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 |
