that meant he wouldn't betray my
trust.
He propped the torch up in his tool box and put a couple of
blocks of wood between the chain and my abdomen, lifting the
chain away from me over the towel. He brushed some gooey stuff
on the open link. Up to this point, I was watching every detail
with a great deal of interest. Believe me, I was paying
attention. But when he bent over me with the torch, I couldn't
make myself look, I was so afraid I would get burned. I just
sucked in my stomach and prayed. I was also relieved that it was
the chain and not me.
It must have taken less than a minute for him to finish.
Suddenly the noise from the torch stopped. For a moment the only
noise was my own rapid breathing hissing noisily in and out
through my nostrils. But I couldn't even feel any warmth, not to
mention heat. I looked down; J was fanning away an acrid smoke
with a magazine. He took a corner of the wet towel and dabbed at
the link. Pssssst. More swipes with the towel and the hissing
stopped.
Soon he was able to gingerly touch, and then hold the link.
I was getting tired holding my head up to watch, but I couldn't
control my horrified facination. I tried to follow him with my
eyes as he put away the blowtorch and came back into view with
some enormous plier-like things. He clipped away the spare links
of the chain as easily as if he were pruning a plant. I had a
seamless belt with no buckle.
-*-
The List
Column 1
Item 6
"Lift your backside," he said. I did.
He reached between my legs and pulled the third length of
chain down from in back. As he pulled on it, I could feel it
tugging against the belt at the center of the back.
Again he left the room. He came back with something in his
hand, but again he was standing behind my head and I couldn't
see what it was.
Still hiding the object below the edge of the table, he
walked to the side of the table and stood there. Straining to
lift my shoulders, I could see him doing something between my
legs. He was inserting something into my vagina! Straining, I
glimpsed white plastic. I could feel it was lubricated and
smooth, but he was definitely inserting something! I tried to
resist by clenching my muscles and squirming, but it was too
slippery and my legs were too far apart and he was too insistent.
It was past my portals. I made noises behind the gag. I couldn't
stop it from going in. He continued, sliding it deeper, until it
was as far in as it would go. It wasn't impossibly big, probably
smaller than he is, but it was so hard and unyielding it felt
like an enormous intrusion.
He moved it out again, a little, and back in. And out. Of
course, it was a dildo. Something that my midwestern little mind
has had some trouble adjusting to. I had, of course heard of
them, but believe it or not I had never actually seen one until
that Saturday. Where would I have seen one in my home town?
People drive to the next town to buy condoms. People in the next
town drive to ours for them, too. That's not a joke, by the
way. It's an invitation to think about where I'm coming from.
He pushed it back in, watching my face. He could see
that I wasn't reacting sexually. I wasn't. It was too
artificial, too perverted for my midwestern mind. Sorry, if that
isn't the sex-vixen reaction you had in mind, but that's the way
it was. He did something with the chain, and locked the end of
it to my waist with another miniature lock, this one small and
gold-colored. But functional. Where does he get this stuff?
He went back to my head, lifted it gently, and locked the
gag in place. As soon as he let go of the device, I squirmed,
trying to expell it. No dice. Then he untied my legs. I lifted
them onto the table and gingerly brought them together. I had
more freedom of movement, but still couldn't get rid of it. Then
he freed my arms. Instantly my hands were between my legs,
pulling. Again, no dice. I went to jump down from the table, but
quickly realized I had to be very careful of how I moved. It was
awful. My only thought was: What has he done to me? But I
already knew, really. Gingerly, I got down from the table, and
with trembling fingers felt myself to see if there was anything I
could do to get it out. The chain went through a ring in the end
of the ... device. Sorry, but the word 'dildo' sounds so
perverted to me. Nazis in dirty socks and all that.
Experimentally, I took a step. I could walk, but not quickly
or gracefully. I crept gingerly to the bedroom to get a close
look in the mirror. Again the grotesque face, the stretched
lips, mascara running. I didn't know which end to worry about
most. The thing was a g-string made of chain. I turned my back
and looked over my shoulder. The waist band joined a seamless
ring in the center of my lower back. The crotch piece was joined
to the same ring. The chain was tight in my rear cleft: I could
feel it against my ... orifice. [He's really strict about this.
Asshole and anus are right out. He makes me change this kind of
stuff every time].
By pulling down on the waistband, I could loosen the chain
enough to push it aside for ... bodily functions ... but not
nearly enough to get the device out. Pissing could be messy.
The chain itself is unassailable without the right tools. And of
course ... they're locked in the garage ... do I have to explain?
My jaw was beginning to ache again, so I went out to look
for J. He was coming in the side door after putting away the
tools and said, as though everything was completely normal, "Put
on your shoes and clear away the lunch dishes."
Was he kidding? Wash the dishes? In the state I was in? I
stared after him, and started crying again, which, again, only
made my jaw hurt more. But I did as he said: put on my heels,
tottered unsteadily into the kitchen, and stood there over the
sink, sniffing, with mascara running down my cheeks and saliva
leaking down my chin again. There wasn't any way to argue. I
finished the dishes -- there weren't many anyway -- and wobbled
back out to the living room. He was standing, looking out the
picture window. He turned to face me.
I stood there in front of him, eyes down, every inch the
obedient slave, doing my very best to play the part as he wanted.
"Are you beginning to understand?" he said.
"Aahh," I nodded enthusiastically, not beginning to
understand.
"We'll see," he said, glancing at his watch. He turned
back to the window.
I went to put on my collar, thinking that might help
convince him. Of course it didn't. I had to wait. I just stood
there, trying to focus my mind on not letting my jaw hurt. The
other device in me wasn't really a bother if I didn't move around
much. I hadn't had to piss yet. He went to the armchair and sat.
I just stood where I was in front of the window, legs apart,
looking down at the floor, waiting.
Despite my best efforts, the gag still got to me. It is
the worst. I gave up trying to stop the saliva from leaking
around it, and let it drip on me and the floor. It's so hard to
swallow with that thing in; I feel like I'll sprain something. I
controlled myself for as long as I could, but finally a sob
escaped me. Well, it started as a sob, but came out as a squeak
and a sniff. I looked at him, imploring with my eyes. Gingerly, I
walked over again and carefully knelt at his feet, holding the
sides of my jaw between my hands, and not just for effect. Again
he stroked my hair. Tenderly.
"Turn around," he said. Painfully, still on my knees, I
did. I felt him take the lock out. My hands went to the buckle
at the back of my head and hesitated. He didn't say anything. I
put them back at my sides, making fists to help control the pain.
After waiting a moment, just long enough to acknowledge that I
had learned another lesson, he said, "Take it out." I did.
Relief.
"Stand up," he said.
I wobbled unsteadily to my feet, my back still to him. I
thought he was going to take out the other, but he didn't even
tell me to turn around. Instead, he went into the bedroom. I
followed silently, not knowing what else to do. I passed the
full-length mirror in the bedroom and stopped. I was a sight.
Mascara and eyeliner mixed with saliva were smeared all over my
face from my eyes to my chin, even drops on my chest and thighs.
My lipstick was smeared; on my stomach was a smear of that gooey
brown stuff he used while putting the chain on, and my hair was
an explosion of straw, partly matted with more miscellaneous goo.
I stood with my legs apart in a most unladylike position. My
hand strayed to the chain; I gave it a desultory tug. Hopeless.
My shoulders sagged. As I say, a mess. And that thing in me. In
the mirror, over my own shoulder, I caught sight of him looking
at me. He had his shirt off. With both hands, I covered my ...
self ... and the thing.
"The chain is silver-soldered around your waist. It's as
strong as a weld. It won't come off." As if I might think it
would. My hand dropped to my side again. "Come and undress me,"
he said.
-*-
The List
Column 1
Item 7
This was something new. Remember, I hadn't even seen him
naked yet. I hobbled over to him, still holding both hands in
front of myself (don't ask me why, after what he had just seen).
He had a small gold key on a chain around his neck. I knelt,
undid his belt, and unzipped his pants. He stroked my hair
gently, then left me kneeling there and sat on the bed. I knee-
walked to him and went to work on his his shoes while he lay back
on the bed. When I was through, I sat back carefully on my heels
with my hands covering my lap. Without rising, he said "Start the
shower."
Despite the age of the house, his bathroom is a large modern
one, I think added to the house recently. It is much larger than
the other (my) bathroom. There are two windows and a third one
inside the walk-in shower. The shower is huge, tiled, with a
glass door. The walls of the bathroom are tiled part way up and
stucco the rest; there is an old cast-iron clawfoot tub, a
modern john and sink, and a small table and chair. I ran the
water until it was warm, and told him it was ready. He walked
in, past me. I waited. He said, "Take off your shoes and come in
here." I did, still covering my front. Gently, he washed my
face, chest, and stomach. I didn't think anything would ever
make me forgive him for putting that thing inside me, no matter
how gentle he was afterward. Mostly I was befuddled, but there
was a residual core of resentment.
I kept myself covered until he gave me shampoo and I had to
use my hands to wash my hair. With the glass door shut, the
shower enclosure became like a steam bath: it was almost hard to
breathe. He told me to wash him, but really we washed each
other. Then we put on the same all-purpose unscented hair/body
conditioner I had used before. You're going to think I own stock
in the company. It's great stuff, though. We kissed under the
shower with the water, soap, and conditioner running between us,
and I could feel him hard against me. I began to melt a bit
myself, but that THING was still uppermost in my mind. I wasn't
going to forgive him. My eyes stayed on the key around his neck.
I wanted it out of me.
He edged me away from the showerhead and began spreading
conditioner over the front of my body. All over, even around the
device in me. Having him feel me there when I was like that was
degrading. Embarrasing. And exciting. My heart began to race,
partly from the excitement, partly from the stifling steam. I
felt almost faint. He turned me around and I leaned with my
hands against the tile wall with my legs spread as though I was
being searched by a policeman. He covered my back and legs with
the conditioner. Then he went to work on me from both sides, like
he had before with the talcum powder. His left hand on my
hairless and still- violated front, the other exploring every
millimeter of my rear, slipping under the chain, closer and
closer, teasing. Every time he pulled the chain or moved the
device, I felt a delicious shock that drove the breath from me,
and I made a little "hunnh!" noise. His right hand slithered
under the chain at my rear, pulling against the device. As
before, I wanted him to penetrate me there. Anywhere. I grasped
at his finger with my buttocks.
He pulled me upright away from the wall and held my
trembling body against his, his erection pressing against my rear
cleft. Over my shoulder, into my ear he said, "Do you like that?"
"Mmmmmm." I said, not wanting to admit it, unable to say no.
He returned me to my stance against the wall. While he
slowly manipulated the device with his left hand, a finger from
his right caressed my my rear, on the very edge of penetration.
He asked again.
"Oooooh," I said, squirming against his hand, hoping he
would get the message. That in itself is a very risque thing for
a midwesterner to do.
"Say it," he said, "tell me what you want," penetrating
perhaps a half inch and continuing to manipulate me.
"Can't you tell?" I whined.
"Say it," he repeated, withdrawing the half inch again.
"Yes," I whispered, hanging my head between my arms.
Looking down, I could see his left hand caressing between my
legs, feel his right poised to enter my rear.
"Louder," he said, "Tell me what you want. You'll have to
tell me." He continued to tease, stroke, and manipulate. My
knees were near buckling.
"I want you inside me," I cried. "I want you to fill me up."
My voice broke. With all the water, steam, sweat, and
conditioner, he couldn't see that I was crying. I'm not sure I
actually was, but I wanted to. Or at least I was trying to. I
felt like I should be.
"Where?" he said, insistent.
"Anywhere," I sobbed. "Anywhere you want. Please!"
"Cover me with the conditioner." Hands shaking, I did. I
covered his chest. The key was gone. In his hand? When I got
to his legs, I got on my knees and caressed his erect member,
underneath, even in back where he had just (almost) penetrated
me. I'd never done that before. I covered him everywhere. He
guided my mouth to him. The conditioner tasted awful. I rinsed it
off and tried to take all of him in; I began sliding back and
forth. I had never done this for anyone else. I never really
wanted to do it even for J, although I did. But I always thought
it was so ... well ... unhygenic.
Somehow the cleanliness of the shower made it all right this
time. I continued to caress him with one hand, but my other hand
slipped down to the device in me. I began to masturbate in
someone else's presence for the first time in my life, although
the device in me was a bit of a hindrance. I guess it's a male
myth that penetration is somehow essential to the female orgasm.
It's not. But it's kind of nice to be penetrated while having
one. Anyway, he was too engrossed to notice what I was doing. I
think the first time he knows will be when he reads this.
Unknowingly, he stopped me before I brought myself to orgasm by
telling me to get up.
He turned down the water to a gentle fine spray, as hot as
was comfortable, and the steam abated enough for us both to catch
our breath. He unlocked the chain at my waist, and keeping the
tension on the free end with one hand, slowly pulled on the chain
from the rear with the other hand until it was free of the ring
on the device, link by jarring link, rubbing against both
openings at once. It pinched me a few times, enough that I
gasped, but he was watching my face so closely and pulling on the
chain so slowly and carefully that he controlled every pinch,
every nuance of sensation I felt. Every time it pinched, he
slowed and let the pain become almost-pleasure.
By the time the chain was out, I was panting, nearly
hyperventilating. He let the chain dangle from the waistband, but
held the device in me with his hand. Slowly, he inched it out.
"Hurry," I whined. "Please!" I wanted to reach down and
take it out myself.
But he continued to manipulate and stroke both of my
openings. His other hand, lubricated by the conditioner, worked
at my rear, penetrating slightly, loosening, penetrating again,
more each time, while the device continued its work in front.
Finally he took the device out altogether and went to work with
his hand. I was about to have an orgasm, and could not continue
to stand. I sagged a little; he supported me by holding both
sides of my slippery and hairless crotch cradled between his
hands as I slid to my knees.
Still leaning with my arms up against the wall, I was on my
knees, and his fingers resumed their work. At last, one of his
fingers penetrated my rear fully. I contracted against it, but
it was insistent, continuing to probe and stimulate. I couldn't
stand it any more, and began contracting both openings against
his fingers. I couldn't come. I got more and more frantic,
squirming. I was so close. His rear finger left me. Then it was
back, but it wasn't his finger.
It was warm; I thought it was his erect member at first,
and I tried to relax for him. But it wasn't. He was inserting
the device, still warm from my body heat, into me, this time
searching gently for my rear opening, and God help me, I relaxed
and spread wider to help him even though I knew what it was. I
am admitting this now, but then I pretended -- half believed --
that at first I thought it was he that was entering me instead of
that ... thing. Once it was started in, though, I rebelled. It
was stretching me too much. I tried to avoid it, tried expelling
it, anything to just get rid of it. But I couldn't. He held the
chain around my waist as I tried to crawl away, and forced me
face down onto the shower floor. I slithered forward on my
stomach, trying to squirm away, but I came to the end of the
shower; with my face turned to the side and my cheek pressed
against the tile, I could go no further.
Slowly, gently, inexorably, he continued.
It felt huge. I don't know if you've ever had this done to
you, but the first time was a bit of a shock for me. I knew by
the way it had felt in my vagina that it was smaller than he was,
but it was so unyielding, so hard. It stretched me terribly, and
it felt so much bigger than it had before in my other opening.
The conditioner continued to lubricate it, but I had never done
anything even remotely like this.
It was forcing me open,
violating me, filling me even after I felt full. This was pushing
me close to the edge. I begged him to stop. I don't know if he
would have if I had been more sincere. I felt pretty sincere.
There was still a small part of me that was curious and excited,
but it was a very small part.
I told him I would do anything if he would just please take
it out, but eventually, rather than continuing to fight it, I
found it hurt less -- or felt better, I'm not sure which -- if I
relaxed and helped him. Still it continued. Suddenly, by
relaxing, the feeling became one of simply being penetrated and
filled up. I found I was able to accept it, and, I realized,
able to almost get into the sensation -- if not exactly enjoy it.
He was so gentle that it got better, though. Much better.
Ultimately, I was rubbing my front against the shower floor,
trying desperately to climax.
"Up on your knees," he said. I could barely do even that,
but once I did, the device continued its penetration until it was
complete. My hand went to my crotch briefly, perhaps to
masturbate again, perhaps to feel what he had done to me, I'm not
sure which. A little of both. He told me to keep my hands on the
floor. I felt him slip the chain through the ring in the end.
"Straddle me," he said, lying on his back on the shower
floor and sliding under me. He held the end of the chain
underneath, holding the device fully in me while I lifted my leg
over his hips and sat astride him, but without his erection
inside me. Once again, slowly, he pulled the chain out, letting
the entire length of it slide between my swollen lips, each link
tapping the ring in the device. At the same time, he was stroking
me in front, masturbating me. I was wild. When the chain was once
again out, I could wait no longer, and I slid down on him,
enveloping him, thrusting him deeply into me in one smooth
motion.
I laid prone on top of him, plunging him into me
frantically, grinding against him. He was letting me do all the
work. The water from the shower head was falling on us from my
shoulders to my knees, and the end of my chain dangled between my
legs and rattled on the tiles. He grasped the ring on the end of
the protruding device, and began to pump it gently in time with
my own movements. He gradually picked up the tempo, thrusting
with his own hips. I'm normally not very noisy, but my pants and
whimpers echoed in the shower, and at first I was tempted to ham
it up a bit, but by the time I approached my first orgasm, which
was almost as soon as he started moving his hips, I was crying
out genuinely. The tiles in the shower made my cries seem
louder.
My second orgasm came almost immediately, a long, shuddering
continuation of the first. Being penetrated twice that way is
indescribable. When he had his orgasm, and I my third, I think I
had one in each opening. Is it possible to have a triple
simultaneous orgasm? Sounds like one of those moves that figure
skaters or olympic divers do. Well, I don't know what the doctors
say, but I think we got all 10's, even from the East German
judge....
After my third orgasm, I laid there, unable to move,
panting, the sound of hissing water in my ears. He began to
remove the device. Immediately I gasped and reacted with a
fourth convulsive orgasm, beyond my ability to control. It kept
on as he continued to slide it out. He was torturing me. He
would pull a little and twitch his hips a little, and I couldn't
help myself; I just kept spasming and convulsing every time he
moved. I was utterly exhausted, unable even to flex my thighs as
I normally do during an orgasm. Weakly, I tied to say "No more,"
but I was too weak to even get that out in the face of the
continuing spasms. It just came out "Nhh."
Finally, thankfully, I felt the last of the thing slide out
of me. I felt myself contract again to normal size, and, too
weak even to twitch in response to this final stimulation, I came
to the end of the last orgasm.
When I had recovered enough to stand being moved, he helped
me to roll onto my side where, once more, he washed me. He turned
off the water and knelt by my side. I was flat on my back as the
last of the water gurgled down the drain beside me. The shower
was silent except for dripping water. I swear I couldn't move.
I lay like a puddle of pink pudding while he spread still more
conditioner on my flushed skin. Again he covered me, missing
nothing, not the tiniest crevice, hairline to toes. Finally, he
helped me into a sitting position. The steam cleared a bit when
he opened the shower door; cold air replaced the warm, but I
still couldn't move. I sat, eyes shut, head back and leaning
against the shower wall, unable to stand. Hands under my
armpits, he lifted me to my feet. I couldn't support myself.
Well, I probably could have, but I was really wobbly. He propped
me against the shower wall; my chain had slipped to the side, and
the underneath part dangled on my hip. Letting me collapse into
his arms, he carried me into the bedroom and sat me on the edge
of the bed. I immediately flopped to my back.
As I lay there on the bed, he dried me -- not with a towel,
but with a hair dryer. I remember vaguely thinking it odd, but
said nothing. As he worked over me the noise of hair dryer
droned, cutting off all other sound, and I drifted off to sleep.
The last thing I remember was being gently rolled over, and
feeling his fingers in my hair as he began drying it.
When I awoke it was dark. I really just drifted back awake:
I can't sleep very deeply when I nap in the afternoon. He had
covered me with a comforter, and I was nude under the soft
cotton. My skin was unbelievably soft: I felt like satin all
over. Drying me with the hair dryer had left me coated in the
softening conditioner. I can't describe the luxurious feeling of
awakening this way, completely squeaky clean all over, warm, dry,
satiny sleek-smooth, muscles a little sore, as though I had had a
good workout at the spa ... heaven.
I spent more time than I needed to wake up, pampering
myself just soaking in the soft luxury of the bed and remembering
the preceeding hours. I began to feel a tingle of excitement as
my mind wandered sleepily over what he had done to me. No. I
couldn't again, I thought. Not tonight anyway. No way.
Absolutely, positively ... probably ... not.
I got up gradually, first stretching, then sitting on the
edge of the bed and focusing my thoughts. I could hear kitchen
noises. He was fixing something to eat.
He had reduced me to a mindless puddle of overstimulated
protoplasm, degraded me, embarrassed me, and made me admit I
wanted it. And then he did an equally expert job of putting me
back together again afterwards. The only thing he makes better
than the wound is the bandage.
I got up and looked in the mirror. I looked pretty good.
A little pale, maybe. I looked (and felt) like one of Dracula's
victims: pale, weak, used, kind of ethereal, but I didn't look
tired. And my hair was a huge frizzy cloud around my head;
drying it without brushing and conditioning it creates an
unmanageable near-afro. Still, I looked great. Even without
makeup. He had relocked my chain, this time without anything
inside me. That looked great too.
My form-fitting white cotton outfit was laid out on the
bed. I put it on over my chain, put on some sandals, and checked
myself in the mirror again. I strolled, almost dreamily, to my
bedroom to get my thin gold necklace, and the feel of the clean,
soft cotton against my satiny skin was distractingly luxurious.
Seriously -- this body conditioner is great stuff if it is over-
used properly.
-*-
------------------
A Note From the Future:
Through the miracle of word processing, you are now looking
forward in time to the end of this account; it has been a month,
although it seems like a lifetime. After reading this over, I
can see now that this was a turning point. I unknowingly
(maybe not so unknowingly) decided, in the moments you have just
read about, that I wanted ...well... more. We continued, from
time to time, to have sex in ways that I used to describe as
"normal". But I do know now that those times of normal sex were
unsatisfying for me. I had had two years of normal sex with him
before we left Chicago. I thought I enjoyed it. I did. I'm sure
I did. He was a sensitive and thoughtful lover, and a wonderful
day-to-day companion. Really, I had several orgasms almost every
time we made love. Not a record to sneer at if the women's
magazines are to be believed.
But if I were to relive those days now, it would be like
a diet of rice pudding after acquiring a taste for raw steak. J
had started me on a path that I now know is one-way, although at
the time I was sure I could -- would --stop and go back.
Gradually, and in carefully choreographed steps, he forced (led?)
me to first acknowledge that I was facinated and titilated like
a dirty-minded schoolgirl by the things he was doing to me, and
later to like it so that I had to justify myself by pretending it
was just sophisticated sex. But I ended up way beyond all that.
I acknowledge a need akin to addiction. I fought it, to be sure,
but I fought because resisting is participation in the process
rather than an attempt to end it. A few days ago I was willing
to give him my absolute and utter voluntary acceptance of his
control over me. At least until further notice.
That weekend a month ago was just the first tottering steps
of a babe in the woods. A babe with a long way to go.
The word 'slave' sounds so theatrical and phony, and most
of the literature I have since read about B/D, S/M etc., make it
sound so lurid and juvenile and, well ... pornographic, and as
much as I don't want to be identified with that kind of
lifestyle, I have to tell you: If I wasn't a slave in the
literal sense of the word (that is, a servant, which I'm not), I
was at least a voluntary, self-confessed, incurable Addict. I
want(ed) to dive in headfirst, forget caution, and be owned. I
wanted to know what it would be like to give everything up for
it. Isn't there a kind of freedom in giving everything up?
And yet there was a worm slumbering at the root of my
addiction, and as that addiction metamorphosed into a way of
life, the worm began to waken, and a duality developed in my
personality. I reacted to the events you have just been reading
(and others like them) in two mutually inconsistent ways: I
wanted revenge, and I wanted to submit. I wanted more of the
degrading treatment I had been getting; I resented the fact that
it wouldn't continue since J has -- and does -- steadfastly hold
to the one month time limit. Since the List was a contract that
entitled me to eventual repayment in kind, the more I got, the
sweeter I thought my revenge would be. But I wanted the treatment
I was getting, too. I actually ended up begging for more, and at
the last, revenge was not necessarily uppermost in my mind. It
might never have been if J hadn't stopped Column One himself. I
would have exceeded the List, and gone on exceeding it as long as
J did. Ultimately I wanted to go further than he did. I think
he found it unsettling, as if he had created a monster.
And he had. I had told myself that my motive for revenge
was repayment for what he had done to me. I was kidding myself.
It ended up with me, like a spoiled child, wanting to punish him
for stopping, in effect, for holding to the contract. If I
actually go through with it (Column Two) I will punish him as
much for having stopped as for what he actually did to me before
stopping Column One.
As I write these words I have arrived at the moment when I
must decide whether to go on or not; I've come back to read the
earlier parts of this account to help me decide (also because it
turns me on to read over it), but I'm taking the opportunity to
fill you in a bit so you will understand some of what follows,
insofar as I can understand it myself. Most of the justification,
excuses, and explanation you will read will be a load of bull:
the shallow self justification of a silly prude from southern
Indiana with less understanding of her own motivations than a dog
in heat. You ASB regulars (yes, I am a reader of ASB now, in tht
"future") will recognize the self deception. You've probably been
there before). Oh, the facts are accurate enough; what you are
reading is not fiction: it happened as it is written.
Embellished dramatically, to be sure, and the dialogue may not be
verbatim, but it is basically true, nonetheless. But the
psychological interpretations are, for the most part, nothing but
the pathetic self-deception of a schoolgirl mentality that felt
it far safer to keep a firm anchor in adolescent nonsense than to
put out on the troubled seas of growth and introspection. As
though I was entitled to stop growing when I graduated from
college.
But then, I have an advantage: I am a different person now,
looking back from the end of this little tale, so I know how it
comes out, or at least how Column One ends. This duality that
developed in me means there are two bottom lines: They may seem
inconsistent, but believe: I was, and am, his. He possesses me
completely. BUT. Since he insists on ending his turn, I want my
turn. I'm tempted. I'm sure I would be good at 'topping' in a
technical sense. Maybe better than J.
After all, I'm a registered nurse.
It's quite a dilemma: I don't want to change either my
status or his. Switching roles might destroy my image of him as
the dominant one -- I'm not sure I want to do that. But I have
the option because of our agreement over the List.
Anyway, this moment in the narrative was the fulcrum on
which all subsequent events turned, and the crossroads that led
to my present indecision. After that point, as near as I can
estimate, I didn't want to go back, I didn't want to undo my new
psyche. Another cliche, but I guess I discovered myself. I hate
it when I can be reduced to a formula and the formula turns out
to be a cliche.
---------- End of Note from the Future ------------
The List
Column 1
Item 8
The next day, Sunday, we went to the excersise spa. He had
brought my old leo's from my bags, with my shorts to wear over
them to hide my chain which would otherwise have made lumps.
There's not much to relate, and besides, I don't have a lot of
time since I have to get ready for San Francisco. J is going to
let me go shopping on my own tomorrow, and the next day we leave.
Today, I have to depilate again.
So, a short note on the spa. I went as his guest. The
exercise machines are arranged in two parallel rows. We went
down the two rows side by side, each of us doing our own weights,
and he absolutely wore me out. I was sweating by the time I got
to the end of my row, and he made me start the stair machine with
him. When I thought I was all through, we did another round on
the weight machines. By then, I was absolutely drenched in
sweat, my hair sticking to my head, my leos to my body. He had
completely exhausted me on purpose.
I need to get into a regular exercise routine.
We drove home and showered together, but this time no hanky-
panky -- well, a little hanky maybe. I wore one of his
sleeveless tank-top t-shirts; it was more comfortable than
anything of mine. He wanted to talk, and he wanted me relaxed.
After lunch, tired out and with a meal and two glasses of wine
inside me, I tend to get sleepy. He sat me down on the sofa (I
have to sit gingerly these days, settling around my chain to
avoid it pressing on my coccyx. This is especially a problem on
the exercise machines. The exercycle is out of the question.
"I want you to understand something clearly," he said. "I
am going to continue as I have been. At the end of the month I
will possess you like a piece of property. Everything I do to
you is directed toward that goal. I'm not going to ask you to
like what I do, but I'm asking -- correction -- ordering you to
tell me: do you want to be posessed in this way? You haven't
said so yet."
I didn't know how to respond. On one level, this whole
routine sounded like I had always imagined a grade z porn movie
to sound. He sounded like he was reading from a script again.
But the reality was so ... Well, the reality was what went on in
my mind and that wasn't grade z. Even _I_ have to admit that
last bit of dialogue is grade z, but that's what he actually
said, more or less, so that's what I wrote. I wonder if he
rehearsed it.
I adopted an equally formal and artificial conversational
tone. I told him I liked the idea of belonging to him, that I
wanted that but the things he had done were too much for me. I
needed time to get used to this. It was all too new. Anyone
listening would have thought we were bad actors.
"You understand that won't change what I do," he said.
"What are you going to do to me?" I asked, suddenly
suspicious. I had the feeling he was planning something.
"You already know: I'm going to make you mine."
"I mean what things are you going to do to me? Specifically."
"You have the List. Beyond that you're going to have to live
with not knowing."
-*-
That first week had been a very intense week for me. I
think that if I had encountered new sexual experiences at that
rate for much longer, I would have been unable to continue. But
things slowed down during the next week, and J didn't introduce
anything new into my life, just variations on the same themes he
had already established.
Once he tied me gagged and immobile in a wooden armchair so
I could do nothing but turn my head; he teased me unmercifully
with feathers and fingers until I was exhausted. At the end,
behind the gag, he couldn't tell if I was laughing or crying. I
couldn't either.
And once he had me hanging by my spread ankles with my
wrists tied by ropes to the same overhead rings so I was doubled
up and looking down at my own crotch (I'm pretty flexible -- yoga
and all that) My bottom was just resting on the bed enough to
take my weight off my arms and I had to watch helplessly while he
put ...things... in me. You know what things. I had no choice but
to watch.
I'm getting used to this more cosmopolitan and liberalized
attitude toward sex. It IS sex, I think, even when he just
watches me walk around the house in my chain and nothing else. I
know it doesn't sound like it, but I get turned on by the
restraints and control.
One new thing happened, though. He said he was "totally
charmed" by my inept attempt to strip seductively, and asked if I
would, to please him, learn "the moves." I said yes, and on
Monday evening, he came home with four video tapes: three x-rated
ones that had professional strippers doing their thing, and one
"how to" tape with lessons on exotic dancing. I have been
practicing. Not the tassle-twirling kind of stuff that people
with names like "Boom-Boom" and "Treasure Chest" (Bang Bang
LaDesh, Marsha Dimes, Irma the Body) do, but more seductive
stuff. I feel silly at home alone, writhing on the sofa,
grinding my hips, wiggling my chest and peeling my clothse off an
inch at a time, but right now, I would feel still sillier if he
were watching. Soon, maybe I'll be able to do it for him. The
belly dancing is more challenging and fun to learn. It takes a
lot more coordination than I would have thought.
That Sunday night, though, I was spread-eagled on the bed,
blindfolded and gagged -- not with that awful ball-shaped gag, he
just uses that for punishment -- while he teased me with half-
melted ice cubes. While he was driving me crazy this way, he
whispered in my ear that the time would come, before the end of
the List, when he would make me a proper slave, and I would
voluntarily call him "master." He knew I wasn't ready then, but
he told me to think, as an exercise, once a day, of the
circumstances it would take. He knew instinctively that I would
associate that word with the kind of B&D scenarios that had
already made me (to my immediate regret) laugh. He knew I hadn't
gotten deeply involved enough to use such a word and mean it,
even within the limited context of the List. But what he said
registered. I'm still thinking about it. I fantasize about the
circumstances in which I could say it, but would still not be
able to SAY it without thinking it faintly ridiculous, like Nazis
in black socks with dust on the soles of the feet.
I haven't talked about one aspect yet: the limitations set
by the List. Of course, he won't do anything that's not on the
List, but there is a lot of latitude in HOW he does what IS
there. (Witness how he put on my chain: that blowtorch was
very scary.) It is in this grey area that I have to trust him to
be sensitive enough to approach and even exceed my verbally
admitted limits without exceeding my true threshold. I'm
beginning to learn that this takes enormous sensitivity. And I
thought the primary requirement for the dominant figure in this
kind of relationship was that he/she be INsensitive.
The other limit for the List is a long-term time limit. We
agreed to a strict limit of four weeks for each column. Sounds
like a couple of lawyers, I know, but we decided that it couldn't
be shorter and be still be meaningful: I wanted the feeling I was
really plunging in to something serious. Somehow, in my
fantasies about this, it was serious, not play. And a strict
time limit gives me something to cling to as an "out" without
letting me frivolously interrupt the process. There is comfort
in knowing there is nothing on the List that can do me any real
physiological damage, but I know that the cumulative discomfort
of that gag (it is by far the worst) adds up to actual pain, and
I trust him not to overdo it. At some point you have to trust, I
guess.
We leave for San Francisco tomorrow.
-*-
Well, we're back from San Francisco now, and do I have a story
to tell. It's Saturday morning, and we got back late last night.
He had to take my chain off for the plane trip, and for a
few minutes it actually felt strange to be without it. Not
naked, exactly, but like something was missing. He had me wear
my tight knit dress with nothing underneath, and once we were in
the air, he took a collar and lock out of his hand luggage and
told me to go into the restroom and put it on under the turtle-
neck of my dress. I couldn't have worn my chain through the metal
detector, although he said he thought about making me do that and
letting the female guard search me to find out why I set it off.
That would have been crossing the line between embarrasment and
public humiliation, I think. Still, what could they do? Arrest me
for chain smuggling?
Once we were in our hotel room (it was pretty nice: someone
else was paying for it), he put the chain on me again, this time
locking all three loose ends with the little padlock. I could
have put the chain on while on the plane, I suppose, but it would
have showed through that knit dress, even with a belt to conceal
it. Trust me, that dress is form-fitting everywhere.
The plane trip was uneventful. We arrived at the airport,
rented a car, and he went to his meeting while I had a few hours
of almost-freedom to drive around town, buy lunch and pick him
up again. I was wearing jeans and a sweater, so my chain didn't
show. That evening, chain off, dress and collar on again, we
went to Sausalito and had a great dinner in an intimate little
restaraunt right on the water. We had great sex that night, but
only great. I wore only the collar; somehow a hotel room, no
matter how luxurious, is just not the right setting. And the
collar wasn't enough, somehow. It seemed out of place, a weak
reminder, a tenuous connection to something stronger elsewhere.
My nesting instinct has been perverted to a longing for the
familiarity and safety of a dungeon, I think. I wanted to be
back "home". I almost felt like that big empty cavern of a house
was waiting for me.
It was afterwards, after we had showered and he had relocked
my chain, that he broke the news to me. The next day, I was to
get my nipples pierced. We had put this on the List, but I had
considered it more as a theoretical possibility, since I have
inverted nipples. Not so. He had talked to the woman that runs
the business and she said there was nothing she hadn't seen,
including my problem. I have pierced ears (one three times, the
other twice) but the thought of piercing my nipples made me
cringe. J was careful to explain to me that he didn't want me to
do this to inflict pain on me, rather he wanted me pierced as
another way of binding me to him. It would mark me as his, like
removing my pubic hair. I could have a local if I wanted, even.
Reminding me of that helped calm me down a little, but I was
still nervous. I had heard of this kind of piercing, and admit I
was curious -- maybe more than curious about it. I had thought
about it on more than one occasion, and as a matter of fact, I
was the one that suggested it for the List, partly to see his
reaction to something I had been thinking about. But still, I
was nervous. Both nipples at once was really jumping in at the
deep end for me.
The front room of her home in the (to me) famous Mission
district had lots of jewelery on display, some of it custom, and
she had a little clinic in the back where she did it. She was
very careful about hygene, and I could tell right away that she
had lots of experience. She had a ring in her nose, in her lower
lip, several in each ear, and, she said, a surprisingly large
number elsewhere. Twenty-something in all. I was curious, okay?
It took a lot of self control for me to make myself watch,
but I wanted to be sure I knew what she was doing -- and that she
knew too. She was very gentle and reassuringly efficient.
Obvoiusly, my nipples will protrude even when they aren't erect
if they are held out -- which they were. Since even normal
nipples have to be held during the procedure anyway, it didn't
really matter that mine were inverted. They went erect and stood
out on their own anyway. I think they were cringing.
I wanted a local anesthetic, but she said that would sting
at least as much as the piercing needle. She also said that for
some people the act of piercing itself was more important than
the jewelery they wore afterward. She had customers that let
their piercings close deliberately and be repierced. She
convinced me.
She had an instrument I had never seen before, a sort of
forceps with slots in the jaws. She held me from the sides and
this hollow needle went right through both me and the clamp. The
rings followed through after the needle. She let J stay with me,
holding my hand.
It was over quickly with almost no bleeding. Just seconds for
each piercing. It did sting a little, but less than an injection
of local xylocane to remove a mole. Really it wasn't much
different than getting my ears done. It was nothing compared to
the gag. I wasn't wearing a bra, so she put bandaids on.
Aspirin was enough to make me comfortable, she said, but I didn't
really need any. I don't think this is something I would do
myself. I have thought about it, and I think I could -- as an RN
I suppose I am qualified, but there is nothing like experience.
We had time before going to the airport to do some
shopping, and J took me to a place that specializes in the kinky
appliances and stuff he has been using. He had me try on some
shoes and boots, and then told me to wait in the car. He had a
couple of pretty big bags of packages when he came out. I wonder
what the x-ray security monitor at the airport thought of the
contents. She probably figured we were just more midwesterners on
our way back home from San Francisco.
We drove to the airport and waited for the plane. The
flight back was uneventful. When we finally arrived home it was
late, and we both went straight to bed. I took aspirin to help
me sleep, more to counteract the coffee I had on the plane than
because of my nipples (aspirin puts me to sleep).
This morning, I inspected myself. The bandaids were the
"ouchless" variety, thank goodness. I am a little swollen, and
the swelling makes me look a little deformed. Maybe I should say
deformed in a different way, since inverted nipples are not
exactly normal anyway. But at least before, my nipples were
identical; now they are swollen in different ways, so that one
nipple partly protrudes from the areola, while the other is less
swollen. This makes me nervous. I don't want to be permanently
this way. I can only wait for the swelling to go down, though.
I heal quickly, and then we'll know. I guess I can always remove
them. I disinfected myself again and put on some of the
Neosporin she had given me, and fresh bandaids. The rings are
small circular gold ones. She said they were a fine gauge, but I
don't remember what size they are. Sha also said I can enlarge
the holes easily later. I don't think I will want to. Well,
maybe. We'll see.
J is very sympathetic and caring, and it makes me think
maybe he really does like my nipples the way they are. I know
that sounds funny, since he had just changed them, but he wanted
to decorate me there, draw attention to them, not hide them.
It's a very private kind of feeling, since I am still not
publically proud of them, but if this works out I think I will be
proud to show myself off to J. In the meantime, I am practicing
my exotic dancing. I hope the swelling goes down soon, though.
-*-
Sunday: J has just told me an interesting bit of news. He
says he's going to send this to a computer bulletin board or
something. I don't know how this works yet, but he says the
people in his department are tied into it and read it. Thank God
I've left out anything that might connect us to this story. He
d****d well better be right when he says he can send it in so no-
one finds out where it came from! I'm going to have to go back
over it and make sure I didn't leave any clues. Computer nerds
are usually pretty smart fellas. Maybe I should say "You guys
(maybe gals too?) are..." since I now know who my audience is. I
know you aren't ALL geeks. I remember some pretty cute guys
hanging around the computer center when I was in school. I am
living with one, come to think of it. And he is effing smart.
And maybe I'll spruce up the literary style a bit while I'm
at it. He suggested the format for the chapter headings, so you
now know where that came from. Also that I capitalize the word
"List". Already I have a sense of power. But, folks, I won't
make anything up. Promise. Besides, he wouldn't let me. Well,
well. An anonymous audience. Enjoy, people.
-*-
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 bandaids. J can even make a bandaid a sexual
thing. Those round bandaids that look like nipples were too
small, so he had me make larger circular bandaids out 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
necessary, 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 position, 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 continued 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 bandaids. 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-maintenance, 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 justifying 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 facinates
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 something 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 wierd. 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 unbroken 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 pertoleum
jelly, bandaids 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 plastered 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
clothse 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 underneath 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 functions 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 functions; I don't think my mother
even HAS any bodily functions, and here I am discussing "feminine
hygene" 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
terriffic at oral sex. I am reluctant to do it in the first
place (due to a vestigial but typical midwestern conflation of
hygene 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 embarrased 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, "eeeee". Of course with your tongue
depressed it doesn't come out "eeeee", 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 in 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 understand: 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 unhygenic, 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 different.
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 flokate 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 problems 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 accustomed 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 wierd, 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 wierd, 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
replated. 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 jewelery 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 posessed 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. So tomorrow you will know, J, but before you
++++ 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
that 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 ++++
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 difficult. 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 dosen'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 hitchike, though....
As one of the 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 teardrops 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 bandaids 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 is something I will
have to do fairly soon. Platinum blonde hair is not the
conservative kind of image a nurse should project.
Well, 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
Nightengale. 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
mowhawk 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 the ring between my wrists to the chain joining my leg
irons, but it passed through a ring on the waistband paddlock 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 rechaining 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.
-*-
The List
Column 1
Item 11
It has been a long time since my last entry. I hope I
can remember it all. I'm not even sure what day it is. I'm way
behind in keeping this up to date, but I was busy during the week
that J had off. Really busy. I don't believe what he's done to
me. All in good time.
When J came home last Friday, he wanted to talk. It would
have looked to anyone like a typical casual evening at home for
an average couple, except that I was wearing nothing but chains
and had to take short little steps to keep up with him. And of
course I was a platinum blonde with no pubic hair. He told me to
fix drinks for us and to follow him into the yard. He was sitting
on a low brick retaining wall by the garden; I joined him and we
chatted. I crossed my legs and sipped my drink as though I were
at a cocktail party. The air was still warm, even though it was
near sunset in March; Spring smells and gentle breezes. I could
really love the South. For some reason I felt perfectly safe
being nude outdoors; I guess it is the feeling of isolation,
being surrounded by the woods. It also helps to have J there.
All this notwithstanding, feeling safe isn't the same as feeling
relaxed: I was not completely at ease having a relaxed
conversation under these circumstances. Besides, the bricks were
cold and gritty. And an ant bit me.
The conversation opened with inconsequential remarks like
"How was your day?" and "The breezes are beautiful after
winter," and "Have you finished the harem outfit?" My God, I
thought, we're talking about the weather and I have to lift both
hands to sip my vodka and orange juice because they are chained
together.
"You are beautiful, you know," he says out of the blue. He
doesn't talk much at all, and as a rule he says even less about
my appearance. "Really beautiful. Have you looked at yourself
in the mirror lately?"
Of course I had, continuously. I had changed my makeup twice
that day. I look like a different person, and I'm still getting
used to it. I do like my eyebrows thin, though. I shaped them
into high arches like the showgirls of the 1920's. They look
kind of artificial, I know, but still I like them. And my
nipples. I have really become proud of them. I want to show
them off, at least in private and for J. That sounds like an
oxymoron, I know, like "locally famous", but showing off in
private is all I could handle comfortably. I am nearly
convinced, though, that J really does like my body. All of it,
even my nipples. Maybe especially my nipples. Actually, I have a
pretty good bod. It's just the nipples. Of course my hair is a
trip: a fluffy platinum blonde near-afro. The color looks
intensely artificial, too, but for some reason the artificiality
is a turn-on for me, like badge that I wear that says to J, "See
what I will do for you." And to others, "See what I will do for
him. I'm his. Nyah, nyah, nyah." Although only a few strangers
saw me that way. More on that later.
My entire appearance is a constant symbolic reminder of the
fact that he has done something to me, put his stamp of ownership
on me, and that I like -- want -- to be owned this way. I would
call it a kind of inverted (reverse? involuted?) "pride of
ownership", but it is not a pride that I can yet show comfortably
in public. I would be embarrased; but even that potential public
embarrasment is a gift, a symbolic measure of what I will do for
him. I guess that is what he meant when he asked for my
embarrasment as a gift.
I think too much about this stuff. I can barely go into
public as it is, and not at all in these chains. Again, why
should you be embarrased, you say? I think it's because I know
what's going on, why I look the way I do, even though people on
the outside wouldn't know.
Or it could be because I'm from Indiana, where they secretly
don't even approve of natural blondes. And I nearly look like an
albino.
Why should I even care if someone else knew? The idea of
other people -- people I don't know -- reacting to the revelation
that I am J's willing slave is somehow exciting; I'll admit that
much. But if anyone I actually knew found out it would be awful.
If a stranger knew, I would be embarrased too, but I could get
into that kind of embarrasment. Maybe.
Anyway, he took special pains to tell me how beautiful he
thought I was -- especially in chains. I go all squirmy
sometimes. And I like being constrained if it is by him; I'm not
just writing that because he'll read this either. There was
genuine admiration and warmth in his eyes when he spoke; I
believed him, and, well, sometimes he just makes me go all
squirmy, that's all. The things he says. He told me he wanted me
to belong to him -- even more than I already did. But he also
told me I hadn't paid for the hacksaw blades yet, and there was a
sudden remoteness in him then, a remoteness that made him hard to
read. A bit like a parent that I had disappointed but that still
loved me. There was something he wasn't telling me, though. I
also think he was a bit pleased I had broken the rules, too. I
didn't know what to expect as punishment.
I wish to God I had known, but at the time I just felt a
flush of warmth and nervous anticipation at the implications of
what he said. Okay, so I'm a traitor to the midwest.... But if I
had known. Jesus. I still can't believe what he did to me.
When he asked me if my sewing was finished, I explained
that I needed a few things from the fabric store for the exotic
dancer outfit and a few hours work, but that I knew he would like
it when I finished it. The other, the bodysuit, was finished and
I would be glad to model it for him. I was being as careful as I
could to not remind him of the hacksaw blades, but he was still
holding himself distant. The warmth left his eyes when he lapsed
into his formal 'master mode' and said "Stand up. This
discussion is over. Step back, I want to look at you."
And look at me he did. I stood in front of him, my chained
wrists hanging in front of my thighs. I have gotten used to these
sudden changes during our conversations, and have learned to
change my attitude and react instantly. His eyes travelled over
my body, lingering on my pierced nipples. I was wearing the tiny
garnet pendants. My nipples became erect as he looked; I
embarrass so easily, even now. But then embarrassment has become
a sexual thing for me; somehow I enjoy it. Perhaps enjoy is the
wrong word, but if you don't understand by now you might as well
stop reading. I can't explain it any better than I have.
-*-
Saturday morning we went to the fabric store. I literally
haven't left the house since (nearly a week, I think). Nor have
I since had a single moment when I wasn't hopelessly trapped by
chains, those damned little locks, etc. Not a single moment.
Except for once, briefly.
Since he gave me my car keys (did I tell you that? He has
since taken them away again. It's so hard to keep you
consistently filled in on the relevant stuff), I wore my exercise
leotards nearly everywhere, and I wore them that Saturday to the
fabric store, except that he put that ...device... inside me
again, held in with the chain under my shorts.
He drove me to the store, and we went in together. I was so
embarrased by the way I looked that I wore sunglasses as a
disguise. Stupid, I know, but I felt protected by them, somehow.
I had to walk slowly, like an invalid, and it was almost
impossible for me to concentrate on buying the elastic and stuff
that I needed. I had to pretend I was dawdling along, looking at
everything on display so that no-one would notice how slowly I
had to walk. I stupidly asked the shop assistant to help me find
what I needed, and she went dashing off to some far corner to
find it. When she came back she must have been wondering why I
was tottering after her like an old woman.
"Where did you go?" she says, "I thought you were right
behind me."
"Um," I quipped. We hoosiers are widely known for our
rapier wits.
It was bad enough having platinum blonde hair. I felt like
everyone was looking at me. Of course they weren't, but I still
don't know if they were just being polite. Especially the shop
assistant. I think she suspected that maybe I had forgotten to
take my medication or something. Finally, I had what I needed,
and we left.
I thought we would go home then, but he made me sit through
lunch at a yuppie health food brass-and-fern-bar. Sit is the
operative word. Over lunch he told me my chain was coming off
soon, for good. My feelings were mixed. At that particular
moment I would have been glad to get it off for even a few
minutes, but permanently? Did that mean J was ending our
relationship? Over the hacksaw blades? I asked him. He didn't
answer, he just smiled in a way that said "Of course not, silly."
When we got home, he cuffed my hands in front of me and had
me lie down on the bed while he cut the chain from my waist.
Slowly, he removed the device that was inside me. He told me to
run a shower.
In the shower, he washed me all over, my hair, everywhere.
His fingers probed everywhere, slithering into every crevice. I
got extremely turned on within minutes, and pressed against him,
sending body-language signals at every opportunity. He rinsed me
and went over me again with the conditioner. I don't think I'll
ever be able to smell that conditioner (even unscented, it has a
smell) without getting a little turned on. If you'll forgive the
pun, I guess I was being conditioned. Sorry. Does the name
Pavlov ring a bell? Sorry, sorry.
He deliberately excited me as much as is possible short of
orgasm. He inserted his fingers into both my openings at once,
stimulating until my legs gave out and I sank to my knees. He
supported me and sank to the floor with me. When I say I was
gasping, it sounds like cheap pornography, but I was -- and
rather theatrically, too. Still he continued, and I collapsed
back, sitting on my heels, my pelvis squirming against his
probing hands. I wanted him inside me sooooo much.
"Do you want me to beg?" I said, "I will if you want...."
No answer. "Please stop.... I can't stand any more!" No answer.
He continued. Soon I was making animal noises as I pushed
against his hands, grasping with both orifices at once. I began
to shudder into my first orgasm and suddenly he stopped. My
hands went to my front to finish the job, but he caught the chain
between the cuffs and held them away. I was squirming and
twisting, rubbing my legs together to no avail. He stood,
holding the chain at my wrists, and pulled me to my feet. He led
me into the bedroom, leaving the shower running, and locked my
handcuffs to a chain attached to one of those overhead rings. My
hands hung loosely just above my head.
He turned off the shower and began to dry me with a hair
dryer, pausing to kiss, caress, and otherwise tease me with his
fingers. Under the hair dryer, my hair frizzed into an total
mess, while I continued to squirm, trying to masturbate myself
with my thighs. It doesn't work, no matter how motivated you
are. I was motivated.
He reached into the trunk and pulled out the boots I had
tried on in San Francisco. They came up to my knees, and were
the tight black leather ones with zippers on the sides and four
inch stiletto heels. I remember they were enormously expensive,
but then we're not starving graduate students anymore, so why not
indulge? He put them on me, pausing between boots to caress me
again, keeping me at the edge. After he zipped the boots, under
each instep he passed a small chrome chain, crossing it over the
top of my foot and pulling it behind my ankle, where he yanked it
snug and paddlocked it. Those boots weren't coming off without
the key.
He freed my wrists from the overhead chain, leaving the
cuffs on, and put my hands behind my head. With my arms in this
position, elbows bent as much as they would, he passed
electrician's black plastic tape around and around my bent arms,
binding my wrists to my upper arms so I couldn't straighten my
elbows at all. He took off the cuffs then, but I could touch
only the lower part of my face and head and my breasts. He
pushed me back onto the bed and, one at a time, he did the same
thing to my ankles, bundling them against my upper thighs so my
heels were held tight against my buttocks. I couldn't straighten
my legs or my arms. I suppose I could have crawled with
difficulty on my elbows and knees, but I would have had problems
even getting off the bed without falling.
He continued to stimulate me. I was frantic, panting and
begging for release. He rolled me over and lifted me to my
knees, letting me sit back on my heels, legs spread, while he
continued to stimulate me. I would have had difficulty coming
with my legs bound like that, even if he had been trying to bring
me to a full orgasm, which he wasn't. He was just teasing. He
went to the garage, leaving me kneeling on the bed and panting
with need again but unable to satisfy myself. I actually tried
masturbating with my elbow. Almost got off, too.
When he came back he was carrying what looked like a full-
sized model of my torso. It was (is) made of polished black
fiberglass. He has done bodywork on his own cars (he even built
his own kayak), and he had used the same techniques to make a
mold from the plaster cast he had of my body. It is actually
quite beautifully made. Almost a work of art. It is shaped a
bit like a thong-bottomed turtle-necked sleeveless leotard
except it is smooth and polished (inside and out) with steel
rings hanging from it in various places and lockable latches all
around the edges, under the crotch, everywhere, holding together
the two halves, front and back.
I was still practically vibrating from the earlier
stimulation and was wondering if this contraption was somehow
designed to give me release since I couldn't.
He leaned the body suit (?) -- I don't really know what to
call it -- against the mirror directly in front of me at the foot
of the bed. It isn't an exact model of me: the stomach muscles
have more of a washboard appearance than my own. The nipples
aren't inverted -- quite spectacularly the opposite: they are
sculpted to look erect and tumescent. It is an idealized torso,
like the ancient Roman armor you see in the movies, but female.
The inside is shaped exactly like me.
He unlatched it and fitted the front half against me, moving
it about until my breasts slipped into the cavities in the front.
I had to straighten my posture, spread my legs, and lift my chin
over the high collar. It was especially tight in the waist and
crotch. Despite the fact that my thighs are naturally wideset,
the piece that goes between my legs is too wide to fit
comfortably, and when he fitted the back on it was far too tight
between my buttocks. I had to squirm and draw in my stomach and
wiggle to avoid being pinched in several places and he even had
to use conditioner as a lubricant in spots to slip it shut. I
almost didn't fit into it; he barely got the latches to shut
without pinching me. After my upper body was encased in this hard
black plastic shell, he locked those tiny padlocks at every
latch.
He cut the black tape and freed my arms and legs. It
actually hurt to straighten my legs out after having them cramped
in that position for so long. Electrician's tape doesn't hurt to
pull off, though. He threw my wrist cuffs on the bed with two
paddlocks and told me to put them on. He left the room without
even checking to see if I did.
Jesus. It took me a minute just to figure out how to sit up.
You have no idea how awkward it is to try to do simple things
like get out of a bed and walk when you can't bend your back or
even turn your head much. The collar of this thing (he wanted me
to be wearing it while I typed this part, so I am) is so high
that I can't look up or down, I can only turn a little to the
side. I'm looking down my nose now, just to see the monitor.
I teetered over to the mirror on the four inch heels. I have
small feet, and four inches puts me very nearly on my very
tiptoes. Strangely enough I thought I was beautiful. In a campy
Barbarellaesque sort of way. The sleek black plastic is highly
polished, and shaped to flatter my every curve. My face was
flushed with the stimulation and excitement of a near-orgasm. I
was still extremely aroused, and seeing myself in the mirror made
me more so. The high, almost orthopedic collar held my chin
tilted into the air in a kind of regal but unnatural posture. My
hair was a huge white curly cloud around my head and behind the
black collar. It held me in tightly at the hipline, pressing
against me just above my hips and compressing my waist, a bit
like a corset. It pinched a bit until I had moved and wriggled
about a bit and settled into it. It never actually got
comfortable, though.
As I have already said, my legs are wide-set, so there is a
space between them as I stand naturally, unless I squeeze them
together. The plastic between my legs widens and accentuates
that space unnaturally, almost grotestuely; a small paddlock
dangles in the gap.
I felt around the rim of the torso. I could (can) just
barely get my fingers under it at the crotch, but not enough to
touch myself there. With my hands, I felt my buttocks bulging
on either side of the crotch piece in back. Heels clicking on
the tile, I teetered to the bathroom and got the hand mirror to
look over my shoulder. My buttocks were separated and pushed far
apart by the black plastic. In fact, they are made to positively
bulge out, even though I don't have a large behind, I am squeezed
so tightly by it. I haven't decided if that is attractive or
not. The crotch strap is wide and it presses very deeply into my
rear cleft. J likes it, though. He tells me I am thoroughly
stunning all over, and getting more so at every step. He says
this even after what he did to me later in the week. Jesus. Just
thinking about it makes me feel ... oh hell. I feel like I should
just cut to the chase and tell you what he did to me. Later.
First things first. I'm not sure I can even write about it yet.
On with the show. I want to finish this part so I can take off
the torso thing.
Before going out to him, I put on my makeup. I can sit at
the vanity, but sitting is not comfortable in this thing. In
fact nothing is comfortable in this thing. It pinches now and
then, and constrains always. The worst part, other than being
unable to touch my own body, and having to wait to pee, is not
being able to turn my head or bend my back. It's not easy to
keep my balance. I have posture worthy of a queen, though.
He was seated in his armchair by the empty fireplace as I
came out of the bedroom; he looked at me appreciatively, and
nodded slowly to himself as though he were satisfied with what he
saw. I didn't say anything, just stood at the end of the hallway
and tried to sense what he wanted. I sometimes feel like a small
and vulnerable nocturnal animal that relies on subtle smells and
tiny night noises for survival. At that moment, all my antennae
were out and testing the air.
Hoping my instincts were right, I slowly turned around,
holding my arms away from my sides so he could see all of me. The
sound of my shoes scraping on the tile floor echoed in the near-
empty room. I paused when I had my back turned, and after a
moment ran my hands over the exposed parts of my buttocks where
they bulged, compressed by the fiberglass carapace. I was
feeling extremely sexy, and hoped I looked as seductive as I felt
(I still wasn't sure about the back view). Goose flesh rose
where I touched myself.
I heard him close behind me. He took my hands and held them
by my sides, leaning over my shoulder to whisper in my ear,
"Touching like that is my prerogative. Remember you are my
property." He didn't want me to touch myself, although I could
tell by the suppressed emotion in his voice that he was turned on
by what I had done.
I let him unlock the leather cuffs on my wrists. He relocked
them to a ring set in the center of my back between my shoulder
blades. He turned me around and kissed me deeply and tenderly,
his hands exploring the backs of my buttocks, the only exposed
part of me that even remotely resembled an erogenous zone. I
trembled; it had been only minutes since he had had me on the
edge of an orgasm. It takes me a long time to cool down when I
am that close. I felt shaky, swollen, engorged, oversensitive,
and tender -- almost bruised -- and frustrated.
He sat back down. Still trying to sense his mood, I walked
over to him and, with serious difficulty, tried to kneel on one
knee in front of him. I ended up doing a clumsy curtsey and he
had to catch me when I fell against him. He asked what it was I
wanted, as if he didn't know. I thought to myself that the one
thing I wanted was to have him inside of me. But he obviously
knew that.
"Would you like me to try on the black lycra bodysuit for
you? It is finished, hood and all," I said, thinking that the
first step to orgasm would be to get out of this torso. As sexy
as it looks, it is ultimately an erotic success only for the
observer, not the wearer. If I think about it objectively,
almost everything else he has done to me is more erotic than
wearing this damn thing. But it does look sexy. And for short
periods it feels sexy. Sometimes. Like now. A moment ago I was
just miserable, and I will be again. It comes and goes.
But then I had to go to the bathroom. Not a sexy motive for
getting the thing off, but there it is. He made me wait, though.
Not that he was torturing me or anything, I just didn't tell him
I had to go. I think he just wanted to keep me on the edge a
little longer. He helped me teeter out to the garage, gently
holding my upper arm and guiding me as though he were politely
ushering me into a posh restaraunt (that image flashed through my
mind for some reason) -- except that my wrists were pinioned in
the center of my back and my posture was unnaturally perfect. And
of course I wasn't exactly dressed for formal dining. I had to
roll my eyes and turn my entire torso to the side just to watch
him as we walked side by side.
Standing on the workbench in the garage was a white plaster
model of my body. He told me how he made the fiberglass torso. I
think he enjoyed explaining the technical details. He had waxed
the interior of the two halves of the mold he made of my body,
reassembled them, and filled them with plaster, leaving a core of
styrofoam to save weight and plaster. After it hardened, he
broke away the outer mold and discarded it (I had thought those
discarded pieces meant the project was a failure).
The remaining torso was an exact copy of my body. He
sculpted away parts of the plaster to shape the interior (that's
why it is smaller in the waist and crotch than an exact cast
would have been) judging how much he could remove by the fit of
the tight leather g-string (g-strap?) when he put it on and
pulled it so tight in back. Remember that? He just sculpted the
lower part of the plaster torso until the leather fit it. Later,
he knew the torso would compress me the same way.
I really had to pee.
He went on and on explaining how he had sanded it smooth and
sealed the pores in the plaster so he could build up something
called a gel coat, blah, blah, blah. Whoopie, I thought. Three
layers of epoxy-impregnated fiberglass with the latches and d-
rings and steel reinforcing imbedded, and he could cut it off and
shape the edges by adding an interlocking flange. Swell. I still
had to pee. Several additional finish coats on the outside with
sanding between, polishing, and I still had to pee.
Frankly, I think it was too much work for what you get. I
may have missed some steps: my mind was on my bladder, and my
attention had wandered to the other object in the room, still
covered with a sheet.
"You'll learn about that some other time," he said. He led
me back to the house. "Besides, it's time to finish you off," he
said. "This is really for later," he said, tapping one of my
plastic-coated breasts, "think of this as the first fitting." As
we went back to the house, he commented that he was going to save
the plaster cast of me. He had more ideas for it. Hmmm.
So anyway, he led me into the bedroom again, unlocked my arms
and retaped them the same as before. I finally had to tell him
before he taped my legs that I HAD to pee. He unlatched the
torso, telling me that he's not into that particular form of
torture, and that I should have told him sooner. But he left my
arms taped, and I couldn't wipe myself. He knew that, and when I
was through he came in and did it for me. Slowly. It was
demeaning and I looked away while he did it, but I think it put
my attention back where he wanted it.
He led me to the bed and retaped my legs. Once again, I was
helpless: I couldn't straighten either my arms or legs. He
stripped off his clothse as I watched, and got into bed beside
me. Stroking and teasing, he brought me to a near climax again,
but again my inability to straighten my legs held me back. I was
groaning and pleading for him to cut my legs free, but he
wouldn't. Finally, kneeling between my legs, he spread my
upraised knees and slowly, with maddeningly great control,
penetrated me. Within moments I was flapping my pathetic folded-
up limbs and crying out with frustration. He began thrusting
quickly and powerfully. At that rate it would normally have been
a quickie for him and left me twisting in the wind, but I was so
close to climaxing that he drove me over the edge and my dam
burst, releasing an entire day's worth of pent-up sexual
frustration. I made pitiful efforts to grasp and hold him with
my bound arms and legs, but it was hopeless. My pelvis continued
to contract and spasm of its own accord. I was ready for more: I
had at least two more orgasms waiting in there somewhere, and he
knew it. But he didn't let me have them. Just almost.
He left me there, twitching and moaning, and got a damp
towell to clean me with. Tenderly (he is so gentle afterward) he
lifted me to my knees and damp-towelled my still-vibrating body,
soothing me into a marginally relaxed state as you might an
excited horse. But my frustration wasn't at an end.
He slathered my torso, neck to crotch, with conditioner.
I thought he was going to make love to me again -- I was sure
(knowing what I know now, I'm absolutely sure) he would have been
able to -- but just as I was getting excited he put the plastic
carapace back on me. I whimpered in frustration when I saw what
he was going to do, and begged him not to put it on, but he
didn't listen.
So I had to cook dinner that way, marinating in gooey body
conditioner inside this damned plastic torso and feeling
extremely ... ready.
All during the romantic candle lit dinner that followed, he
ignored my rather eloquent body language -- body language that,
if it were braille, a one-armed blind man in a dark room could
have read through a concrete wall. I was reduced to squirming in
my seat, (the paddlock between my legs gouged the wood -- the
torso sits directly on it) stroking my encased body sensuously
(but pointlessly: as though I could feel it through the plastic)
and casting what I hoped were smoldering, lust-filled looks his
way. I could see I was having some kind of effect, and I hammed
it up a bit. I know he was aware that I was excruciatly horny,
(I was only half kidding when I was hamming it up) but he just
ate his dinner as though we were in a formal restaraunt. He kept
up a cheery but subdued banter, refilling my wine glass,
deflecting my heavy-handed inuendos and turning them into jokes.
He seems to delight in the incongruity of putting me in an
outrageous predicament under the most ordinary of circumstances.
He kept me "conditioning" in the torso all that evening,
finally releasing me just before bed. He watched me dry off with
a towel and, after I had had one last pee, cuffed my hands
together and chained them to my neck up under my chin so I
couldn't reach my sex to masturbate. Just to make sure, he had
me sleep next to him in his bed for the first time since I had
arrived.
-*-
The next morning I woke still horny. No relief, though. I
usually wake up feeling sexy anyway. I guess I've conditioned
myself to feel sexy in the morning: I like to fantasize when I'm
half-awake. J often wakes up horny, too, but I think that's more
common in men. He thinks it is caused by a full bladder pushing
against his prostate. He also tells me he can't urinate with an
erection, which makes a lot of sense biologically. I've never
worked for a urologist, but I'd be interested to know: When a man
wakes up with a full bladder and an erection, how the hell does
he solve this problem? Can't piss until the erection goes away,
erection won't go away until the bladder is empty.... J says the
erection just goes away if he doesn't use it for anything. Which
of course he does, now and then.
Anyway, he kept strict control over me until breakfast was
over. Then, after admonishing me not to touch myself below the
waist at all, he went out to the garage. By then I was out of the
mood anyway. I went back to finishing the harem/slave girl
outfit while he fiddled around in the garage.
Are all men hobbyists? Jeez. Couldn't he have worked on me
a little? Even in the garage?
Of course, I was chained, wrists and ankles connected as
before, like those convicts you see being led out of courtrooms
on the news but with a little more freedom of movement. I
actually hurried the costume in the hope that I would have time
to impress him with my dance routine before he decided to punish
me for the hacksaw incident. No such luck. After lunch he told
me my punishment would begin that day.
I'm still not over the shock. No kidding. Look: I'm not a
raconteur; I'm not a writer; this isn't literature. So far I've
tried to make this more than a "What I Did on my Summer
Vacation". Call it "attempted literature"; I'll be the first to
admit my success has been limited. Partly because I was
constrained to tell it as it happened, and it didn't happen in a
way convenient for fiction. I've romanticized. I've glossed over
the boring parts. Sometimes my inept attempts to be a writer
have gotten in the way of even basic communication.
BUT. I have NOT gotten over what comes next. It may come
out a bit muddled. I still feel bitter about it. I alternate
between anger, frustration, hornyness, and a feeling of "What in
God's name have I gotten myself into?" Several times I have
stopped typing just to go and look in the mirror and I don't
believe it. But it is right there on the List. I don't know how I
could have been so God. Damned. Stupid.
Okay, here goes.
The List
Column 1
Item 12
Late that afternoon he took off all the chains. He told me
to put on the black bodysuit and bring the hood to his bedroom. I
had looked at myself many times in the mirror while making the
suit. It shows off my figure well, especially my breasts,
although it changes their shape by making them unnaturally
pointy. And it is TIGHT. So tight there isn't a wrinkle or fold
anywhere in the material. It pulls up into my crotch quite
uncomfortably. Exactly what he wanted.
He had me take out my contact lenses, too, and put on the
stiletto boots again, with the chains that hold them on. And my
wrist cuffs. He had me bend over and hang my hair down into the
hood while he pulled it on over my head and zipped it from my
chin to the base of my throat. He zipped the hood to the collar,
too. I was completely enclosed in the suit. I could breathe and
speak, but I couldn't see a thing. Of course I know what it
looks like, since I had tried it on before sewing up the eye
holes. I will leave it to your imagination.
He had me stand. I was very disoriented, being on four inch
heels and unable to see, but he rectified my inability to balance
by chaining my wrists overhead at the foot of the bed and my
ankles apart at the ends of a three-foot pole, a spreader bar, if
my understanding of ASBese is accurate.
Although spread-eagled, I could stand fairly easily, even on
four inch heels. I wasn't hanging by my wrists or anything
drastic like that; in fact, I might have fallen if my wrists
hadn't been chained above my head. He left me standing there for
a moment while he left the room. I didn't know it at that
particular moment, but shortly I would learn that he had gotten
his heavy oak armchair and put it in the bathroom.
God, I still can't BELIEVE what he's done to me, even now, a
week later. And that morning was only the beginning. But one
thing at a time. I have to tell it as it happened.
He unzipped the front of the bodysuit then, from neck to
crotch and up to my lower back. His hands were inside the suit,
stroking me, arousing me. I couldn't see what he would do next,
but I was listening intently for any clue. I was still on edge
from the previous night's unresolved teasing. He stood beside
me. I felt chilly and exposed where the zipper was undone, and I
felt the lubricated fingers of one hand working into my rear
portal while his other hand stimulated my front. First one
finger, then two went in, loosening me for three. I tried to
relax and help him. Usually, being nervous is a hindrance, but
this time it made me wet in seconds, very ready, and very very
horny.
Of course, I didn't know what was coming; so far it was just
another exciting and mysterious bit of bondage. I grasped and
squeezed with both openings, my thighs quivering with the tension
and my hips grinding in both directions at once. I guess gyrating
is the word. A few more minutes and he had me on the edge of an
orgasm again, and he stopped.
I heard a buzzing noise. Then two buzzing noises. I could
feel vibration against both sides of me and knew instantly he had
two vibrators. I squirmed halfheartedly, and tried to clench both
openings, but I knew I couldn't have stopped him.
[...and I didn't want to stop him, either, but was ashamed
to admit it ... Note from the Future]
He continued
to penetrate me from both sides at once, until both vibrators
were buried deep inside me. Each of them had some kind of stop
or flange on the end to prevent them from disappearing completely
inside, but he pushed until they were pressed tight against me.
I thought he was going to use them to bring me to orgasm, but
instead, he held them in me with one hand while he zipped the
body suit back up my front to my chin.
He put the plastic torso over the bodysuit. I had to wiggle
and squirm again to keep from being pinched. He latched it into
place, and I heard the familiar rattle of tiny locks. I was
getting frantic. The bodysuit gave me something to thrust
against, but the critical vibrator, the front one, just wasn't
touching the right spot, no matter how hard I squirmed. I was
being stimulated constantly, but the vibrators couldn't make me
climax. Sometimes, I could make it touch my nasty bits, but the
vibrators buzzed against the fiberglass like a sounding board. I
know he could hear what I was doing.
Dimly I became aware that he was unlocking my legs. I could
bring them together as much as the torso would allow, but it
really didn't help. Then he freed my arms. I nearly fell, but
he was ready and caught me and half-carried me into the bathroom
where he sat me on the armchair. I helped ease myself down onto
the seat, supporting myself by my arms while I tried to settle
onto that rear vibrator, not knowing what was going on.
By the time I was able to sit I was distantly, through the
haze of the building stimulation, aware of him working at my
wrists with tape (more electrician's tape), wrapping around and
around both my wrists and the chair arms. The same with my
elbows, my upper arms, everything. My ankles and my shins were
taped to the legs of the chair, a chain locked to both sides of
the chair and to the rings on the torso. Something -- a belt I
think -- went around my thighs and the seat of the chair. I was
frantic over the vibrators, and almost unaware of what he was
doing. I had to partly lift myself with my arms to keep the rear
vibrator from becoming uncomfortable, but at the same time I was
squirming against the front of the carapace with my sex. He must
have worked very quickly. I was completely immobilized in what
must have been less than two minutes. The torso kept me from
even turning my head. But I was rubbing myself harder and harder
against the inside of the torso.
Off came the hood. I was strapped into the chair, sitting
looking at my out-of focus reflection in the full-length mirror
on the back of the bathroom door. He stepped in front of me. He
was holding the gag. THAT gag. It barely registered, I was so
disoriented. I rolled my eyes up at him, tilting my head as much
as I could. I was panting, my breath coming in short gasps, my
face flushed.
"Wha...what are you doing to me?" I asked, trying to gather
my wits. I was becoming more disoriented as the sensations
continued to build inside me; without my contact lenses the room
looked fuzzy and I felt like I was under water, everything moving
in slow motion, but still out of control. He held the gag against
my mouth, saying nothing. I couldn't think. I just opened up
and he put it in. He didn't even bother to buckle it in back. He
stepped to the side, revealing my reflection: eyes wild and wide
over a mouth held open by the gag in a soundless scream, face
framed by a white mane-cloud of platinum hair.
The rest of me was a study in textures and shades of black:
polished black plastic, black lycra, black leather boots, my
upper arms compressed by bands of black electrician's tape. Even
my mascara and eyeliner were black against my pale skin. Only my
lips were red. My chin was held high in that rigid, regal pose,
my neck unnaturally long. Black tape was around my plastic-
encased neck, too, holding me immobile against the top of the
armchair's back.
I was an absolute total knockout.
A slight pulsating movement of my thighs and a slight
straining of my neck against the high collar and the occasional
squeezing shut or fluttering of my eyelids were the only outward
signs of the turmoil going on inside the torso. And the puffing
noises escaping around the gag and through my nostrils.
I rolled my eyes to follow his motions. I blinked and tried
to focus my myopic attention on him despite what the vibrators
were doing to me. I was starting to slide into an orgasm. He
stepped behind me; I could see him in the mirror. He smiled in a
way that I can only describe as compassionate, and fluffed my
hair out with his hands like a hairdresser might have, but he was
looking straight into my eyes, gauging how close to orgasm I was.
He didn't say anything. He just nodded to himself as though he
had made a personal decision when he saw I was ready. He should
have said something. I had a right to some explanation, some
words, something. My orgasm started even as he was making his
decision.
There was a pair of scissors in his hand.
The List
Column 1
Item 13
Exactly in the middle of my orgasm he took a handful the
hair on my forehead and snipped it off. I screamed against the
gag. He was cutting my hair off!
I strained against everything that was holding me. I heaved
against the chair, trying to tip it, the vibrators forgotten in
my fear, but I could barely move. I twisted frantically inside
the torso, my movements made uncoordinated and spasmodic by the
ongoing orgasm. I couldn't even stretch the tape. I could turn
my head a few inches to the side, but that was all. I tried to
jerk my head away from his hands, but he easily took another
snip, again from my forehead. And another. In my panic, I
actually forgot about the gag and continued futilely to scream at
him to stop, even though I could hear I was just making squealing
noises. My heart was racing. How could he do this to me? My
orgasm wound down rapidly, leaving behind a near-hysteria. I
hadn't really meant this to happen. At all.
He worked across my forehead, from my ears forward. I
stopped fighting it for a few breaths to try and catch his eye.
If he could just see the expression on my face, I thought, he
would have to stop. I looked at my forehead in the mirror and
went back to futile hysterical struggling when I realized it was
too late to stop him. My scalp was showing through; for a
distance of three or four inches back from my hairline, my hair
was less than a half-inch long. Over my entire forehead, in a
line from the fronts of my ears to the top of my head in front, I
had a crewcut.
He stopped snipping and I tore my eyes from what he was
doing long enough to look at the rest of me in the mirror. I was
crying. Mascara streaks ran to my chin. Air was hissing through
my nostrils like a steam engine, cheeks puffing out, nostrils
dilating; my nose was running down to my lips and over the gag,
mouth leaking saliva that dripped on the black plastic neck and
breasts of the torso. My breath was ragged, my eyes red-rimmed
and round. I was making little whining noises through the
corners of my mouth around the gag.
He smeared shaving cream on my forehead --my new forehead--
and began shaving me with a disposable razor. Funny, the
scraping noise of the razor was the only sound I could hear --
even my labored breathing faded into the background of my
awareness.
In shock, I thought, stupidly: "At least it isn't all of my
hair," as if it mattered. I can't go out in public the way I am
now. It will be months and months growing back. As the razor
scraped over my forehead, I became aware again of the vibrators
inside me. It had been less than ten minutes since he had put
them in, but it seemed so long ago I had nearly forgotten them. I
shuddered involuntarily. They didn't feel sexy any more. I just
wanted them out. I didn't want another orgasm. I just wanted it
to stop, to be undone.
He was through. He damp-wiped my forehead and face and
fluffed out what was left of my hair. Through a film of tears I
could see a totally different person. My forehead was
incredibly, impossibly high. Like those old portraits of
Elizabeth I of England. My head was completely bare in front of
my ears.
He removed my gag. I said nothing. There was nothing to
say. It was too late. I just stared at myself in the mirror,
horrified and quaking, a jumble of conflicting emotions and
sensations. He must have cut away the tape, but I just stared at
myself, seeing nothing but my forehead. He helped me to my feet
and half-carried me to the bed, where he tenderly took off the
torso, unzipped the bodysuit, and gently removed the vibrators.
They were still going strong. I was in a daze. I didn't even
help him when he rolled me over to remove the second vibrator. I
don't think I even blinked.
I felt ruined. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. The only
thing I could think about was my hair. Without the vibrators in
me I continued to experience a kind of visceral nervous tremor,
like when you get off a lawnmower or a tractor you have been
riding all day. My body was thrumming with the sudden absence of
vibration. But that didn't matter. Nothing did.
"Look at me," he said. I couldn't. I just stared dully at
the ceiling, the bodysuit open, my feet in the boots hanging over
the foot of the bed. He sat on the bed beside me and turned my
chin with his hand. My eyes met his.
"I love you," he said. Suddenly my emotions all boiled to
the surface.
"My God!!! How could you do this to me!!?" I wailed, rolling
over and burying my face in the pillows. While I was face-down
sobbing hysterically, I felt his hand on my shoulder. "Don't!" I
said, jerking away as if I had been shocked. I rolled away from
him to the side of the bed and got up, unsteady on the hooker-
heels with my legs still strapped together.
"Look at what you've done to me!!" I cried, dissolving into
tears again as I hobbled to the mirror and turned to face him,
fists clenched at my sides. He looked so dismayed at the
vehemence of my reaction, I realized he was expecting something
completely different from me.
"You're beautiful to me. And I'm not going to apologize. I
did it because I love you and I am going to make you mine."
Strange way of showing it, I thought.
"I don't believe this is happening!"
"I want to own you. Now I do, more than before. Try to
understand that I care more about you than anything else in the
world. You are a treasure to me." Right, I thought. Sure. His
voice told me he was beginning to worry that he had gone too far.
Or too fast.
"Yeah, well you just disfigured your treasure," I said
bitterly, turning away and looking in the mirror again. I was
quite a sight: with the unitard flopping open, I was a slash of
white nakedness from the crown of my head to my hairless sex.
"No," he said quietly but forcefully. I have never heard
him so intense and adamant. "No..." he said again, gently,
turning my face to him and looking me in the eyes. "I stripped
away more of your dignity." Oh great, I thought. Now I get pop
philosophy to make it all better. As I said, I was feeling a
little bitter.
"Doing this makes it easier for you," he went on.
"What the hell are you talking about?!"
"Dignity and pride obscure our relationship and our sexuality
the way a fire is obscured by its own smoke. I didn't disfigure
you. I took away some dignity. To me you are more beautiful
than ever, because you are almost completely mine. If you want
public dignity you can go out in public with a wig. I even have
one for you, but you will wear it when I allow it. You will have
no private dignity.
"You are not disfigured. You are changed. It is important
that you understand .... "
"I don't believe this," I interrupted. But he went on and
on. There was more, but he wasn't connecting with me. It sounded
rehearsed. I didn't even listen to most of it, and I wasn't
buying it, but on the other hand, now, I can see what he had
intended, what he wanted to happen.
J has always preferred subtlety as a way of getting what he
wants. I know that shaving me doesn't sound subtle, but he would
prefer to give me the superficial appearance of freedom if there
were hidden chains holding me. Best would be no restraints other
than my own fear of embarrasment. Up to now I've had complete
freedom to walk around the house and yard, but total inability to
go out in public, whether it was chains, weights, lack of
clothing, or the plastic torso that kept me home. Now it is my
appearance that chains me. In public, my wig chains me, since he
can always take it from me.
While we lived in Chicago he studied martial arts. He drove
an extra hour every Tuesday night to study judo rather than take
karate within walking distance. He explained he prefers the
"soft way" to force. Somehow it is more satisfying, he says. He
is strong enough to overpower me easily, but he would prefer not
to use strength and chains except as a temporary technical means
to an unfettered but rigidly confined end. Invisible chains may
or may not be the strongest, but J thinks they are the best, for
some reason.
Even as I write this down, the words sound unconvincing, and
at the time I thought it was a line of bull. I'm still not sure.
It was definitely hard to take at face value. I thought he was
merely justifying what he had done, and that he had in fact done
it simply in order to exert control over me. A power trip.
But in this regard he has always been something of a mystery
to me. He has been in a position to control other people a
number of times, [partial professional record deleted]
but even
then, whenever possible without shirking his responsibilties, he
refused to use the authority inherent in his position. He is
genuinely more interested in personal self-understanding than in
the public trappings of success. His desire for control has
always been directed toward himself. So his desire to exert
control over me has been a mystery. Unless he regards me as so
much a part of him that I fall into a different category than the
public. No, that's not it. I don't know.
Anyway, his "will to power" (if you read your Nietzsche) is
inwardly directed. So calling this a "power trip" for him may be
a little unfair. Maybe.
And of course it IS on the List. Still, this was one thing
I just didn't think he would do. When he suggested it I just
laughed and said, "Sure, if I can do the same to you." I was
simply thinking of this in a different way than he was. He
actually intended to DO this to me; but I, instead of thinking of
something I really wanted (enough to trade my hair for), I just
thought of a fair retaliation for such a terrible thing. I
thought: He wouldn't do that to me because he wouldn't want me
to do it to him. The key point I had missed was this: I didn't
WANT to do this to him. But he DID want to do it to me. Why?
Who knows?
So in the end I came to the conclusion that he might just
mean what he says. He always has in the past. And I like having
him in control. It makes me feel safe. But God. My hair!
Even just this morning, a week later, I don't know how many times
I have thought to myself: "What in God's name have I gotten
myself into?!"
I've been round and round with myself trying to figure out
why he would want to do such a thing, and I have no answer. The
only thing I am sure of is that there's a lot more psychology
than philosophy behind what he did. I just hope there's no
pathology. I sometimes think the inside of his mind must look
like a painting by Heironymus Bosch (for that matter, mine does,
too). Why he did it wasn't uppermost in my mind at the time,
though. My hair was.
In fact, at that particular moment I wasn't thinking about
anything, just feeling pretty goddam miserable. Listlessly, I
stared at myself in the full length mirror. He stepped in front
of me, still holding the damp washcloth. Tenderly, he wiped a
smudge of mascara from below an eye and even kissed me.
"You are beautiful," he said, "Half a century ago you would
have been a great beauty exactly as you are, so don't dismiss
your appearance just because it is different. If you can't see
your beauty, then see this as a new kind of nakedness: a new
source of that embarrasment that I value so much as a gift." I
wanted so much to believe in him, to believe he wasn't crazy. I
just wasn't sure. How could he want me like this? The only thing
that really touched a part of me was the idea that he wanted to
make me his completely. He stepped aside and let me look in the
mirror.
It was hard to look without bursting into tears again. I
looked at my feet in the boots, still chained. My chained wrists
rested on my thighs, my hands trembling. He reached behind me
and rezipped the bodysuit, down my back and between my legs, up
my front almost to the top. There was a wet patch between my
legs. My eyes followed the zipper to my chin. I looked at my
face again. It was genuinely shocking to see myself that way. I
couldn't help it. Tears welled up and ran down my face again, and
my lower lip began to quiver. A pathetic specimen. I turned and
looked up at his face. I saw admiration, love, and concern
there. I looked back at my shaved forehead. Back at his face.
"You can't.... I look so...." I said in a tiny voice. I
wanted to believe him so much, but when I looked in the mirror it
was so awful. He took me by the shoulders and turned me to face
him.
"Really," he said, looking straight into my eyes. "To me you
are beautiful, and not just because you are mine, but also
because you are just plain beautiful."
I stood there, still in a daze, my eyes unfocused, my
thoughts turned inward. I just wanted reassurance. I wanted to
be sure he wasn't wierd. At least not pathologically wierd. I
wanted to know he loved me. I reached up and zipped the front of
the bodysuit back down to my waist. It took both hands with my
thumbs inside the gloves.
"Show me....?" I said, resentful and uncertain.
He looked into my eyes and nodded.
He picked me up, carried me back to the bed, and sat,
holding me in his lap. He took the key from around his neck and
unlocked my wrists and kissed each one. He stood me on my feet
and knelt to unlock the leg straps and the chains that held on
the boots. When he stood and kissed me again, I could feel a
tremor of suppressed emotion in his arms. He held me by the
shoulders at arm's length and stepped back, just looking at me.
I was still ashamed and resentful and wouldn't look up at him. It
was approaching sunset and we hadn't turned on any lights yet.
The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows, casting
shifting leaf-shadows on the wall in the dim light. It was very
quiet.
He held out the hood.
I took it and put it on, bending to tuck the remainder of my
hair inside. At least the hood covers my forehead, I thought, and
with it on he couldn't cut off any more hair. But I still felt
sick inside. A wave of near-nausea swept over me whenever I
thought about what he had done to me.
He zipped the bodysuit the rest of the way up, and zipped
the neck of the bodysuit to the neckline of the bodysuit. He
knelt and undid my boots; while I steadied myself on his shoulder
he helped me out of them. He stood and did something under my
chin to the three zippers where they came together. I could feel
with my gloved fingertips that something joined the zipper of the
bodysuit with the neckline zipper and the one that closed the
hood under my chin. (That, I realized, was why he had me get
zippers with holes in them, so he could join them somehow). I was
enclosed completely except for my nostrils, and I could do
nothing to release myself without scissors. The gloves were too
clumsy to figure out what held the zippers together (it wasn't a
lock), and I didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out
that in the game of "find the scissors first", having to use the
thumbless braille method would not give me a very big advantage.
I didn't even try. I heard him sit on the bed and felt my way to
him.
He kissed me through the bodysuit and said "I can give you
what you ask, but that doesn't mean I will relinquish control of
you."
He kissed me again, lingering over the mask between our
lips. I held my face blindly out toward his kisses. There were
still tears leaking out inside the hood. He stroked my body in a
way that wasn't exactly nonsexual, but wasn't foreplay either.
We leaned on pillows propped against the headboard, his arms
around me. I felt safe, protected. As we cuddled in the
darkening room, I could tell his attention was completely focused
on me, and I felt as though I was enfolded in the center of a
private little world, like I was a little kid again, sharing
secrets under a blanket. Or an embryo in the womb. But every time
I began to relax I would think of my hair. It kept coming back.
He made me feel secure and safe, but it was always there at the
back of my mind that something was wrong, and back it would come
and I would feel sick all over again. I would think: "Why did it
have to be my hair?" And then I would start crying again under
the hood.
"I think I'll keep you like this for a few hours. As a
pet," he whispered into my ear. As he stroked me through the
lycra, his caresses became more overtly sexual. There is
something especially sexy about the way his fingernails slide
over the fabric; when he strokes my sex that way, sliding down
my stomach to between my legs, I can't help catching my breath.
It's like the good part of being tickled without the bad part
that makes me laugh uncontrollably. It drives my breath out and
my stomach muscles contract involuntarily. But he stopped.
I couldn't read or watch T.V., it was too early to sleep, I
couldn't cook, eat, or even walk around very easily. There was
nothing I could do in that getup but try and seduce him into
taking it off. So what the hell, I tried. I could feel him
getting hard as I rubbed my body against him, and I was getting
pretty steamy too. But I still hadn't forgiven him. This was the
only thing he had ever done to me for which I felt resentment
that lasted more than a few minutes. Up to then, anyway.
He pushed me back, and said, "I think I'll take a shower."
He got up and left me on the bed, and I heard the shower start
running. I was still turned on, and I knew he was, too. I felt
my way into the bathroom and sat on the closed seat of the john
while he took his shower. I had a plan: get the suit wet and
he'll let me take it off to dry it. I went and stood at the
entrance to the shower.
"Hi." he said.
"The bodysuit needs washing here," I said, indicating my
sex. "And when I cried my nose ran inside this hood. Can I come
in?"
"Sure."
He gave me the soap and I began washing, getting the bodysuit
thouroughly soaped and soaked. Thumbless, I had to hold it with
both hands. I switched to the shampoo. The hot water made the
bodysuit relax and stretch; it felt as though it were melting and
loosening on my body. In seconds it wasn't tight at all. Wet,
it was a perfect and comfortable fit. I must be a very sensual
person, but despite my abysmal mood I got a kind of erotic
pleasure out of the feeling of the wet bodysuit moving and
relaxing against my skin as I stood soaking under the shower.
When I was through, I asked if I could still be his "pet" without
the bodysuit. He said no, and gave me a towel. I dried myself as
best I could, and he turned on the hair dryer for me to finish
after he left. It took forever to get dry. I had to hold it with
both hands again, and my hair was still wet under the hood when I
finished, but the bodysuit had become a perfect fit, exactly snug
and even all over.
He had left me there alone in the bathroom, so I felt my
way through the bedroom and hall to the living room where I could
hear him moving about. Still unused to my hair, I wanted to get
the bodysuit off to look at myself again. I was facinated and
shocked by my appearance, the same way I would have been had I
seen an Elizabethan hairstyle on someone else. Even more
shocked, because it was on me. I wanted to look and I didn't
want to look. Fools and angels rushing in and fearing to tread
again.
I wasn't in pain, though; the bodysuit isn't at all like the
gag. It's just disconcerting not to know anything that's going
on. And frankly, after a while, the enforced inactivity gets
boring. I asked if I could put on something else instead. He
said no, but he'd think about it.
I didn't really feel desperate enough to beg; besides, I was
still resentful enough over what he had done to me that I wasn't
going to humiliate myself willingly. On the other hand, the only
two things I could do were listen to the headphones and snuggle
with J, and I couldn't find the headphones blindfolded. I must
have been quite a sight, creeping slowly around the house,
holding onto furniture to keep my balance and trying not to break
anything while I felt for the headphones. Finally, I tried
stretching the hood until I could see through a nostril hole.
That was a mistake. He saw me.
"I can see the hood isn't tight enough," he said. He went
out to the garage. When he came back he took me by the arm and
led me into the bedroom. He said "You are going to get what you
asked for. The body suit comes off."
The List
Column 1
Item 14
He did something at my throat and unzipped the collar,
separating the hood from the bodysuit. He unzipped the bodysuit
from my throat to the center of my back and pulled it down to my
ankles in one motion. I was naked except for the hood. I felt
him buckle something around my upper thighs one at a time. Then
my wrists; he locked my wrists to the sides of my thighs. I know
the sound those little locks make by now. I would be able to
walk, but I couldn't see and I couldn't reach anything with my
hands.
I was already worse off than before -- but he wasn't
through. He buckled a collar around my neck. He didn't bother
to lock it: I couldn't reach it. Another strap around each leg
just above the knee, those connected so I could take only tiny
steps -- another strap around each ankle -- still another at each
elbow -- yet another around my waist with a wide strap between my
legs, forcing my buttocks apart. I remembered that one: he had
put it on me once before. This time, though, my elbows were
locked to the waistband.
A strap across my back, under each arm and over each
shoulder, holding my shoulders back and making my breasts jut out
unnaturally -- more than they ever would have even if I were
deliberately trying to make them seem big. He snapped still
another strap to the back of my collar and buckled it to the back
of my waistband, pulling it tight and forcing me to arch my back
even more.
Strap after strap after strap, and I was constrained more
and more. The last strap clipped to my collar in front, passed
between my breasts and through a ring on my waistband, was pulled
tight and buckled, pressing the crotchpiece cruelly against my
nether lips, forcing them apart. I almost couldn't move: I
couldn't bend over; I couldn't move my arms at all, even my
elbows; I couldn't see. But I wasn't in pain. Well, not
exactly.
I could walk slowly, talk, and sit. Carefully. I didn't
even feel safe walking. What if I had lost my balance? I asked
just that question and instantly he put a gag in my mouth, a
simple cloth band tied tightly right over the hood, forcing my
mouth open. I had never felt so trapped and constrained before.
Even begging for a little relief was impossible. But still, I
was not in pain.
Being locked up and helpless that way was actually extremely
erotic for me. It would have been more so if the image of my
shaved forehead hadn't continued to wash through my
consciousness. Erotic feelings in these circumstances are not
something your average midwesterner will admit, I know. I
remember thinking that if only he had bound me this way instead
of what he had done to my hair. Always my thoughts returned to
my hair. Whenever I thought directly about it my mind shied
away, but at the same time my thoughts were drawn toward my
forehead like a bird hypnotized by a snake (I know that is an
old wife's tale, but it describes what I felt). I still can't
think directly about the idea but neither can I ignore it. I am
drawn inexorably toward something I try desperately to avoid
confronting. It helps to write about it, I guess.
Mostly, though, I concentrated on not losing my balance. If
I had fallen with my arms locked at my sides ....
But J was watching over me. He guided me to the foot of the
bed and clipped the front of my collar to something hanging from
the ceiling -- I couldn't tell what. If I bent my knees, my
weight rested on the crotchpiece of my leather "g-string" rather
than my neck. Even if I fainted, I would not fall, could not hurt
myself.
All I could do was stand there.
"When I come back, I will remove one restraint. Think about
what you will do to get me to remove the next," he said. He left
me standing there in the bedroom for what seemed like hours; it
may have been only fifteen minutes. I heard him moving around in
the kitchen, and I thought. About basics. Is this wierd? Yes.
Did I still love him? Yes. Did I care if he loved me? Yes. Did I
want to end the List? Depends on how bad it was going to get.
On the cost of ending it. It couldn't get any worse. There was
nothing else he could do that mattered. I knew what was on the
List, and was sure none of it was worse than what he had already
done to my hair. As long as he stuck to the List.
He had forced me to take this latest step, this hair thing.
I was gagged and couldn't speak to protest. I would have stopped
the List then if I could have. I really would have, even though I
had agreed to it. (I actually got an erotic charge out of
the act of agreeing to it. I was being daring and sexy when I
should have been thinking with something other than my glands.)
After, it was too late. It isn't completely my fault; there is
some solace to be found in that. And how was he to know that my
written fantasies about him shaving me were just fantasies? After
all, I agreed to the List. But I was wrong in one thing: it did
get worse.
The only conclusion I came to was that in the short term I
wouldn't think about it. I would go along with what he wanted,
and then I would take it from there. That meant the first step
was to please him, or at least make him believe I wanted to
please him. Hell, I didn't want to please him, I wanted him to
own me. Double hell. I don't know what I wanted.
When he came back the first thing he did was not to remove a
restraint, but to kiss me right through the gag. Gently, he
tugged on the pendants dangling from my jutting breasts. I knew
from personal experimentation that my nipples readily everted,
even though I couldn't see what was going on. He tugged a little
more. The feeling was exquisite: intense pleasure coupled with
a sensation of not-quite-pain. They were still tender, but
fully healed, I think. Before, I would have said that pulling,
even the gentlest pulling (he is gentle when it's important) on
my nipple rings woould have been absolutely verboten. Now, I'm
not so sure.
He increased the tension on my nipples until my breath
quickened: each sharp exhalation/inhalation was separated by a
momentary pause, a holding of my breath, a waiting, suspended
with no thought except of the tips of my nipples.
For some reason, it is important to me that you understand
that last paragraph. Exhaleinhale. Pause with lungs full.
Concentrate on nipples. It was a very intense sensation. Try it.
Exhale inhale. It hurt more to exhale, so I tried to keep my
lungs full. But I had to breathe. Use your imagination. It was
intense.
Inhaling eased some of the tension on my nipples. The
sensation seems somehow to extend deep inside my breasts and to
tug directly at my womb. I know there's no physiological basis
for this sensation, but it is real. I am sorry J isn't sensitive
that way and will never experience that sensation.
No, I'm not sorry. Well, yes, I am.
I could feel myself getting wet beneath the leather of the
crotchpiece.
He took off the gag and kissed me through the hood again. I
returned the kiss, pressing my immobilized body against him as
best I could. My nipples remained erect and hard.
He unhooked my neck from the hanging chain. I fell against
him, pressing my body against him deliberately. He caught and
held me. I held my face blindly toward his; again he kissed me
through the mask. I told myself I was only doing this to get
free, but I knew it wasn't true even at the time. I was loving
it. I even like writing about it.
He eased me back onto the bed where he kissed me again and
tugged -- a little less gently -- on the pendants on my hard,
erect nipples. You can't imagine the excruciatingly exquisite
feeling of a tug on the very tip your already pebble-hard
nipples, a tug that seems to reach into the center of you and
send a kind of a lazy electric jolt through your body, stopping
your breath and causing an instant flood of warmth and moisture
inside you. Or maybe you can imagine. Until then I never had
felt it that intensely. Nipple rings are great.
He unhooked the strap connecting the back of my collar to
the waistband, making the unnatural back-arching posture no
longer necessary. My shoulders remained strapped together,
though and my breasts were still thrust outward. My nipples
ached with excitement; they were so stiff the pendants were held
out at the very tips: they no longer dangled against my breasts;
didn't even touch them when I was standing. My breath became
ragged.
He lifted me into the center of the bed and laid me on my
back. He removed the strap between my knees. He strapped my
ankles to the bedposts, my legs held quite far apart, although
not to the point of actual discomfort. Then he attached something
to my knee-straps that pulled my knees even further toward the
edges of the bed. I had never been spread so wide before. I could
feel the muscles between my thighs straining under the tension.
He knelt between my knees, unbuckled the waistband buckles
in front and opened the leather belt, exposing my already-wet
sex. He unhooked my elbows from the waistband and unbuckled the
strap that ran from the front of my collar to the front of the
waistband. Lifting my buttocks, he slid the waistband from
underneath me. I was as exposed to him as it is possible to be,
my legs spread wide, my breasts jutting, my wrists still locked
to my thighs.
Carefully, he let his weight settle gently on top of me; he
felt like a warm, heavy snowfall blanketing me. I was panting,
partly from the near-pain caused by the position of my legs,
partly from excitement. He unzipped the bottom of the hood and
peeled it back to the bridge of my nose, uncovering my mouth. I
felt his breath on my face, near-kisses teasing my blind,
searching lips.
With excruciating slowness, he penetrated me simultaneously,
my mouth with his tongue and my sex with his maleness. I was
already spasming toward an orgasm. It was hard to reach up to
pull him in while in that position, but still I tried to the
limits of the strain on my poor suffering inner thighs.
He thrust into me, teasing. Deeply into me and out. Long
pause. In-out. Pause. Every time he penetrated me my breath
rushed out in a sharp exhalation and rushed back as he withdrew.
When he paused, my breath held suspended, waiting expectantly for
the next penetration. He increased the tempo until my breath was
coming in uncontrollable pants that he nonetheless kept timed
with his thrusts. My pants merged with ragged moans, the moans
with soft cries, the cries becoming louder and louder until our
dams burst, together. Timing is all. I subsided into a
quivering exhaustion. Gradually, he became limp inside me.
It was after a few moments that the most wonderful thing
happened. The thing that convinced me that I actually was still
attractive -- maybe more attractive -- to him with my hair that
way. He reached up and slipped the hood the rest of the way off,
exposing my naked forehead. All thought evaporated from my head.
All that was left was the humiliation. I was totally, utterly
embarrased. Even though the evening light was very dim and he
couldn't really see me, I turned my head to the side, trying to
hide myself.
I struggled impotently against the straps holding my wrists
to my thighs. But he held my head between his hands and turned
me to face him. Tenderly, he kissed my shaved forehead. As he
did, I felt him begin to grow again inside me. The feeling was
wonderful. To have him already in me, and growing bigger and
bigger, until he was stiff and hard again, filling me completely.
In those moments I realized that the sight of my shaved forehead
was the cause of his wonderful resurection. I realized he really
did, at an involuntary level and in a way that can't be faked,
like the way I now looked. Which was good. At least some small
part of this whole scene was good.
So I had my third orgasm of the day after all, and all the
while, in the back of my mind, was the thought that my new
appearance, even though I hated (still hate) it, gave me power.
Power over him.
-*-
-*-
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 wierd 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 noone 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 rewet it and put curlers in it, or
something. Anything.
From behind me he produced a wig. It was a huge tangled-
looking 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 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 stunningly magnificent to be real hair.
But then, noone 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 tolerate -- even like -- my appearance? Remember, I HAD agreed
to it originally, 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 scenario, and I had responded with a
similar fantasy in which I had submitted 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 punishment.
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 violent, but I felt
completely helpless when confronted with the intensity 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 addicted 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 practical 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 posession, 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 wierd. 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 wierd. 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 that runs the front desk complimented me on my hair. He
thought I had 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 2 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 restaraunt afterwards. He made me
change into the long dark wig in the car before going into the
restaraunt.
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 insisted that money isn't important to me, but having
dinner at a good restaraunt 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 restaraunt. 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 restaraunt) 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 behaviour 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 embarassment 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 bedroom. 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 involuntary erection from him. I kinda 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
depilations 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
jewelery: 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 coloring (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 clothse 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 embarrased 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 embarrased 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 bodypaint 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 had 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 embarrasment 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 very tight webbing of the stuff. Every
time a roll ran out he pulled out another, white again, and tied
them together. He was very careful to keep the whole arrangement
symmetrical, my 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 something. Like being under water
with currents or something. He worked around my breasts so that
when he was through they were flattened and criscrossed 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 restaraunt, 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 interesting experience. I never would have thought
it would be. I imagine that you probably are wondering what was
the point? I dunno, 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 this computer
and showed me how to log onto his work account and 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
autobiographical 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 vs. leather cuffs. Others are
advice-givers. Others enjoy shocking their readers with their
tales and comments. Others are almost political ("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 penetrated 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
facination 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 hygenic 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 hygenic aspect might still be what
bothers us both most, even now. So while we were showering I
made a tentative suggestion. It was very very hard 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 medecine, and have prepped
patients for rectals before. I explained. Not all the gory
details, but enough 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. Reluctantly. 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 intolerable 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. I dunno. 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, listening 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 painless. 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 horizontal pieces together to
hold the dildos immobile. Once he began removing 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 embarrasing, 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 elizabethan 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 couldn'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 presentable in public. I had figured maybe I
could do something with a bandana. 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?"
The List
Column 1
Item 15
He mixed some of my cream bleach -- the kind for bleaching
facial hair. He put it on my eyebrows. I had forgotten about
them.
They were plucked thin enough as it was. They will be
invisible now, I thought. I was right. They are invisible.
Which, of course, is what he wanted. At least he didn't shave
them off: I could dye them back later. He left me sitting there
while the bleach did its work. When he came back and wiped off
the bleach it was near dusk. He cleaned away some runny mascara
and dried tears too. I had stopped crying and had had time to
think about what he had done to me. Somehow, it wasn't as
traumatic as the first time.
I will have to wear a wig. So big deal, I had to wear a wig
before. I can dye my eyebrows back or even just darken them with
mascara. Otherwise no-one need know that my body is completely
hairless. I am really no worse off than when he had shaved just
my forehead: I had to wear a wig then, I still have to wear a
wig. Shaving my forehead was really the big step. Everything
after that was inconsequential -- just finishing an unfinished
item on the List. I guess what really bothers me now is not that
I have to wear a wig to go out in public. It is that I am now
completely bald. I felt (still feel) so NAKED without a wig or
anything to cover me. I think that really was the last shred of
my dignity. While he left me sitting on the horse I just stared
into space as I thought these thoughts. No, that's not true. I
wasn't even thinking, just staring.
He used a wrench to loosen the bolts that clamped the dildos
in place. I continued to sit and stare, and he gently slipped
out the two devices that had held me to the horse. When he
helped me stand I instinctively wouldn't look up at him -- not
because I was still playing the slave role, but because I was
ashamed of the way I knew I looked. Remember, I didn't even
have any eyebrows anymore. You don't get any more naked than
that.
He took me by the elbow and led me through his bedroom to
the bathroom. On the way through I glanced at the full-length
mirror, but he had covered it with a sheet. The bathroom mirror
was covered too. He started a shower and we stepped in.
He was gentle with me -- although he didn't unlock the cuffs
that held my wrists to my thighs. I wanted so much to cover
myself; I tried to turn my face to the side as though I could
hide. He washed all the makeup off my face and soaped me from
head to toe. When I rinsed off, the sensation of the shower on
my bald scalp was a surprise. Tingly; it's a nice sensation, but
I was in no mood to enjoy nice sensations. I still couldn't make
myself look at him, nor could I imagine he could enjoy looking at
me, but he was obviously -- prominently -- interested. He
covered me with handfuls of conditioner, again from head to toe,
and told me to do the same to him. I couldn't understand what he
meant, since he knew my hands were cuffed to my thighs.
"How?" I asked. Long pause. "I mean, would it please you
to unlock my hands?" I had almost forgotten. Shaving my head had
kind of shocked me out of my role.
"Your body is completely covered with conditioner. Use your
body."
So I did, rubbing myself against his front, sliding my legs
between his, sliding my backside against him, and asking him
several times, "Would it please you to put more conditioner on
me?" As I rubbed my breasts against his back and then his
erection I could tell he was extremely ... ready. I know you
probably think this was disgustingly servile groveling, rubbing
myself all over him, especially after what he had just done to
me. At this point I felt I had crossed the line between
dignified slavery and genuine degradation. I didn't care.
Suddenly he spun me around and held me to him and kissed me.
He was really turned on and poured a lot of barely-controlled
emotion into those kisses. He guided me out of the shower, and
instead of drying us off, he led me straight into the bedroom and
literally threw me onto the bed, soaking wet and still dripping
with body conditioner. Without preamble he was on top of me and
inside. No foreplay, no nuttin'. He ravished me. It sounds old-
fashioned, I know, but there's no other way to describe it. It's
not that he was out of control, but my appearance was driving him
wild. At one moment I sensed that he tried to slow down and
exert his usually excellent control over the timing of our
orgasms, but he failed utterly. We slithered and slipped against
each other, and it felt like the smooth sensitive skin around my
depilated mons extended over my whole body to form one big
erogenous zone. In just a couple of minutes -- long before I was
ready -- he came uncontrollably in huge thrusting shuddering
gasps. He collapsed onto me, his face slithering into the hollow
between my neck and shoulder.
To tell the truth, despite my embarrasment at my appearance,
even despite not having an orgasm, I derived a genuine sense of
warmth (power?) from the fact that I could make him lose control
that way, and I knew that it was my totally hairless appearance
that did it to him. I had to imagine how I looked: practically
featureless. He had made me into a doll, an undressed department
store mannequin, with no hair anywhere. Except that mannequins
at least have makeup painted on.
Perhaps rather than a mannequin, I looked like an unfinished
prototype for a female android (gynoid?). I flashed an image of
myself as a kind of sex object/appliance. A sort of real-live
plastic inflatable love-doll, designed for only one function: to
satisfy my owner.
I dreaded looking in a mirror, but was nonetheless curious.
I was just beginning to get turned on by this sense of power and
the really sexy feeling of our slippery bodies against each other
when I realized his breathing had returned to normal and he was
shrinking inside me. I remember thinking that two thousand years
ago, real slaves probably got used like appliances too.
He lifted up his head and looked me in the eyes. "What are
you feeling?" he asked.
"If it pleases you, I was thinking I would like you to hold
me and touch me and tell me that I'm not ugly."
[Note from the future: I couldn't write this at the time
because J would have read it and known he was being
manipulated, but: getting him to touch my bald head was a
deliberate exertion of the power I knew my appearance gave
me over him.]
"But I'm touching you all over right now -- as much as it is
possible to touch," he said.
"I meant ... my head. I'm so ashamed of the way I look ...
I'm scared by all this."
He touched my head while I kept my eyes carefully lowered.
He didn't have to tell me he thought I was beautiful: I felt him
stirring within me almost immediately. Within a minute I was on
my way to a teriffic orgasm, made all the more teriffic by this
sudden vision of myself as a kind of sex-machine that felt
nothing, but drove him wild. I kept my face immobile and hid all
outward expression of emotion while I squeezed him tightly and
ground my hips against him the way I imagined such an
appliance/being would. All the while, though, I was secretly
building to one humdinger of a climax. I really tried to suppress
the first one, and I think I was successful: I kept up the
rhythm in my hips right through it without making a sound.
I lost control on the second one, though. It was as though
he made me have an orgasm despite myself. Although I am almost
never noisy during sex, my breathing grew hoarse and merged with
involuntary moans that got louder and louder until there was this
other person in the room panting and crying out in near hysteria
and it was me. I rolled my head back and forth and spread myself
extra wide to pull him deeply inside me. He lifted my legs up
onto his shoulders and plunged into me, filling me up.
Right in the middle of his orgasm, I reached the peak of
mine and for some daft reason I threw my legs apart, my feet in
the air. I don't know why, because it didn't feel any better,
just different. I just kept going and going, and so did he. I
was moaning and babbling incoherently, nearly having convulsions.
I planted my feet on the bed and pushed up, lifting him with my
hips and opening myself as fully as I could for him. Finally the
exertion drove the breath out of me and I could no longer make
any sound beyond faint squeaks every time he thrust. I went
passive and limp, no longer capable of any action at all.
Finally, he came to a shuddering halt and collapsed onto me a
second time.
It wasn't the very best sex I had ever had, but it was in the
top ten and it certainly was the most exhausting. I was
absolutely destroyed. It seems it is always different. This
time, I simply couldn't move. I felt I had been used. And used
up. "Rode hard and put up wet" as the Indiana farm boys say.
Somehow, being used by J didn't bother me. He isn't insensitive,
and he doesn't "use" me like that as a habit. In fact, I got
kind of a thrill out of being used without regard to my own
needs. That's not the way I would want it all the time, but now
and then it can ... do things to me.
Anyway, it was a long time before either of us could do
anything other than breathe like steam engines. After he rolled
off of me we both drifted off to a near-sleep. I roused myself
first and took another shower. The shower knob is chest-high for
me. Fortunately, it is started with a lever you have to push up
on -- otherwise I wouldn't have been able to reach it with my
wrists bound to my thighs. I just stood there soaking under the
water until he joined me. We stood together under the stream of
water for a while; he went and got the key to my wrists and the
leather straps fell to the floor of the shower. I think the
water and conditioner had stretched them anyway. They had
stained my wrists yellow-brown.
When we started towelling off, I remembered my head. He had
bound my wrists and covered the mirrors to stop me from seeing or
even touching my scalp, so I asked for permission.
"If it pleases you, could I touch my head now?"
He thought about it and said yes, but I still couldn't look
at myself in the mirror.
I was almost afraid to touch myself there. I ran my hand
over the top of my scalp. I was (am) smooth as the proverbial
baby's bottom. I didn't have a mirror, but I looked into his
face as I felt my head. You may find it hard to believe (I did),
but after that one gesture, just touching my head, he wanted me
again. I could see him rising and neither of us really even
wanted sex again. It's almost like an aphrodisiac with him. I
knelt and took him in my mouth, and within seconds he was rock-
hard and ready for a third round. I would almost have preferred
to give him a third orgasm orally, I was so exhausted, but I'm
not sure I would have had the strength for that either.
Fortunately, before we really got started again he stopped me.
"Wait," he said, "lets give it a few more minutes..."
I stopped, but he was seriously horny again. I think his
psychology is stronger than his physiology. I sprinkled talcum
powder on both of us and spread it around. His erection didn't
subside. When I put talc on my naked scalp he went and got my
wig -- the long black one -- from his bedroom and told me to put
it on. I don't think he could take the sight of me like that any
more.
This is a new thing for me, and will take some getting used
to: the right kind of submission can bring a new kind of power.
By paying very close attention to his reactions and needs, I can
learn by experiment the kind of submissive behaviour that he
wants. It is clear that the control I can exert on him by
behaving in just the right way is subtle, but nonetheless nearly
as great as the control he exerts over me. Perhaps this is
something that I should not be writing, since he will read it,
but it is something I think will bring us closer if he
understands it.
[Note from the future: the next few paragraphs are edited
and expanded heavily from the original. My manipulation of
his reactions, had he understood them completely at the
time, would have interferred with our relationship. Now
that we are finished with Column 1 and I control this
document, I can make these changes.]
The next few moments taught me the value of not over-using
that control.
"If it would please you, I could put my makeup on now," I
said. I think he saw the interruption as a welcome distraction
from an impending (but premature and exhausting) third session of
lovemaking. That was what I wanted him to think. With
appropriately downcast eyes, I promised not to remove my wig or
try to look at myself in a mirror if he would allow me to bring
my makeup into his bathroom. I have to use a small mirror to put
on my makeup, I said, but he could watch me and make sure I
didn't sneak a peek at my head. Besides, I had my wig on.
There is a small table in his bathroom. I put my makeup box
on it and looked in it for my small hand mirror. He had removed
it. The mirrors in my bathroom had been covered, too. He is
thorough.
But he gave me a small mirror to use. My face looks just
plain weird without eyebrows. Well, not totally without, but you
have to look very closely to see that they are there. Without any
makeup I really looked like a blank canvas. I thought I would
look like I was on chemotherapy, but my face was flushed from the
shower, so I looked wholesome, healthy and pink. Except ....
While he put on some clothse in the next room, I put on a
foundation and a very pale coverup with the faintest touch of
blusher. Next, heavy eyeshadow and mascara (I know he likes
that). Then I put a shot across his bow, as they say in the
movies.
"There's more of me to cover with makeup now. I can continue
without the mirror if you will help me. If it would please you,"
I said, turning the mirror face down. I didn't look up -- I just
waited for him to react.
"Okay," he said.
"May I take off the wig now?"
"Okay."
"Tell me if I miss anywhere."
I put foundation over my entire scalp and followed it with
the same pale makeup while he watched. Just a touch of the same
blusher high up on my forehead. I could see his erection was
still going strong, straining against his pants. Maybe stronger,
it was hard to tell.
"Would you put some more blusher on? This is new to me and I
can't tell where it would look good. Maybe some on my temples or
the top of my head?" I said. "If it would please you," I
added. I knew it would. Another shot to take the wind out of his
tops'l, me hearties. Arrrrh.
When he had finished, I put the wig back on as if nothing had
happened, but something had: he had to adjust himself inside his
pants, and I knew I was touching some very sensitive nerves.
Perhaps not wisely, I pushed it even further.
Instead of my usual lip gloss, I put on a flesh-colored
blemish cover that comes in a twist-out tube like a lipstick. I
thought that was kind of in keeping with my new "featureless"
look, since it is almost the same color as my skin. He was
watching, and despite the unusual look it gave me, he didn't tell
me to change it. He seemed mesmerized. I was loving it.
So I gave my face the piece de resistance. My invisible
eyebrows gave me the liberty to put my eyebrows wherever I
wanted. I sketched in razor-thin eyebrows that had those high
arches like movie stars from the 1930's, but with an inspired
touch: where they neared the bridge of my nose, I turned them
upward slightly instead of down. This gave me a very interesting
look -- as though I were either very worried or possibly even in
pain. It's amazing how expressive eyebrows are. And pants, too.
I stood and walked into the bedroom with my eyes carefully
down, but with as much sensuality as I could squeeze into four or
five steps. He followed me. I gave him another broadside.
I knelt in front of him and, keeping my eyes down, asked in
an almost inaudible whisper, "Would it please ... my Master ...
if I wore my boots tonight?"
He cleared his throat and said, "Yes," also in a (rather
hoarse) whisper.
I put them on and walked over to the bedside table with my
back to him. I know that my behind looks great when I walk in
heels. He has told me so a hundred times. It has something to
do with those little creases under my cheeks and the way they
shift with each step. Of course I exaggerated that for his
benefit as I walked. His masts were shot away and he was ready
for boarding. As it were. Avast me hearties.
I'll never understand men. Back in Indiana a pair of well
filled short shorts would cause an entire room full of male eyes
to turn as one, and after she had passed there would be unanimous
hooting, foot stomping, and table pounding. The simplest and most
predictable things turn them on, but if you asked me what it is
about J that turns me on, I couldn't tell you. Well, I could,
but it's so complex and personal it wouldn't mean anything to
you. His eyes maybe. I can go all soft and squirmy sometimes
when he just looks at me with those icy blue nordic eyes. But
then I've seen more beautiful eyes on guys that did nothing for
me. I guess it's the whole package that attracts me. The point
being, it's too complex to reduce to a formula.
On the other hand, I would be willing to bet that almost
all men would be turned on by the way I walked then, not just the
Indiana Clampetts. I'm like most women, and I complain about how
hard it is to find a good man, how we have to wait for them to
come to us rather than going out and hog-tying the one we want,
so it's going to sound odd when I say this: Gals, in some ways
we have it easy when it comes to attracting men.
It is something you could learn from a three-page
instruction book even if you were from another planet. If they
only knew how predictable they are. High heels, tight short
skirts, dark eye makeup, all that kind of stuff. Sounds sleazy, I
know, but it comes with a 100% guarantee.
But, you say, that kind of look attracts the wrong kind of
man. You're half right: it attracts all kinds of men, right
kind or wrong. It's up to us to sort 'em out.
Their tastes are simple: they like either slinky black or
virginal white -- but virginal white with no underwear, at least
metaphorically. You see, the most important part is that the poor
dear has to KNOW it's just for him and him alone. Their little
egos need that most of all. And their capacity for believing that
is infinite.
Even better: they like to believe that most men would
overlook you because you are shy and that they alone were
discerning enough to have "discovered" you. The poor dears are so
pathetically eager to believe this that once they have got the
idea in their heads, no amount of evidence to the contrary will
dislodge it.
You're going to think I'm a cynic. I'm not. I love men.
They're easily the best aphrodisiac. And just because they're
easy to understand (some parts) doesn't mean you can't love 'em.
We might be initially attracted to them for all kinds of complex
reasons: because they are good looking, because they are
powerful, because they are mysterious, smart, talented, whatever.
All these are strengths, and we respect them because they are
strong, but we love them because they are weak, and love makes
the choice.
And when you get right down to it, their major weakness is
how easy they are to please. The old Sampson and Delilah routine.
Just push the right buttons. I could almost write a how-to
manual; it could be full of simple step-by-step instructions.
But what does your man have to do to please you? It's a lot
more complex, isn't it? And the poor things are completely
clueless. I can almost pity them. But then on the other hand
they don't have to put up with our monthly friend, do they? And
they run the world, by the way. Ah, but that way lies madness. I
like being a woman, but I can't think for too long about how
unfair it is. Being around doctors all day drives the point home
too often as it is: they have egos the size of small planets,
some of them. The modest ones. Large planets, the rest of them.
Most of the time, I can live my day-to-day existence and not
think about it at all, and then some subtle realization will hit
me. I was listening to a call-in talk-radio program featuring a
family psychologist and a thought occurred to me: have you ever
heard a MAN ask for advice on how to combine a career and
marriage? Ever? Even once? We women write books about it. Books!
What does that imply? Don't think about it.
It just isn't very healthy to step back and look at the
overall picture too often. Aldous Huxley once gave some advice
on that; I can't remember which of his novels it was in. He said
that if you are ever sitting at your desk, doing whatever it is
you do for a living, and you begin to wonder if this particular
activity is what nature or God had intended as the culmination of
three and a half billion years of biological evolution, then you
must be very careful, because you will sense a bottomless pit
opening beneath your desk and you will feel your chair tilting
forward and yourself sliding into it. The only cure is to
immediately put aside all such thoughts and concentrate on
alphabetizing the papers in front of you.
I feel that way if I think too long about the monumental
unfairness that being a woman imposes. And I feel that way
almost daily, now, as I slip deeper and deeper into this thing J
and I are doing. Not the unfairness, the panicky sliding
out-of-control sensation.
If I step back and look at what I have done to myself by
letting this happen, I feel a growing sense of panic. And an
urge to alphabetize my life; get it back in order, even though
it's simpler now than it has ever been. Let's say I actually put
on a wig and dye my eyebrows back and get a job at the hospital.
I have a good C.V.; it wouldn't be a problem to do that. But
every day at work, I would be masquerading as a normal person,
and every time I came home I would have this totally different
life. I am completely isolated from the world I used to know at
home, and from the "real" world here. And I know nobody other
than J that I can discuss this with, except the friendly folks
down at A.S.B., and that's not really an option since I am
determined to remain a "lurker".
Maybe Huxley was wrong, though. It may not be fair to look
back on your life and ask 'is this what it was all leading
toward?' Maybe a life can't be judged by the present moment any
more than a piece of music can be judged by the final note. He
was right about the cure, though: Don't think about it. Forget
the big picture; think moment to moment, since that's the way you
have to live it anyway. In any case, I feel more comfortable
alphabetizing than philosophizing, so I'll forget the big picture
and go back to writing about the bedroom. Sorry about the
soliloquy.
-*-
I was starting to feel pretty sexy again, especially since I
knew for an absolute undeniable fact that even though we had had
sex twice in the last hour, I knew exactly what to do to MAKE him
give me another orgasm if I wanted one (or two). Which I did.
And I had no inhibitions whatsoever about asking for exactly what
I wanted. All I had to do was ask in the right way.
From the bedside table I took the K/Y jelly and the vibrator
that he had used on my rear. Still keeping my eyes down, I
slinked over and knelt in front of him and said, "If it would
please my Master, we could make love with this inside me, and
you might feel the vibration and enjoy ... using ... me more."
(Good touch, that 'using' huh?) The best sex I had had yet was
when I was on top in the shower with the dildo inside my rear. I
wanted to try it with the vibrator.
Gosh, Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore. Or
Indiana, even. Shhh. Pay no attention to that woman behind the
screen. No, I'm not crazy, but everyone should know the complete
script for at least one movie.
Funny. I made the transition to being able to address him
as "Master" in the most ironic way. I was willing to do anything
(ANYTHING) to keep him from shaving my head. I called him
"Master" for the first time when he was beginning to shave me,
and once it was over, I was too proud to stop. He might have
thought I had only started calling him Master to stop the
shaving. And now I'm stuck with it. How's that for twisted?
Too proud to NOT humiliate myself?
[ NFTF: That's the end of my editorial changes. The rest of
Item 15 is as I first wrote it.]
I knelt on the bed with shoulders on the matress and my rear
up in the air toward him, ready to accept the vibrator. I was
feeling pretty horny myself at that moment. I was also being a
little daring, and I felt excited and exhilirated by it. Without
turning it on, he began inserting it. He insinuated it into me
with much more care and sensitivity than your average
gynecologist. Of course a vibrator has a little more erotic
content than a speculum. Carefully, I rolled over on my back
and settled myself in the appropriate position: spread eagled,
but this time voluntarily.
But as soon as he had entered me, he rolled us over so I was
on top. He held the vibrator in and moved it in time with our
lovemaking, but he didn't turn it on until my first orgasm
started. I was trying to hold back and play the ice-queen like I
had before, but my body just started kind of fluttering inside
all by itself. It's kind of special to have your body do
something all by itself without your help -- I don't know why.
Just as I finished, he started. I love to watch his face as he
climaxes. His eyes go all unfocused and he becomes completely
withdrawn, self absorbed, and vulnerable. Non-simultaneous
orgasms have their strong points: you get to watch.
Afterwards, with me still on top and the vibrator off (but
still in), we were just floating there on the bed. I was still
wearing my wig, and I was in a really mischievous mood. It's not
a slave's place to torture her master, but I don't get the chance
very often. I shifted to sit astride his hips; he had gone limp
and he almost slipped out at the motion. He likes looking up at
me --especially at my breasts -- in that position. I began
stroking myself. A little gentle persuasion and my nipples were
erect. I slipped my other hand down and began stroking between my
legs. I hammed it up a bit, biting my lip and moaning -- aided
I'm sure by the worried/pained/surprised expression of my
painted-on eyebrows (I look like I'm in pain if my face is
relaxed; pleasure/pain if I open my mouth and gasp a little;
pained surprise if I open my eyes all the way. I've been
practicing in front of the mirror; these are expressions that
don't come naturally to me, yet they better reflect my actual
feelings than my natural facial expressions would. Is that really
so deceitful?) I could feel him stirring weakly inside me, but
not enough. In a "moment of ecstacy" I brushed my hand back over
my face and accidentally-on-purpose knocked off the wig.
"I'm sorry, Master, it was an accident." I said, and
scrabbled to reach it and put it back on. After I had replaced
it he reached up and took it off again. I felt him growing
quickly inside me. What a feeling of power. He tells me that
four times in one day is a record that he hasn't equaled since he
was a little boy just learning about sex.
On the whole, though, I don't think four times in as many
hours -- or even four times in one day (or three, even) -- is
enjoyable for either of us. He was enthusiastic, but even with
the vibrator it was more an exercise in total exhaustion than
eroticism. I discovered that my new ability to force arousal in
him should not be squandered on private ego trips unless there is
some physical return -- otherwise it is just overkill for both of
us. Maybe we're getting old. I'm twenty-eight. But I read at
the thirty-two year old level.
Still, the feeling of utter depletion was delicious that
evening. I'll definitely keep the wig on whenever he's home,
though, unless he tells me to take it off.
"It's those pesky hormones...." Thanks, Ma.
I still haven't seen myself in the mirror. That night he
had me sleep with him so I didn't try to steal a peek at myself.
I slept without the wig, though: I took it off after he turned
the lights out, and snuggled into the crook of his arm, putting
my bald head on his shoulder. As I drifted off to sleep, he had
another erection.... ( ;-)
-*-
The List
Column 1
Item 16
He must have felt that I needed a bit more controlling after
that episode. I kind of overdid it and took advantage, sort of,
even though I remained submissive. Not that I actually liked
having my head shaved. He had me shave myself the next morning
without a mirror. I had to feel for the stubble with my hand and
go over my head until I felt totally smooth. It is kind of an
erotic feeling. My nipples were erect when I was through. Hmmm.
At this point, he started doing something new to me:
putting an artificial tanning lotion all over my body. It's on
the List, but I won't be able to leave the house until it wears
off. Actually, he doesn't put it on me any more: he has ME do it
every morning and every evening while he watches, and I'm under
orders to do it once at mid-day as well, even when he's not at
home.
But that morning, after I had shaved myself, he started this
tanning routine without telling me what he was doing. The first
thing he did was to put another one of his handyman specials on
me: stocks. Simple, but well-crafted (varnished, sanded smooth,
etc.) and functional. Two boards, hinged at one end, locked
together at the other, held my hands and my neck. This he clipped
to an overhead chain so I had to just stand there and wait.
He began by smearing this lotion all over my body: scalp to
toes. He didn't tell me what it was; I assumed at first it was
another skin conditioner. After I was completely covered, he
brought out gauze bandages and dipped them in the stuff and began
wrapping my body like a mummy. He really wants it to have a
strong effect, because I was positively marinated in the stuff.
He started at my ankles and worked his way up each leg
independently, dipping the bandages, wringing out the excess
lotion, and wrapping it tightly around me. God only knows what he
spent on lotion and bandages, but he had emptied enough bottles
of lotion to fill a largish casserole dish. I kept asking him
what he was doing, and he just kept ignoring me, not even
threatening a gag.
It took him a while to work out how to bandage my crotch and
hips, but he managed. The bandages around my waist were tight
enough to be a corset. He criscrossed my chest, covering my
breasts and finished off with only my hands, head, and feet
uncovered. These, he just slathered in another dose of lotion.
Up to this point I just stood there docile and patient
because I didn't know what he was doing to me. I began to get
nervous, though, when he covered me with saran wrap.
This time, he wrapped me in true "mummy" style, with my legs
held tightly together. When he released me from the stocks, I
struggled weakly against him, but I was really quite helpless
without the use of my legs, and gave in after only token
resistance. He wrapped my arms and hands tightly against my
sides. I had always thought of saran wrapping as rather flimsy
stuff, but it is amazing how strong a couple of layers can be. I
was cocooned and completely immobilized from the neck down. I
could wriggle a little, but after he put me on my back on the bed
I would have had real trouble even rolling myself over. He
carried me into the living room and laid me out on a folding
lounger that he brought in from the yard. A little duct tape,
and I was there for the duration.
Only at this point did he tell me what he had done, by just
showing me a bottle of the lotion. When it dawned on me that
this wasn't just a new kind of skin conditioner, I began to
struggle inside the wrappings.
"That's not fair," I whined. "The month is almost over and
I will be stained by this stuff for weeks after!" I felt like
when the month was over, everything should somehow magically go
back to the way it was before. Silly of me, I know. My hair will
be months growing back. But then, I wasn't really sure I wanted
the month to be over quite yet. He explained the List to me once
again. There is no fine print, no special clauses, no
exceptions. Nothing about what I will look like after the term of
the contract has expired. Just a list of what he can do during
the month.
He took some more lotion and rubbed it into my face, neck,
and scalp. Trussed up the way I was, I couldn't even wipe it off
against the lounger: my shoulders were above the level of the
back. I wiped a little off on my shoulder, but he just put more
on.
He turned on the TV and left me there for hours. I tried to
convince him that I had to pee, to no avail. He didn't believe
me and told me to go right ahead. I didn't. After a while I began
to feel pretty icky inside the wrappings. When I started to feel
hot he just turned up the air conditioning.
I really really can't stand Phil Donoghue. He's so icky.
There was nothing else on.
When he finally decided to release me, he first made me take
some tanning pills. Knowing him, it was the maximum dosage. I've
seen them advertised in Cosmopolitan, (Oops. Are feminists
supposed to admit they read Cosmo? Or just claim we only read it
for the articles? Hardly.... Okay: I only read it for the
pictures.) I don't like taking pills, even though they are
probably harmless (I think they are just carotene). I don't mind
smoking a little grass now and then, but I don't like pills, for
some reason. Even these. You would think a nurse would have more
confidence in medical technology. I've see a few doctors get in
trouble over them, though.
Anyway, I have to keep up the pills until the last day. He
has threatened me with a sunlamp in addition if he's not
satisfied with the depth of my "tan", so he'll have me brown one
way or another. I'm not going to fight it. On the last day, I
intend asking if we can keep going with Column One. At least I
feel that way right now.
At this writing, I'm a "nice deep" rich mahogany yellow-
brown. It does NOT look natural, despite what they say about the
new artificial tanning lotions. The second it starts to wear
off, I just know I'll look blotchy and jaundiced. It's better
for my skin than the sun, though. I think.
I learned something about myself, though. I don't know how
to say this without sounding weird.
I like being "changed."
That summarizes it, but it's an oversimplified
trivialization of my feelings. When I look in the mirror and see
something, someone, different than what I expected something
happens. The shock of seeing myself, I don't know, distorted, has
an erotic (?) impact on me. I like being frightened in this way,
sort of. Frightened is the wrong word. Horrified maybe? That's
too strong a word.
I have been ... distorted ... by J in a number of ways since
this month started. The most shocking transformation was when he
shaved my head, but even seeing my face distorted by the ball gag
gave me a secret thrill. The artificial tan, as I saw it
gradually creeping toward darker and darker colors, made me
realize what is going on in my head. Even my fanatical attitude
toward makeup is symptomatic of this weirdness.
If I could experience more extreme changes -- as long as
they weren't irrevocable -- I would do so. I'll let my mind
wander through that psychological garden for a minute:
I'd like to try having oriental eyes. I think the epicanthic fold
is sexy.
I'd like to be able to change my weight and height. I don't mean
to "improve" myself, either. I'd like to turn myself into a
Junoesque near-freak. How about measurements of 45-28-45 on my
five foot two and a half frame?
I'd like to try an allover body tatoo. Face and all. A pierced
nostril is a must, someday, I think.
If only cosmetic breast enhancement could be safe and reversable
without surgery. I'd like to see what I could do to blow J's
mind. There was a girl in my high school gym class with, well,
very pointy breasts, prominent, swollen looking nipples. I
thought they were attractive (she didn't). I wonder how big they
could be and still look like breasts? Or how I'd look with none?
I'd like to try being taller. Over six feet.
I'd like to try being shorter. In a SF fantasy called "Something
Wicked" by Ray Bradbury, a beautiful woman, transformed into a
circus dwarf by the evil ringmaster, was "rescued" from her
plight by the young hero of the story. I would like to be rescued
like that. Over and over.
I would like to try being a man, of course. Who wouldn't. I think
I might be Frank Langella.... Who wouldn't.
I'd like to try and seduce J with the body of a pubescent 12-
year old girl, but with him knowing I had the mind of a woman.
Sort of like the hundred year old young-girl-vampire in the Anne
Rice story "Interview with a Vampire."
I'd like to be covered with short soft catlike fur. And have a
tail? Or snake scales. Or pupils with vertical slits like a cat.
Imagine the look on the bank teller's face when I took off my
sunglasses.
There was a circle in Dante's Inferno in which the punishment was
having your head put on backwards. I'd like to have my upper
torso put on backwards. Imagine having frontal anal sex. I would
be horrified to look in the mirror, but it would be a delicious
horror -- if I knew it could be undone.
Am I wierd, or what?
What would it be like to have a switch that J could use to turn
off all my voluntary motor functions? The ultimate bondage. What
would sex be like? Total absolute submission....
Sometimes I feel like I would like to scream during sex, it feels
so good, but I am too midwestern to actually do it. What if I
could be a mute, so it didn't matter if I tried my utmost to
scream? I once read a Fu Manchu style mystery in which a young
Chinese woman was made into a mute: the nerves to her vocal
cords were severed to keep her from giving testimony. That would
be erotic bondage if it could be temporary.
Are you getting the idea? Being CHANGED, voluntarily or
involuntarily, is an erotically charged experience for me, and
not necessarily changed for the better, either. I discussed this
insight into my psyche with J at about this point. I think it
might have influenced his subsequent behaviour. He did things to
me, erotically charged things.
-*-
At that point in time, though, the effects of this tanning
regimen were still minimal. I still hadn't even seen what I
looked like completely shaved, except for a weak and fleeting
reflection in still water in my sink. He made sure I didn't try
to use even a makeshift mirror (like the side of the toaster
oven; I tried that).
After the first dose of tanning lotion I spent the afternoon
in the black thong (with a wig on) and wearing chains locked
around my wrists and ankles (no leather cuffs, just chains looped
around and the links locked together with the little locks). I
just lounged around reading. And clinking.
That afternoon as the sun was going down I went for a walk
around the yard with him. We strolled and did a little weeding
together, me in my thong and chains.
That evening he had me shave a second time to be sure I was
smooth. He told me I was finally going to see what I looked
like. Despite the fact that I was curious, I perversely told him
I didn't want to see myself. Even now, days later, I feel
alternately very sexy and more than a little wierd about all
this.
-*-
The List
Column 1
Item 17
He began by telling me to prepare myself for the "other
kind" of intercourse. Despite all we have been through, we both
still did a kind of verbal dance around the concept.
"You remember saying how you could prepare yourself. In a
special way..." he began.
I hadn't actually given him the details, but I knew what he
meant. "You mean cleaning myself inside ... behind ...?" I said.
"Yes. I know that that kind of ... preparation ... isn't
on the List, though..."
"If it would please you we can add it. Besides, if the
alternative is no preparation, I would prefer to ...."
"There is that to consider." My my, so formal. Maybe we
haven't left Kansas after all, Toto. No matter how disgustingly
anatomical, no matter which -- or how many -- orifices are
penetrated, no matter what glandular secretions or hidden
perversions are involved, there is no situation that can't be
sanitized by midwestern etiquette.
I'll give you an example. Sorry to digress, but I once met
a gay activist playwright from Indianapolis who felt he could
challenge the homophobic political environment in the midwest by
writing plays that highlighted the supposedly more liberal social
attitudes of classical Greece and Rome. He is best known for a
disastrous satirical farce about a gay gladiator named Felonius
Orifice and his twin brother Titus.
He had hoped that if his play didn't actually make any money
it might at least be accorded the dignity of censorship at the
hands of the city comissioners or the chief of police.
Unfortunately, on opening night there was a sizeable audience of
gay activists that were attending as a politically correct
gesture of solidarity for their fellow activist.
During the first act it became apparent that the playwright
had seriously misjudged the collective sense of humor in the gay
community, although the rest of the audience seemed to enjoy it
immensely. Apparently the play was a little ambiguous as to
exactly who was being satirized, and the gays thought it was
them. They took their cause more seriously than did the
playwright. They felt betrayed. They left during the intermission
to invest in vegetables and poultry products. The play closed
during the early moments of the second act. The theater owner
had to replace the curtains.
Anyway, the playwright was notorious: you can imagine the
joy he brought to newspaper columnists, editors, and critics.
They agreed unanimously that the play should reopen, but no
theater owner would touch it. There wasn't a person within a
hundred miles that didn't know the story. EVERYBODY knew.
Even so, when I was introduced to him by a nice old
midwestern biddie, a scion of the Indianapolis cultural scene,
she says, "He's *single*, you know..." with a significant look
that was supposed to tell the Whole Story: "single" equals gay
when said in the right tone of voice and with the eyebrows in the
correct position. This is the sort of linguistic semaphore code
that midwesterners understand perfectly. It allows them to
communicate with the Deep South, for example, and to translate
for New Yorkers.
And if you think the old biddie lives in La-La Land, don't
you believe it. She bought IBM stock for peanuts as a teen-age
girl and thinks New Yorkers are overly dependent on reality
anyway. She has homes in Miami, New York, and Indianapolis.
So J and I had absolutely no problem understanding each
other, even though not a single bodily function or anatomical
feature was mentioned.
Anyway, our little exchange made it pretty clear what the
choices were: I could prepare myself for what was to come or not,
but it was finally going to happen. I only had control over the
level of hygene and nothing else.
So I prepared myself. J says I have to include this in the
account, so I'll put it in, but I will try to describe this a
delicately as possible. We're talking about colonic irrigation,
here, folks. Several repeats of the procedure were necessary
until I was voiding clear, clean water. Then another just to be
sure. This is more than would be required by an examining
physician, but then we weren't just looking, were we? I wanted
to be clean. For me as well as for J. 'Nuff said, especially for
someone from the midwest. As, I've already mentioned, my mother,
the archetypic midwesterner, doesn't have any bodily functions at
all, as far as I can tell. My apologies to the folks back home,
but I found out that in the real world people use words like
'colon' sometimes. They even use their *colons* sometimes, ma.
Recreationally, even.
Meanwhile, back at the raunch, the next step was the
obligatory ritual shower. I was clean inside and out, and as
naked as it is possible to be -- with the exception of a couple
of chains. He had me put a matte makeup foundation on without
the mirror, and a powder over that. Then, with the the long
tangled black wig in place, I was finished. I knew what was
coming, so I put on the same "pained" eyebrows again. That look
really turns me on -- I think [know] it does him. Besides, it
expressed how I expected to feel.
He led me out into the bedroom by the wrist chains and
started with a little light foreplay and cuddling on the bed. As
he got me warmed up, my mind kept focusing on what was about to
happen (I was mostly worried that it would hurt) and I was caught
a little by surprise when he slipped a new kind of device inside
me. Another toy from chains-R-us in San Francisco; he must have
spent a fortune that day. It was a vibrator, the kind with a
flange at the outer end that pressed against my clitoris while
the rest of it rested (later vibrated) inside me. He lifted me
to my feet and had me kneel with my chest on a little bench (kind
of a short piano bench) with red velvet upholstery on the top. He
taped my wrists and knees to the legs of the stool with
electrical tape and strapped a belt all the way around the stool
and my waist so that I couldn't get up -- or in fact move much at
all except my head. I could wiggle my rear end a bit, though.
There was a full-length mirror right in front of my face,
leaning against the wall. My breasts just peeked over the edge
of the bench, and I could just barely lift my shoulders enough to
see my little garnet nipple pendants. I looked pretty good in the
long, shaggy wig. I could see the reflection of J's face and
shoulders behind me.
I squirmed a little but the way they were taped I couldn't
pull my legs together when he reached between my legs and turned
on the vibrator. When he pressed it against me it was stunning.
I pushed against the stool with my hips, which pressed the
flange-thing against my important bits, and I could tell right
away that this was a vibrator designed by a woman.
Immediately, though, I felt his fingers lubricating me for
penetration. Once again, I found myself trying to concentrate on
two things at once. The vibrator was doing very interesting
things to me, but I could see him over my shoulder and feel him
spreading and stretching me more and more. I really got into
that part.
Being able to watch my own expression during this was a bit
like making love to myself. Sounds narcissistic, I know. Well,
it was. I make no excuses: for some reason I felt unabashedly
and overtly narcissistic, and I gave in completely to the
impulse. What the hell, I said. I had never watched myself in a
mirror during sex before. (This is sex, isn't it?) Anyway, the
looks I gave that mirror were directed as much at myself as at J.
The first look was one of pained surprise as he began to
enter me. I gasped for real at the sensation and tried to push
forward away from the pain.
"Wait!!" I squeaked, "It's too big!" He was already being
gentle, but he is a little bigger than the vibrator I had had in
there before. He had prepared me well with lots of lubricant,
though, and was already partly inside. I can't describe the
sensation of being parted and penetrated there. The anticipation
when he held my cheeks apart was exquisite. I'm proud to report
that I savored the anticipation and apprehension like a gourmand
tasting a new dish for the first time, fully aware that there can
be only one first time. I felt as though I were truly being
violated, though -- more so than when I lost my virginity. But
it was a delicious violation. I remember a fleeting and
unarticulated thought flashing through my mind:
"This time I will experience rather than endure." (Actually
it was more like: "Ouch! Oops. I gotta try and enjoy it this
time.")
After that I stopped thinking. I panted, taking my breath
in short gasps as though a deep breath would have somehow hurt,
and I cried out several times as he slipped incrementally deeper
into me. He stopped and waited while I tried to relax more to
accomodate his size. During the pauses he flexed (?). I don't
know what the actual physiological basis for this is, but he kind
of twitches and seems to grow momentarily larger inside me. It's
not a motion of the hips, but of his actual organ. Anyway, I
call it flexing for lack of a better description, even though I
don't know of any muscles to explain it (I checked Gray's
Anatomy. It was no help) and J doesn't know what he does either,
but he's sure all males can do it. It is another delicious
feeling -- one that really helped as he continued to gently pulse
his way into me.
It really is profoundly different from "normal" sex. It was
a feeling of being filled up. That describes it best. It was
all the more foreign and new because it is accompanied by
sensations that I normally associate with being emptied. But I
was being filled completely and couldn't escape it: I tried to
wiggle away -- and I savored not being able to escape.
Finally he was thoroughly in. I could feel his hips tight
against my buttocks. I was dizzy with new sensations, but he
waited until my breathing stabilized and I had adjusted to the
feeling. Experimentally, I tried contracting around him, even
though I was stretched to capacity and it was all I could do to
keep myself big and relaxed enough to prevent it from hurting. He
felt the contraction and "flexed" back at me.
I didn't think of it then, but the attitude I HAD to adopt
is one that encapsulates the entire idea of bondage for me:
Relax, submit to it, welcome it, and pain can become pleasure.
Oddly the converse is not true: Fight it and the pleasure does
not become pain. Rather, if you are clever, resistance brings
you closer to the edge of pain so you can play there. Fighting
it also takes away the guilt. I can still feel the guilt, you
know, what with being from Indiana and all.
He let me be the first to begin moving, contracting around
him and pushing with that (very interesting) new vibrator against
the edge of the stool. At first I just made a few very tentative
experimental movements, exploring my limits. I decided he was
exactly the right size. If he had been even a fraction of an
inch larger I would have been in serious pain, but he filled me
completely and if I relaxed and didn't fight I could push against
him and enjoy it. (Yes, I know, who could really enjoy that,
you're thinking, but all it takes is a good vibrator and a very
sensitive lover -- one who can control his own instincts enough
to help you through these critical moments. I didn't expect to
do more than endure, but I ended up enjoying -- sort of. I take
that back. I enjoyed it, period. That doesn't mean it didn't
hurt).
Don't get me wrong though: the orgasm was entirely caused by
the vibrator. I could never have an orgasm from anal sex alone.
Those sensations were mostly penetration, wierdness and
occasional pain; it was the combination of the two with an orgasm
that made it so, well, good.
I tried sort of pushing back against him and rubbing my
front against the vibrator, and I began to get the hang of it.
He began moving gently in response to my halting motions, but he
changed the rythm: rather than thrusting into me when I pushed
back against him, he followed me as I thrust against the
vibrator and helped me push against it as well, gently pinning me
against the edge of the stool. As I pushed back, I tried to open
and relax, drawing more of him into me as he first retreated and
then followed my next thrust. So he began by moving with, rather
than against me.
All the while I was watching my own face in the mirror. I
have to admit that the expressions that semi-involuntarily
crossed my face were a turn-on. Occasinally he would thrust a
tad too hard and I would gasp and an expression of pain would
cross my face (enhanced, of course, by the expressive eyebrows I
had given myself). He watched for those signals and was very
careful with me, but I was still completely in his hands. I would
have had to accept whatever he wanted. I watched myself through
half-closed eyes as my breathing quickened and I became more and
more responsive. There was nothing making him be careful, but he
was careful nonetheless, to perfection. He also kept me just on
the edge of what I could take, now and then pushing me over by
just the right amount to make me gasp again. More than once, my
half-closed eyes sprang open with astonishment and a half-cry of
pain escaped as the breath was driven out of me -- but he had
such control that it turned instantly to pleasure. He really
walked the edge that time.
As I neared orgasm (it really was the vibrator rather than
the other that brought me there) I wanted desperately to make
great heaving motions against him and the vibrator, but every
time I tried an extreme movement I caused myself instant pain. I
was forced to control myself and limit my motions to little
thrusting twitches which suddenly, and without my volition,
became spasmodic and convulsive. I had been going slowly, not
thinking about (or even hoping for) an orgasm when, without
realizing it, I found myself in the middle of a big one.
My eyes widened and my mouth opened as though I were saying
"Oh!" but no noise came out. The temptation of the orgasmic
contractions was too great to resist, but every time I
contracted, I felt pain. Even now, I don't know whether pleasure
or pain was the dominant theme of that orgasm, but I do know the
pain intensified the pleasure in a way that I had never
experienced. I couldn't separate the two. As I say, he really
walked the edge. I guess I did, too.
At that critical moment, just when I was watching my own
face in the throes of pleasure/pain and thinking I looked really
beautiful like this, he reached up and pulled my wig off and I
saw my shaved head for the first time.
He timed this shock to come right smack in the middle of my
orgasm. I couldn't stop my own powerful pelvic contractions even
though each spasm caused me pain behind that forced increasingly
loud gasps from my lips. I was completely incoherent from the
ongoing orgasm and at the same time horrified by my appearance.
I looked so bald and naked! My gasps became louder and I heard
myself crying "No!" and "Don't!" and "Please!" and "Stop!" with
each of his thrusts even though I was the one causing the pain
more than he. And it wasn't only the sex and the pain I wanted
to stop, it was the sight of me so naked and bald and awful. I
was totally out of it, orgasmically, visually, psychologically,
every way you can imagine. I reacted strongly and without
inhibition to everything at once. It sounds silly to say this
now, but that's how I felt, that's how I remember it.
My whole body stiffened and hardened as the orgasm peaked. I
think every single muscle must have been tensed. Even my
breathing was suspended. My eyes were wide and round, staring at
my reflection with a kind of stupefied amazement. In fact, I
really was astonished by the feelings I was experiencing. More
than that, I was transfixed: my mouth was open in a surprised
but silent "O" and I was straining against the bonds at my wrists
and knees; I remember the tendons in my neck and forearms
standing out. As the orgasm held me in its grip my body just
seemed to take charge all on it's own and clench every muscle,
leaving me with no voluntary control at all. I gripped him and
the vibrator like a vise. I looked into my own eyes and had the
distinct feeling that in some way I was making love to myself, a
victim of my own needs. Even more, (it is embarrasing to admit
this) that I was in love with myself. Does that make sense? I'm
not bisexual, but narcissism really is a kind of homosexuality,
isn't it? Hey, at least it's sex with someone I love....
Finally I realized I had been holding my breath. As I tipped
over the edge and began sliding down the far side of the climax,
a surprisingly loud cry escaped and I expelled the lungful of
stale air I had been holding. I began breathing again in great
gulps and gasps.
After we were through he inched his way out slowly and
carefully. I was grateful for that. I was almost sorry to feel
him finally leave. I felt emptied. Depleted. He turned off the
vibrator, unbuckled the belt around my waist, and cut my wrists
free, leaving the scissors for me to free myself the rest of the
way. While he was in the shower, I just stared at myself in a
daze.
I am normally in a daze after a "session", but this time I
was dazed by the way I looked as much as by how I felt. I just
stared mindlessly for quite a while. Finally, I shook myself out
of it and cut my knees free. I sat on the stool for a few
minutes, peeling electrician's tape off my skin and trying to get
my head together before getting to my feet. I felt a bit wobbly.
I was still wearing those chains, but other than that, when I
stood in front of the mirror I was completely -- and I mean
completely -- nude. It was quite a shocking sight.
I'm sorry to dwell on this, but it's the biggest thing
that's happened to my body since I reached puberty and grew tits.
I really look different. So very very naked.
Words like nude, exposed, hairless, bald, shorn, and shaved
all come to mind, and I know I keep saying this over and over,
but these words just don't capture the feeling of being totally
naked everywhere and from all angles. I don't know how to express
it. It just wasn't me in the mirror. I turned to the side to see
what I looked like. Still in disbelief over my appearance, my
hand crept up to touch my scalp, half checking to make sure it
was really true, still hoping it wasn't. With the hand mirror, I
looked at the back of my head. It is so white and smooth and
round -- even paler than the rest of my skin, which was quite
pale, even after the first treatment with tanning lotion. It
isn't lumpy, like some bald men's heads are; it is a perfectly
featureless dome, front, back, and sides. Somehow that makes it
look even more naked. I usually think of my earrings as minor
accessories, but without any hair they suddenly have become a
major aspect of my facial appearance. They used to be hidden by
my hair.
This may sound odd, but I looked at my nipple rings and
thought, "Well, at least I still have those." Stupid, I know,
but for some reason I was reassured by the thought of them as the
last vestage of the "old me" even though I should logically
regard them as the earliest symbols of the "new me." Maybe I just
think of them the only part of me that hasn't been taken away.
Jesus, I don't know. I don't know what to think.
J came out of the shower and stood behind me with his arms
around me as I looked into the mirror. I asked him how he could
possibly like the way I looked, and immediately felt an erection
growing against my back. I guess I really don't need more of an
answer than that. It turns him on. Even though I hate it,
aspects of it turn me on, too. The embarrasment, for example.
Every time he does something I think I hate, he reminds me that
what I am feeling is, ultimately, embarrasment, and then he asks
for it as a gift. He asks me to let myself feel it, let it come
out. For some reason, that diverts my feelings of resentment
into something that becomes erotic. Usually. I don't know.
Over the previous few days, I had come to assume that it was
the simple visual impact of my hairlessness that turned J on, but
it seems it's more complex than that. What was just as important
was that he knew I was stunned by what he had done to me and
would be shocked again when I saw myself for the first time. My
mental state was at least as important to him as my physical
appearance, and the expression on my face (frozen there during my
orgasm) had expressed exactly the mental state that turned him
on so.
During that session J had been holding back out of concern
for the tenderness of my previously unviolated rear portal, but
something about the way I looked in the mirror at the moment of
my orgasm (he later said) caused him to lose control -- although
I wouldn't have known if he hadn't told me. As I came down from
my orgasm I ended up just panting and staring at my face and head
in the mirror. I still had kind of a shocked and surprised look
on my face: after all, I had never seen myself with absolutely no
hair before. Perhaps I shouldn't mince words. I was (am) bald.
Absolutely naked bald. (I know, I know. I'm going on about it
again...) Anyway, as I knelt there staring at myself, quivering
and twitching slightly, I felt him grow larger and harder inside
me. He began very slight but very powerful and restrained
stroking inside me and came almost immediately. That was him
"losing control" as he put it. What he means is he couldn't stop
having an orgasm, not that he lost all regard for me.
Our "usual" frontal sex normally takes more effort than that
on his part, but this time, it took almost no stimulation at all
to bring him to a climax. I asked him about it later. He said
it wasn't having sex "that way" that did it. It was the way I
looked -- the expression on my face -- during and after my
orgasm. I guess the brain is the real erogenous zone. It must
be. How else could wet dreams happen?
This really interested me, so pay attention. I quizzed him
(insofar as it is appropriate for a slave to quiz her master) on
exactly what I looked like to him, and what it was that did it
for him. He was turned on by a combination of things. First was
the idea that I was so surprised and unable to control what was
happening to me. I really was surprised, but I deliberately used
my face to express that surprise far more explicitly than I
normally would have. Somehow that's a really important lesson
for me. Of course the feelings themselves are most important to
us as human beings, but in the process of human communication,
appearances are at least as important as the feelings they
convey.
Actors watch themselves in the mirror to judge whether their
faces do a good job of communicating what they pretend to feel.
The average person doesn't bother to do this, and so doesn't
communicate as well, even when the feelings are genuine. That's a
stupid thing of me to say: of course, that's why they pay actors
to do what they do.
THe bottom line is this: I suppose you could regard my
facial expressions as acting and therefore deceptive, but I was
only playing around with really showing well what I was actually
feeling. I MADE my face LOOK the way I FELT. In so doing, I
realized that it normally doesn't reflect my feelings accurately.
Doing this was a visual turn-on for ME, too.
Is it phony if you have to become an actor to show what you
really feel? Uh Oh. I feel a quote coming on ...
"Truth and Myth are the same thing ... you have to simulate
passion to feel it, ... man is a creature of ceremony."
Sartre, I think
-*-
I don't know what came over me that night after my first
experience with this new kind of sex. I felt very odd. I was in
an erotic mood but I didn't want to have more sex. I did
something I normally would never have thought I would do: I went
and got the plastic torso and put it on. I mean voluntarily. I
don't know why, it's such an anti-erotic thing to wear.
I showered first, and conditioned my skin, and then got the
torso and locked it in place, even though J had the only key. I
put it on over charcoal sheer-to-the-waist pantyhose. I have to
plan ahead when I put that carapace on: I had to put my boots on
before the torso, because with the torso on I can't bend enough
to put them on easily. Then I sat for what must have been an hour
or more putting on my makeup. I know it would have made a lot
more sense to put the torso on last, after the makeup, but I
didn't want to. I really don't know why.
Putting on makeup is a reassuringly familiar occupation
that I do without thinking; it is almost a kind of meditation. I
made myself look as artificial as the plastic covering I was
wearing. Kind of a doll-like, with crisply defined eyeliner and
pencil-thin arched brows (totally unexpressive, as though I were
a doll made up for a kabuki play) and lips painted to look like a
cupid bow. I even put on false eyelashes, something I haven't
done in ages. With coverup I made my skin flawless and smooth as
the plastic, and I even redid my nails in black to match the
torso. I finished myself off with the long, tangled black wig.
The mirror over the sink opens out so you can see yourself from
three sides. Seeing myself from the side, motionless, I looked
like a department store mannequin, my makeup was so heavy.
Don't ask me why I did that; I don't know. J realized I was
in a strange mood and left me to myself. In fact, he even cooked
dinner, something he does rarely and only out of deliberate
choice these days (that is, while we're doing Column One).
Usually I cook.
We ate in silence. I wasn't mad at him, or anything, I
just was in a quiet mood and I kind of retreated inside myself.
He seemed entranced. I sat there with the erect posture that the
torso enforces, eating like a cadet in the mess hall during hell
month. He almost forgot to eat himself he was watching me with
such facination. It was a bit distracting for a moment, but I
retreated to my own interior and forgot about him while I ate.
After dinner, I rose to do the dishes and he stopped me. He
told me to relax and read a book or something -- he said he felt
like doing the dishes. Just to let him know I wasn't mad, I
answered, "If you're sure it pleases you, Master." I noticed
distantly -- almost indifferently -- that the M word slipped out
naturally and with no vestige of giggly embarrasment on my part.
It just seemed like the right thing to say. A part of me was
faintly interested in the observation that this could happen to
me, that I could refer to him that way without thinking about it.
I was in that detached, floating mood again. I felt that
nothing could touch me unless I wanted it to. Maybe I was
disassociating myself from reality, but I actually felt more in
touch with everything -- just less concerned about it. I
wandered aimlessly through the house while J rattled dishes in
the distance.
I was standing in front of the full-length mirror in his
bedroom when he finished the dishes and came to stand behind me.
I was looking at myself the way one might look at a stranger, and
wondering what I would think of that stranger if I saw her in
public dressed this way. Face it, the only place would be in a
floor show at a bar where they catered to the leather crowd.
Freakish, but sexy.
I really do look ... well ... regal ... with my chin held up
so high. I'm forced to have the posture of a queen. If I had
that kind of posture naturally, people would think I was an
incredible snob. I appear to be looking down on the world, and it
doesn't really come up to my standards, and I haven't decided yet
if I'm going to stay here. I don't feel that way, but if I look
at myself objectively, that's what I see.
And the sleek black plastic is very flattering from the
front. Whenever I move, the locks rattle against the sides of
the torso; the lock dangling in the space between my legs is
somehow especially sexy. Well, you'd have to see it to know what
I mean.
I still can't tell you why I put on that particular outfit.
I guess I just felt like throwing myself completely into ...
this. Sort of an offhand, almost careless impulse.
It's hard to describe my feelings at that moment. I felt
sorry for myself. My old life seemed so distant, and I had lost
so much. Indiana seemed very very far away. I wondered idly if
I clicked my black leather heels together three times and said
"There's no place like home... theres no place like home..."
Sorry, Auntie Em.
They all dress this way in the merry old land of Oz.
I just dropped in to pick up Toto's leash.
You can keep Toto.
Normally I would have laughed at the thought, but for some
reason I had this maudlin, self-indulgent thought that I wasn't
going home again. Metaphorically, I mean: not back to the way
it used to be.
That thought got through my armor plate and a single tear
plowed a furrow through my masklike makeup. I wasn't feeling
particularly strong or deep emotions -- in fact, it felt as if
someone else was feeling them for me, and I watched her in the
mirror almost curiously. As I say, I don't know what came over
me. Childish sentimentality, that's all it was. Here I was, with
J, careening through the List and having the most profound sexual
experience I could have hoped for, and I was feeling sorry for
myself.
That one tear seemed to have an effect on J, though. It's
not like I was crying or anything; it was just the one tear. My
face remained unchanged -- not even a quivering lip. (My lips
really do quiver when I'm about to cry.) Still, he turned all
solicitous and felt he had to do something, so he took off the
torso. Crying means so much more to men than it does to women.
They always feel they have to DO something. It's sweet, really.
Totally clueless, they are.
It was a relief to get the torso off, actually, even though
I had put it on myself. I can kind of settle into it and forget
how much more comfortable it is possible to be without it. The
relief is a surprise, in a way. He carried me into my bedroom and
took off the pantyhose and boots and put me on the bed. He said
to tell him if I wanted anything. It was sometime after ten, and
I was feeling tired anyway, but I couldn't sleep. I could hear J
getting ready for bed.
I got up and removed all my makeup, the wig, everything but
the nipple rings (I don't want the holes to close up). I lit a
candle rather than turn on lights (it just seemed appropriate)
and went into J's bedroom and stood in the doorway. I said his
name, faintly.
"Master?" Okay, so it's not his name, but that's what I
said. And not in a subservient way, either. I said it naturally,
as though it were his name, not a title.
He wasn't asleep. I couldn't see him in the darkness beyond
my candle, but I know he could see me, standing there in the
candle light as naked and bare as the day I was born. I felt
like a little girl going into her daddy's room after a nightmare
for reassurance. He told me to come to bed with him, and to
close the mosquito netting over the bed's alcove.
The candle light made the bed a cosy nest. It was just
nice...I don't know if I can even explain why I'm writing about
this part. It just made an impression on me -- almost as much of
an impression as when he shaved my head. The feeling of security
was something I needed very badly at the time. Of course that's
what I went in there for, and J knew that instinctively. He
almost always gives me what I need (not always what I want). I
think he was expecting me to come in, though. I don't even know
why I did. That day had been an interesting one. The sex was a
completely new barrier we had broken through, and I am still
inwardly proud that I got through it -- and I will look forward
to it when the time comes again. I don't think it was the very
best sex ever, but it was so different as an experience that it's
a matter of comparing apples and oranges anyway. It was good.
Really good. I'm glad he made me do it.
-*-
The next day, J was gone for the morning. He left me alone
at the house and I had the whole morning to myself. I gave
myself the artificial tanning treatment (I was getting noticeably
darker by the third treatment, but I think it is primarily the
lotion; the pills shouldn't have kicked in yet, according to the
directions.) and I worked on this account for three or four
hours. I was (still am) several days behind. He had left me
unchained, unconstrained physically in any way. Except that he
had me pack my wigs and all my clothing except the harem outfit
and the thong in a small bag for him to take with him. My credit
cards, checkbook, and bankbook were with my other clothing. He
left me my car keys, though. Nice touch, that. How far would a
bald girl in a harem outfit (even with a black thong under it)
get with no money? I suppose I could wear a bedsheet and chant
Hare Krishna. I need a tambourine.
I have given my scalp extra applications of the tanning
lotion to try and even out the color difference between my scalp
and the rest of me. I also did a bit of very careful sunbathing
(sunscreen assisted). As I have said, I normally avoid the sun,
but my scalp has NEVER seen the sun and is still very white. I
tan so easily, a couple of days at five or ten minutes a day
should do it. I didn't really want a tan, but it's a nice
experiment. I would have liked to just kind of neutralize the
bluish color that very pale skin has, but I obviously got a tan,
sun or not. Well, maybe not obviously to you, but from where I'm
sitting today .... Actually, I look pretty good with a tan.
When he came home I was exercising on the weight bench in
the garage, wearing the black thong and perspiring heavily. When
his car pulled up I went out to meet him. There must have been
something about seeing me all sweaty and pumped up that had an
effect on him: he opened the bag on the spot and handed me a wig
to put on. I got on my knees right there in the grass and asked
if I could talk with him.
I don't like being free to leave, especially when I look the
way I do. I used to ask myself a thousand times a day "why don't
you just go?" and before I could always answer "because I'm
chained here." Now the only answer I can give is that I am too
embarrased by my appearance, so I feel guilty for not leaving.
Embarrasment isn't a dignified reason for staying.
Kneeling there, I presented him with a rather confused
manifesto in which I told him I didn't like this new chainless
arrangement. I thought he was giving me too much freedom, and
suggested that he was trying to end the List and possibly our
relationship and was he tired of me?
He explained that he didn't leave me unchained to give me
freedom. He felt I was even more constrained than I had been
before, even though it was fear of public embarassment rather
than chains that keep me here. He's right, too.
He brought me home some more of the sheer cotton material
and told me to make a robe for myself. I later knocked together
a kind of monk's habit (do monks have habits, or is it just
nuns?) with a cowl and long sleeves with big cuffs. Transparent,
so it's not quite as chaste as your average monk's habit. He
didn't want anything to obscure the view, so I couldn't make it
wrap around like a bathrobe. He wanted more of a button-up
sheath. I only had four odd buttons in my sewing box, so I used
those. Still, it's the most comfortable thing I have for around
the house while he's gone. I feel dressed anyway, sort of.
That evening before dinner he gave me a present. He had had
them made by a jeweler in town. I don't know what to call them,
really. Nipple cages? Imagine a conical cage made of silver
wire. The base of the cone is a circle of wire the diameter of
my areolas. There are wire struts supporting a tiny hook that
hangs down inside the apex of the cone. There are bits of
filigree where the struts are joined to the base. With the
bases resting on my areolas, my nipple rings hook to the apexes
of the cages so my nipples are held out in little points inside
the conical cages. They are quite charming with the garnet
pendants hanging from the tips, and the feeling is exquisite --
in short doses. I worry that they will do some kind of damage if
he leaves tham on me too long. Perhaps make one of my nipples
evert permanently. It would be wonderful if I could be sure both
would evert, but I would rather be symmetrically inverted than
have one "outie" and one "innie."
But they are sweet. Maybe Jennifer, the founder of
rec.arts.bodyart, will read this and pass a comment on the
world's first orthopedic pasties. He gave me some tiny bells,
too. Actually, they're not so tiny, they just sound tiny. In
fact, they are amazing and I have no idea at all how they work.
They are small, very lightweight silver-colored spheres less than
an inch in diameter. They emit a kind of tinkling chime when
disturbed, even when you hold them between your fingers. That's
the amazing thing: you can't dampen the chiming noise by touching
the outside. There are no openings or seams. I can't figure
them out, but he has superglued them to pearl pendants in place
of the pearls and they can hang from my nipple rings. They are
absolutely delightful. He says he got them in a flea market.
They are a novelty called "faerie bells" or some such thing. So
now I tinkle.
I wore the bells dangling from the ends of the the nipple
cages during dinner. Tinkle tinkle.
-*-
After dinner, I tried something different -- something I
wanted to do before the routine with the tanning lotion changed
me too much. Actually, I was probably unnaturally pale before,
anyway, but whatever. I had about average coloration at that
point.
I tried a new concept in makeup. I painted big artificial
blue 'baby doll' eyes on my eyelids, with large false eyelashes
glued on my upper eyelids, and painted-on lower lashes, with
thirties-style eyebrows. (I've tried just about all styles of
eyebrows: simple straight ones, surprised, pained, emotionless,
even slanty Mr. Spock and heavy Mariel Hemmingway ones). I also
painted on very artificial cupid-bow lips and over-rouged my
cheeks. With my eyes shut, I looked a bit like a wide-eyed
Raggedy-Anne doll. I covered my nipples and navel with round
patches of surgical tape (the kind that looks a bit like tissue
paper) and covered it with makeup blended into my skin. I made
myself look as much like a department-store mannequin as
possible. Nipple-less, navel-less, expressionless. Blonde wig.
When I came out of my bedroom he wasn't looking in my
direction, so I stood stock still in a department store pose with
my eyes shut and my hand on the back of the sofa for balance. I
was completely nude. I don't know how he reacted, if he was
startled, or what. I bet I looked like a mannequin, though. He
didn't say anything.
But he did something. To me.
He led me into the bathroom and sat me down at my makeup
table and removed the makeup from my face. Then he stood me in
front of the full-length mirror with my wrists in straps over my
head. I thought at first he didn't like what I had done and was
going to punish me for it in some way, but I was wrong. He took
more of the surgical tape and taped my nether lips together,
covering my sex completely. He blended more makeup into the
surrounding skin; I already was hairless down there, but he made
it look as though I was sexless as well.
"What are you going to do to me?" I asked. This question has
become almost a formula with us. No matter how nervous I am about
what he's doing to me, I'm not supposed to ask it, and I always
do anyway, and his response is always disciplinary.
This time, it was adhesive tape over my mouth. Securely over
my mouth. I tried to open my lips after a while, and couldn't.
I watched while he cut little ovals of tape and put them over my
eyes, one at a time, taping them shut. He was thoughtful enough
to protect my eyelashes from the tape with a bit of kleenex, but
my eyes were taped securely shut. Then he reapplied the makeup
job on the outside of the tape (I figured this out later as I was
taking it off and cleaning up): Cupid-bow lips, big baby-doll
eyes with false lashes, the whole nine yards.
He put cotton in my ears, held in with beeswax. I had only
two operating senses: touch and smell. He put a drop of
sandalwood oil on each shoulder and somewhere on the tape on my
face, and for the next few hours, that was all I could smell.
When he unhooked me from the ceiling, I was completely
disoriented, and would have fallen if he hadn't supported me. I
felt very odd. He put me on the bed with my wrists strapped
together and held over my head at the headboard. I could have
gotten the tape off my face if he weren't watching, but he had
too much of an advantage. When I tried to reach my face with my
hands, he pulled my ankles until my arms were extended above my
head again.
Then he made love to me. I turned my face blindly from side
to side, trying to figure out what he was going to do next, but
he kept surprising me. During the foreplay he used partly-melted
ice cubes, feathers, clothsepins, a snap with a leather shoelace
here and there (I know it doesn't qualify as a whip with you
hardcore ASBers, but it was the first time for me for all of this
stuff, and it hurt -- mostly because I didn't know what it was
and from the surprise of not knowing what was coming next, or
when). I screamed several times under the tape. Each time I was
rewarded with a loving kiss on the offended spot, or a stroke of
an ice cube.
He peeled the tape off my nipples. Slowly. That was
excruciating. Then off my nether lips. Likewise. I was pretty
excited by that time. I can only imagine how I looked. Later
when I took off one eyepatch, I realized I must have had a vapid,
vacuous, and rather silly but expressionless appearance no matter
what I was feeling behind that mask.
More foreplay with the ice cubes on my nipples and nether
lips. During my second orgasm (almost always the best) he had me
on top and he slipped an ice cube into my behind. I was too far
gone at the time to even protest, but it was a teriffic orgasm --
it seemed that that second orgasm became a plateau from which a
third orgasm launched. I don't know how to put it, but it was
like an orgasm on top of (added to?) an orgasm rather than two
consecutive ones.
I know, ice cubes are probably tame stuff for you. It was
new to me, though. I realize now (after reading the postings in
a.s.b.) that this entire List must seem like the inexperienced
fumblings of a couple of virgins. Especially to the guy that
walked around with thumbtacks stuck in him. Yow. I feel more
than a little embarassed that you might read this, not so much
out of shame for what we did, but because we are such vanilla
softies. This is really just plain bondage -- is there such
thing as vanilla bondage? I haven't really experienced any
serious pain (except that gag is still a killer). Spanking is on
the List, but I don't think J is any more interested in
inflicting pain than I am in experiencing it. Besides, spanking
isn't real pain either. I came close to some serious stuff
yesterday, though. I was really afraid. I'm coming to that.
-*-
We made love the following night after what must be the
strangest conversation on record. I'll try to reconstruct it.
On his instructions, I had prepared myself with the usual
shower, shave, conditioner, makeup, wig, etc., leather cuffs and
collar, too.
Now, don't get the wrong idea when I tell you this, because
I still hate having my head shaved, but it's done and can't be
undone except by many months of waiting. Shaving my own head now
just delays regrowing it one more day, so it's not a big deal.
If that seems I'm being too logical and unemotional, that's not
true. I do feel emotional about it. If I could have my hair back
right now, I'd do it, List or not. But I can't, so I am
experimenting with this new look -- just for a few days -- before
Column One is over and I can start growing it back. So what I'm
trying to tell you is that when I shaved, it was an erotic
experience. It still is. After a shower, I shaved my underarms
and legs (I didn't need depilating). Then I covered my scalp with
his fluffy white shaving cream so it looked like I had short,
white hair. I "revealed" myself with the razor. Don't ask. I
can't explain. When I read over that last paragraph it doesn't
capture the eroticism of becoming so extremely naked, but for me
it is an erotic process.
Anyway. Back to the tale.
He had lit two candles in the bed alcove and was waiting for
me. He just started right in with the foreplay. I was unable to
get into it, even though preparing myself for sex is always a
turn-on for me. Anticipation is half the game for me. I don't
like spontaneity. Surprises, yes, but I have to know that he has
thought them out well in advance and planned the things he does
to me. I like my sponteneity to be well planned.
But I just couldn't get into the foreplay. The worst part
was that he knew it -- and he seemed to be expecting me to have
trouble, too. He was even pleased, I think.
"What's the problem," he said. He had that smug smile that
says "I already know the answer to this question." I hate that
smile.
"I don't know, Master," I said, knowing perfectly well.
"I think you do," he said, knowing perfectly well I knew.
"No, really..." I said, pretending I didn't know anyone knew
anything.
"Why did you put on the cuffs and collar?" he asked. Good
question.
"I thought you might have wanted to use them ...?" Stupid
answer.
He just looked at me.
"Would it please you if I put on something else?" I asked,
trying to change the subject. Stupid question.
He just looked at me some more. I was floundering. I could
see he didn't believe me.
"You wanted to be bound. Admit it."
"No! Really! I don't know what it is with me tonight," I
protested. "... Master," I added. "I just can't seem to ..."
"You can't seem to get into it because this is 'vanilla
sex,'" he said. "Admit it."
Of course it was true, but I couldn't admit it. I thought
it would spoil it if I admitted I liked something that I was
supposed to be fighting every step of the way. It takes away an
essential ingredient of bondage if you don't fight it, and you
can't fight it if you admit you want it -- especially to
yourself. Can you?
"We've reached another milestone here and you just haven't
realized it yet," he said. "The illusion that you are resisting
me is your last fig leaf. I'm not going to allow you even that
shred of dignity. Tonight I'm going to make you admit you want
everything I do to you. I'll even make you beg for more. You'll
voluntarily give up even the illusion of resistance.
Drawing on my fine command of the english language, I said
nothing.
He got out that wonderful little vibrator and put it in me
and chained my wrists to the bedposts. While I was squirming on
the bed he ran ropes through the eyes in the ceiling and pulled
my ankles high in the air and wide apart. My rear end was nearly
pulled off the bed. He went to work on my rear opening with
another lubricated vibrator, beginning by working his fingers
into my opening until I was relaxed enough to accept it. With
nothing to press against, it was hard for me to stimulate myself.
My squirming became more and more frantic. I remember thinking
that this isn't exactly going to wrench a confession from me. I
just got hotter and hotter. He pressed against the front of the
vibrator, helping to bring me closer to a climax. He watched me
very closely, alternately pressing and waiting, pressing and
waiting. I came to the very edge of an orgasm. I was teetering
at the very top, panting and heaving. I held my legs straight.
My thighs were quivering, I flexed them so hard trying to come.
"I'm not going to let you have an orgasm until you beg for
it," he said. He took out a small bottle and held it up. "This
is an oral anesthetic. It is benzocaine -- not clove oil. It
lasts just a few minutes. Every time you get close to an orgasm,
I will put a little more on." It was the same anesthetic I had
used earlier (ages ago) to suppress my gag reflex. I knew it
would work perfectly on sensitive membranes -- that's what it's
intended for.
I watched in dismay as he took out the vibrator and put a dab
of it on my clitoris. He massaged it in, and put a liberal dose
on my labia. After a couple of applications, I could barely feel
him touching me at all. By lifting my head I could just see the
tops of my nether lips. They get kind of swollen when I am
turned on. In fact, they were engorged and dripping. I could
literally feel moisture trickle between my legs. But I couldn't
feel my clitoris; I couldn't feel anything. I watched him put
the vibrator back between my numbed lips. He pressed it solidly
against me, and I felt the vibration in my hips, but I was too
numb to feel the vibrator itself. He kept watching. I was still
panting, still very turned on, but groaning with disappointment
every time I strained to recapture that edge.... After a few
minutes he took a washcloth and wiped my clitoris free of the
anesthetic, but I was still numb.
"I can keep this up all night," he said. "Or, I could wash
off the anesthetic, gag and blindfold you, and tie you suspended
from the ceiling. Which would you rather?"
"Ceiling?" I said.
"Look up. See the extra rings?"
I did. there were several new eye-rings in the ceiling. I
had noticed them already.
"I will put a harness on you -- one you haven't seen yet,
and suspend you from the ceiling by it. You will be floating
above the bed, blindfolded, gagged, and spreadeagled. And you
won't be able to stop having orgasms.
"But you'll have to beg me for it. You'll have to convince
me that you want it."
He was still pressing on the front of the vibrator. I was
beginning to feel it again. I tried to keep from reacting:
maybe I could steal a secret orgasm. I wasn't exactly on the
edge, but I could just barely see the beginning of an orgasm
peeking around the corner when he took it out again, suddenly.
It was almost a shock for the vibration to stop. Then he put it
back in. He took nearly a half hour of teasing to bring me to the
edge again. With the control over me the anesthetic gave him, it
was much easier for him to keep me on the edge. He kept me
quivering for another fifteen minutes, letting me rest just
enough to keep me from exhaustion, but not enough to let me cool
off.
"Allright!" I said, finally, just as he was opening the
bottle again for a second dose. I had had enough.
"Allright what?" he said.
"You win," I said sullenly, "you were (pant) right."
"About what?"
"Me," I said. Pant pant.
"Say it."
(Pant pant, calming a little) "I want to be tied up," I said
flatly. "I get off on it." I didn't sound convincing even to
myself. Its easier to tell an unconvincing truth than it is to
tell a convincing lie. Did you ever tell a truth in an
unconvincing way because you didn't want it to be believed? Even
though it was true, I couldn't make myself reveal the truth, so
my answer sounded like a recitation read from cue-cards. I
didn't mind him knowing I liked bondage, I just thought it was
degrading for me to have to tell him.
"Not good enough."
"Please! What more do you want? I've admitted it!"
"Admitting it's not enough."
"But this is torture," I wailed.
"Does it hurt?"
"Yes! No! I don't know what you want!"
"I want to be convinced. If it's true, convince me. If
it's not, say so and I'll stop, untie you and put you in a nice
comfortable bed."
"But I said it's true! What more do....Oh Noooooo....!" My
protest dissolved into a wail as he put more of the stuff on me.
"Now we'll wait for it to take effect," he said.
[Editorial insert: Actually, he didn't put more on me,
he just pretended to. He told me after proofing this
account that instead of waiting for it to take effect he
was waiting for me to cool down a bit. We went through
several cycles of this, with the pretense that he was
anesthetizing me: sometimes he really did, sometimes not
(I think); he won't tell me if he really used it again
or not. It was really the power of suggestion that did
it to me. And a little Anbesol, BTW. I guess this is
Just another mindfuck. Well, the brain IS my second
favorite organ.
So I squirmed and cried in frustration while I became numb
for the second time. And a third, and a fourth. Each time,
using both vibrators alternately and in concert, he brought me to
the edge of a climax -- and each time he pulled me back again.
The last time, I was covered in perspiration. The bed was soaked,
and my wig had come off. My eyes were stinging from the salt and
makeup. I can't remember what my exact words were that finally
convinced him, but they WERE heartfelt in the end. I literally
begged. If I could have gotten to my hands and knees and kissed
his feet to show my sincerity, I would have. I wanted release
from the torture. I wanted it to stop and I wanted that orgasm.
I had earned it. As I say, this may not be an exact transcript:
"Pleeeeeeease! No more!" I wailed. I thought I was
exhausted after the first dose, but by now I had been through
four. "I'll do anything! You're right! I want to be tied up! I
have to! I want to be used -- I want to be filled to overflowing!
I don't even WANT an orgasm unless you force me to have it. I
can't .... I need it that way. I need to be gagged and
blindfolded! Please! I'm begging!" ...and so on with lots of
crying and panting in between. Actually, even though I wouldn't
want you to think I wasn't incoherent (say what?), I can't really
remember what I said. Whatever it was, it convinced him that I
was sincere: either I had gotten to the point where I sincerely
wanted him to stop even without giving me an orgasm, or I wanted
one so badly I would say anything, or I really was telling the
truth about prefering bondage to straight sex. He had no way of
knowing. Actually, it was all three.
Anyway, he freed me. Rather than suspending me like he had
promised or giving me my promised orgasm, he told me to get on my
knees on the bed while he stripped (the vibrators were still
inside me) and take him in my mouth. After just a few false
starts, I was able to take him all the way down my throat without
gagging. I'm getting pretty good at that. The vibrator in my
rear tended to gradually slip out as I worked on him, and he told
me to hold them both in while I brought him closer and closer to
an orgasm. I still can't have an orgasm easily while kneeling.
It helps to flex my legs and straighten them, but I couldn't.
He came in my mouth. He had before, over the last month but
not when he was actually down my throat. The first spurt went
deep down my throat and I swallowed it reflexively. I caught the
rest in my mouth. He hasn't ever told me I have to swallow it,
but over the last few weeks I have gotten used to the taste --
and the idea. I looked up at him to see his reaction, (looking
up was a deliberate infraction of the rules, but what did I have
to lose?) and swallowed. He didn't say anything, but I know he
knew. I lowered my eyes again. I figured that ought to win me a
few points with him.
I was incredulous at the time, but he actually made me wait
until the NEXT DAY for an orgasm. He could have made love again
in a few minutes, or even have used the vibrator on me, but he
made me wait until the morning. I was kneeling in front of him
after I had swallowed, and he bent me over and took the rear
vibrator out. He told me to roll over on my back, and he took
out the other one. I was SO sure he was going to finally give me
my orgasm then ... but he didn't. He told me I would have to
wait until tomorrow. My nether lips were swollen and my entire
pelvis felt congested and uncomfortable. He waited -- and
watched -- while I got ready for sleep; then he locked me to his
bed, both hands to a longish chain at the head, one ankle at the
foot. I could almost (but not quite) bring my arms down to my
waist if I straightened my leg and scootched up to the headboard.
I tried after he was asleep. I spent a fairly miserable night,
although we went to bed early and I did finally sleep. The next
morning he got me up before dawn.
-*-
The List
Column 1
Item 18
I had cooled down by the next day, but he left instructions
before he went to work for me to prepare myself for him. You know
the routine. Shower, shave, conditioner, makeup, etc. This time,
though, no clothing. Not a stitch. Starting at 5:30, I waited,
reading, in the living room.
He took me into the bedroom practically the minute he got
home and started right in putting straps and belts and
constraints all over me. He put a strap around each arm above the
elbow and locked my right wrist to my left elbow behind my back,
and vice versa. What followed was a bewildering array of straps
around my ankles (held three feet apart by a stiff pole locked to
my ankle straps), thighs (upper and lower), and neck (a stiff,
high collar that had three buckles to close it in back). There
were straps around my chest above and below my breasts, a very
wide one around my waist, and two straps that went from the front
of the waistband (leaving my sex exposed) under my crotch to join
a single wide strap that buckled to the back of the waistband --
but only after he had put another device in my rear. This one
was a surprise. It was a while before I figured out what it was.
Before buckling the back of the belt, he told me to sit on
the bed. He rolled me over and lifted me to a kneeling position
with my face and shoulders resting on the bed and my rear in the
air, legs held apart by the pole between my ankles. With my arms
behind me, there wasn't much I could do to resist. There was no
foreplay. He just lubricated his fingers and started loosening
me, preparing me for something. When I saw it, I was nonplussed.
"What's that?! What are you going to do to me?"
Contraptions make me nervous, especially when I don't know what
they're for.
"It's on the List," he said. "Trust me." Well, it is on the
List, but only technecally.
The 'horse' had been on the List, too: two dildos at once.
That was stretching the intent of the List to the limit. I
couldn't make head nor tail of this, though. It looked like a
very large condom on the end of a small-diameter rubber hose.
"But Master, if it pleases you, I don't remember anything
like..."
He gagged me. This time it wasn't that horrible rubber
ball, but it was still a gag. It was a kind of ring that went in
my mouth, held in with a neck strap. The ring just held my mouth
open -- that's all, just held it open. Sounds simple, but I
couldn't make an intelligible sound to save my life. It was
humiliating. And I know I must have looked like a drooling idiot
with my mouth hanging open.
I relaxed a little, though. He wouldn't gag me if he was
doing something that required feedback to avoid hurting me. He
inserted the condom-thing into my rear, poking it gently but
fully inside me with his fingers -- I was left with a rubber tube
hanging out of me. He buckled the crotch strap of the 'chastity
belt' (unchastity belt?) in back, holding IT (I'll tell you what
IT was in a minute) inside me.
Then he blindfolded me and started the real show. I was
already trussed up pretty securely just lying there on the bed,
but he was tying ropes to the rings on the various bits of
leather harness that held me. Soon, I felt myself being hoisted:
at first it was just my feet being lifted. Then my shoulders and
waistband. Step by step, he hoisted different parts of me up
over the bed until I was hanging, suspended, like a kind of near-
horizontal puppet. I was very disoriented, but I'm sure my head
was higher than my feet, and I know my legs were held spread
apart even after he took off the pole that held my ankles.
I was well supported everywhere. There weren't any real
pressure points, and my circulation was fine. It was like
sitting in a swing, sort of.
But something was happening inside me. The device he had
put in my rear portal was doing something, seemingly on it's own.
I twisted my head blindly from side to side. "Aaaaah aaah
oooh ooo!" I said. Ha ha very funny, I know, but you try saying
"What are you doing?" without being able to close your mouth. I
was feeling VERY strange down there. The sensation was one of
being filled, but from the inside. It was a warm feeling, but
oddly familiar. When I finally figured it out, I realized he was
filling the condom inside me with warm water through the rubber
tubing. The sensation of being filled increased (and increased
and increased). I felt much much fuller than I ever had with
anything else that had been in there. Packed, in fact. Not
stretched the way a dildo would have done, just full. My
breathing and heart rate began to increase. I guess that
technically it was a water-filled dildo?
Meanwhile, I could feel him putting on my nipple cages. That
feeling really is exquisite.
Then he entered me. I could feel his hands on my hips,
steadying me. He was standing on the futon between my legs. I
felt a slow stroking motion -- I think it was me swinging back
and forth rather than him thrusting. Maybe both. I really felt
I was floating above the bed, though. Floating and full. (Will
she resist the temptation, you ask yourself.) I think not:
Floating, full, and f****d. Heh heh.
Is that the first time I've used the F word? Shame on me.
It'll probably be censored. If you're logging on in California,
it may have been censored on its way through the midwest. They
have filters in the phone lines in certain counties.
I won't bore you with the rest. I had a few orgasms and
lost all sense of orientation in the process. I might have been
weightless for all I knew. The most interesting thing was that I
was free to try to move in any direction but still constrained.
Hanging free, unable to touch anything, but still completely
trapped. I couldn't have hurt myself no matter what I did. Like
a fly in a spider web. And I like the feeling of being filled --
but this way is a little kinky for me. He drained me, freed me,
and that was that. Sorry to be so brief about it, but I don't
want to dwell on it and you are probably tired of gratuitous sex
anyway.
We talked about it afterward, and I found out he had
considered leaving the condom inside me. At first I was
horrified -- didn't he know sea turtles die that way? Digestive
systems plugged with party balloons? He had put a rubber band
around the condom to hold it onto the tubing, but as a safety
measure he had passed a piece of string under the band and
knotted it around so the condom wouldn't be lost inside me even
if it slipped off the tubing.
Then it occurred to him that if the tubing was slipped out
deliberately, the rubber band would close the condom and I would
still be filled by the condom but unable to expell it; a simple
tug on the rubber band would expose enough of the condom that he
could burst it with a pin. Which I wouldn't be able to do
unless my hands were free. Clever, clever. A little technical
for my taste. I'm glad he didn't do it. I think he (correctly)
figured what he had done to me was wierd enough, even though the
newspaper, coincidentally enough, said it was National Condom
Week
Now there's a parade you don't want to miss....
But I HAD told him (under duress) that I wanted to be filled
up, so I can hardly blame him for being wierd. Still, it was
wierd. But who am I to criticize anyone for unnatural practices.
And no, it would not have felt more "natural" if it had been a
sheep intestine condom. Despite what the ad on the package says.
More natural, hah. For certain guys in certain parts of
Tennessee and West Virginia, maybe. Give me artificial any day.
Less than a week to go and the month alotted for his turn at
Master and mine as slave will be over.
-*-
It started raining heavily while I wrote down the preceeding
entry. I went outside and stood in the rain for no good reason.
You know, one of those tropical downpours where it just pours
down vertically and the trees bend under the weight of water on
their leaves. My muslin robe was plastered to my skin. Good
excuse for a hot shower and some conditioner, followed by a nice
cup of tea in my robe, fresh out of the dryer. Luxury.
There has been a lot of rain this Spring. The plants in the
garden are loving it.
-*-
The List
Column One
Item 19
I'm still catching up on these entries. He was on holiday
last week, so we spent a lot of time together and I couldn't
write. Since he went back to work on Monday, I've been able to
write up the events of last week. It's Wednesday now, and
tomorrow evening is the end of my month. Or his month, depending
on how you look at it.
Yesterday (Tuesday) I asked him if we could continue for a
while longer. I have been "bottoming" for a month now, and I
have thought a great deal about Column Two. I have decided I am
not tempramentally equipped to "top." (Will ya listen to me? A
few weeks ago I had never heard the term "bottom" and now I are
one. Thats what reading a.s.b. will do. I gotta edacation now.)
He turned me down flat. He thinks that the List should be
sacred -- if we start bending the rules, the bottom won't know
what he/she can depend on anymore. I suppose that's true, but
still, if both agree... He also thinks that a month straight
(perhaps 'continuous' is a better word) is enough. Maybe he's
right there. I think I would like to do this on special occasions
rather than continuously. But I don't want to stop just quite
yet. The month has been delicious. Still, I think if both
agree, it ought to be alright. He just won't agree, so I guess
we won't go on.
-*-
J told me to prepare a special meal for Tuesday night. And
to take special care in preparing myself. He wanted to be
surprised. I must have a pretty poor imagination, because the
only thing I could think of to do was to try out the harem
costume I had made. I am almost ashamed of it now. When I
decided to make it, it seemed so appropriate to what we were
doing, but it seems like such a juvenile fantasy by comparison
with the things we did subsequently that it was a cliche before I
had a chance to try it out.
But I went through with it, so I'll put it down here. I
think that the only two ideas I have contributed -- the harem
dance and the raggedy-anne eye makeup -- were imaginitive
failures on my part. J rescued the makeup idea and made it
interesting by taking charge; he is too kind to say so, but even
I find my ideas mundane by comparison with what J has done. I
take that back. Suppressing my own gag reflex with an anesthetic
was a stroke of genius. It was also the product of a twisted
mind, but genius nonetheless. And the forest goddess -- that was
my idea too. Maybe I'm not so dull witted. Anyway, I would
rather be the one that is entertained, rather than vice versa.
I intended to treat J like a king that night. I cooked food
that I could feed him by hand, a morcel at a time, and I dressed
the part of a harem girl. To go with the outfit I had made, I
had bought a cheap Indian silver belt that kind of drooped down
in a kind of decorative v-shaped chain mesh loincloth, and a
necklace of the same mesh. I had wrist and ankle bangles and
rings on my toes and fingers and a (fake) ring in my nose. I was
looking pretty dark and persian by then anyway, thanks to the
tanning lotion. My makeup was perfect and elaborate: slanty
persian eyes, rouged nipples, a jewelled navel, a beauty spot, a
veil, obscenely long fake nails, a black wig like a huge wild
mane, jewel hanging in the middle of my forehead, sandalwood
perfume, da woiks.
I waited on him hand and foot from the moment he walked in
the door. I bathed him, put conditioner on his skin, rubbed his
back, served him drinks and stuffed him with hors d'oeuvres. I
lit incense. I lit candles all over the house. I turned on
exotic music and danced and wriggled (and jiggled) circles around
him. I stripped as I wriggled, removing everything but my
pendants. The wig came off last during the grand finale. When
the music finished I prostrated myself at his feet (well, next to
the sofa since that was where he was reclining, sultanesque) and
asked to beg a favor of him, in the approved slaveoid manner.
I asked quite seriously to be excused from column two. I
offered to let him do anything to me if only we could go on a
little more with column one instead. I offered to let him put a
ring in my nose -- through the nostril or (even more kinky)
through the septum. He hasn't done anything that is permanent to
mark me as his. Tatoos were on the List, but he didn't make me
get one. I offered. I had prepared a long mental list of things
he might want to do to me, and as I babbled my way through this
list, he sat in complete silence. When I finally ran out of
words and faltered to a halt he remained silent. Finally, I told
him he could do anything to me that he wanted. Anything. Still
no response.
I really don't know what else I could have said or done.
I think I may have irritated him a bit by going on about
wanting him to continue "topping." Finally, he told me to stop
trying to discuss it, and that Column One would be over on
schedule as agreed.
I protested that I had been begging abjectly like a good
slave should and it wasn't fair to stop me. That was dumb of me.
Obviously a good slave would have shut up when told to do so. He
told me he was going to punish me for mouthing off, and he did.
I think he did this to make me WANT Column One to be over.
The List
Column One
Item 20
He locked the ball gag on me and led me into the bedroom
where he told me to sit in a half-lotus position. We took a yoga
course together (one night a week for nine months) and we are
both pretty limber, although not as limber as the teacher. She
was incredibly flexible but a little too much into eastern
mysticism for our taste. It's hard to find a yoga teacher that
doesn't debase the discipline by mixing it with some mystical
cosmic theory involving universal truth, beauty, peace, harmony,
virtue, and vegetarianism. Yoga could be defined as exercise
corrupted by morality. That's not why we quit, though. We
enjoyed it despite the incense and ceremony. Maybe I'm too
midwestern. I hate to keep blaming everything on my upbringing.
Maybe this time it was good old-fashioned narrow-mindedness. But
just because I'm narrow-minded doesn't mean the mysticism wasn't
bullshit.
So anyway. There I was in a half-lotus and J strapped my
shins together so I was stuck that way: right ankle on top of
left knee, left ankle beneath right knee, two belts wrapped
around several times and buckled. Then, in some kind of wierd
symmetry, he strapped my forearms in a similar position behind my
back.
I guess you could call it the corruption of yoga by
immorality?
He left the bedroom to get something; I thought he was going
to leave me that way for a while but he came right back. He
flipped me over on my face so that I was "kneeling" with my rear
end in the air at one end and resting on my chest, shoulders, and
the side of my face at the other end. Talk about awkward and
degrading verging on painful. He got the hot water bottle and a
collection of rubber hoses out of the bathroom. I figured he was
going to give me a repeat routine like he did before with the
water-filled condom (way back in "Item 17", was it?), except this
time he inserted two hoses into me, one with a condom, one
without.
"You said I could do anything to you. Anything at all," he
said. "Lets see if you still feel that way tomorrow."
He sat me back on my hips again and began filling the condom
inside me just as before. I could feel it expanding.
When it was full, he tipped me over onto my chest again and
removed the tube from the condom, just as he had considered doing
the last time. The water-filled condom was inside me, acting as
a kind of plug. It was held closed by a rubber band with a
string tied to it so it could be pierced and drained later. For
now I was plugged. There was no way I could expell anything that
large. He tipped me back again so I was sitting on my rear in
this enforced half-lotus position, and began filling me through
the second tube. As I became fuller and fuller I eventually
became unable to hold my stomach in any more. I had to relax and
let my abdomen distend under the water pressure. My stomach
protruded and filled my lap. The hot water bottle was suspended
four feet overhead and I couldn't prevent the flow by pushing
back; neither could I stop the flow by clenching my rear
opening: the tube would not collapse.
Before I became uncomfortable he stopped the flow, took out
the gag and unstrapped my legs. It took me several moments of
intense pain and whimpering to straighten my legs after being in
that position for so long. I thought he was through with me,
that this was all he was going to do, but I was wrong.
He stood me up, strapped my ankles close together so I could
only take the tiniest of steps, and locked my arms to an overhead
chain. I watched while he taped a loop of the water tube to the
flange of a vibrator and put it inside my sex with the tube
between my clitoris and the flange. He taped it in place. Then he
moved a chest of drawers nearby. I didn't know what the hell he
was doing. Then he started the flow and turned on the vibrator.
"What are you doing to me?" I asked.
"You can stop the flow by pressing the vibrator against the
edge of the chest of drawers," he said. He put the ring gag in
my mouth. At least it wasn't the ball gag again. I began filling
up.
After a while I began to feel uncomfortable and pressed
against the tube, which transmitted the vibrations directly to my
clitoris, but it stopped the flow. Something gurgled in my
abdomen and the discomfort disappeared, but I continued to press
lest it return.
As I pressed against the tube I tried to ignore the
vibrations. I discovered I had to press quite hard to stop the
flow. After about ten minutes I was unable to stop the orgasm
and while I tried to regain control of myself I began filling up
again. I went back to pressing but had another orgasm after a
few minutes. That was the last one I had that night. After a
while the vibrations just got so tiresome I had to step away and
let the flow continue unhindered.
I watched my stomach slowly distend to become a belly. It
grew until I began to look pregnant. I kept looking from my
stomach to J, trying to ask with my eyes when he would stop it.
From time to time I made little incomprehensible mewling noises,
not really trying to talk, but expressing my growing discomfort.
Several more times I began to feel uncomfortable but each time my
stomach gurgled, the discomfort passed, and the flow continued.
I know that the length of the tube was too short for the
water pressure to do any damage, but I finally felt so big and
heavy I had to let out a moan. He let it go a little longer. I
couldn't tell if the water pressure had equilibrated with the
pressure inside me or if I was still expanding, but he finally
stopped it and took out the tube. I had been clenching to
prevent any leakage around the tube, and after he had removed it
I still tried to stop the humiliation of the water leaking out
and running down my legs. But I needn't have worried. I couldn't
have expelled the water if I had tried to, plugged the way I was.
He took off the gag, freed my ankles and released me from
the overhead chain. With my arms still strapped behind my back I
couldn't reach the string between my legs, but I was free to walk
wherever I wanted. Immediately, I went to the bathroom, but I
couldn't expell the condom or the water. Not a drop. I had a
pee, though. It didn't help. In the mirror I looked like I was
about four or five months pregnant. I felt incredibly distended
and all I could think about was getting the water out of me; of
course I was powerless to do so. I felt so ungainly and bloated.
I couldn't even walk naturally with my abdomen distended that
way. I waddled back out of the bathroom to confront him.
"My God," I whimpered, "what have you done to me!?"
I started begging him to let the water out. He left me that
way, though, and actually made love to me in that condition. I
suppose I should say he used me to satisfy himself: I didn't get
much out of it. He just sat me on the edge of the table in the
living room and penetrated me while he stood between my legs and
I lay back on the table waiting for it to be over. At least he
didn't put his weight on my abdomen. I didn't have an orgasm,
and he didn't seem to care.
When he was through with me he freed my arms. I cradled my
stomach in my hands and started to rush to the bathroom.
"Wait," he said. I stopped, but didn't turn to face him. I
just stood there shifting from foot to foot, wishing I could get
back to normal. "You're beautiful when you're worried, too," he
said. I tried to regain a measure of composure, steadied myself,
and turned to face him. I still held my abdomen in my hands as
though it were fragile enough to burst. "Okay," he said,
releasing me.
In the bathroom, I pulled gently on the string until I could
puncture the condom with a nail scissors. The condom emptied
quickly and so did I. I'm sorry if I can't dress this up and
make it sexy and entertaining, but I didn't feel very sexy or
entertained myself. I had told him he could do anything he
wanted to me, but I think (hope) he chose to do this to me in
order to get me to change my mind about continuing with him as
top. Or maybe J has better associations with this sort of thing
than I do because he has a prostate to be stimulated. Maybe a
pretty nurse gave him an enema once. Ask Freud. I was not turned
on by it.
Okay. I endured it, I wrote about it. I consider myself to
be pretty liberal on most issues. I don't think anything is so
obscene that it justifies censorship but this, to me, was pretty
gross. I felt ... well, defiled.
I define obscenity as whatever produces an erection in a
judge. At least I felt that way up to now.
I'm not so sure I feel that way any more. Maybe what J
did to me was obscene. Maybe he meant it to be. I concluded
that if he were to continue as top, I wouldn't want to explore
that particular avenue any further. Maybe that's why he did it.
I probably gave him the idea anyway when I cleaned myself out for
anal sex. But I don't want to do that scene again. I don't.
-*-
The List
Column One
Item 21
He made it up to me the next day, though. I guess he wanted
me to know how good it could be if we followed the rules. When I
say good, I mean it was the best ever, and the scariest. Earlier
I said he brought me to the edge of serious pain. Well, this is
it.
By Wednesday evening I had started to turn a quite dark
shade of brown from the tanning lotion. Quite dark. He still had
me putting it everywhere. My scalp, my face, in my ears,
everywhere. I think the pills are starting to kick in, too. It
is starting to stain the bedsheets. They will be ruined unless it
washes out. Those in his room were a disaster after the scene I
am about to describe.
I had just finished rubbing in my third dose when he had me
sit on the edge of the bed and buckle on the waistband of the
leather (un)chastity belt while he put on knee and ankle straps
with a pole to separate my ankles. Then he locked my wrists to
the back of my collar and doubled me over by chaining my knee
straps to the front of the collar. This exposed my nakedness
completely. He "arranged" me face down on the bed on my elbows
and knees with my rear end in the air and then chained my collar
to the head of the bed and my ankles to the foot.
I still can't believe I'm writing down what we did,
sometimes. Sorry to interrupt, but the thought just hits me
from time to time.
Then he spread my knees and tied them to the sideboards of
the bed. I was unable to move in any direction, couldn't roll
over, couldn't do anything but kneel there with my bum in the air
and wonder what would come next. He began loosening my rear end,
this time with a massage oil.
I really get into it now when he manipulates me with his
hands. He knows exactly what to do. He is able to masturbate me
as well as I can myself when my hands are free. Of course he
teases me instead, but he is as familiar with my body as a
violinist is with his instrument. He can be almost casual about
the way he turns me on.
I don't know if you've been able to tell, but over the last
month I've become pretty docile about what I will let him do to
me. Sure, I fight it, but my struggles have become a matter of
ritual -- on occasion fueled by real apprehension, but the List
really has protected me from anything approaching serious damage.
This night was different. I was straining to see what he was
doing behind me, twisting my head left and right as he prepared
his latest entertainment. When I saw, my apprehension became
fear.
Several times in the past, I was punished for some
infraction of a trivial rule that was made up for no other reason
than as an excuse to punish me. Sometimes I was little
rebellious, too. Now, he does these things to me without feeling
the slightest need for a pretense. It isn't punishment anymore,
it is just for his own pleasure. Or facination. I can accept
that, too. Except this time he was stretching the point --
literally and figuratively.
Finally, I saw what he had been preparing me for.
"You're not going to put that in me are you?!" I squeaked.
"...Master?" I added hastily. It was an enormous dildo. Or it
looked enormous to me. Up to now, HE was the biggest thing I had
had inside me there, and he isn't made of hard unyielding
plastic. This ... thing ... was appreciably bigger than he is.
Words like monumental spring to mind. Heroic. Legendary.
I began struggling and protesting, but even when I threw my
weight against the straps it did nothing but tip me from side to
side a bit. I couldn't even fall over, and I certainly couldn't
straighten up.
He loosened me some more, but I was finding it difficult to
cooperate. I continued my futile struggles. The SIZE of that
thing was all I could think of. When he started it in, I knew I
would have to cooperate as much as I could, and I tried, I really
did. I stopped struggling and tried to relax. He spread my cheeks
and I relaxed enough for it to get started, and at first I
thought I could stand it. It was tapered a little. But just as
I thought I had taken the whole diameter, he edged it in a little
further and I gasped a real gasp.
"Its too big," I cried, "I can't take it! It's stretching
me!" I strained forward away from it, renewing my ineffectual
rebellion, but the way I was tied caused me to just lift my rear
in the air more. I couldn't wriggle away. I kept begging him to
stop, but he just waited until I settled down and adjusted to the
sensation, and then he continued to insert it. I cried out
again. I was being stretched open to the point that I almost
wondered if I would be damaged. I know intellectually that the
human body is very resilient. People have checked into the ER
with much bigger (and more interesting) objects than that inside
them (a small bust of Mozart, for example, but that's another
story. You can imagine the bad puns about music lovers gone
bust, etc.), but I wasn't able to intellectualize this. All I
knew was that I was being invaded, it was too big, I couldn't
expel it, and I couldn't stop it.
When it was finally in all the way to its flange, I felt
extremely fragile, stretched to the absolute breaking point, and
very very FULL. He buckled the crotch strap in back, holding it
securely inside me. I couldn't do anything about it with my
hands locked to my neck. He unchained and untied me from the bed
so I could straighten out. I couldn't sit up. It would have
damaged me. Probably not really, but it certainly felt that way.
Well, some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others
have greatness thrust within them.
[Note from the Future -- but not very far in the furure: he
told me a few days later that he had showed me one dildo and
inserted another smaller one. Still, the one he DID use was
as big as he is -- and quite a bit less forgiving. I guess
this was what the folks at A.S.B. call a mindfuck.]
He took off the separator pole but left my wrists locked to the
back of my neck. It took some slow and ginger creeping about on
my part before I was able to stand up, and even then I could walk
only with great difficulty, slightly doubled over. He put the
tiny chain between my nipple rings and led me by it into the
walk-in shower in his bathroom He didn't turn on the water; he
massaged more oil into every crevice of my body. He even worked
it under the belt that held in the dildo.
In the bathroom mirror my completely hairless, brown, oiled
body was quite a sight. I looked like some kind of primitive
polynesian native captured and taken into slavery.
He attached a fine chain -- actually a necklace -- to the
chain between my nipples and used it as a leash to lead me out of
the house. It took only the slightest tug to lead me wherever he
wanted to take me. For one panicked moment I thought he was
taking me to the car (I would have had to go), but he just led me
on a stroll around the yard like a pet being taken for a walk. I
walked -- almost hobbled -- haltingly behind him. I was doubled
over slightly, trying to keep from being stretched unmercifully
by the dildo. And the nipple leash.
It was sunset after a light rain and the atmosphere in the
yard had that luminous greenish-yellow cast that sometimes comes
for a few minutes when the air is clear and fresh and the sun is
near the horizon behind the trees. The grass was wet under my
feet and glowed with the intense green of new spring growth; the
woods around us were dark and smelled of wet leaves. The air was
still and comfortably warm, and it was too early in the year for
mosquitos. We smelled the flowers and he picked two purple
azalea blossoms and tucked one into each nipple ring: in the
twilight and against my golden-brown skin they seemed to have a
fluorescent glow.
All these sights and smells were just as intense as the
emotional uncertainty, the apprehension, and the full, stretched
physical sensations I experienced as he led me around the yard. I
gasped sharply from time to time as my nipples and my distended
rear portal alternately claimed my attention.
There is a small grassy path that leads down to a little
azalea-bordered glade in the woods. It really is lovely: the
azalea bushes are as old as the house (more than fifty years) and
are monstrous. Earlier, without telling me, he had spread a big
blanket on the ground in the clearing, and it was there that he
led me.
While I stood in the middle of the clearing, he took off the
tiny leash. He knelt in front of me and took off the ankle and
knee straps, and then stood to release my wrists from the ring at
back of my neck. My hand went to the strap between my legs that
held in the dildo, but he took my hand in his and guided it to
his sex. I could feel he was rigid inside his pants. He told me
to undress him. I did, kneeling as gracefully as the device
inside me would permit, and taking off his sandals and pants.
When he was naked he knelt beside me and helped me to lie
back on the rough wool blanket where he unbuckled the belt from
my hips and pulled it gently away. I was wearing nothing but the
collar and the enormous device inside me.
Gently, he lifted and parted my legs, and with excruciating
slowness, he entered me. I spread myself further, welcoming him.
His lovemaking was particularly tender, perhaps because these are
the last nights of our scheduled month, perhaps out of
consideration for the device inside me. Perhaps it was just the
mood set by the azaleas surrounding us and the glow of the
sunset.
Together we climbed lazily from plateau to plateau, seeming
to wander aimlessly from one sensation to another without
searching for a climax. It was a languid and unhurried journey.
We built to the slowest, sweetest, most tantalizing crescendo.
At some point he rolled us gently and put me on top so he could
manipulate the thing inside me.
It was as though he were leading me at exactly the pace he
wanted, waiting, hesitating on the edge of a precipice,
approaching the abyss from every angle without plunging in.
Normally an orgasm is something I strive for; this one we both
knew we could have together any time we chose, so we delayed,
teasing ourselves, looking into the depths and pulling back again
and again, staying near the edge longer and longer with each
visit. Finally, we looked into each others' eyes and knew it was
time. We both smiled secret little smiles with just our eyes and
then turned inward together to look down into the depths and wait
hand in hand on the very edge for it to come to us and take us
together.
We both knew that if either of us so much as twitched it
would set off a landslide and carry us over the edge together.
Still we waited, looking into each others eyes and knowing
together about this secret interior world we shared. Finally a
little surprised gasp escaped me and I went out of focus, falling
away from him into the depths, but that tiny gasp pulled him over
the edge with me and we were falling together. We didn't lose
control, we just didn't bother keeping it. Instead we just fell
together forever. Somewhere far above me I could hear someone
crying out. It might have been me.
-*-
Okay, so I got carried away writing that, but it was the
best orgasm I have ever had, bar none, so I'm entitled. I didn't
do it justice, but that's still the general idea of what it was
like. I can see why the french call it the little death. I
remember thinking fleetingly how foolish it is to TRY to have an
orgasm. They're so much better if you just let them happen.
Imagine if a symphony orchestra's objective was to reach the end
of the music rather than to concentrate on playing the other
bits. Kind of defeats the purpose, and yet sex has been so goal-
oriented for me. "Achieving" an orgasm is subtly ingrained in
the way I think and it is a hard attitude to change.
Obviously, I'm working on it.
Afterward, we were both a long long time recovering. Or
maybe we were just enjoying the floating sensation that comes
after. See? There I go again. It wasn't really over, was it?
We had just passed a crescendo in the music, but the music was
still going on. IS! IS still going on. Sheesh! You could miss
your whole life just by not paying attention.
The sky, the azaleas, the treetops, everything seemed to be
bathed in the same afterglow I was experiencing. Eventually, I
wobbled to my hands and knees and after a while stretched
languidly the way a dog does on all fours. He ran his hand down
my back to the end of the device and touched it lightly, moving
it just enough to make me react again.
Eyes closed, I waited on my hands and knees with him lying
next to me on his side, head propped on one hand; he watched my
face closely while he slowly removed the thing from me. I
concentrated intently on enjoying/experiencing everything as he
inched it out, fully aware that he was watching me. I savored
every millimeter of it, and rather than just taking it out he
helped me, reading every gasp and shudder, every bitten lip and
arched back, every sudden breath, every movement. He has always
known that the journey is far more important than the
destination. I shuddered through several aftershocks and when he
came to the end, the suddenness of it slipping completely out
left me twitching and contracting on my own with no stimulation
other than that of my own mind. I was so far gone I wasn't sure
if it was even out of me.
I collapsed onto the blanket and he cuddled and stroked me
while I settled back down to earth. I ended up sprawled face up
on the blanket looking up at the stars coming out in the evening
sky. After a while he clipped the tiny necklace-leash to my
nipple-ring chain again and we got to our feet.
After he led me back into the house he told me to dress for
him while he cooked a light dinner. I held everything I have up
in front of me in the mirror, and nothing looked right with my
dark brown skin. The white cotton outfits (the robe and the
tight-fitting one) looked wrong. The thong was too artificial.
A moment of inspiration and I had made a g-string-like loincloth
out of twisted scraps left over from the cotton robe. The white
looked great against my darkened skin. He thought so, too.
Eating dinner at the oak table with candles and formal silverware
while dressed that way was a turn-on, for some reason. I almost
wished we could do it at a formal restaraunt just to see the look
on the other's faces when J led me in on a leash. Of course I
wouldn't really... unless I could be sure we wouldn't get
arrested. I wonder how I would look in a fig leaf? There is a
fig tree in the yard.... BTW, I ate with my fingers, just for
effect.
The List
Column One
Item ... none
Well, this will be my last entry. When we were making love
yesterday (Thursday) evening, it was vanilla sex and, although I
didn't realize it, it was exactly (to the hour), four Thursdays
ago that we started Column One. He rolled us over so I was on
top and said, "Time to start column two," and that was that. I
mean, we went on to have our vanilla orgasms and they were all
very nice, I'm sure, but it was clear that it was over at that
moment.
I wish the final episode in this little drama could have
been an erotic Gotterdammerung, but it just didn't work out that
way. If you want an orgasmic Ride of the Valkiries, read Item 20
again and try to imagine how it was for me ...
I suppose that I don't have to even make any more entries,
since the chains are off now, as it were, but I'll finish this
one. After that, I suppose J will be the one making the entries
if I can bring myself to do it to him.
Now I can safely admit that I skipped the last two days of
tanning lotion (okay, so I lied in my last entry), and I have
been scrubbing my skin raw to get it off, but I still look
brown-yellow. I haven't even started to look blotchy yet. It'll
be a while before I can go out of the house, even with a wig.
It'll be a week before I even look like Sinead O'Connor.
I am still not ready for this topping business. I'm afraid
I'll ruin J's image as my Master. Or my image of him as my
Master. Also, after J's little trick with the condom, I'm not
sure I want to continue as bottom either, unless we work out a
new List and stick to it.
I feel like I should say something profound at this point,
but I'm not a profound person. Mostly I feel pretty silly. I
know myself a little better now, but maybe it is only the shallow
that can truly know themselves anyway.
I could quote someone ELSE profound if I could just remember
who said it: "Young girls already know all about love -- it's
just their capacity to suffer for it that grows." Except that
this hasn't really been suffering for me.
I don't know if I have lost J -- or the person I thought was
J, or what. I think I might leave him if he doesn't have the
strength to keep me. I also might leave him if that last little
condom trick of his was a glimpse of the real J rather than a
mindfuck. I haven't figured that out yet. If he did it because
of himself rather than in spite of himself, I'm history.
So goodbye all you people at A.S.B., obviously the only
readership this little account will ever enjoy. Here's a big
kiss. No kidding: I am going to make a little circle on the
screen below and press my nipple against it as a goobye kiss.
I know it's electronic and through the net and has been
stored on a diskette and it's a different monitor and all, and
you'll think me a bit flaky, but it's a real kiss nonetheless,
* *
* *
* *
* ___ *
* (_) *
* *
* *
and I really pressed myself against the screen. You may not know
it, but you all deserve a kiss for helping me get through the
last month, even if you didn't even know I existed. It was good
to know there were other people out there discovering themselves,
and that some had already done so and seemed to be normal anyway.
But don't get any fancy ideas: kiss or not, it's just a monitor
and I'm still a devout midwesterner,
Somewhere down deep where J just hasn't quite hit bottom yet ;-).
Bye,
"M"
-*-
I found this note on the kitchen table yesterday. I have added
it to the end of this document because it explains itself. Two
weeks have passed since we finished "Column One". I changed our
names in the note, and the deleted part was too personal to post.
If I post this at all. We'll see. Shit.
"J"
-*-
J,
I am leaving for a while. It isn't because of the last month.
I liked it -- almost every minute -- probably more than was
healthy for me. It was the two weeks after we finished that got
to me. I guess I just need a dose of reality. Funny, but the
last two weeks have been the unreal part. That scares me a
little. I feel like I am convalescing from a disease that I
would rather not have had cured. There is an empty place in me
and I haven't decided whether it is best left empty.
I'm going to visit Connie and see her kids. After that I
don't know, but I'll try to call. I took a wig and two
suitcases. The rest of my stuff is in my bedroom. Will you keep
it for a while?
I should have gotten a job at the hospital. If I come back
I will have to, no arguments.
(deletion)
Love, M
Fin
From Nurse Jones:
Okay, okay. Here is some of Column Two. I wrote it while still
lurking. But it's all wrong because a lot has changed since then.
For one thing, I know some of you through e-mail now, and I'm
more than a little embarrased to send it out, for reasons I
explained in a recent post. And it's getting more difficult as
time goes on. For some reason, I didn't care so much if strangers
read about my innermost thoughts, so long as noone I KNEW found
out this stuff. But I've just realized that I am getting to know
"you people." Anonymously, sure, but what does that matter?
You've formed a mental image of me, just like I have of some of
you. Now if I shock and disappoint you, I care. Now it matters
what you think of me. In fact, I just turned beet red thinking
about the end of Column One. Well, not BEET red, maybe fuchsia.
Which has got to be the most carefully spelled color in the
midwest, possibly the world. I could NEVER confront anyone that
had read Column Oneand knew all that about me. Except Jay.
But here it is, the beginning at least, almost unedited:
The List
Column Two
I'm back. (in a deep, Schwartzenegger-esque voice, with
sunglasses)
S.F. is a pretty neat place. Almost worth chucking it all for.
I'm surprised everyone doesn't want to live there. I could
probably get a job there easier than J could, given what I do.
Maybe someday I'll go there and help them do the offbeat things
they get away with while even managing to act as if it were all
perfectly normal. Start an all-nite yoga clinic or something.
You laugh. There would be competition.
I'm NOT going back to Indiana. My home town is proof that Hell
is full and the dead walk the earth. Besides, it's easier to be
kinky a long way from home. Hmph. It's easier to be _liberal_
when you're a long way from MY home. You know how the Jaycees
always put a little sign outside their town to encourage tourism?
Like "Wisk Broom Capital of the World" or whatever. Our town
motto would have to be something like:
"Not as bad as you might have imagined."
or maybe
"Preferable to Gary."
how about:
"Leave it in drive"
Even Chicago was better. At least there was something
happening all the time. Most of it unsolved.
Anyway, I like the South almost as much as SF and a lot more
than Chicago. You don't have to shovel water. And I like J a lot
more than I thought I did when I left.
So anyway, I'm a top now. Sort of. I got my feet back on
the ground over the last month, and decided that J wasn't so
gawdawful wierd after all. He's still adamant about me having a
shot at topping, and I still don't really feel constitutionally
suited to it, but I'm going to do it. When I decided to go back
to J I called and told him I needed some money if I was going to
top him. For toys. He sent me a bundle, so I'm back, and loaded
for bear. As they say. In fact, we got started on Column Two when
I got back, but we had to stop when I pulled a groin muscle, even
though it wasn't mine.
I mailed the first part of this document to a couple of
ASB'ers at their home addresses just before I got back to J. It
was titled The List, and added up to near 500k in 6 files,
"chapters" (items) 1-21. I don't know if it ever got posted.
There's no indication that it did on the net.
[Note from The Present: It ended up getting posted after all,
thanks to wizvax and some very nice wizpeople, but I'll leave
this stuff in anyway, out of date though it is.]
If it didn't, then this
will seem like an extended non-sequitur to you. I'd better
explain a little. To be very brief, I was a bottom for the very
first time last Spring. Not that I had ever been a top. It
lasted a month by prior agreement with J, and the things he did
to me we also agreed upon by way of a negotiated two-column list
(The List) broken down into paired items. If he did to me
something listed in column one, I could do the corresponding
thing in column two to him and vice versa. So I guess this is
about to become an account of column two. Except that this time,
I can write it my own way. He proofed, edited, and controlled
what I wrote -- or should I say what he had me write -- for
column one.
I left J because I thought he had just gotten too wierd, the
things he was doing to me. Since then, I've thought about it a
lot and decided I was just a little slow to adapt. He's okay,
really. I hope I wasn't too hard on him when I left. I really
do care about him.
So anyway, I went to San Francisco for a few months. We
midwesterners don't change our attitudes very readily, but I can
certainly say that I got my prejudices rearranged.
A lot has changed on the net since those days. Saltgirl seems
to be gone for good and STella is the new netqueen. I'm still a
lurker, but maybe not for long: it looks like there is anonymous
posting now, if all this wizvax stuff is what it appears to be.
I guess I'll be posting that way some day if I can figure it out.
I have a lot to learn about using the net, I guess. There are a
lot of new folks out there now. Some of them sound about as
tolerant as the hyperbaptists in the main office of J's
department. They're everywhere, like the roaches. They tried to
get the usenet feed cancelled -- specifically because of ASB and
AS. Except that the hyperbaptists are intolerant of ALL perverts,
not just amateurs like me. Maybe I'd better stay in the closet a
bit longer. Coming out to some of you might not be the thrill
I'd originally thought. I don't relish being forgiven for having
once been a lurker. The attitude seems a bit smug to me. I would
have thought that the people that post on ASB (ESPECIALLY there)
would
hold tolerance in such
profound reverence
that beside it all the other
virtues would seem like
sins.
[Note from the Present: This only applies to Little Retchid,
now. But you knew that after yesterday's post.]
Besides, I'm afraid. I remember what happened to Elf way
back when. And you should have heard the things the
hyperbaptists had to say about ASB'ers. They are genuinely awful
people. They make me afraid, and not just for my career. The
way their jowls quiver with righteous indignation when they act
on behalf of the Lord God Almighty. They seem to believe they
are doing what He would do if only He knew the facts of the case.
If you've read The List, Column One, you'll understand why
I'm pleased to report that I don't have to wear a wig any more
in polite society.
My hair hasn't grown back completely yet, but I dressed a
little punk for a while ....
(although I'm really a little too old to carry it off. Okay,
okay, I'm 28. But I read at the 35 year old level.)
...and I didn't look too out of place in the better parts of San
Francisco. Now I have enough hair to look like Brigitte Nielsen
from the hair up. I'll get a job any day now.
My pubic hair is a problem, though.
IMPORTANT SAFETY TIP: If you want your pubic hair to
look normal, don't use depilatory. I used it regularly
for that month, and it didn't grow back right. I almost
might as well have had electrolysis. It was weeks
before it started to grow back at all, and nearly three
months later it is still so sparse you have to look
twice to be sure I have any at all. If this is
permanent, my next gynecologist is in for a treat.
Seriously. After three months. I have about 15 hairs
down there, and they are thin and only 1/2 inch long.
Thank God J didn't let me use it on my head.
I kept the nipple rings, though, and got a nostril pierced.
So tell me, am I an exhibitionist? I like the way I look, but
I've been hit on a lot by guys lately. Is there something about
a pierced nose that says, "Hey! Guys! Available broad here! Loose
morals! Nymphomaniac!" or what? Men seem to think that it means I
will automatically sleep with them or something. And I didn't. I
couldn't, even if I were attracted. Have you ever seen the
inside of an AIDS ward? Trust me. It takes more guts than I have
to work in one.
So what changed? Is it the nose ring? Or do all men insist
on treating the mons veneris as though it were Mount Everest,
just because it's there? I lost some babyfat while I was
traveling; maybe I look better thinner, (read more attractive to
men), even WITH short hair. Although my tits lost weight, too.
I'm gaining it back, though, now.
Meet The New Me:
So anyway, I'm back. Thats what I said to him. I got back on
a Saturday afternoon, and he came to the door when I knocked. I
dropped my pack on the ground and just stood there for a minute
in the sun, looking at him. It was dry and hot as hell and I had
left Houston the previous morning in my unairconditioned beat-up
VW. The car was dusty, I was dusty, my jeans were dusty. I was
wearing a dirty white tank top and some very beat up down-at heel
boots with duct tape on one. I'd lost weight and had developed
some muscle definition in my arms. Haircut like a man, pierced
nostril, sunglasses, suntan, and an attitude.
"I'm back," I said. He told me I looked pretty good. I did.
"You my bottom now?" He nodded. "Run a bath," I said.
He looked at me for a second longer, picked up my pack.
"Now," I said. He gave me a sharp glance, nodded, and turned to
go into the house. That was as long as the Nouvelle Moi lasted. I
screeched and jumped on him piggy-back and wrapped my legs around
him and bit his ear.
I had planned on being a proper top, at least for a while,
playing the same game with him that he had played with me, being
distant and aloof and tough. One minute. That's how long it
lasted. But I was really hot for one minute. Then pfft. But I
made him sit at the tap end of the tub.
-*-
When we made up the List, J had commented that one
unfulfillable fantasy he had was to know what it felt like to be
me during that month. To be a woman, I mean. Actually, I would
like to know what it's like to have a male body, what the male
orgasm is like, too. He has this idea that the female orgasm is
something mystical and special, much more profound than the
male's. I don't know how anyone can ever prove that to be true,
but it's an idee fixee with him.
[Note from the present: this is as far as I go without help from
my friends. I'm feeling squirrelley at the moment, and I don't
feel comfortable talking about it. You already know we are
experimenting with hypnosis. I have to let it rest here.]
-*-
Nurse Jones, who, if she were really Arnold Schwartzenegger would
still give free medical advice:
Exercise daily,
Eat wisely,
Die anyway.
-*-
Clearly, my numbering system is screwy.
From Nurse Jones,
Well, the hypnosis is progressing. I know, I know, this is
supposed to be something that only a qualified physician should
do. Possibly so. I've asked around at the hospital as much as I
dare, and the verdict seems to be that no lasting psychological
damage could be done, even by a malicious hypnotist. I won't
argue, though, we could be taking a chance screwing around with
his sexuality, but all the authoritative references emphasize
that it is impossible to make someone do something they really
don't want to do. I read one reference (by an MD, not a stage
hypnotist) that said the mythology about the danger of hypnosis
was started by psychologists as a turf-protective strategy.
References: there are hundreds. I used:
LeCron: Self Hypnotism. Signet Pub.
LeCron and Bordeaux, Hypnotism Today. Grune & Stratton, N.Y.
Cooke and Van Vogt: Hypnotism Handbook, Borden Pub. Co., L.A.
Weitzenhoffer: General Techniques of Hypnotism, Grune & Stratton.
All in the local library.
We read and talked it over endlessly. I am more afraid than
he is. I like my men to be men. Not Arnold Schwartzenegger or
Rambo, but not swishy either. Some of the most masculine men I've
known were S.F. gays, oddly enough, and I don't mean the leather
set, either. I guess being confident enough of your masculinity
that you don't feel obliged to demonstrate it 24 hours a day is
my definition of a Real Man. Which makes _them_ more masculine
than the scratch-n-burp types from back home. I like to feel
protected and cared for though, and ... hell, I don't know what I
like anymore
San Francisco, and relearned it in the hospital cafeteria
recently. But I might have tendencies....
I've told J to stop reading ASB. I'll save the fun posts for him
to read later, but here's where I ask for specific advice, and I
don't want him to read it. I finally got a post hypnotic
suggestion to work. I told him he would shave twice on Wednesday
morning because his first shave wouldn't be close enough. I told
him he wouldn't remember the session.
He did it. He says he didn't remember. This is really eerie.
It gave me chills. Feet still cold.
My Plan:
The first step is to work on techniques to get him into a deep
trance quickly. There are posthypnotic tricks that speed up the
process. Right now, I spend all my time getting him into a trance
deep enough to give me some influence. It seems we're always
going down stairs and escalators, deeper and deeper, ad
infinitum. The books say to gauge your success with tests like
"You can't lift your arm," or "You can't open your eyes," etc.
They work. I made his face numb and he couldn't feel pin pricks,
even on his lips. Or kisses on the pin pricks.
But before all that we spent half a week trying to figure
whether anything was happening at all beyond him getting a comfy
lie-down while I droned on at him for an hour. Twice a day now on
weekends. Actually, I'm not really sure it worked, even still. It
seems to have, but I have to take J's word for it. He could have
been faking, but I don't think so. Besides I trust him. He
believes it worked, I'm sure. Something happened on Wednesday,
anyway.
It was weird, though, I'm tellin' ya.
The techniques are easy, but it's hard work. It just takes
perseverance and trust and a little reading and a positive
attitude.
And he trusts me completely: that's important. Equally
important, he has to want me to do it.
Back to the Plan:
Hypnosis aside, I/we have to create an outwardly female
appearance for him -- all over -- and he probably shouldn't be
aware of the details of the process if he is going to believe it.
He has to look in the mirror afterward and see a woman. Knowing
how I did it would spoil that. It has to seem sudden and
miraculous, even though there is a lot to do.
I'm going to do this from the ground up. I told you I got a
corset in SF? Did I mention I got one for him? He sent his
measurements
no extra fittings, so keep your fingers crossed. And I got shoes
in his size.
I'm going to use a flesh-colored unitard, padded out to look
feminine. I have scads of sterile cotton wadding from supply to
make hips. I have a selection of pastel chalks to sketch on
nipples, navel, details like that. I'm going to try water
balloons, guys, unless you have a better suggestion.
Wig, makeup, fabulous fakes, false eyelashes, I've got tons of
that stuff. He has the face for it. He'd be better looking than I
if he were a woman.
I'm going to convince him his anus is his vagina, and then treat
it like one. Make him a contralto. Make him walk the walk.
Keep the light dim, him under strict control, and my fingers
crossed. But I can see that this is all a long way in the future.
I have a lot of work to do. A lot to develop in his head.
And most of all, I have to make myself feel like I'm making
him up for a play. Or a halloween party. Not changing him on the
inside, not down deep. That way, maybe I won't lose my favorite
top. He's GOT to go from being a definite man to a believable
woman without ME thinking of him as anything ambiguous or icky in
between.
That's the plan, troops. Elf mustered the shining armour brigade
to present medals after the dismemberment of Little Retchid
(shame, shame, I should be magnanimous in victory. But
instead I think I'll be unbearable for a page or so. It just
comes over me, sometimes).
I think, for reasons of public health, Elf also had to relieve
some of you of your battle trophies: various internal organs, an
argyle sock, etc. An unruly bunch.
Anyway, Elf now has my scarf to tie on the end of his, um,
lance. And I have to ask him to muster the troops again. Don't
just stand there shuffling your feet in the dust, boys. I need
suggestions.
Kayvan, stop fiddling with your codpiece and tell me if this
will work. You're a hypnotherapist. Advice! I need advice!
WildCard, drop that scrotum, it's nasty. Besides, it belongs
to Richid and you don't know where it's been. No-one would be
impressed by it anyway. Battle trophies are supposed to be big.
And pay attention, Strider.
And for heaven's sake put away that
pipe wrench. I don't care if it is
kippled. Or squicked.
And Gweeb, come out from behind BlackDouga and get in line.
Wizyrd will make a space for you. I don't think I want to know
what that is behind your back. Come on, let's see it.
Eeewww! That's disgusting.! Explain yourself.
Stop mumbling and stand up straight Gweeb, or I'll put Moon
Knight in charge of you. He didn't get a piece of Richid and he's
NOT in a good mood. (Although I'm glad to see SOMEBODY polishes
his armor...)
Now speak up, Gweeb. What IS that thing?
Arriving too late to get a proper trophy is no
excuse, Odor-Eaters don't count. Give it back to
Richid; he probably needs it anyway.
Now the rest of you, put on your helmets (yft, that's NOT a
helmet and you know it. Give Kayvan back his codpiece) and pay
attention. Sheesh! Talk about motley. Nurse Jones needs advice on
how to top Jay and keep his dignity so I can drop this role of a
half-pint Brigitte Nielsen and go gracefully back to being the
topee.
Maybe it's up to him to keep his dignity....... Help!
Nurse Jones,
reviewing the troops, a butch damsel in diaphanous fatigues,
hands on hips,
smile on lips,
rings on nips.
(deep breath)
Ten-HUT!
Now, boys, I want to thank you all ...
My Goodness!
How on EARTH did you all manage to do that all at the same time...?
Hmmm. Remind me not to take a deep breath next time.
Still, Elf, I'm touched by the gesture.
My scarf looks nice.
Out there.
Wot the hell. (deep breath)
DIS-MISS... Wait!
I'm a top now!
Maybe I'll just leave you like this. After all, it's my post.
(giggle)
Nurse Jones, learning that monogamous
and monotonous
ain't
synonymous.
Even amongus
that be
anonymous,
who's doggerel is an insult to the entire canine world,
and who promises to be nice to Richard from now on, even though
he's not speaking to anyone,
silent
lurking, and
anonymous behind his real name.
From Nurse Jones,
Aside from making me wish Jay had shaved me "down there"
(instead of making me do it myself), Averti's wonderful story
(about tying Joker to that barber chair and shaving her) reminded
me that I haven't told you about my very first attempts at
topping Jay, just after I got back. OR how we got married, even,
come to think of it. OR how we met.
If you haven't noticed yet, I've decided to take excerpts
from The List parts 13-14 and just incorporate them into my other
ramblings. So from now on, things won't be chronological. I'll be
jumping from the present (hypnotism experiments) back a few
months. This is fun. And theraputic.
I guess there were a few postings in the middle there that
will fall through the cracks in somebody's archive because they
didn't have a "Subject:" line with "The List" in it. So be it. At
least the ASB regulars will know the whole story. From here on,
Life is Art. I write it as we do it, I post it as I write it, if
you like it, keep it. It's only goin' by once folks: I won't be
saving it. If it has anything to do with The List, I'll put it in
the "Subject:" line ... if I remember. And I've already forgotten
a few times.
-*-
So anyway, after I settled in, having gotten back from SF, I
decided to try topping. I take that back: I didn't _decide_
exactly. I knew I would have to, so I did. I am NOT well suited
to this at all, ESPECIALLY with Jay. I could bluff and play the
tough broad with anyone else, but it's harder with Jay. I don't
know how to say this in such a way that the rest of you will be
able to understand: you talk so much about switching roles you
make it sound easy. His role is as my protector. I don't want to
dominate him. I want to care for and cherish him. Love, honor and
obey. All that stuff. Which I vowed to do ceremoniously,
intentionally, deliberately, at our wedding. The judge was
surprised I wanted that obey part in there. But that's another
story.
Anyway, I'm not going to go through Column Two in a hurry,
like J did Column One. "Slave for a month" is on my List, but
I'm just going to browse through the other Items one scene at a
time, when I feel like it. Maybe I'll use my month a weekend at a
time. Not knowing where to start, I thought about the overall
problem of showing him what it's like to be a woman and decided I
would do stuff that would head in that direction.
BTW, I try and keep him chained, locked up, etc., while doing
this stuff to him, not because I can't control him -- although I
couldn't, if he were even half trying -- but because I'm assuming
he's like me. I kept my dignity largely by believing I had no
control, so I was absolved of responsibility for anything that we
did. "He made me do it." Maybe his mind doesn't work the same
way. Whatever.
So here's what I did first. Remember, this was back when I
was still lurking. I had him shower; then I put ankle and wrist
straps on him and locked them together. Wrists together, ankles
together, naked on the bed. Candles all around, on the bedposts,
on the bedside table, on the shelf, the floor even. I stretched
him across the bed, hands chained loosely at the headboard, feet
at the foot. I didn't think ahead: if I had I would have covered
the bed with towels to avoid ruining the sheets. As it was, I had
to kind of push a towel against him as I worked over him.
Then I put the ball gag in. This was the scariest (and the
sweetest) part. And the part that, for some reason, it disturbs
me the most to tell.
BTW again, I wore just my black bimbo-boots with the four
inch heels for this. Thought I'd give him a treat. I look pretty
good in them. Well, I could tell HE thought so, anyway.
I was very tender with him. Motherly, almost. As though he
were a patient. I sat scootched up beside him on the bed and
cradled his head in my arms and held him close, supporting him
against my breast.
I placed the gag gently against his mouth, and flashed a
brief image of myself at work feeding James, an 18 year old
cerebral palsy victim. He ate mostly through a straw. This was
years ago back in Chicago. He was a regular, in and out for years
because he didn't get adequate care at home. I think he sometimes
made himself sick just to get into the hospital for some
TLC. It's odd to feel motherly toward someone who's nearly as
old as you are. James was special. Eighteen years is a long time
for someone with his problems. Pneumonia, finally.
It makes me mad when I think of this old guy I've got now,
complaining about everything under the sun. He should have spent
a few weeks with James. They operated on this joker late last
week and took out his tumor and he complained that they had
performed unnecessary surgery because it turned out to be
nonmalignant. This is the kind of guy that if he were EXXON he
would be sueing Alaska for getting duck feathers in his oil.
It's typical of modern medicine to find the only part of him
that wasn't malignant and remove it.
Sorry to digress. So Jay looks up at me with this puppydog
expression that says "Anything you want to do. Anything." Total
trust. Suddenly I don't feel like a nurse anymore. I realize that
this is play: I can be what I wanted, as long as I don't hurt
him. I feel like a goddess dispensing a sacriment. Holding the
gag against his lips, I might as well have said, "Take this and
eat, in rememberance of me ..." That's the embarrasing part. It
was an ego thing. I was suddenly benevloent and forgiving, caring
for a fragile mortal that worshiped me, looking down at him,
holding him, controlling his destiny if I wanted. He was mine,
all mine. I felt an unbecoming and certainly unladylike sense of
power, maybe like those Hollywood socialites that kept a panther
on a leash years ago. They controlled a powerful, dangerous
animal, with gentleness and subtlety, and probably felt
compassion for the animal that they had taken freedom from.
I tightened the chains so he was stretched out full length.
And then, and then .... Oh No! Could this be a cliffhanger?
Tune in next week, for
Nurse Jones,
in nothing but four inch heels,
for whom brevity is the soul of lingere.
and lingere the soul of wit.
but wait ... (!)
Is there more?
Yes!
Just kidding. I couldn't really do that to my knights in shining armor.
Then I shaved him.
Lovingly.
Intentionally, carefully, I avoided any hint of the sense of
humiliation and embarrassment that I felt when he had shaved me
months earlier. (Don't get me wrong. It was erotic humiliation
when he shaved me. And later, well ... in retrospect, if there
wasn't such a long recovery period, and if I didn't want to keep
my job, I'd do it for him again. Or let him do it to me.
Whatever. But I'd have to think about it.)
I held myself against him while I did it, stroking his body
with mine. I dangled my nipple pendants against him. I caressed
him with the razor, using skin conditioner as shaving cream and
working in little patches rather than covering him all at once.
And I kissed every inch of him, testing with my lips for stubble
as I worked him over. Over him. Whatever.
I sat astride his chest, my boots against his ribs and,
pressing my ...nether self? ... against his abdomen, I shaved his
face. He had just shaved in the shower anyway, but I did it
again, just for the chance to be near his face, to work (and
kiss) around the gag, and look into his eyes, searching for
reassurance, giving it to him, showing my concern. Looking for
the slightest hint of uncertainty. And I dispensed a little
goddess-like compassion and tenderness as well. Stroking his
cheeks with the backs of my hands .... I wanted to show him how
_I_ would like to be treated. The next time. But I was still a
goddess, in complete control and not about to relinquish it, no
matter how sad and sympathetic I felt, no matter how sorry I was
for what I was going to do to him.
It became an ego thing for me. That's the first shameful
admission. I let myself go; I felt this sense of power so
strongly and with such confidence that I could afford to be
benevolent, compassionate, a benign goddess. But a hypocrite,
because the depth of compassion I felt should have made me
release him, and I didn't. My eyes teared up, I wanted to take
care of him so much. And he saw my expression and looked at me
like he was concerned for what I was feeling. He wanted the gag
out to reassure me. He didn't know why I got teary and thought it
might be something bad. I felt fine. I stroked his forehead and
brushed his hair back and told him No, no, hush, it's allright,
and kissed him some more. But I didn't take the gag out, didn't
release him.
I shaved his chest, his underarms, the tops of his feet, the
backs of his arms, even the backs of his hands -- fingers too--
and his legs. I nicked one of his knuckles, just a tiny nick,
and sucked on his finger until it stopped bleeding. I turned him
over and shaved everything I had missed, his bum (Oh, his bum.
Like an adorable ripe little apple...) and finally, (of course) I
turned him back over to do his naughty bits. I (reluctantly, but
firmly) had to pull his knees apart by tying them to the sides of
the bed. Well, I didn't HAVE to, but I did. I don't know if he
felt as embarrased as I did, first time in that position, but I
blindfolded him first, the way I would have wanted to be.
Tch, tch. The way my mind works. _I_ blindfolded HIM so HE
wouldn't be embarrased by what _I_ was seeing. I don't blame you.
Trust me on the ostrich principle. If you think your midwestern
bottom will be embarrased right out of the mood, blindfold,
blindfold, blindfold.
For me, though, by candle light it was kind of nice; I stood
there, hands on hips, considering him for a moment, and in my
imagination I was an ancient goddess (Jesus this is embarrasing
to admit) for whom a sacrificial victim had been ceremonially
left, and I was ritually preparing him for my own pleasure. And
they seldom survived an evening with me, the poor things. The
thing was, even though I knew I was role playing, I was REALLY
FEELING that sense of power, just letting it go.
Long before I started shaving his naughty bits he had an
erection that looked like it might explode if I touched it. I
went over him so slowly and carefully that there wasn't a single
additional nick on his body, and I especially didn't want one
Down There. I did him twice There, feeling carefully and
thoroughly through the conditioner for stubble, not wanting any
to scratch me. Maybe I felt a little too thoroughly for stubble.
I teased him a little, I'm afraid. After all, he was mine.
Not being one to waste such occasions, as soon as I had
finished shaving and damp-wiping him I jumped on and had my way
with him -- still as lovingly as I could (with the tenderness
that one should show toward a woman). I left my boots on,
though.
And I whispered in his ear that he was under orders not to
come until I did, or else, and he didn't. Or else what? I have no
idea; he did what I wanted for some reason other than fear,
obviously. What was I going to do? Strike him with lightening?
I just used him to masturbate with, slowly, like I like it.
When _I_ was through, I didn't tell him it was his turn. I never
gave him permission. This was cruel of me (heh), but I tried to
make him come even though he was really trying not to. It didn't
take long. I wish I could write this from his perspective, the
way Column One was written from my perspective, but I can only
really tell you how I felt. And I prefer to imagine how he felt
anyway, because it makes it more erotic for me, and I'm the one
that gets to be selfish in Column Two. This was good though, very
good. Better than I thought it would be. And I started out
shaving him because I really just didn't know what else to do. I
started out nervous, hoping I could pull it off without ruining
it, and ended up playing the part of a goddess and really getting
shamefully immersed in it.
That is my shameful thing.
I try to be kind when I deal with people, but indulgent,
benign, forgiving benevolence is different. It has always
infuriated me in others. It assumes superiority. It presumes
inferiority. It seems to say: "I Know I'm better than you. I Know
I'm Right, and you, you poor dear thing, haven't a hope. I pity
you, and I forgive you for being pitiful. And forgiveness is such
a respectable sentiment you don't have the moral right to resent
me."
In a word: smug. And complacent. Smug and complacent. That
describes it. In a word. Or two. My supervisor, the hyperbaptist
is like that. On a good day. She's always forgiving us for things
that need no forgiveness. Somebody once told her that "to forgive
is divine" and she doesn't realize that to forgive unnecessarily
is offensive.
And there I was, Our Lady of Extreme Discomfort, riding
high on a wave of that same feeling. You'll understand if I'm
embarrased. Embarrassed. Embarassed? I've been meaning to look it
up. Jesus, by now you'd think I'd have learned how to spell it,
wouldn't you?
The compassion, the teary eyes, the extreme godlike
tenderness, it was all acting. The working out on myself of
sentiments I didn't really have. I can't fake tears, and I didn't
then: I really felt those emotions, but it was because I wanted
to, not because they came spontaneously. The indulgent mother-
superior benevolence was what was genuine. The compassionate
sympathy wasn't. The feeling of power and control was genuine. So
powerful I could afford to be kind and sweet and gentle as a
throwaway emotion.
Anyway, by the time I was through, the only hair on him was
on his head and eyebrows. He didn't even think of flinching when
I went for his genetic future with a razor. If he had I would
have stopped the whole scene. The whole column. That was one of
my litmus tests of his trust.
We showered together afterwards. Before I go on, I should
tell you, this evening's festivities were intended as an
experiment as well as entertainment for me. As part of my
overall strategy, I wanted to determine what his absolute limits
were. How many orgasms could I force him to have? The reason is
that if I eventually get it all together and create a female
persona for him, I don't want hir (HA! I got one of those in.
IloveitIloveit!) getting an un-feminine erection part way through
the process and ruining everything from his psyche to his panty
line. So the plan was to sexually deplete him thoroughly,
totally, and completely. By whatever means I could manage, bar
none. Electrical stimulation by cattle prod if necessary.
Kippling, even.
(AHA! Now you understand my facination with electricity,
phone sex, etc. Just to reassure you, we have given up on it
after getting frantic e-mail from a number of electrical
engineers. However, the Van de Graff generator is still on
order...)
When we were in the shower I decided I wanted sex with him with
us both shaved, so I whisked off the three or four hairs on my
pussy -- not that they were noticeable anyway -- which turned him
on immediately and we had another go right there on the shower
floor, both of us covered in skin conditioner. It was divine. I
recommend it highly. Incredible, the slippery feeling, when it's
both of you. Us.
I hope my *%&**@!* pubic hair grows back. More hair has been
appearing, but still, I'm pretty bare. Shaving makes almost no
difference. Take it from Nurse Jones: don't use depilatory
repeatedly. At least not until the final word is in on my little
problem.
AND! Before I forget! In one of my past postings I said we used
Nutrogena hair/skin conditioner. WRONG! (Buzzer sounds). It is
Unicure. I have so damn many bottles and jars I forget which is
which. I just recognize them by the color. Unicure. Great stuff.
Any K-mart has it. Seriously, I recommend it.
Hey, did you notice that? My language has loosened up a bit. I
called my pussy a pussy. I don't know why, but it sounds SO much
nicer than "cunt." I kinda like "nether self," though....
So anyway, total sexual exhaustion was the goal. I just KNEW he
had more than two orgasms in him. Time it right, push the right
buttons, and four in one day was the standing record record.
Why shave him? Women don't have a lot of body hair. And I will
be taping his naughty bits tightly out of the way some day soon.
Wouldn't want to pull hair out with the tape would I.
Would I?
FLASH!
Wax! I have hair wax somewhere. You know the stuff. Melts at a
low temperature in a double boiler, sticky, and hardens HARD.
Used to pull unwanted hair off at beauty salons. Heat it, spread
small dollops on, (maybe I'll drip it on?), yank it off. And I
was having him keep himself shaved because it gets boring. I'll
tell him to let it grow for a while in strategic areas, and ....
Gotta go. I guess this is going to be a cliff hanger after all.
I'll tell you about the other half of this scene later, promise.
Nurse Jones, interrupting the creative process to do more
research,
so that when they ask J how long he's been
married, he'll smile a secret smile and say,
"Every minute of the day and night."
From Nurse Jones,
Starting off with a note from the present.
In case you were in suspense from reading my last post
(which was written while I was still lurking), and even if you
weren't, I think my pubic hair's going to grow back. I can't mix
drinks for Clarence Thomas yet, but I'm almost sure I'm on the
road to complete recovery. Whew.
That probably isn't the report you were looking for first
thing this morning, but I've been looking for it for some time
now. It's been a gradual recovery, and it's still little more
than peach fuzz, but I think the verdict is definite.
Which reminds me, I found the wax. I'm trying to decide if
this is a cruel thing to do to Jay. We're like two ships passing
in the night, Jay and I. Mine is starting to grow back, his on
the way out. Heh. I told him to let his grow back yesterday
(he's been keeping it shaved on my "orders" for some time now.)
Little does he know what's going to happen when it's long enough
for the wax to grab a hold. So I have a few days to decide
whether to do it or have him go back to shaving. Eeeeyowch.
I got a lovely note from ROo a while back. She went to the
DC-ASB party and was a major hit. She got me thinking about the
Halloween party we went to last week. I was going to take the
easy solution to costumery and go as a nurse (Nurse Jones, in
fact, although noone there would have known that). Jay had other
plans. He wanted me to go as a TV character (that's TELEVISION,
Wyzyrd). Elvira, Queen of the Night. You MUST have seen her.
She's wonderful. Not exactly Oscar material, but she has a good
attitude. I had the wig, if not the hair.
MAJOR DIVERSION! The DRESS! I never told you about the
DRESS! Jay got it made for me with measurements taken with my
corset on. The very week I was back from S.F. He got this
seamstress to come by the house and measure me WITH THE CORSET
ON! This was big time weirdness for me. In my own house. I mean
she was 60 if she was a day, and clearly didn't think much of
anyone who would wear a corset. She asked me if I was wearing a
foundation garment. Yes. I will be wearing it with the dress,
too. She sighs as though she just doesn't know what the world is
coming to.
She doesn't.
Jay and I had argued about this
dress. He wanted it Just Like the one this Elvira character
wears: plunging neckline. Black velvet. He had even located a bra
that used more than one engineering principle to avoid showing
structural, ah, members. And he wanted me to wear it in public.
Totally sleazy. I wouldn't go for it. I mean, I don't mind
sleazy: sex is supposed to be dirty, if it's done right, but just
at home.
We went 'round and 'round, Jay and I. I (heh, heh) came out
on top. With a compromise (see under corset, above). The neckline
is high, like those chinese dresses, chamsongs, I think they are
called. Zip up the back, long sleeves, hemline to the floor. I
would only let her put a slit in it up to the knee. Jay wanted it
up to mid-thigh. But she made it so the slit can be extended.
More sighs.
It is TIGHT. It was tight when she fitted it, and I have
gained quite a bit of the old avoir du pois back since then. (I
lost a lot while traveling). I'm up to 116, which is a little
heavy for me, but Jay thinks it's in the right places. But I mean
this dress is tight! Right down to the knees. I can barely walk
in it. Running is totally out of the question. It was practically
like the good old days. So I went as whatzhername from the Adams
Family. With fake fangs.
Jay just wanted the dress made. He wasn't thinking
Halloween. I was thinking maybe the opera on a very dark night IF
he bought me something expensive (and long) to drape over it.
We were both thinking about coming home after. Turns out it
was after Halloween.
He was the wolfman in a rubber mask, and I had him on a
leash. And I brought handcuffs just for show-n-tell. The people
at the party were straight, totally, with one possible (certain,
now) exception.
In fact, as I told ROo, I made a complete ass of myself.
Biiiiig mouth. They were almost all very conservative. There was
a couple there that I thought were dressed as Ozzie and Harriet
and despite the corset I'm practically doubled over pointing and
laughing so hard my fangs fall out. Turns out they were not
amused. Nor were they wearing costumes, just their normal
everyday.
Oop.
So there we were, wondering how the hell we were going to get
out of there gracefully in time to have some fun. We found the
teenage mutant ninja host and his superheroine wonder-hostess and
were about to make our excuses when (would you believe it) one
thing leads to another and they jokingly (I thought) ask if they
can borrow the collar and leash and I ask if they have a dog or
would they like the handcuffs too, which I produce voila from my
bag. And they look at each other and she turns absolutely tomato
red and has the sudden urge to pass hors d'oeuvres and circulate.
So I decide for the both of us that maybe we should give this
party a chance to get interesting. It didn't. We left an hour
later, but I take the hostess aside in all the noise and
confusion and I'm feeling pretty good so I try to give her the
handcuffs and she turns red again and says Oh, we were just
kidding, really. And I say Oh go on, live a little, and take her
hand and put them in it and she TAKES them, holds them out of
sight, and asks me if I had a good time, looking around with
elaborate nonchalance like I had just sold her drugs or
something. Ha! Southerners are as bad as midwesterners.
So I smile and tell her to call if she wants to know where
in her house I hid the key. She looks at me and turns red again
and I can tell she is having second thoughts so I tell her to
think about it and we really do have to leave now and it was a
wonderful party.
The next day we get a call from her husband, and Jay
answers: they found a set of handcuffs that they think belong to
me and they wanted to check before they returned them and by the
way, was there a key with them, if so it's lost. Uh huh.
So Jay tells them where it is and we STILL haven't got the
cuffs back. I hope they are having fun. I don't want 'em back.
They're uncomfortable.
The big question is did they call before or after? What
would I have done, first time out? Tough decision. After would
have been better, before safer.
Anyway, ROo got me thinking. When I arrived at that party
corseted in that dress, I was mortified. That's her name,
Morticia. Adams. Anyway, I was mortified at first. The guys were
all looking at me through their eye holes. It was a thrill,
embarrasing, and I felt very sexy. Especially with the Wolfman
there to protect me. But I got to thinking about that when ROo e-
mailed me her tale, and I realized that Jay and I are so private
that we couldn't even discuss the topic with kindred spirits
under the very best of circumstances. Too midwestern. You just
don't talk about that to other people, at least not when they're
in the room. E-mail's OK, that doesn't count, they aren't in the
room. Obviously.
Anyway, I thought about how I would feel if I were in Roo's
stiletto's at that party. Michael was there, I understand. I'd
feel safe around him, I think. Moon Knight would take some
getting used to, if he's anything like his posts.
I just don't know. I feel weird just wearing that corset in
public. This party is only the second time I've done that, and I
was nearly nonfunctional from embarrasment until I became
nonfunctional from screwdrivers. It was just a costume party for
crissakes. What if I had been at the DC-ASBash?
I just couldn't.... Naaaawww....
-*-
Another piece of not-quite-news. My supervisor, The Blob,
may (rumor has it) be getting a lateral promotion. Pray for us
now and in the hour of our need. She's been there since before
she died, the change would do her good.
-*-
And I've been working on some important tricks, hypnosis-
wise. I've worked out some key phrases that with post-hypnotic
suggestion, help speed up the induction of trances. I spent a lot
of time in the beginning just getting him into a deep trance
before we discovered this shortcut. If I were to start over
again, I would concentrate on developing this shortcut first.
And I can induce amnesia about the session, too. There are a
number of things I need to try out. Most important: his voice.
This is hard for me to tell about. While in the deepest trance I
can induce, I actually had him up, eyes open, and walking around.
The books said getting him to do that while in a trance would
take a lot of work, and it did, but it's crucial to the plan. And
it was a big shock for me.
During that session I had told him that every time I asked
him to speak his voice would gradually become higher and more
feminine, and it did. I began to feel a little nervous at that,
for some reason. I don't like people changing on me, even though
I may be the cause of the change. I stuck him with a rich, low
contralto rather than a falsetto. But it was still eerie. I'm
not sure if I should be grossed out or not.
I want to back off. I'm scared. Jay is really trying to
persuade me to go on. I'll write about something else for a
while.
-*-
When Jay wasn't home last week I tried out, on myself, some of
the makeup tricks I would need to use on him. I erased my
eyebrows with a blemish cover stick and covered them with latex
from the costume/novelty shop. Makeup over that, and I had no
eyebrows. I could sketch in whatever I wanted with eyeliner.
Jay's eyebrows are coarser than mine. Maybe I should try it on
him while he's under. And the padded hips. I packed cotton under
panty hose until my own hips were seven or eight inches bigger.
It came out all lumpy and took a lot of adjusting and four more
pairs of pantyhose before it looked like I had oversized but
smooth, natural-looking hips. Actually, I kind of liked seeing
what I would look like with 42 inch hips. I don't know why, but
it made me feel kind of sexy.
This is weird stuff. I need feedback from someone.
-*-
I could go seriously wrong here.
Nurse Jones, so strictly brought up she's desperately anxious to
do the wrong thing correctly.
From Nurse Jones,
I'm lost. But now I know why. And it was ASBTherapy that helped.
For me, reading and writing ASB posts is therapy. Not just a
break from work, which I need desperately sometimes, but somehow
writing stuff down clarifies it for me so I can deal with it. And
hearing from you helps me to feel I'm not (a) weird, and (b)
alone down here. Jay and I are very close, but he's really the
only one I have since leaving Chicago. After a few weeks posting
I'm as close to the ASB regulars as I am to the people I work
with, and certainly more intimate than I have been with anyone
but Jay. How much I post seems to depend on how bad things are
going at work at the moment.
I've said before that I'm not constitutionally suited to
being a top. As I read back over an earlier post, I realize that
a motherly attitude toward the bottom is NOT one that translates
well into this role. But it's what I've got. I'm not sure Jay
got anything out of it. He says he did, but he was such a stoic
that he clearly didn't get what I did. I was so timid and afraid
of hurting him that I didn't really do my job.
Talk about a twisted relationship! I want to give up being a
top, but my bottom won't let me. I'm supposed to be running the
show, and I told him I was going to give him an order to top me,
and he wouldn't. I said
wait a minute, who's in charge here anyway?
You are he says.
So top me, says I.
Make me.
I'm not exactly a wilting violet, (more of a willing violet) but
I don't like being a top. (Well, I do, I think, actually, but if
I do it on my terms he won't enjoy it. It will seem like weak
vanilla topping to him. )
8)
I have plans, but I know I'll go all soft once I have him all
trussed up again. My attitude is that I have to do these things
to him but my main job is to help him get through it.
And he just seems to endure my timid fumblings as though he
were waiting for a bus. None of the writhing histrionics that I
went through. I don't know if I get through to him or not. He
_says_ I'm doing great. He _says_ he knows what is going on in my
mind and it turns him on. He says that when I put the gag in his
mouth (back in List 15, I think. Which I never finished writing,
BTW) he could see the changes of attitude on my face. I didn't
think I was that obvious. He said he could see the feeling of
empowerment. Something about the shape of my nostrils again. What
the hell is it about my nostrils? I have heard of people having
cruel mouths, but _nostrils_? And he said he could see it, and
feel it, when I turned all gooey compassionate, too.
So anyway, In case you forgot, I had been trying to totally
sexually deplete J. He had had two orgasms. I tried a number of
what I thought were sexy tricks to give him a third, but the best
I could manage was half-mast. He had had four in one day, before,
remember. Finally, I decided to take the plunge and I spread
eagled him, standing up, arms chained to those overhead eye
bolts. (I have the key to the little locks, now. Remember those?)
I put a vibrator in him. This was pure curiosity on my part. I
was as gentle as could be, used tons of KY jelly, and it still
took me a while to even find ... it. I watched his face, still
blindfolded, as I pushed it in. He endured. He's such a stoic. I
haven't gotten anywhere near a limit of his.
But his erection grew. I'm happy to report to the females in
this little group, that It Works. I mean, the prostate is really
there, and it really is an erogenous zone or something. When I
touched it, the reaction was immediate. He squirmed and his hips
kind of moved as though we were having sex. I don't know if that
was involuntary or not. I knew I had touched a very sensitive
spot, though.
So naturally I turned on the vibrator and pushed a little
more, still experimentally. Get this: he didn't have an erection,
to speak of, the poor thing was exhausted. BUT he had an orgasm
anyway. He ejaculated. Weakly, to be sure, and involuntarily. He
couldn't control his reaction.
This is valuable data. I know that during a rectal exam a
doctor will sometimes massage the prostate to get seminal fluid
for a lab test, but this was a forced orgasm. I made him have it.
I could do it again and make him have an orgasm exactly when I
want him to. On cue. Perfect timing. I still haven't figured out
a way to use this valuable information yet.
But I will.
Nurse Jones,
looking up an old friend.
From Nurse Jones,
I have a serious question for STella, Roo, Lothie, Amelia,
and all interested parties, especially female.
There is this other nurse on our floor that is a "type" of
person. I know, I should talk, especially to this bunch of, shall
we say, hard-line liberals, about labeling people, but this is a
legitimate question. There IS a type of woman that is a man's
woman. I'll call this one "Scarlett." She doesn't even notice
other women; it's like we were furniture or something. If she's
talking to you, you get the feeling she's looking over your
shoulder in case something male, especially a doctor, comes out
of the elevator. If it does she's gone like a shot. Scarlett is
attractive, and they usually are. She treats me with a certain
amount of respect, bacsically by acknowledging my presence, but
that's ONLY because she percieves me as potential competition,
not because she wants to communicate.
There are women on the floor that are fantastic people, but
not physically up to her standards, and she ignores them.
There's a young candystriper who uses her head only to keep
her ears apart, and she's worthy of Scarlett's notice because
she's attractive.
This is behaviour I see in men, even expect, but it's not
common in a woman. I don't think she (Scarlett) is aware of it,
even. I think _she_ thinks she's perfectly normal, but she's like
a different species to me. I can't communicate with her any more
than I can with a hyperbaptist.
Do you know the kind I mean? Men seem to find her
attractive, and I don't think they percieve her as odd because
they never see the side of her that women do. She doesn't go out
with other women, shopping, for lunch, anything. It's like she
has two mental states, two modes: being around men, and waiting.
It's like she has drifted off somewhere and her only contact is
with men. She stopped being complete, somehow, and became just
part of a person, magnified all out of proportion.
My first week on the floor, I thought she was just desperate
to marry a doctor. "There goes the good time that was had by
all," I thought. But no, she doesn't really seem to sleep around,
I don't think. I could be naive, but I don't think so. She is
just drifted off into a totally man-oriented existence.
And then I realized that I am talking almost exclusively to
men after taking a brief census of the e-mail and ASB postings.
Have I drifted off, too? Roo and Amelia have e-mailed me, and I
have a very short group of (7 at the moment) special notes that I
keep in my mailbox (it overflows a lot, but I save ones like
that) from people that I want to write long, proper e-letters to.
When I have something really important to say.
But there is very little feedback about what Jay and I did,
and are doing in The List, and I sometimes wonder if I have
exposed so much of myself that I seem weird like Scarlett seems
to me. Roo, I think it was, commented that I was very courageous
to post that stuff about myself. And that her hair was something
she'd NEVER give up. That made me nervous. Today I got another e-
mail from someone else that said I was very brave to post.
I hadn't communicated with ANY of you when I posted the
first part of The List, and I felt like a kid watching from the
edge of the playground. I could roll my ball out and see if I'd
be invited to play, and if I wasn't I could run away and hide and
it wouldn't matter because I didn't know you.
And now I do know you, a little, but you already know stuff
about me that I would never tell you if I had to do it over now.
It's almost like meeting your gynecologist socially. And I looked
back at the last 3 or 4 parts of Column One (9-12) and I wonder
if I'm weird. Not to mention when Jay shaved my head. I just
realized that the only real feedback I've gotten was from male
ASB'ers who are begging me to go on at all costs, and even they
were noncommital about exactly what turned them on and off. I
seem to be pushing only male buttons.
Like Scarlett.
I guess my question is: was there ANYTHING about The List
that appealed to the women? Or appalled?
And was there anything that turned the men off?
Nurse Jones,
Afraid to look up,
suddenly nervous that she's standing
in the middle of the playground
with her panties around her ankles,
and she's just noticed
it's very quiet.
--
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