textfiles/sex/EROTICA/N/nursejones.txt

Archive-name: Bondage/njlist01.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List -  1 of 20


The List
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 from 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 "embarrassment" 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 spontaneity 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 under-
stand 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 Hemingway 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 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 liter-
ary 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 fanta-
sies. 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 explic-
itly 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 deci-
sion, 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 let-
ters.):

       "I want you to understand something clearly before I arrive. We
     have been very close, but the last four months have put a dis-
     tance 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 reali-
     ty. 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 suspect 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 piercing, tatoos and 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 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 experienc-
ing 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, sexy stranger abouth
whose safety you don't have to worry (i.e. not a pervert or HIV
positive) and whom you know you will eventually bed. 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 apartment. Our part of Chicago is full
of student rental property and the demand for apartments 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 what he wanted to get out of that month; I
got some very interesting answers. So interesting that we sat there
until the restaurant closed, talking 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 must be more than resistance against him;
he seems to want me to resist something in myself as well. If possi-
ble, 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 convoluted.
     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.
     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 irreplaceable. 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'd become that kind of person.
     So anyway, there we were in the restaurant. 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
restaurant (thrill), and 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 from Chicago to his new house,
though I could have made it in one. I arrived 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 scratching 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 spot-
lessly 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 associ-
ate 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 defense-
less--almost like I was a prisoner in Dracula's castle. I know it
sounds melodramatic, but the house seems so big after the studio
apartment in Chicago. Even as I sit typing this in broad daylight the
echoes make it seem a bit empty and spooky. And chilly. There is a
desiccated 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 sipped his wine and
watched me eat without expression.
     Between mouthfuls, 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 living room 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 when 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 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, there-
fore, 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 bal-
ance, 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, as though in front of
a stranger.
     He wanted me to remove my pubic hair.
     I know many men think this is sexy, but I've 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 editorial control over what
I write. I wrote--and twice had to rewrite and expand--the next
paragraphs until he was satisfied. 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 a home
permanent. 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 embarrassing 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). Unscented "Unicure" hair and body conditioner was already there
in the shower. I was me not to rinse it off--just rub it in and towel
dry. As I rubbed the creme over my skin, I began to see that maybe
there was a point to this preoccupation with hairlessness. It felt
like 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. When I finally pulled on the outfit I had
made (on his instructions weeks before), I felt like a velvet hand
slipping into a velvet glove.
     It was of a soft, sheer, muslin-like white cotton from India. It
fit very tightly and it took a lot of tailoring to get it to fit
right, since the material has no stretch. The bust is tailored to fit
my breasts exactly, and "underwired" with elastic. I stick out. Long
sleeves are just barely loose enough to squeeze my hands through and
get my arms in; the front zips from the waist to a high lace 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 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. White open-toed high-heeled sandals go with it nicely.
Nicely? Somehow "nice" doesn't seem to apply after last night.
     Last night, the crotch was the really embarrassing part. There's
not even a seam in front to help conceal my sex. It's just tight,
sheer and thin. A very tight g-string-like elastic in back 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
buttocks. When I made the outfit I thought there'd at least be pubic
hair to cover me, but last night I was so... visible.
     Still following instructions, I brushed my hair out and put on
makeup. I was procrastinating: taking unnecessary care with my face
and adjusting the 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. We hadn't seen each other naked
for six months, and he would see a lot more of me than I'd 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 details-- details I would
rather omit, 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 me completely naked before,
but there it is. I have unusual nipples. They have always been a
source of acute embarrassment 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 slight-
ly 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 entertain-
ment, 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 never mind.
     Still, I was reluctant to enter the living room, embarrassed 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 draped casually (I hoped) over my southern
overexposure. The room was nearly dark, and his armchair was in
shadow. I could tell he was fully dressed, but couldn't see his face
or 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. Hesitant-
ly, 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 digni-
ty.
     "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."
     "Embarrassed," I whispered. My voice wasn't working. I cleared my
throat and tried again.
     "Embarrassed," 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 clothes," 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 never mind. 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 else 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. Not afraid, exactly, but terribly aware
of my nakedness and uncertain of 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
needed some reassurance. I could feel his stiffness as he pressed
against me. This is what I wanted, I thought, feeling myself on surer
ground. I ground my hips against him, suddenly getting more deeply
into the 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. "You do know that, 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
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 Yet I
remained under the light, trying not to appear 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
embarrassment is something else. That I do want. 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 considered the fine line between embarrassment and
humiliation. Somehow, though, I could understand the idea of embar-
rassment as a gift. Don't ask me how or why.
     "Alright," I said, and suddenly it really was alright. My embar-
rassment surfaced; I stopped trying to suppress it, 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 embar-
rassed, 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 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 raised tentative hands to my breasts and fingered my nipples.
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 tips of my breasts were already sensitive, even though
the areolae were puckered and hard, aching. I was still aroused, but
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 caressed
me, and for some reason was acutely aware of the 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 seemed to know it. He let me 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 was at 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 noth-
ing. 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 con-
stantly having to deal with everything. I'm sure it was partly the
daily pressure of your job that made you feel that way. You sometimes
wanted to be the one who was cared for and protected. You wanted to
belong to someone, to have someone you could depend on, someone you
could be sure of. 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
embarrassed 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 embarrassment is 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, 
completely committed to me. Everything I do over the next few weeks
will help make you into that person. I want to possess you totally."
     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 realize that there were layers
beneath the surface of this game--things he had thought about more
than I. 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 irresist-
ible 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 battle-
field. 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."

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist02.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List -  2 of 20


The List
     Column 1
       Item 2

     J told me to write this so that people will want to read it. 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), toilet-
ries, 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 apartment, 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 weird 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." Ma own se'f. Besides, I know that if I just "tell it
like it was" without any explanation, there's no way you could possi-
bly 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 re-
lieved, 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 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.
     "Not yet," he whispered, 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 the satin smooth heavily-
conditioned skin, 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 had to wiggle and shake to
get it off my arms behind me without ripping it. That made my breasts
bounce, and I felt embarrassment returning. 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 was chilled
despite the fire. I began shivering; I think it was mostly (but not
totally) the cold. I held the clothes 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, embarrassment. He was still fully dressed,
remember.
     "Drop the clothes," he said. This time, voluntarily, I put my
arms at my sides, leaving myself uncovered. Suddenly the cold was
real. I was shivering violently, but forced myself to stand erect and
face him squarely, keeping my eyes on his. I had lost the 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 trav-
elled 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
grasp the covers and 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 in the ceiling, but no
music was coming out.
     There were four metal eye-rings set in the ceiling, too, over the
bed. New additions, I thought. 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, cozy 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 ordinary, but 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.
     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.
Concern for my feelings was clearly 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 misjudgment 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, just rested 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 gently to 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 embarrassed 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 aroused. Excitement, apprehension and foreplay are a
deadly combination. I will admit I was afraid, even though I trust him
more than 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 some-
thing 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 impassively,
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 with one hand and pulled 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.
     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. A click, and he got off me.
     The moment 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 padlock. 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 "Ah, Ah, Ah." 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--lips stretched around this thing and
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).
"Ah," I said, shaking my head 'no'.
     "Is it on the List?"
     "Ah," 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." I sat on the sofa, knees togeth-
er, 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
embarrassed 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 embarrassment 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 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 down again. My jaw was starting to ache a little, and I
needed to wipe my face. He wasn't going to let me 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.
     "Ah?" 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. 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 padlocks, 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 into the
living room. I got down on my knees again and laid 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 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 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 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. He had undressed sometime after I was blindfolded. His
hand slid down my stomach to just below my navel. And ever so lightly,
lower still, to where my skin becomes silk. My breath caught and the
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 deliber-
ately relaxed.
     This is hard to explain. As he continued to stroke and kiss me, I
remained detached, but my body began to move without effort on my
part. Sounds like I'm making this up, I know. It was as though I were
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 rhythmically. His hand left my sex and moved up to my body's
breasts. A gentle stroke and their nipples wakened. They were erect,
hardened. I felt his lips on my nipples, sucking and nibbling gently.
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 allowed.
     I stopped, frozen and heard my body's breathing grow 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 spread-
eagled body floated weightless, penetrated and quivering with excite-
ment. 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 imper-
ceptible. I was on the very edge. My body had to start breathing
again: suddenly I started panting frantically and spasming uncontrol-
lably against the chains. His weight descended on my body, pinning me
to the bed. Spasm after spasm wracked my body, but he held me immo-
bile. The chains tightened rhythmically 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 midwestern-
er. Had his way.... Sheesh!) with me, but he didn't notice. He used me
until he was shudderingly, gaspingly, done 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
granddad 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 clothes 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.

     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.
     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 perma-
nent 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 unattrac-
tive. 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 conven-
tional 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 witticisms like "No man should plant more garden
than his woman can hoe," and then guffaw. Then some buffoon so dim he
hadn't heard that one before would laugh and spray beer out through
his nose. That would be the evening's high point. 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? (Thank-
you-so-much 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 flamboyant for a midwesterner.
Someone might think I was trying to be different, God forbid.
     So I'm just a midwestern farm girl--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 perceive to be other out-of-control imperfections. I
suppose he means my hair. Or my nipples. They have been an
embarrassment, but I don't think 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 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, embarrassment 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 behavioral 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 behavior (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 gorgeous 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 skier, 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 fascination with the List by
inventing complex pseudo-psychological excuses. Publicly, 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 embarrassed 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....

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist03.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List -  3 of 20


The List
     Column 1
       Item 3

     It's Monday. I'm sitting 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, the 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 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 clothes.
     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 Indi-
ana. 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
embarrassed 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 terrific body. One of
the world's great asses. No, he's not hiding his body: he wants to
prolong my embarrassment 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 embarrassment 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 kneel-
ing. 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 who 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 invol-
untarily at his touch, but as he continued to massage with the talcum
powder, my trust grew and I relaxed completely. I deliberately concen-
trated 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 fascinate and repel 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 disori-
ented, 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 readiness.
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 involun-
tarily, 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 exhibition-
ism. 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.

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist04.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List -  4 of 20


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 titillating 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 every-
one 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
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.
     "May I take your coat?"
     Oh God. "No, thank you," I said, praying. Fervently.
     "Well, just 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?"
     "Uh," 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, 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 conclud-
ed 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 chang-
ing 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 restaurant doors comes to mind: "No Bare Feet."
     I have an okay body, and I have gone without a bra before. What
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 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 leather work as a hobby. In fact, he's quite a handyman: he can
do electronics, cabinetwork, carpentry, plumbing, body work (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 some-
thing 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 morn-
ing?" he said. "Now put on your cuffs," he said, striding toward the
living room. He seems to enter this artificial 'master mode' when he's
about to do something to me. Like he's reading from a script or
something. I ran along side him, fumbling with the cuffs, playing
along.
     "I thought you would be pleased," I said, "I did it for you."
     "And I sensed a little more than the desire to please in your
actions. There was pride and a touch of rebelliousness. You were
playing today's game to win." He really talks that way when we're ...
well ... doing this kind of stuff.
     "No, really!" I protested, unconvincingly. He took my head
between his hands and held my face so I had to look him in the eyes.
He said nothing, just looked skeptical.
     Okay, so taking off my dress unasked and then leaving him stand-
ing by the car was, maybe, more than was strictly required of me.
"Well ... maybe ..." I hedged, not really admitting it, my eyes
sliding away from his.
     "Besides," he said, releasing me, "you were fully dressed the
whole time, and nudity in a car with tinted windows on a country road
or in an isolated woods isn't really all that daring. You know what
they say about a tree falling in the woods when there is no-one there
to hear it..." He was right. I was only brave when I was safe. But
still, it felt ... exciting.
     I was hopping on one foot trying to buckle a cuff around my ankle
and convince him at the same time. It didn't work; he ignored me.
     He told me to take out my contact lenses and lie down on the
dining room table and wait for him. The table is a heavy oak refectory
table. The top is three inches thick and made from a single piece of
wood from the trunk of a large tree. Long and narrow, it weighs a ton,
and is a beautiful antique. It was also cold on my back. I laid myself
out on it, legs together, fingers intertwined on my stomach, and
waited, like in a doctor's office, staring at the ceiling. He came
back with a tool box from the garage, and a soft nylon rope. He tied
my wrist cuffs together under the table with my elbows hooked over the
edge. My legs hung over either side of the table and were similarly
tied, my feet pulled nearly together under the table by a rope tied to
each ankle.
     It was a very awkward and ungraceful position to be in. Despite
my newfound inner 'coolness' (read cockiness), I was becoming very
embarrassed again. By lifting my head and looking down the length of
my body, I could see my badly out-of-focus reflection in the mirror
over the fireplace. The table was wide enough to hold my legs well
apart, and with my knees hooked over the edges of the table, I really
couldn't get into a position to pull them together--which I really
wanted to do: even though I am nearly legally blind without glasses, I
knew the view was grossly, GROSSLY embarrassing, and I was grossly
embarrassed. I have felt far less exposed and vulnerable in front of
my gynecologist.
     He was standing behind my head, so I had to watch him in the
mirror or try to lift my shoulders and twist to the side to see what
he was doing. Rattling noises. Metallic scraping and a hissing noise.
In the mirror, I could see well enough to tell he was lighting a
blowtorch!! [After he read this, he told me to correct it to propane
torch, as if such details would have made any difference to the way I
felt.]
     "What are you going to do to me!?" I cried, my voice cracking,
suddenly on the edge of hysteria. I wasn't absolutely sure if I should
actually BE hysterical or not, but I was not going to pretend to be
cooler than I felt.
     He looked at me impassively, a look I had seen before. "You
haven't learned yet, have you? You're going to have to learn to trust
me," he said, and left the room.
     I DO trust him, but Jesus, a BLOWTORCH! That's REAL scary stuff.
I was entitled to some kind of reassurance, wasn't I? Some explana-
tion? Well, I had already had all the explanation I was going to get:
"You have to trust me." I clung to the fact that he seemed to care
whether I trusted him, since in my position he could have done whatev-
er he wanted regardless.
     He came back with the gag and stood beside me at the head of the
table. He put his hand on my chin, holding my lower jaw.
     "Open up," as though he were about to give me a tablespoon of
castor oil.
     "Please don't.I won't talk." I was scared.
     "Open up."
     "But I-"
     Gently, he put the gag against my lips and waited, patient but
implacable. What did it matter? No one could hear me anyway. I could-
n't get loose, so I could either go along with this gagged, or could
just go along. I looked into his eyes for a long moment, trying to
find reassurance, feeling a little scared again. Imagine Bambi caught
in your headlights: that's how I felt. I stretched my mouth open,
keeping my eyes on his. My lips would have quivered if the gag hadn't
been pressing against them. In it went. He didn't even bother with the
strap this time. I couldn't get it out without a free hand.
     A small, heavy bag plopped onto the table next to my head. I
twisted and rolled my eyes to get a look at it, loose ends of the gag
strap flopping. He folded a wet towel and laid it on my abdomen (Josef
Mengele/operations/scalpels/Charles Manson/body-parts-found-in-the-
woods-by-hysterical-campers flashed through my head. I have an unfor-
tunate imagination.), and out of the bag poured a small heap of gold-
colored chain. (I asked later: It is only gold-plated steel; otherwise
I would be worth a small fortune right now.) The chain was "Y" shaped,
the three pieces joined in the middle to a ring about an inch in
diameter. He lifted my lower back up and passed the chain under me,
adjusting the ring under the center of my back.
     I wasn't thinking very clearly or I would have been relieved at
the sight of chains. It could have been plastic garbage bags and a
meat cleaver. Well, knowing J it couldn't have been, but my imagina-
tion was in overdrive.
     He pulled the ends of the chain together. They overlapped and he
adjusted them until there was no slack at all, fastening them with an
open link of the same chain. With some large pliers, he bent the open
link back into shape, and went back to lighting the torch. I twisted
my head this way and that, watching everything, bug-eyed.
     The noise was what startled me. I had never been that close to a
blowtorch before, and loud noises scare me. It popped and made a kind
of hissing roar. Actually, it wasn't that loud, but the fact that the
roar was made by a very hot flame was not a reassuring thought,
believe me. You can imagine what I thought. Oh, he doesn't need a meat
cleaver, he's got a blow torch. I'm such an idiot. I can say that
now.... Then I was hanging by a thread from the fact that he cared
whether I trusted him even though I was totally helpless and he didn't
need to pretend to care. Somehow, that meant he wouldn't betray my
trust.
     He propped the torch up in his tool box and put a couple of
blocks of wood between the chain and my abdomen, lifting the chain
away from me over the towel. He brushed some gooey stuff on the open
link. Up to this point, I was watching every detail with a great deal
of interest. Believe me, I was paying attention. But when he bent over
me with the torch, I couldn't make myself look, I was so afraid I
would get burned. I just sucked in my stomach and prayed. I was also
relieved that it was the chain and not me.
     It must have taken less than a minute for him to finish. Suddenly
the noise from the torch stopped. For a moment the only noise was my
own rapid breathing hissing noisily in and out through my nostrils.
But I couldn't even feel any warmth, not to mention heat. I looked
down; J was fanning away an acrid smoke with a magazine. He took a
corner of the wet towel and dabbed at the link. Pssssst. More swipes
with the towel and the hissing stopped.
     Soon he was able to gingerly touch, and then hold the link. I was
getting tired holding my head up to watch, but I couldn't control my
horrified fascination. I tried to follow him with my eyes as he put
away the blowtorch and came back into view with some enormous plier-
like things. He clipped away the spare links of the chain as easily as
if he were pruning a plant. I had a seamless belt with no buckle.


The List
     Column 1
       Item 6

     "Lift your backside," he said. I did.
     He reached between my legs and pulled the third length of chain
down from in back. As he pulled on it, I could feel it tugging against
the belt at the center of the back.
     Again he left the room. He came back with something in his hand,
but again he was standing behind my head and I couldn't see what it
was.
     Still hiding the object below the edge of the table, he walked to
the side of the table and stood there. Straining to lift my shoulders,
I could see him doing something between my legs. He was inserting
something into my vagina! Straining, I glimpsed white plastic. I could
feel it was lubricated and smooth, but he was definitely inserting
something! I tried to resist by clenching my muscles and squirming,
but it was too slippery and my legs were too far apart and he was too
insistent. It was past my portals. I made noises behind the gag. I
couldn't stop it from going in. He continued, sliding it deeper, until
it was as far in as it would go. It wasn't impossibly big, probably
smaller than he is, but it was so hard and unyielding it felt like an
enormous intrusion.
     He moved it out again, a little, and back in. And out. Of course,
it was a dildo. Something that my midwestern little mind has had some
trouble adjusting to. I had, of course heard of them, but believe it
or not I had never actually seen one until that Saturday. Where would
I have seen one in my home town? People drive to the next town to buy
condoms. People in the next town drive to ours for them, too. That's
not a joke, by the way. It's an invitation to think about where I'm
coming from.
     He pushed it back in, watching my face. He could see that I
wasn't reacting sexually. I wasn't. It was too artificial, too per-
verted for my midwestern mind. Sorry, if that isn't the sex-vixen
reaction you had in mind, but that's the way it was. He did something
with the chain, and locked the end of it to my waist with another
miniature lock, this one small and gold-colored. But functional. Where
does he get this stuff?
     He went back to my head, lifted it gently, and locked the gag in
place. As soon as he let go of the device, I squirmed, trying to expel
it. No dice. Then he untied my legs. I lifted them onto the table and
gingerly brought them together. I had more freedom of movement, but
still couldn't get rid of it. Then he freed my arms. Instantly my
hands were between my legs, pulling. Again, no dice. I went to jump
down from the table, but quickly realized I had to be very careful of
how I moved. It was awful. My only thought was: What has he done to
me? But I already knew, really. Gingerly, I got down from the table,
and with trembling fingers felt myself to see if there was anything I
could do to get it out. The chain went through a ring in the end of
the ... device. Sorry, but the word 'dildo' sounds so perverted to me.
Nazis in dirty socks and all that.
     Experimentally, I took a step. I could walk, but not quickly or
gracefully. I crept gingerly to the bedroom to get a close look in the
mirror. Again the grotesque face, the stretched lips, mascara running.
I didn't know which end to worry about most. The thing was a g-string
made of chain. I turned my back and looked over my shoulder. The waist
band joined a seamless ring in the center of my lower back. The crotch
piece was joined to the same ring. The chain was tight in my rear
cleft: I could feel it against my ... orifice. [He's really strict
about this. Asshole and anus are right out. He makes me change this
kind of stuff every time].
     By pulling down on the waistband, I could loosen the chain enough
to push it aside for ... bodily functions ... but not nearly enough to
get the device out. Pissing could be messy. The chain itself is
unassailable without the right tools. And of course ... they're locked
in the garage ... do I have to explain?
     My jaw was beginning to ache again, so I went out to look for J.
He was coming in the side door after putting away the tools and said,
as though everything was completely normal, "Put on your shoes and
clear away the lunch dishes."
     Was he kidding? Wash the dishes? In the state I was in? I stared
after him, and started crying again, which, again, only made my jaw
hurt more. But I did as he said: put on my heels, tottered unsteadily
into the kitchen, and stood there over the sink, sniffing, with
mascara running down my cheeks and saliva leaking down my chin again.
There wasn't any way to argue. I finished the dishes--there weren't
many anyway--and wobbled back out to the living room. He was standing,
looking out the picture window. He turned to face me.
     I stood there in front of him, eyes down, every inch the obedient
slave, doing my very best to play the part as he wanted.
     "Are you beginning to understand?" he said.
     "Ah," I nodded enthusiastically, not beginning to understand.
     "We'll see," he said, glancing at his watch. He turned back to
the window.
     I went to put on my collar, thinking that might help convince
him. Of course it didn't. I had to wait. I just stood there, trying to
focus my mind on not letting my jaw hurt. The other device in me
wasn't really a bother if I didn't move around much. I hadn't had to
piss yet. He went to the armchair and sat. I just stood where I was in
front of the window, legs apart, looking down at the floor, waiting.
     Despite my best efforts, the gag still got to me. It is the
worst. I gave up trying to stop the saliva from leaking around it, and
let it drip on me and the floor. It's so hard to swallow with that
thing in; I feel like I'll sprain something. I controlled myself for
as long as I could, but finally a sob escaped me. Well, it started as
a sob, but came out as a squeak and a sniff. I looked at him, implor-
ing with my eyes. Gingerly, I walked over again and carefully knelt at
his feet, holding the sides of my jaw between my hands, and not just
for effect. Again he stroked my hair. Tenderly.
     "Turn around," he said. Painfully, still on my knees, I did. I
felt him take the lock out. My hands went to the buckle at the back of
my head and hesitated. He didn't say anything. I put them back at my
sides, making fists to help control the pain. After waiting a moment,
just long enough to acknowledge that I had learned another lesson, he
said, "Take it out." I did. Relief.
     "Stand up," he said.
     I wobbled unsteadily to my feet, my back still to him. I thought
he was going to take out the other, but he didn't even tell me to turn
around. Instead, he went into the bedroom. I followed silently, not
knowing what else to do. I passed the full-length mirror in the
bedroom and stopped. I was a sight. Mascara and eyeliner mixed with
saliva were smeared all over my face from my eyes to my chin, even
drops on my chest and thighs. My lipstick was smeared; on my stomach
was a smear of that gooey brown stuff he used while putting the chain
on, and my hair was an explosion of straw, partly matted with more
miscellaneous goo. I stood with my legs apart in a most unladylike
position. My hand strayed to the chain; I gave it a desultory tug.
Hopeless. My shoulders sagged. As I say, a mess. And that thing in me.
In the mirror, over my own shoulder, I caught sight of him looking at
me. He had his shirt off. With both hands, I covered my ... self ...
and the thing.
     "The chain is silver-soldered around your waist. It's as strong
as a weld. It won't come off." As if I might think it would. My hand
dropped to my side again. "Come and undress me," he said.


The List
     Column 1
       Item 7

     This was something new. Remember, I hadn't even seen him naked
yet. I hobbled over to him, still holding both hands in front of
myself (don't ask me why, after what he had just seen). He had a small
gold key on a chain around his neck. I knelt, undid his belt, and
unzipped his pants. He stroked my hair gently, then left me kneeling
there and sat on the bed. I knee-walked to him and went to work on his
shoes while he lay back on the bed. When I was through, I sat back
carefully on my heels with my hands covering my lap. Without rising,
he said "Start the shower."
     Despite the age of the house, his bathroom is a large modern one,
I think added to the house recently. It is much larger than the other
(my) bathroom. There are two windows and a third one inside the walk-
in shower. The shower is huge, tiled, with a glass door. The walls of
the bathroom are tiled part way up and stucco the rest; there is an
old cast-iron claw-foot tub, a modern john and sink, and a small table
and chair. I ran the water until it was warm, and told him it was
ready. He walked in, past me. I waited. He said, "Take off your shoes
and come in here." I did, still covering my front. Gently, he washed
my face, chest, and stomach. I didn't think anything would ever make
me forgive him for putting that thing inside me, no matter how gentle
he was afterward. Mostly I was befuddled, but there was a residual
core of resentment.
     I kept myself covered until he gave me shampoo and I had to use
my hands to wash my hair. With the glass door shut, the shower enclo-
sure became like a steam bath: it was almost hard to breathe. He told
me to wash him, but really we washed each other. Then we put on the
same all-purpose unscented hair/body conditioner I had used before.
You're going to think I own stock in the company. It's great stuff,
though. We kissed under the shower with the water, soap, and condi-
tioner running between us, and I could feel him hard against me. I
began to melt a bit myself, but that THING was still uppermost in my
mind. I wasn't going to forgive him. My eyes stayed on the key around
his neck. I wanted it out of me.
     He edged me away from the showerhead and began spreading condi-
tioner over the front of my body. All over, even around the device in
me. Having him feel me there when I was like that was degrading.
Embarrassing. And exciting. My heart began to race, partly from the
excitement, partly from the stifling steam. I felt almost faint. He
turned me around and I leaned with my hands against the tile wall with
my legs spread as though I was being searched by a policeman. He
covered my back and legs with the conditioner. Then he went to work on
me from both sides, like he had before with the talcum powder. His
left hand on my hairless and still- violated front, the other explor-
ing every millimeter of my rear, slipping under the chain, closer and
closer, teasing. Every time he pulled the chain or moved the device, I
felt a delicious shock that drove the breath from me, and I made a
little "hunh!" noise. His right hand slithered under the chain at my
rear, pulling against the device. As before, I wanted him to penetrate
me there. Anywhere. I grasped at his finger with my buttocks.
     He pulled me upright away from the wall and held my trembling
body against his, his erection pressing against my rear cleft. Over my
shoulder, into my ear he said, "Do you like that?"
     "Mmmm," I said, not wanting to admit it, unable to say no.
     He returned me to my stance against the wall. While he slowly
manipulated the device with his left hand, a finger from his right
caressed my rear, on the very edge of penetration. He asked again.
     "Oh," I said, squirming against his hand, hoping he would get the
message. That in itself is a very risque thing for a midwesterner.
     "Say it," he said, "tell me what you want," penetrating perhaps a
half inch and continuing to manipulate me.
     "Can't you tell?" I whined.
     "Say it," he repeated, withdrawing the half inch again.
     "Yes," I whispered, hanging my head between my arms. Looking
down, I could see his left hand caressing between my legs, feel his
right poised to enter my rear.
     "Louder," he said, "Tell me what you want. You'll have to tell
me." He continued to tease, stroke, and manipulate. My knees were near
buckling.
     "I want you inside me," I cried. "I want you to fill me up." My
voice broke. With all the water, steam, sweat, and conditioner, he
couldn't see that I was crying. I'm not sure I actually was, but I
wanted to. Or at least I was trying to. I felt like I should be.
     "Where?" he said, insistent.
     "Anywhere," I sobbed. "Anywhere you want. Please!"
     "Cover me with the conditioner." Hands shaking, I did. I covered
his chest. The key was gone. In his hand? When I got to his legs, I
got on my knees and caressed his erect member, underneath, even in
back where he had just (almost) penetrated me. I'd never done that
before. I covered him everywhere. He guided my mouth to him. The
conditioner tasted awful. I rinsed it off and tried to take all of him
in; I began sliding back and forth. I had never done this for anyone
else. I never really wanted to do it even for J, although I did. But I
always thought it was so ... well ... unhygienic.
     Somehow the cleanliness of the shower made it all right this
time. I continued to caress him with one hand, but my other hand
slipped down to the device in me. I began to masturbate in someone
else's presence for the first time in my life, although the device in
me was a bit of a hindrance. I guess it's a male myth that penetration
is somehow essential to the female orgasm. It's not. But it's kind of
nice to be penetrated while having one. Anyway, he was too engrossed
to notice what I was doing. I think the first time he knows will be
when he reads this. Unknowingly, he stopped me before I brought myself
to orgasm by telling me to get up.
     He turned down the water to a gentle fine spray, as hot as was
comfortable, and the steam abated enough for us both to catch our
breath. He unlocked the chain at my waist, and keeping the tension on
the free end with one hand, slowly pulled on the chain from the rear
with the other hand until it was free of the ring on the device, link
by jarring link, rubbing against both openings at once. It pinched me
a few times, enough that I gasped, but he was watching my face so
closely and pulling on the chain so slowly and carefully that he
controlled every pinch, every nuance of sensation I felt. Every time
it pinched, he slowed and let the pain become almost-pleasure.
     By the time the chain was out, I was panting, nearly hypervent-
ilating. He let the chain dangle from the waistband, but held the
device in me with his hand. Slowly, he inched it out.
     "Hurry," I whined. "Please!" I wanted to reach down and take it
out myself.
     But he continued to manipulate and stroke both of my openings.
His other hand, lubricated by the conditioner, worked at my rear,
penetrating slightly, loosening, penetrating again, more each time,
while the device continued its work in front. Finally he took the
device out altogether and went to work with his hand. I was about to
have an orgasm, and could not continue to stand. I sagged a little; he
supported me by holding both sides of my slippery and hairless crotch
cradled between his hands as I slid to my knees.
     Still leaning with my arms up against the wall, I was on my
knees, and his fingers resumed their work. At last, one of his fingers
penetrated my rear fully. I contracted against it, but it was insis-
tent, continuing to probe and stimulate. I couldn't stand it any more,
and began contracting both openings against his fingers. I couldn't
come. I got more and more frantic, squirming. I was so close. His rear
finger left me. Then it was back, but it wasn't his finger.
     It was warm; I thought it was his erect member at first, and I
tried to relax for him. But it wasn't. He was inserting the device,
still warm from my body heat, into me, this time searching gently for
my rear opening, and God help me, I relaxed and spread wider to help
him even though I knew what it was. I am admitting this now, but then
I pretended--half believed--that at first I thought it was he that was
entering me instead of that ... thing. Once it was started in, though,
I rebelled. It was stretching me too much. I tried to avoid it, tried
expelling it, anything to just get rid of it. But I couldn't. He held
the chain around my waist as I tried to crawl away, and forced me face
down onto the shower floor. I slithered forward on my stomach, trying
to squirm away, but I came to the end of the shower; with my face
turned to the side and my cheek pressed against the tile, I could go
no further.
     Slowly, gently, inexorably, he continued.
     It felt huge. I don't know if you've ever had this done to you,
but the first time was a bit of a shock for me. I knew by the way it
had felt in my vagina that it was smaller than he was, but it was so
unyielding, so hard. It stretched me terribly, and it felt so much
bigger than it had before in my other opening. The conditioner contin-
ued to lubricate it, but I had never done anything even remotely like
this.
     It was forcing me open, violating me, filling me even after I
felt full. This was pushing me close to the edge. I begged him to
stop. I don't know if he would have if I had been more sincere. I felt
pretty sincere. There was still a small part of me that was curious
and excited, but it was a very small part.
     I told him I would do anything if he would just please take it
out, but eventually, rather than continuing to fight it, I found it
hurt less--or felt better, I'm not sure which--if I relaxed and helped
him. Still it continued. Suddenly, by relaxing, the feeling became one
of simply being penetrated and filled up. I found I was able to accept
it, and, I realized, able to almost get into the sensation--if not
exactly enjoy it. He was so gentle that it got better, though. Much
better. Ultimately, I was rubbing my front against the shower floor,
trying desperately to climax.
     "Up on your knees," he said. I could barely do even that, but
once I did, the device continued its penetration until it was com-
plete. My hand went to my crotch briefly, perhaps to masturbate again,
perhaps to feel what he had done to me, I'm not sure which. A little
of both. He told me to keep my hands on the floor. I felt him slip the
chain through the ring in the end.
     "Straddle me," he said, lying on his back on the shower floor and
sliding under me. He held the end of the chain underneath, holding the
device fully in me while I lifted my leg over his hips and sat astride
him, but without his erection inside me. Once again, slowly, he pulled
the chain out, letting the entire length of it slide between my
swollen lips, each link tapping the ring in the device. At the same
time, he was stroking me in front, masturbating me. I was wild. When
the chain was once again out, I could wait no longer, and I slid down
on him, enveloping him, thrusting him deeply into me in one smooth
motion.
     I lay prone on top of him, plunging him into me frantically,
grinding against him. He was letting me do all the work. The water
from the shower head was falling on us from my shoulders to my knees,
and the end of my chain dangled between my legs and rattled on the
tiles. He grasped the ring on the end of the protruding device, and
began to pump it gently in time with my own movements. He gradually
picked up the tempo, thrusting with his own hips. I'm normally not
very noisy, but my pants and whimpers echoed in the shower, and at
first I was tempted to ham it up a bit, but by the time I approached
my first orgasm, which was almost as soon as he started moving his
hips, I was crying out genuinely. The tiles in the shower made my
cries seem louder.
     My second orgasm came almost immediately, a long, shuddering
continuation of the first. Being penetrated twice that way is inde-
scribable. When he had his orgasm, and I my third, I think I had one
in each opening. Is it possible to have a triple simultaneous orgasm?
Sounds like one of those moves that figure skaters or olympic divers
do. Well, I don't know what the doctors say, but I think we got all
10's, even from the East German judge....
     After my third orgasm, I lay there unable to move, panting, the
sound of hissing water in my ears. He began to remove the device.
Immediately I gasped and reacted with a fourth convulsive orgasm,
beyond my ability to control. It kept on as he continued to slide it
out. He was torturing me. He would pull a little and twitch his hips a
little, and I couldn't help myself; I just kept spasming and convuls-
ing every time he moved. I was utterly exhausted, unable even to flex
my thighs as I normally do during an orgasm. Weakly, I tied to say "No
more," but I was too weak to even get that out in the face of the
continuing spasms. It just came out "Unh."
     Finally, thankfully, I felt the last of the thing slide out of
me. I felt myself contract again to normal size, and, too weak even to
twitch in response to this final stimulation, I came to the end of the
last orgasm.
     When I had recovered enough to stand being moved, he helped me to
roll onto my side where, once more, he washed me. He turned off the
water and knelt by my side. I was flat on my back as the last of the
water gurgled down the drain beside me. The shower was silent except
for dripping water. I swear I couldn't move. I lay like a puddle of
pink pudding while he spread still more conditioner on my flushed
skin. Again he covered me, missing nothing, not the tiniest crevice,
hairline to toes. Finally, he helped me into a sitting position. The
steam cleared a bit when he opened the shower door; cold air replaced
the warm, but I still couldn't move. I sat, eyes shut, head back and
leaning against the shower wall, unable to stand. Hands under my
armpits, he lifted me to my feet. I couldn't support myself. Well, I
probably could have, but I was really wobbly. He propped me against
the shower wall; my chain had slipped to the side, and the underneath
part dangled on my hip. Letting me collapse into his arms, he carried
me into the bedroom and sat me on the edge of the bed. I immediately
flopped to my back.
     As I lay there on the bed, he dried me--not with a towel, but
with a hair dryer. I remember vaguely thinking it odd, but said
nothing. As he worked over me the noise of hair dryer droned, cutting
off all other sound, and I drifted off to sleep. The last thing I
remember was being gently rolled over, and feeling his fingers in my
hair as he began drying it.
     When I awoke it was dark. I really just drifted back awake: I
can't sleep very deeply when I nap in the afternoon. He had covered me
with a comforter, and I was nude under the soft cotton. My skin was
unbelievably soft: I felt like satin all over. Drying me with the hair
dryer had left me coated in the softening conditioner. I can't de-
scribe the luxurious feeling of awakening this way, completely squeaky
clean all over, warm, dry, satiny sleek-smooth, muscles a little sore,
as though I'd had a good workout at the spa ... heaven.
     I spent more time than I needed to wake up, pampering myself just
soaking in the soft luxury of the bed and remembering the preceding
hours. I began to feel a tingle of excitement as my mind wandered
sleepily over what he had done to me. No. I couldn't again, I thought.
Not tonight anyway. No way. Absolutely, positively ... probably ...
not.
     I got up gradually, first stretching, then sitting on the edge of
the bed and focusing my thoughts. I could hear kitchen noises. He was
fixing something to eat.
     He had reduced me to a mindless puddle of overstimulated proto-
plasm, degraded me, embarrassed me, and made me admit I wanted it. And
then he did an equally expert job of putting me back together again
afterwards. The only thing he makes better than the wound is the
bandage.
     I got up and looked in the mirror. I looked pretty good. A little
pale, maybe. I looked (and felt) like one of Dracula's victims: pale,
weak, used, kind of ethereal, but I didn't look tired. And my hair was
a huge frizzy cloud around my head; drying it without brushing and
conditioning creates an unmanageable near-afro. Still, I looked great.
Even without makeup. He had relocked my chain, this time without
anything inside me. That looked great too.
     The form-fitting white cotton outfit was laid out on the bed. I
put it on over my chain, put on some sandals, and checked myself in
the mirror again. I strolled, almost dreamily, to my bedroom to get my
thin gold necklace, and the feel of the clean, soft cotton against my
satiny skin was distractingly luxurious. Seriously--this body condi-
tioner is great stuff if it is overused properly.


[A Note From the Future:
     [Through the miracle of word processing, you are now looking
forward in time to the end of this account; it has been a month,
although it seems like a lifetime. After reading this over, I can see
now that this was a turning point. I unknowingly (maybe not so unknow-
ingly) decided, in the moments you have just read about, that I wanted
...well... more. We continued, from time to time, to have sex in ways
that I used to describe as "normal". But I do know now that those
times of normal sex were unsatisfying for me. There'd been two years
of normal sex before we left Chicago. I thought I enjoyed it. I did.
I'm sure I did. He was a sensitive and thoughtful lover, and a wonder-
ful day-to-day companion. Really, I had several orgasms almost every
time we made love. Not a record to sneer at if the women's magazines
are to be believed.
     [But if I were to relive those days now, it would be like a diet
of rice pudding after acquiring a taste for raw steak. J had started
me on a path that I now know is one-way, although at the time I was
sure I could--would --stop and go back. Gradually, and in carefully
choreographed steps, he forced (led?) me to first acknowledge that I
was fascinated and titillated like a dirty-minded schoolgirl by the
things he was doing to me, and later to like it so that I had to
justify myself by pretending it was just sophisticated sex. But I
ended up way beyond all that. I acknowledge a need akin to addiction.
I fought it, to be sure, but I fought because resisting is participa-
tion in the process rather than an attempt to end it. A few days ago I
was willing to give him my absolute and utter voluntary acceptance of
his control over me. At least until further notice.
     [That weekend a month ago was only the first tottering step of a
babe in the woods. A babe with a long way to go.
     [The word 'slave' sounds so theatrical and phony, and most of the
literature I have since read about B/D, S/M etc., make it sound so
lurid and juvenile and, well ... pornographic, and as much as I don't
want to be identified with that kind of lifestyle, I have to tell you:
If I wasn't a slave in the literal sense of the word (that is, a
servant, which I'm not), I was at least a voluntary, self-confessed,
incurable Addict. I want(ed) to dive in headfirst, forget caution, and
be owned. I wanted to know what it would be like to give everything up
for it. Isn't there a kind of freedom in giving everything up?
     [And yet there was a worm slumbering at the root of my addiction,
and as that addiction metamorphosed into a way of life, the worm began
to waken, and a duality developed in my personality. I reacted to the
events you have just been reading (and others like them) in two
mutually inconsistent ways: I wanted revenge, and I wanted to submit.
I wanted more of the degrading treatment I had been getting; I resent-
ed the fact that it wouldn't continue since J has--and
does--steadfastly hold to the one month time limit. Since the List was
a contract that entitled me to eventual repayment in kind, the more I
got, the sweeter I thought my revenge would be. But I wanted the
treatment I was getting, too. I actually ended up begging for more,
and at the last, revenge was not necessarily uppermost in my mind. It
might never have been if J hadn't stopped Column One himself. I would
have exceeded the List, and gone on exceeding it as long as J did.
Ultimately I wanted to go further than he did. I think he found it
unsettling, as if he had created a monster.
     [And he had. I had told myself that my motive for revenge was
repayment for what he had done to me. I was kidding myself. It ended
up with me, like a spoiled child, wanting to punish him for stopping,
in effect, for holding to the contract. If I actually go through with
it (Column Two) I will punish him as much for having stopped as for
what he actually did to me before stopping Column One.
     [As I write these words I have arrived at the moment when I must
decide whether to go on or not; I've come back to read the earlier
parts of this account to help me decide (also because it turns me on
to read over it), but I'm taking the opportunity to fill you in a bit
so you will understand some of what follows, insofar as I can under-
stand it myself. Most of the justification, excuses, and explanation
you will read will be a load of bull: the shallow self justification
of a silly prude from southern Indiana with less understanding of her
own motivations than a dog in heat. You ASB regulars (yes, I am a
reader of ASB now, in the "future") will recognize the self deception.
You've probably been there before). Oh, the facts are accurate enough;
what you are reading is not fiction: it happened as it is written.
Embellished dramatically, to be sure, and the dialogue may not be
verbatim, but it is basically true, nonetheless. But the psychological
interpretations are, for the most part, nothing but the pathetic self-
deception of a schoolgirl mentality that felt it far safer to keep a
firm anchor in adolescent nonsense than to put out on the troubled
seas of growth and introspection. As though I was entitled to stop
growing when I graduated from college.
     [But then, I have an advantage: I am a different person now,
looking back from the end of this little tale, so I know how it comes
out, or at least how Column One ends. This duality that developed in
me means there are two bottom lines: They may seem inconsistent, but
believe: I was, and am, his. He possesses me completely. BUT. Since he
insists on ending his turn, I want my turn. I'm tempted. I'm sure I
would be good at 'topping' in a technical sense. Maybe better than J.
     [After all, I'm a registered nurse.
     [It's quite a dilemma: I don't want to change either my status or
his. Switching roles might destroy my image of him as the dominant
one--I'm not sure I want to do that. But I have the option because of
our agreement over the List.
     [Anyway, this moment in the narrative was the fulcrum on which
all subsequent events turned, and the crossroads that led to my
present indecision. After that point, as near as I can estimate, I
didn't want to go back, I didn't want to undo my new psyche. Another
cliche, but I guess I discovered myself. I hate it when I can be
reduced to a formula and the formula turns out to be a cliche.]


The List
     Column 1
       Item 8

     The next day, Sunday, we went to the exercise spa. He had brought
my old leo's from my bags, with my shorts to wear over them to hide my
chain which would otherwise have made lumps. There's not much to
relate, and besides, I don't have a lot of time since I have to get
ready for San Francisco. J is going to let me go shopping on my own
tomorrow, and the next day we leave. Today, I have to depilate again.
     So, a short note on the spa. I went as his guest. The exercise
machines are arranged in two parallel rows. We went down the two rows
side by side, each of us doing our own weights, and he absolutely wore
me out. I was sweating by the time I got to the end of my row, and he
made me start the stair machine with him. When I thought I was all
through, we did another round on the weight machines. By then, I was
absolutely drenched in sweat, my hair sticking to my head, my leos to
my body. He had completely exhausted me on purpose.
     I need to get into a regular exercise routine.
     We drove home and showered together, but this time no hanky-
panky--well, a little hanky maybe. I wore one of his sleeveless tank-
top t-shirts; it was more comfortable than anything of mine. He wanted
to talk, and he wanted me relaxed. After lunch, tired out and with a
meal and two glasses of wine inside me, I tend to get sleepy. He sat
me down on the sofa (I have to sit gingerly these days, settling
around my chain to keep it from pressing on my coccyx. This is espe-
cially a problem on the exercise machines. The exercycle is out of the
question.
     "I want you to understand something clearly," he said. "I am
going to continue as I have been. At the end of the month I will
possess you like a piece of property. Everything I do to you is
directed toward that goal. I'm not going to ask you to like what I do,
but I'm asking--correction--ordering you to tell me: do you want to be
possessed in this way? You haven't said so yet."
     I didn't know how to respond. On one level, this whole routine
sounded like I had always imagined a grade z porn movie to sound. He
sounded like he was reading from a script again. But the reality was
so ... Well, the reality was what went on in my mind and that wasn't
grade z. Even _I_ have to admit that last bit of dialogue is grade z,
but that's what he actually said, more or less, so that's what I
wrote. I wonder if he rehearsed it.
     I adopted an equally formal and artificial conversational tone. I
told him I liked the idea of belonging to him, that I wanted that but
the things he had done were too much for me. I needed time to get used
to this. It was all too new. Anyone listening would have thought we
were bad actors.
     "You understand that won't change what I do," he said.
     "What are you going to do to me?" I asked, suddenly suspicious. I
had the feeling he was planning something.
     "You already know: I'm going to make you mine."
     "I mean what things are you going to do to me? Specifically."
     "You have the List. Beyond that you're going to have to live with
not knowing."
      -*-
     That first week had been a very intense week for me. I think that
if I had encountered new sexual experiences at that rate for much
longer, I would have been unable to continue. But things slowed down
during the next week, and J didn't introduce anything new into my
life, just variations on the same themes he had already established.
     Once he tied me gagged and immobile in a wooden armchair so I
could do nothing but turn my head; he teased me unmercifully with
feathers and fingers until I was exhausted. At the end, behind the
gag, he couldn't tell if I was laughing or crying. I couldn't either.
     And once he had me hanging by my spread ankles with my wrists
tied by ropes to the same overhead rings so I was doubled up and
looking down at my own crotch (I'm pretty flexible--yoga and all that)
My bottom was just resting on the bed enough to take my weight off my
arms and I had to watch helplessly while he put ...things... in me.
You know what things. I had no choice but to watch.
     I'm getting used to this more cosmopolitan and liberalized
attitude toward sex. It IS sex, I think, even when he just watches me
walk around the house in my chain and nothing else. I know it doesn't
sound like it, but I get turned on by the restraints and control.
     One new thing happened, though. He said he was "totally charmed"
by my inept attempt to strip seductively, and asked if I would, to
please him, learn "the moves." I said yes, and on Monday evening, he
came home with four video tapes: three x-rated ones that had profes-
sional strippers doing their thing, and one "how to" tape with lessons
on exotic dancing. I have been practicing. Not the tassel-twirling
kind of stuff that people with names like "Boom-Boom" and "Treasure
Chest" (Bang-Bang LaDesh, Marsha Dimes, Irma the Body) do, but more
seductive stuff. I feel silly at home alone, writhing on the sofa,
grinding my hips, wiggling my chest and peeling my clothes off an inch
at a time, but right now, I would feel still sillier if he were
watching. Soon, maybe I'll be able to do it for him. The belly dancing
is more challenging and fun to learn. It takes a lot more coordination
than I would have thought.
     That Sunday night, though, I was spread-eagled on the bed,
blindfolded and gagged--not with that awful ball-shaped gag, he just
uses that for punishment--while he teased me with half-melted ice
cubes. While he was driving me crazy this way, he whispered in my ear
that the time would come, before the end of the List, when he would
make me a proper slave, and I would voluntarily call him "master." He
knew I wasn't ready then, but he told me to think, as an exercise,
once a day, of the circumstances it would take. He knew instinctively
that I would associate that word with the kind of B&D scenarios that
had already made me (to my immediate regret) laugh. He knew I hadn't
gotten deeply involved enough to use such a word and mean it, even
within the limited context of the List. But what he said registered.
I'm still thinking about it. I fantasize about the circumstances in
which I could say it, but would still not be able to SAY it without
thinking it faintly ridiculous, like Nazis in black socks with dust on
the soles of the feet.
     I haven't talked about one aspect yet: the limitations set by the
List. Of course, he won't do anything that's not on the List, but
there is a lot of latitude in HOW he does what IS there. (Witness how
he put on my chain: that blowtorch was very scary.) It is in this grey
area that I have to trust him to be sensitive enough to approach and
even exceed my verbally admitted limits without exceeding my true
threshold. I'm beginning to learn that this takes enormous sensitivi-
ty. And I thought the primary requirement for the dominant figure in
this kind of relationship was that he/she be Insensitive.
     The other limit for the List is a long-term time limit. We agreed
to a strict limit of four weeks for each column. Sounds like a couple
of lawyers, I know, but we decided that it couldn't be shorter and be
still be meaningful: I wanted the feeling I was really plunging in to
something serious. Somehow, in my fantasies about this, it was seri-
ous, not play. And a strict time limit gives me something to cling to
as an "out" without letting me frivolously interrupt the process.
There is comfort in knowing there is nothing on the List that can do
me any real physiological damage, but I know that the cumulative
discomfort of that gag (it is by far the worst) adds up to actual
pain, and I trust him not to overdo it. At some point you have to
trust, I guess.
     We leave for San Francisco tomorrow.
     -*-
     Well, we're back from San Francisco now, and do I have a story to
tell. It's Saturday morning, and we got back late last night.
     He had to take my chain off for the plane trip, and for a few
minutes it actually felt strange to be without it. Not naked, exactly,
but like something was missing. He had me wear my tight knit dress
with nothing underneath, and once we were in the air, he took a collar
and lock out of his hand luggage and told me to go into the restroom
and put it on under the turtle-neck of my dress. I couldn't have worn
my chain through the metal detector, although he said he thought about
making me do that and letting the female guard search me to find out
why I set it off. That would have been crossing the line between
embarrassment and public humiliation, I think. Still, what could they
do? Arrest me for chain smuggling?
     Once we were in our hotel room (it was pretty nice: someone else
was paying for it), he put the chain on me again, this time locking
all three loose ends with the little padlock. I could have put the
chain on while on the plane, I suppose, but it would have showed
through that knit dress, even with a belt to conceal it. Trust me,
that dress is form-fitting everywhere.
     The plane trip was uneventful. We arrived at the airport, rented
a car, and he went to his meeting while I had a few hours of almost-
freedom to drive around town, buy lunch and pick him up again. I was
wearing jeans and a sweater, so my chain didn't show. That evening,
chain off, dress and collar on again, we went to Sausalito and had a
great dinner in an intimate little restaurant right on the water. We
had great sex that night, but only great. I wore only the collar;
somehow a hotel room, no matter how luxurious, is just not the right
setting. And the collar wasn't enough, somehow. It seemed out of
place, a weak reminder, a tenuous connection to something stronger
elsewhere. My nesting instinct has been perverted to a longing for the
familiarity and safety of a dungeon, I think. I wanted to be back
"home". I almost felt like that big empty cavern of a house was
waiting for me.
     It was afterwards, after we had showered and he had relocked my
chain, that he broke the news to me. The next day, I was to get my
nipples pierced. We had put this on the List, but I had considered it
more as a theoretical possibility, since I have inverted nipples. Not
so. He had talked to the woman that runs the business and she said
there was nothing she hadn't seen, including my problem. I have
pierced ears (one three times, the other twice) but the thought of
piercing my nipples made me cringe. J was careful to explain to me
that he didn't want me to do this to inflict pain on me, rather he
wanted me pierced as another way of binding me to him. It would mark
me as his, like removing my pubic hair. I could have a local if I
wanted, even.
     Reminding me of that helped calm me down a little, but I was
still nervous. I had heard of this kind of piercing, and admit I was
curious--maybe more than curious about it. I had thought about it on
more than one occasion, and as a matter of fact, I was the one that
suggested it for the List, partly to see his reaction to something I
had been thinking about. But still, I was nervous. Both nipples at
once was really jumping in at the deep end for me.
     The front room of her home in the (to me) famous Mission district
had lots of jewelry on display, some of it custom, and she had a
little clinic in the back where she did it. She was very careful about
hygiene, and I could tell right away that she had lots of experience.
She had a ring in her nose, in her lower lip, several in each ear,
and, she said, a surprisingly large number elsewhere. Twenty-something
in all. I was curious, okay?
     It took a lot of self control for me to make myself watch, but I
wanted to be sure I knew what she was doing--and that she knew too.
She was very gentle and reassuringly efficient. Obviously, my nipples
will protrude even when they aren't erect if they are held out--which
they were. Since even normal nipples have to be held during the
procedure anyway, it didn't really matter that mine were inverted.
They went erect and stood out on their own anyway. I think they were
cringing.
     I wanted a local anesthetic, but she said that would sting at
least as much as the piercing needle. She also said that for some
people the act of piercing itself was more important than the jewelry
they wore afterward. Some customers deliberately let their piercings
close so that they could be re-pierced. She convinced me.
     She had an instrument I had never seen before, a sort of forceps
with slots in the jaws. She held me from the sides and this hollow
needle went right through both me and the clamp. The rings followed
through after the needle. She let J stay with me, holding my hand.
     It was over quickly with almost no bleeding. Just seconds for
each piercing. It did sting a little, but less than an injection of
local xylocane to remove a mole. Really it wasn't much different than
getting my ears done. It was nothing compared to the gag. I wasn't
wearing a bra, so she put band-aids on. Aspirin was enough to make me
comfortable, she said, but I didn't really need any. I don't think
this is something I would do myself. I have thought about it, and I
think I could--as an RN I suppose I am qualified, but there is nothing
like experience.
     We had time before going to the airport to do some shopping, and
J took me to a place that specializes in the kinky appliances and
stuff he has been using. He had me try on some shoes and boots, and
then told me to wait in the car. He had a couple of pretty big bags of
packages when he came out. I wonder what the x-ray security monitor at
the airport thought of the contents. She probably figured we were just
more midwesterners on our way back home from San Francisco.
     We drove to the airport and waited for the plane. The flight back
was uneventful. When we finally arrived home it was late, and we both
went straight to bed. I took aspirin to help me sleep, more to coun-
teract the coffee I had on the plane than because of my nipples
(aspirin puts me to sleep).
     This morning, I inspected myself. The band-aids were the "ouch-
less" variety, thank goodness. I am a little swollen, and the swelling
makes me look a little deformed. Maybe I should say deformed in a
different way, since inverted nipples are not exactly normal anyway.
But at least before, my nipples were identical; now they are swollen
in different ways, so that one nipple partly protrudes from the
areola, while the other is less swollen. This makes me nervous. I
don't want to be permanently this way. I can only wait for the swell-
ing to go down, though. I heal quickly, and then we'll know. I guess I
can always remove them. I disinfected myself again and put on some of
the Neosporin she had given me, and fresh band-aids. The rings are
small circular gold ones. She said they were a fine gauge, but I don't
remember what size they are. She also said I could enlarge the holes
easily later. I don't think I'll want to. Well, maybe. We'll see.
     J is very sympathetic and caring, and it makes me think maybe he
really does like my nipples the way they are. I know that sounds
funny, since he had just changed them, but he wanted to decorate me
there, draw attention to them, not hide them. It's a very private kind
of feeling, since I am still not publicly proud of them, but if this
works out I think I will be proud to show myself off to J. In the
meantime, I am practicing my exotic dancing. I hope the swelling goes
down soon, though.
      -*-
     Sunday: J has just told me an interesting bit of news. He says
he's going to send this to a computer bulletin board or something. I
don't know how this works yet, but he says the people in his depart-
ment are tied into it and read it. Thank God I've left out anything
that might connect us to this story. He d****d well better be right
when he says he can send it in so no one finds out where it came from!
I'm going to have to go back over it and make sure I didn't leave any
clues. Computer nerds are usually pretty smart fellows. Maybe I should
say "You guys (maybe gals too?) are..." since I now know who my
audience is. I know you aren't ALL geeks. I remember some pretty cute
guys hanging around the computer center when I was in school. I am
living with one, come to think of it. And he is effing smart.
     And maybe I'll spruce up the literary style a bit while I'm at
it. He suggested the format for the chapter headings, so you now know
where that came from. Also that I capitalize the word "List". Already
I have a sense of power. But, folks, I won't make anything up. Prom-
ise. Besides, he wouldn't let me. Well, well. An anonymous audience.
Enjoy, people.

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist05.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List -  5 of 20


The List
     Column 1
       Item 9

     Monday again. The swelling has finally gone down on my nipple.
There was a slight infection but Neosporin antibacterial ointment took
care of it. I'm symmetrical again, but I'll keep treating them until I
don't feel any unusual sensitivity when the rings are disturbed. It's
probably not necessary, but I still cover them with band-aids. J can
even make a band-aid a sexual thing. Those round things that look like
nipples were too small, so he had me make larger circular ones of
flesh-colored "ouchless" plastic surgical tape with sterile gauze
stuck in the middle. They cover my nipples completely, and from a
distance he says it looks like I don't have any nipples at all. Like a
department store mannequin. Interesting concept. They don't bother me
any more, though.
     As I look back over this account, it appears that the only thing
we do is have sex. That's not true. Sex may be the only thing I write
about, but we do lots of other things together, and I have lots to do
during the days when he is at work. Cleaning up this gawdawful barn of
a house, for one thing. And I have made curtains for my room, done
some weeding, normal stuff like that. I sound terminally domestic, I
know, but I'm used to a long and busy work day. I'm still adjusting to
not having to eat over the sink or in my car. I get hyper and have to
do something, so I made curtains, okay?
     I exercise on his weight bench in the garage almost daily: he has
moved a big full-length mirror in there for me; one end of the garage
is like a little carpeted mini-spa. And of course I read--and write
this. And check out the usenet. It's nice to feel I have a pipeline to
the outside world.
     So after working at St. Hectic and living in a big city, the
restful pampered schedule is welcome, and the sex is pretty powerful.
Overwhelming, but in a good way. Well, maybe "good" doesn't describe
it. I don't feel like a good little girl anymore (small loss). Maybe
fantastic is the correct word, because I am living out a fantasy. I
could almost go for the life of a full-time "kept woman." Almost.
     But our slave/master relationship IS full-time, for now. We don't
turn it on and off, and it gets a little tiresome sometimes, even
though I asked for it to be real. He doesn't push it by making me
scrub floors or do degrading things. What I'm trying to say is he
doesn't use me for slave labor to do things he doesn't want to do. But
I do have to cook almost all the meals and wash the dishes. He says
that is my reminder of my (temporary) status. His turn will come, he
says. When we were both on tight schedules in Chicago, we shared the
household stuff 50/50, so I don't mind.
     We were a little ginger with sex right after I got pierced:
Either me on top being careful or rear entry. It wasn't really neces-
sary, but J thought it was, so we did. Being entered from the rear is
a position we had previously almost never used since I found it
relatively unsatisfying, but J has fixed that problem. First we tried
it with me on all fours. He had taken foreplay to his usual extreme
again, teasing me until I was a babbling nymphomaniacal bundle of
uncongealed nerve endings. I felt like a dog in heat; on my hands and
knees with my collar on, I even looked like one. When he penetrated
me, though, it still wasn't satisfying. I just couldn't climax. It
helps me to have an orgasm if I can straighten my legs and flex my
thigh muscles, and you can't do that on all fours. Also, my clitoris
isn't stimulated as much in that position.
     Then he tried a variation: with us both on our left sides, kind
of propped up by pillows, still penetrated from behind. I was able to
lift my right leg and spread myself open in front, so that he could
stroke and caress all of me (even my breasts, carefully), and more
importantly, so could I. In fact, he TOLD me to stroke myself while we
were making love this way. You can't do this in the missionary posi-
tion, so this was new to me. He took my hand in his and guided it to
my clitoris while he continued thrusting from behind.
     As I have said before, I am reluctant to masturbate in front of
anyone else, even J. I was still reluctant this time, and withdrew my
hand, but he whispered over my shoulder, "I can't force you to enjoy
this, but there are other things you can be made to do." He guided my
hand back. "If you don't..." A thinly veiled threat was all it took.
His control, my body. There was nothing I could do. The implied threat
of that gag is enough, and I'm sure his imagination isn't limited to
that particular "minor discomfort".
     So I did it. He continued stroking from behind and caressing in
front, but I was in complete control of my own orgasm; it was almost
as though I were in complete control of his lovemaking. I brought
myself to the edge and held myself there, and all the while he contin-
ued to plunge into me and caress my front. It was like having four
hands to caress myself with. This time I drove myself crazy, teasing
and hesitating on the very edge. My nipples became erect under the
bandages. They ached deliciously already from the excitement, and now
the ache was even more intense--almost a stinging sensation as they
hardened. Which made me even hornier. We'll have to try that position
again after my nipples heal.
      -*-
     Yesterday he had me pluck my eyebrows until they were pencil-
thin. I did this my last year in high-school and my first two years in
college, but fashions change and I let them grow out full again--until
yesterday. But I always preferred them thin. Anything goes these days
anyway, so I don't mind. I think I look better this way. I'll leave
the heavy eyebrows to Brooke Shields. I understand she is popular in
Russia. She probably reminds them of Brezhnev.
     I need depilatory again today, too. This will be the third or
fourth time. I know it sounds like I'm self-absorbed, but I have
always liked "working" on myself, whether it is with makeup, eyebrow
tweezers, shaving my legs, brushing my hair, exercising, or whatever.
You would think that after a while I would get tired of self-mainte-
nance, but I still get a kind of sensual pleasure out of it, even now.
     I don't think I'm narcissistic, because I enjoy the physical act
of doing these things rather than the results. Sounds like I'm justi-
fying something, I know, but the preparation is more important than
the finished product. Maybe a bit like a craftsman who likes his job.
I take a lot of time with it, and try out new and different variations
whenever I can. I have a tendency to make myself look too artificial,
although a little artificiality is attractive, I think. Needless to
say, I have about a ton of partly-used experimental makeup.
     Several times when things were slow on the night shift at the
hospital (a rare thing, believe me) I even removed some of my own
moles: I anesthetized the area with topical benzocaine, then injected
subcutaneous xylocaine and burned the little suckers right off. Did as
neat a job as any dermatologist, too. That's partly why I have such
perfect skin. I got nearly all of them.
     I guess the point is that I like "working" on myself, and don't
see decorating my nipples, depilating, and plucking my eyebrows as a
burden, but rather another aspect of self improvement and maintenance,
just like doing my nails; until I go back to work, I will have plenty
of time for this kind of thing, so why not indulge? Besides, it's a
turn-on knowing I'm getting ready for sex.
     It's not just polishing and perfecting myself that fascinates me,
though. I like being able to change myself, too. I have experimented
with just about everything about me that can be changed: my hair, my
makeup, my clothing styles, everything. It's almost like a compulsion
to try something--anything--else. I get a thrill out of being some-
thing different than I am, I guess. It's a good thing "do-it-yourself
plastic surgery" isn't a reality: I would probably do it. Really. It
doesn't sound like a very healthy self-image now that I write it down.
     When I got back from the spa the post office had left a note that
my sewing machine arrived at the local post office. I shipped it and
some other stuff from Chicago before I drove down here. I'm going to
pick it up myself tomorrow. I should have used U.P.S.
     I would have done a better job with the curtains if I had waited
for it to arrive, but I was antsy.
     -*-
     Tuesday. J has started on some kind of project. You're going to
think this is weird. Even I do. I didn't know what he was doing at
first: yesterday evening he tied me on the oak table again, the same
as before, but with my legs straight on the top of the table, ankles
tied at the edges, and with a plastic drop-cloth under me. He scotch-
taped saran-wrap over my sex and then covered me from just below my
breasts to my upper hips with petroleum jelly. That part was a little
sexy, but I was mostly mystified. Then with me craning my neck to
watch, he mixed plaster of paris in a big bucket on the floor by the
table. At that point I had figured out that he was going to make a
plaster cast of my front. I was half right. Anyway, tying me down was
just to keep my attention.
     When he smeared the plaster over my lubricated torso, it was kind
of an interesting feeling, cool and slippery at first but warmer as it
began to set. He had imbedded strips of cloth in the plaster partly to
strengthen it, and partly to tie it into the other sections of the
cast when he added them later. When he pulled it off it was an unbro-
ken and faithful copy of my lower body. He freed me then, and told me
to wash myself off. I had been dismissed.
     While I cooked dinner he sawed and filed the edges of the cast
smooth, and after we had eaten he told me to get my shower cap and
come to the garage. While I watched, he covered the edges of the mold
with wax and had me stand. He fitted the cast against my front.
Naturally, it was a perfect fit. He strapped it tightly in place with
old belts, and had me help support it with my hands.
     He covered my breasts, neck and shoulders with petroleum jelly,
band-aids and all, and mixed more plaster. He explained that he wanted
my breasts to hang naturally for this part of the cast, so I had to do
it standing up. The shower cap was to keep my hair up out of the
plaster. He built up the already-finished mold of the lower front of
my body by adding on to its upper edge until he had a mold of me from
my upper thighs to my uplifted chin. I kept asking him why he was
doing this, but he just told me I would find out. Finally, he said he
would use the gag if I didn't just stop asking questions. The mold was
quite heavy at this point, and it was only half done.
     He sawed and filed the rough edges until he had a complete
impression of the front half of my torso, and again he fitted it to
me. It required a little squirming, but it was still a perfect fit.
Then it was back to the oak table, where he put the mold with the
interior up and had me lie face down, fitting myself into it. He
supported me with pillows under my forehead and legs, and then plas-
tered my entire back then, neck to hips. After it had set, the two
plaster halves separated neatly where he had wax papered the edge of
the front half. The final product was a huge and cumbersome mold of my
torso. I can't figure out why he made it. He still hasn't told me. I
don't even know why he had me write about it in such detail. It wasn't
really an erotic experience. I told him it would have been much easier
if he had used the water-activated cast material they use for broken
bones. You can get it from any medical supply store.
     -*-
     Wednesday. My sewing machine arrived okay. I picked it up today.
He put my chain on again last night after he came home from work. I
don't mind, except that during week days when I'm not at the exercise
spa or out shopping I like to put on what few clothes I have (total
clothing: the knit dress, the black thong, my exercise outfit, and the
sheer cotton) and now the knit dress doesn't look good any more with
the chain under it. Besides, it's too nice for around the house. I can
slip the thong through the waistband of the chain and wear it under-
neath if I want, because it unsnaps at the crotch, but it's not very
comfortable; the dress and the pants present problems in topology if I
try to wear them under the chain.
     He didn't tie me down this time when he put the chain on. I
suppose I knew what was coming though, so it wouldn't have mattered
anyway. Certainly I didn't fight it. In fact I held the torch for him,
like an assisting nurse. If he would just leave the crotch chain
unlocked, I could wear those sheer cotton pants under the chain. The
waist would still be welded on. Oh well.
     Now that my sewing machine is here, maybe I can make some more
clothing. As it is, I have to wear my exercise leos with shorts and a
t-shirt everywhere I go, and pretend I just came from the spa. Anyway,
I got some material and patterns. I'll get started this afternoon.
      -*-
     As soon as he proofed this, J "forbade" me to make any clothing
without his approval.(!) Of course, he prefers it when I have to wear
sexy clothing--which is all I have (except the exercise stuff). I have
a really sexy short black knit dress in my luggage that I could wear
if he would unlock the crotch chain (yes, that's a hint).
     My period is due soon. I have to get him to unlock the chain for
it. I'm not sure he would if I just asked. After all, it would be for
convenience rather than necessity. I can perform all my bodily func-
tions by just pulling the waist chain down and the crotch piece to one
side. Listen to me. People in the midwest don't discuss bodily func-
tions; I don't think my mother even HAS any bodily functions, and here
I am discussing "feminine hygiene" on public (pubic?) TV. Monitor.
Whatever. I still have to learn computerese. At the hospital I really
just followed a cookbook when I learned the computer at the nurse's
station. But I'll learn more. Several times I've wanted to post
something on ASB and didn't really know how.
     Anyway, my period might be a problem with the chain. I have an
idea that might work. I have been saving it for when I really need
something from him. I'll tell you if it works.
     -*-
     Thursday. Well, it worked, sort of. I am not sure it was a great
idea, but I'll put it down here anyway. I have never been terrific at
oral sex. I am reluctant to do it in the first place (due to a vesti-
gial but typical midwestern conflation of hygiene and morality), and
have never been able to make it very satisfying for him. Plus I gag
reflexively if I hold even half of him in my mouth. So anyway, last
night I put on my black thong (under my chain), and some formal black
heels. I made myself as stereotypically sexy as I could. I couldn't
put pantyhose on with the chain and ankle cuffs, but I put body makeup
and powder on my legs and behind, right up to the thong, to make my
skin perfectly smooth and even. I fixed a great chicken dish with
desert and fruit; I gave him the works. I even ate by myself earlier
so I could wait on him hand and foot before and during the meal,
pouring his wine, bringing the courses one at a time, everything I
could think of from candle light and incense to little touches like
brushing my breast against him while serving his food.
     Afterwards, dishes cleared, with him sitting on the sofa by the
lit fireplace, I by his feet, I made my well-rehearsed pitch in that
same artificial style that marks all our master/slave conversations. I
guess it's role playing.
     "J, I have a favor to ask of you. Before I ask, I want to do
something for you that I haven't been able to do before. It isn't an
item on the List; well, it is, but I want to go beyond the List for
you in this.
     "You know I can't control my gag reflex when I try to take all of
you in my mouth," I continued (too embarrassed to look him in the
eye), "but I think I might be able to with your help and patience."
Actually, didn't need much help at all to do this, but his patience
was essential.
     Without telling him what I intended, I started undressing him.
When he was nude, I told him I had to go into my bathroom to prepare
myself. I had filled an old perfume atomizer with an OTC liquid
topical oral anesthetic, twenty percent benzocaine (which is a pretty
potent percentage). I looked myself in the mirror, calming myself for
a few seconds before I went ahead.
     I had practiced the day before, so I knew it worked. I just
didn't know if it would work well enough. I sprayed the back of my
throat while, with my mouth wide open and tongue depressed, I said the
magic vowel, "EE". Of course with your tongue depressed it doesn't
come out "EE", but your vocal cords are best positioned for exposure
to the spray, and if you take a deep breath first so you don't have to
inhale the vaporized anesthetic, and try not to swallow while your
salivary glands go into overdrive, the anesthetic will stay on your
throat lining long enough to numb it. You learn a few tricks working
ENT and internal medicine.
     After several applications, each time spitting out the residue
rather than swallowing, the back of my throat had that thick feeling
that accompanies numbness. The rest of my mouth was beginning to feel
tingly, too. Now I could apply the anesthetic directly to the back of
my throat with a cotton swab without triggering a gag reflex. I rinsed
my mouth well with water so I didn't reduce his sensitivity (that
would defeat the purpose for sure).
     Almost as an afterthought, I brought the hand mirror. I wanted to
see what I looked like while doing this for him. You have to under-
stand: this was a very daring thing for me to do. He is the only
person I have ever done oral sex for (no-one, not even J, has ever
done it to me. In case I didn't tell you, he's a midwesterner, too.)
and I have only done it a few times for him, and not well even then.
My heart wasn't in it. I have never really gotten over the feeling it
is unhygienic, and I've never given him an orgasm that way. But I'm
working on it.
     When I went back out to the living room and told him I was ready,
my voice was different, or maybe because I was excited it just felt
different, kind of husky and low. No... it definitely sounded differ-
ent.
     A single touch of my hand and he was ready. He didn't even know
what he was anticipating, but he obviously knew it was something. He
leaned back on the sofa and I knelt between his legs on the fleeced
rug. I took him into my mouth and sucked on the end of his penis,
rotating my head around and pressing my near-numb tongue against the
underside. With every heartbeat I could feel him pulse larger and
larger in my mouth.
     Tentatively, I slid forward. When he reached the back of my
mouth, I didn't gag. I almost did, but it was so easily controlled it
was forgotten in seconds. So far so good. I stroked back and pushed
forward again, this time a little deeper. He was in firm contact with
the very back of my mouth and I was still in control, so I went with
that for a while and experimented with trying to relax my throat and
get the feel of it. He felt larger than I had hoped he would, but not
too large that I couldn't slide forward a little more.
     Finally he was in contact with the back of my throat, and my
breath was shut off. I backed off, gagging slightly but unnecessarily.
I needed to learn to coordinate my breathing. I took a few deep
breaths, inhaled, and tried again. Again, I took him to the back of my
throat a few times experimentally, and tried contracting my throat
around him. He gave a slight moan. Good sign, but I had my own prob-
lems to concentrate on. I pushed a little more, getting the feel of
going even deeper. I could tell he wanted to push, but was keeping
strict control of himself. I kept this up for a while, getting accus-
tomed to the feeling. I was too slow and tentative to give him an
orgasm, but one step at a time. I even tried swallowing motions,
although I couldn't really complete the action. I actually had him all
the way in! I was secretly exultant.
     I had propped the mirror against the arm of the sofa so I could
reach it and look at myself while I had him inside. I had to open my
mouth very wide, and had to use my lips to keep my teeth from scraping
him, so I looked a little funny, but no more unattractive than with
that gag (I don't believe it, but J tells me I look beautiful with
that gag in). When I take him all the way in, though, my throat is
distorted: kind of distended like a croaking frog. It looks weird,
like I have an iodine deficiency or something. You can tell he's in
there even from the outside. Not to mention the inside.
     I continued experimenting until the anesthetic began to wear off.
It doesn't last long. But even then I was able to take him all the way
in. So I kept on. It's really just a knack. My gag reflex seemed to be
under control enough for me to continue, but my throat finally began
to feel weird, so I ended up stopping before he had an orgasm.
     J was pretty turned on, though. Basically I had worked him into
quite a state, but hadn't given him release. I could see he was almost
in pain. It gave me a secret feeling of power. And pride. I was
delighted with myself. He was delighted with me too: he recognized
that what I had done was quite an accomplishment for me, and made our
subsequent lovemaking particularly tender and special for me. He seems
to know all the right things to do, when to change the tempo, shift
positions, everything.
     This morning when I got up I was a little hoarse, and I'm afraid
I hammed it up a bit more than was necessary to get sympathy I didn't
really deserve. I think I could try it again, maybe this time with no
anesthetic. I discovered that caressing the end of his penis with my
lips and tongue, and only occasionally engulfing him completely has
the best effect. J says a mouth is not designed to be a substitute for
a vagina, but it can be very interesting nonetheless. The oral sex is
incredible, he says, but even so, it's not as fulfilling as normal
frontal sex. Whatever that is. I haven't had normal sex since we got
back together, although a lot of it has been frontal.
     Anyway, he unlocked the chain for me. Now it is just a belt with
the crotch piece hanging down, which I wear to the side. It looks kind
of pretty. I like gold. The link where he welded it is kind of burned
looking, though. I wish it could be re-plated. He told me I didn't
have to do the "deep throat" routine just to persuade him, though. He
would have unlocked it for my period if I had asked.
     -*-
     Friday. My period is here, and neither of us likes sex during
this time. I know some don't mind, but I do. Thank goodness he gave me
some panties from my suitcase, too.
     My nipples aren't healed yet, but now I can see how they will
look. I love them. While they are just resting, inverted, the little
rings half protrude from their hiding places. I haven't shown J yet.
I'm really excited about them. Can't wait until I can put other
jewelry on them. Small pendants and such. I wish I had thought to get
some while we were in the piercing clinic in San Francisco.
     -*-
     Saturday. I'm in big trouble. Or at least I will be when J reads
this. I bought a package of hacksaw blades on a shopping trip in town
after we got back from San Francisco. I don't know what possessed me,
I suppose I thought of them as insurance in case I really needed to
get out of this situation I'm in. My feelings oscillate between a
temptation/fear to explore bondage more deeply (at least I can call a
spade a spade now: Bondage. Bondagebondagebondage) and a feeling of
shame at what I have done and what he might make me do. I'm a sort of
combined midwestern fool and an angel, wanting to rush in and fearing
to tread at the same time. Anyway, I thought of the hacksaw blades as
insurance. And a personal proof that I have at least a vestigial
intention to resist this ... process. I was going to say experiment,
but it's more than an experiment.
     But I've decided to let J find them.
     (They are laid flat under the rug in the living room,
     J, behind the big sofa. There are three of them)
     I'm doing this because not betraying you is more
     important to me than insurance.
     Besides, the only times I have considered escaping were when it
was clearly impossible for me to use a hacksaw anyway...
     ++++ Note from the Future ++++
     This is a load of bull. I wanted to show J I was committed to
him. That's why I told him about the hacksaw blades. And I wanted to
give him cause to take the next step--to punish me. That's why I
bought the blades in the first place. I could have just buried the
blades in the woods while he was at work and he would never have
known. But I didn't. I was in a rush to descend to greater depths
without having to admit to myself that this was what I wanted. I've
got all that sorted out in my mind now. At least I know what I want.
     ++++ End of Note ++++ ... So tomorrow you will know, J, but
before you punish me I want you to remember why I told you this
voluntarily: I love you and am yours to do with as you please.
     I think my nipples are almost healed now. I can move the rings
with only a little tenderness, and they've stopped exuding fluids and
crusting up. One or two more days of antibacterial ointment should do
it.
     -*-
     Sunday. J didn't read yesterday's entry, so I have a reprieve.
I've been extra good. Last night I told him I wanted to make something
really sexy to wear for him. He told me to make a body stocking. What
he means is a unitard. It will be easiest to modify one from [store
name deleted] rather than make one from scratch. It has to be black,
and cover me completely. The instructions were detailed.
     I guess this is our week for arts and crafts. In addition to the
body stocking, J has been fitting me for something. I'm not sure what,
but he has measured my thighs, waist, hips, upper and lower arms in
several places, inseam, sleeve length, neck, everything. He then
disappears into the garage where I hear pounding and scraping noises.
And machines. I'm not allowed to watch. I think he's too preoccupied
to proofread my latest entries. Maybe he won't read them at all. I
wish he'd hurry up and finish his project, though. Actually, he says
it's three projects, all to do with me. Anyway, I miss using the
weight bench, since it's locked in the garage while he's at work.
     I've been practicing my exotic dancing religiously every day. I
even think I'm getting pretty good. I can make my stomach undulate in
a very interesting way, although it looks a lot sexier than it feels.
J has unlocked my chain so I have more freedom of movement, although
it wasn't really a hindrance. I loop the loose end and lock it at my
waist, letting it hang at my hip. It looks kind of nice that way. Of
course I can't get it off, since it is still welded (or whatever)
around my waist.
     -*-
     Monday: This morning I went out and bought a black unitard body
stocking and a yard of lycra. Finding black gloves was pretty diffi-
cult. They aren't lycra, and all of the black material I bought is in
different shades of black. It's surprisingly hard to match black. But
I will start on it later this afternoon. I am to be covered from my
toes to my fingertips, with a zipper from the middle of my back, down
between my legs, and up to my front neckline. The neckline will be a
rollover turtleneck that, when unrolled, has a zipper along the top
edge under my chin, zipping to a hood--a ski mask with no openings. It
will cover my head completely.
     He says to make it very tight, so I bought the body stocking a
size too small. All I really have to do is sew the gloves to the
sleeves and make some feet to attach to the ankles, then work on the
hood.
     -*-
     Tuesday. My period will be over tomorrow. He STILL hasn't read
the latest entries (about the hacksaw blades). Normally he sits at the
computer and proofs them while I cook dinner, but now he is working in
the garage every evening. Sometimes he lets me exercise while he's
working and I can watch what he is doing, but I can't really tell what
he is making. It involves leather, and I have a pretty good idea what
it is for. I'm not a complete idiot. But he also keeps two things
covered up with old sheets. One is three feet tall and sits on his
workbench. The other is on the floor. Sometimes the smell of leather
is strong on his hands and in the garage. Sometimes it is solvents of
some kind. I think the plaster mold of me, whatever it was for, was a
failure, though. I saw it all broken up in a cardboard box last night.
Today it is out by the garbage cans.
     I've been having trouble perfecting a design for the black hood.
It's a kind of Catch-22: It doesn't quite fit right, and I can't see
to correct it while I have it on. J said cut slits for the eyes and
sew them up last. He also said I should leave small holes for my
nostrils. I said that I can breathe through the material, but he said
to do it anyway: I might need to breathe more quickly, he said. Hmmm.
I also had to cut off the thumbs of the gloves and sew them up. And he
doesn't like the way the leotards squash my breasts. He wants me to
build shaped, conical cups into the front to cradle me like a bra.
I'll look like Darth Madonna. Won't be able to hitchhike, though....
     As one of the witches in Macbeth says, "By the pricking of my
thumbs, something wicked this way comes..." Wasn't that the title of a
good Ray Bradbury novel? Something about people made into sideshow
freaks by the circus owner. 'Something Wicked' was the title, I think.
Good yarn. Another one for you SF B&D fans on the net: 'The Real
Story' by Stephen R. Donaldson. I found it on the bookshelf here in
the house. The rest of his stuff seems to be rather dull dungeons and
dragons fantasy but this is about 80% B&D. Don't miss it if you can,
as Samuel Goldwyn didn't say.
     -*-
     Wednesday. Last night I told J that I thought my nipples were
healed completely and showed him. They really have healed perfectly; a
little sensitive, still, but healed. The tiny rings that pierce them
are barely bigger than the nipples themselves. When they aren't erect,
only half the ring protrudes from the little folds in my areolas. He
had been saving a small surprise for me, the dear. He'd bought a pair
of very small pendants for me. They are gold with tiny garnet tear-
drops at the ends. They are sweet. I remember them from the shop in
San Francisco. He put them on for me. They dangle and brush against my
areolas when I move; they make me feel sexy--more aware of myself. He
said he still thought the band-aids were sexy. Hmmmm.
     Then he put something else on me. It was a kind of a leather g-
string, but the strap between my legs was much wider than a string. It
smelled strongly of leather. Actually, it is neatsfoot oil and wax, he
says. It has two belt buckles in front, although it really doesn't
need more than one, with a central wide strap between my legs. Very
wide. The end of the strap buckles to the waistband behind my back. He
pulled the strap very tight between my legs. Very tight. I think he
was just trying it on for size, though, because he let me take it off
after a few minutes. We made love afterwards, and it was satisfying
(three orgasms, countthemthree) but not quite as fulfilling as the
first few times after I came here. I wonder if bondage can become
boring.
     He has all of next week off, and says he will spend it all with
me.
     Depilation time again.
     -*-
     Thursday. He proofread last night. My God. What have I done. I've
never seen him so remote. I wonder what he's going to do. I'm only
half looking forward to it. I mean, everything he has done to me so
far has been a turn-on. But I'm a little nervous now, the way he's
been acting. Usually there are hints that he's just kidding. Well, not
kidding, exactly, but playing a role. Not any more, though. He told me
to follow him out to the living room, where he made me pull back the
rug and give him the three hacksaw blades. He took them, then locked
me in my room.
     At bedtime he came back and told me to use the bathroom. Then he
relocked my chain, pulling it up so tight in back that he had eight
links left over beyond the lock. It was compressed tightly --not quite
painfully but certainly uncomfortably--between my labia, forcing them
apart and pushing them to the sides. The chain was held taut and
rigidly in the crevice of my behind; I could feel it against the hip
bones at my waist, it was pulling down so hard on them. I couldn't
even get a finger under it very easily in places. He locked another
length of chain to the leftover loose links at the center of my back
and with another lock, attached a some heavy weights from his weight
bench. A ball and chain. He left me that way all night. I barely
slept. I wonder if he really thinks I trust him so little I have to
keep hacksaw blades around. That's really not the reason.
     This morning he loosened the chain, but left the weights on. At
least I can move around, but I have to carry the weight with me
wherever I go. I haven't heard the last of this. He didn't say a word
to me this morning. I'll keep working on the body suit. All that is
left is the hood and the zippers at the neck. It's not going to be
easy working around my chains. I can put the bodysuit on over them,
but the chain will have to protrude from the neckline while I am
trying it on. Before he proofed the last entry I had asked if I could
make an exotic dancer's outfit. He said yes, but I don't have all I
need to finish it. At least I'll get started. Maybe he'll be pleased
if I dance well for him.
     Sorry if this is disjointed, but I'm a little preoccupied. I
don't know what he's going to do to me, but the tight chain isn't the
last of it.


The List
     Column 1
       Item 10

     Friday afternoon. Well, I knew he'd do something; now I'm a
platinum blonde. How's that for an opener? I don't believe I let this
happen. It's really my fault. I did it to myself.
     I objected, sort of. Well, I begged him not to make me do it. I
could have just put my foot down, and said no, but it would have
ruined everything. I knew deep down it was fruitless to try and change
his mind. Somehow, he persuaded me to go through with it. Besides,
it's an interesting change. I look really different.
     Changing my hair color is on the List, after all, and J is right
when he says that I can always dye it back. I guess I was mostly
worried about getting a job, which I'll have to do fairly soon.
Platinum blonde hair is not the conservative kind of image a nurse
should project. Would you let Madonna inject anything into your
bloodstream? Don't answer that. You probably would.
     I think patients feel more comfortable trusting their lives to
Florence Nightingale. Not that I look remotely like Madonna, but if it
weren't for having to get a job, it actually looks pretty good. Still
bushy, though. It's not the total disaster I thought it would be. My
hair is frizzy enough without being weakened by bleaching, though. Now
it's even frizzier.
     I thought at first that having my hair bleached was my punishment
for buying the hacksaw blades, but now that I think about it, it
couldn't have been, since J had made the appointment well ahead of
time, which means he had planned this--maybe from the beginning. He
told me that I might have to convince the hairdresser to make me a
blonde, since it was a big change, so I actually had to cooperate in
doing this to myself. I had agreed to it as part of the List, and he
has always been very persuasive, so I agreed to go along with it
(secretly, I've always wanted to try being a blonde, although not
necessarily a platinum blonde).
     As it turns out, it was a kind of avant garde place where all the
hairdressers are punk. The guy didn't even blink an eye when I told
him what I wanted. He would have given me a purple mohawk if I had
asked. They had scheduled nearly the whole morning for it when J
called, and it took that long to do. J had me go without my contact
lenses, and he told me not to look in the mirror while the hairdresser
worked, but I couldn't help it. I had to look when he asked me how I
liked it. So I had an out-of-focus glance at myself, but that's all.
     When we got home, the first thing he did was to pull out more
chains and small locks. The chains aren't particularly heavy--not like
the dramatic clanking iron ones you find in dungeons in the
movies--but there are no seams in the links and they are plenty strong
enough. I've tried to break them. And I am positively festooned with
chains. First he put real handcuffs on my wrists, but joined by a one-
foot length of chain with a ring in the middle. Then "handcuffs" (I
guess they are leg irons) on my ankles, joined by a slightly longer
chain. A length of chain joined the ring between my wrists to the
chain joining my leg irons, but it passed through a ring on the
waistband padlock of my ever-present chain g-string. I can take short
steps, and since the chain slides through the loose ring at my waist,
I can lift my hands as far as my face if I'm not walking. By crouching
I will be able to wash my hair. I don't know how long I'll have to
stay like this. The various cuffs chafe if I move around too much and
it's boring, sometimes, being in the house alone during the day.
     But other times my nipples go erect while I'm hobbling around the
place and I think about him coming home and I wonder what he's got
planned for the evening.
     He had taken time off from work for the hairdresser's appointment
and chaining me after. After putting these chains on, he left me like
this and went back to work. It's slow going, typing with chains
hanging from my wrists. I make a lot of mistakes, and it rattles
against the printer under the table. Before he left, he said that
neither the bleaching nor the chains were my punishment for the
hacksaw blade episode. They were just preventative. The punishment is
still to come. I can't even really practice my exotic dance routine in
this getup. At least I can sew and read.
     I can't see myself going to the exercise spa anytime soon, even
without the chains. I've gotten to know a few people there on a casual
basis, but not so casual that I could show up with platinum blonde
hair and not raise eyebrows. I know, Madonna has platinum blonde hair,
so what's the big problem anyway? What's so special about that look?
She puts her cones on one at a time just like the rest of us, right? I
don't know. I guess I'm just not Madonna. Maybe I could have gone out,
but I didn't get the chance, really. I certainly couldn't go out now.

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist06.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List -  6 of 20


The List
     Column 1
       Item 11

     It has been a long time since my last entry. I hope I can remem-
ber it all. I'm not even sure what day it is. I'm way behind in
keeping this up to date, but I was busy during the week that J had
off. Really busy. I don't believe what he's done to me. All in good
time.
     When J came home last Friday, he wanted to talk. It would have
looked to anyone like a typical casual evening at home for an average
couple, except that I was wearing nothing but chains and had to take
short little steps to keep up with him. And of course I was a platinum
blonde with no pubic hair. He told me to fix drinks for us and to
follow him into the yard. He was sitting on a low brick retaining wall
by the garden; I joined him and we chatted. I crossed my legs and
sipped my drink as though I were at a cocktail party. The air was
still warm, even though it was near sunset in March; Spring smells and
gentle breezes. I could really love the South. For some reason I felt
perfectly safe being nude outdoors; I guess it is the feeling of
isolation, being surrounded by the woods. It also helps to have J
there. All this notwithstanding, feeling safe isn't the same as
feeling relaxed: I was not completely at ease having a relaxed conver-
sation under these circumstances. Besides, the bricks were cold and
gritty. And an ant bit me.
     The conversation opened with inconsequential remarks like "How
was your day?" and "The breezes are beautiful after winter," and "Have
you finished the harem outfit?" My God, I thought, we're talking about
the weather and I have to lift both hands to sip my vodka and orange
juice because they are chained together.
     "You are beautiful, you know," he says out of the blue. He
doesn't talk much at all, and as a rule he says even less about my
appearance. "Really beautiful. Have you looked at yourself in the
mirror lately?"
     Of course I had, continuously. I had changed my makeup twice that
day. I look like a different person, and I'm still getting used to it.
I do like my eyebrows thin, though. I shaped them into high arches
like the show girls of the 1920's. They look kind of artificial, I
know, but still I like them. And my nipples. I have really become
proud of them. I want to show them off, at least in private and for J.
That sounds like an oxymoron, I know, like "locally famous", but
showing off in private is all I could handle comfortably. I am nearly
convinced, though, that J really does like my body. All of it, even my
nipples. Maybe especially my nipples. Actually, I have a pretty good
body. It's just the nipples. Of course my hair is a trip: a fluffy
platinum blonde near-afro. The color looks intensely artificial, too,
but for some reason the artificiality is a turn-on for me, like badge
that I wear that says to J, "See what I will do for you." And to
others, "See what I will do for him. I'm his. Nyah, nyah, nyah."
Although only a few strangers saw me that way. More on that later.
     My entire appearance is a constant symbolic reminder of the fact
that he has done something to me, put his stamp of ownership on me,
and that I like--want--to be owned this way. I would call it a kind of
inverted (reverse? involuted?) "pride of ownership", but it is not a
pride that I can yet show comfortably in public. I would be embar-
rassed; but even that potential public embarrassment is a gift, a
symbolic measure of what I will do for him. I guess that is what he
meant when he asked for my embarrassment as a gift.
     I think too much about this stuff. I can barely go into public as
it is, and not at all in these chains. Again, why should you be
embarrassed, you say? I think it's because I know what's going on, why
I look the way I do, even though people on the outside wouldn't know.
     Or it could be because I'm from Indiana, where they secretly
don't even approve of natural blondes. And I nearly look like an
albino.
     Why should I even care if someone else knew? The idea of other
people--people I don't know--reacting to the revelation that I am J's
willing slave is somehow exciting; I'll admit that much. But if anyone
I actually knew found out it would be awful. If a stranger knew, I
would be embarrassed too, but I could get into that kind of embarrass-
ment. Maybe.
     Anyway, he took special pains to tell me how beautiful he thought
I was--especially in chains. I go all squirmy sometimes. And I like
being constrained if it is by him; I'm not just writing that because
he'll read this either. There was genuine admiration and warmth in his
eyes when he spoke; I believed him, and, well, sometimes he just makes
me go all squirmy, that's all. The things he says. He told me he
wanted me to belong to him--even more than I already did. But he also
told me I hadn't paid for the hacksaw blades yet, and there was a
sudden remoteness in him then, a remoteness that made him hard to
read. A bit like a parent that I had disappointed but that still loved
me. There was something he wasn't telling me, though. I also think he
was a bit pleased I had broken the rules, too. I didn't know what to
expect as punishment.
     I wish to God I had known, but at the time I just felt a flush of
warmth and nervous anticipation at the implications of what he said.
Okay, so I'm a traitor to the midwest.... But if I had known. Jesus. I
still can't believe what he did to me.
     When he asked if my sewing was finished, I explained that I
needed a few things from the fabric store for the exotic dancer outfit
and a few hours work, but that I knew he would like it when I finished
it. The other, the bodysuit, was done and I would be glad to model it
for him. I was being as careful as I could to not remind him of the
hacksaw blades, but he was still holding himself distant. The warmth
left his eyes when he lapsed into his formal 'master mode' and said
"Stand up. This discussion is over. Step back, I want to look at you."
     And look at me he did. I stood in front of him, my chained wrists
hanging in front of my thighs. I have gotten used to these sudden
changes during our conversations, and have learned to change my
attitude and react instantly. His eyes travelled over my body, linger-
ing on my pierced nipples. I was wearing the tiny garnet pendants. My
nipples became erect as he looked; I embarrass so easily, even now.
But then embarrassment has become a sexual thing for me; somehow I
enjoy it. Perhaps enjoy is the wrong word, but if you don't understand
by now you might as well stop reading. I can't explain it any better
than I have.
     -*-
     Saturday morning we went to the fabric store. I literally haven't
left the house since (nearly a week, I think). Nor have I since had a
single moment when I wasn't hopelessly trapped by chains, those damned
little locks, etc. Not a single moment. Except for once, briefly.
     Since he gave me my car keys (did I tell you that? He has since
taken them away again. It's so hard to keep you consistently filled in
on the relevant stuff), I wore my exercise leotards nearly everywhere,
and I wore them that Saturday to the fabric store, except that he put
that ...device... inside me again, held in with the chain under my
shorts.
     He drove me to the store, and we went in together. I was so
embarrassed by the way I looked that I wore sunglasses as a disguise.
Stupid, I know, but I felt protected by them, somehow. I had to walk
slowly, like an invalid, and it was almost impossible for me to
concentrate on buying the elastic and stuff that I needed. I had to
pretend I was dawdling along, looking at everything on display so that
no-one would notice how slowly I had to walk. I stupidly asked the
shop assistant to help me find what I needed, and she went dashing off
to some far corner to find it. When she came back she must have been
wondering why I was tottering after her like an old woman.
     "Where did you go?" she says, "I thought you were right behind
me."
     "Uh," I quipped. We hoosiers are widely known for our rapier
wits.
     It was bad enough having platinum blonde hair. I felt like
everyone was looking at me. Of course they weren't, but I still don't
know if they were just being polite. Especially the shop assistant. I
think she suspected that maybe I had forgotten to take my medication
or something. Finally, I had what I needed, and we left.
     I thought we would go home then, but he made me sit through lunch
at a yuppie health food brass-and-fern-bar. Sit is the operative word.
Over lunch he told me my chain was coming off soon, for good. My
feelings were mixed. At that particular moment I would have been glad
to get it off for even a few minutes, but permanently? Did that mean J
was ending our relationship? Over the hacksaw blades? I asked him. He
didn't answer, he just smiled in a way that said "Of course not,
silly."
     When we got home, he cuffed my hands in front of me and had me
lie down on the bed while he cut the chain from my waist. Slowly, he
removed the device that was inside me. He told me to run a shower.
     In the shower, he washed me all over, my hair, everywhere. His
fingers probed everywhere, slithering into every crevice. I got
extremely turned on within minutes, and pressed against him, sending
body-language signals at every opportunity. He rinsed me and went over
me again with the conditioner. I don't think I'll ever be able to
smell that conditioner (even unscented, it has a smell) without
getting a little turned on. If you'll forgive the pun, I guess I was
being conditioned. Sorry. Does the name Pavlov ring a bell? Sorry,
sorry.
     He deliberately excited me as much as is possible short of
orgasm. He inserted his fingers into both my openings at once, stimu-
lating until my legs gave out and I sank to my knees. He supported me
and sank to the floor with me. When I say I was gasping, it sounds
like cheap pornography, but I was--and rather theatrically, too. Still
he continued, and I collapsed back, sitting on my heels, my pelvis
squirming against his probing hands. I wanted him inside me so much.
     "Do you want me to beg?" I said, "I will if you want...." No
answer. "Please stop. I can't stand any more!" No answer. He contin-
ued. Soon I was making animal noises as I pushed against his hands,
grasping with both orifices at once. I began to shudder into my first
orgasm and suddenly he stopped. My hands went to my front to finish
the job, but he caught the chain between the cuffs and held them away.
I was squirming and twisting, rubbing my legs together to no avail. He
stood, holding the chain at my wrists, and pulled me to my feet. He
led me into the bedroom, leaving the shower running, and locked my
handcuffs to a chain attached to one of those overhead rings. My hands
hung loosely just above my head.
     He turned off the shower and began to dry me with a hair dryer,
pausing to kiss, caress, and otherwise tease me with his fingers.
Under the hair dryer, my hair frizzed into an total mess, while I
continued to squirm, trying to masturbate myself with my thighs. It
doesn't work, no matter how motivated you are. I was motivated.
     He reached into the trunk and pulled out the boots I had tried on
in San Francisco. They came up to my knees, and were the tight black
leather ones with zippers on the sides and four inch stiletto heels. I
remember they were enormously expensive, but then we're not starving
graduate students anymore, so why not indulge? He put them on me,
pausing between boots to caress me again, keeping me at the edge.
After he zipped the boots, under each instep he passed a small chrome
chain, crossing it over the top of my foot and pulling it behind my
ankle, where he yanked it snug and padlocked it. Those boots weren't
coming off without the key.
     He freed my wrists from the overhead chain, leaving the cuffs on,
and put my hands behind my head. With my arms in this position, elbows
bent as much as they would, he passed electrician's black plastic tape
around and around my bent arms, binding my wrists to my upper arms so
I couldn't straighten my elbows at all. He took off the cuffs then,
but I could touch only the lower part of my face and head and my
breasts. He pushed me back onto the bed and, one at a time, he did the
same thing to my ankles, bundling them against my upper thighs so my
heels were held tight against my buttocks. I couldn't straighten my
legs or my arms. I suppose I could have crawled with difficulty on my
elbows and knees, but I would have had problems even getting off the
bed without falling.
     He continued to stimulate me. I was frantic, panting and begging
for release. He rolled me over and lifted me to my knees, letting me
sit back on my heels, legs spread, while he continued to stimulate me.
I would have had difficulty coming with my legs bound like that, even
if he had been trying to bring me to a full orgasm, which he wasn't.
He was just teasing. He went to the garage, leaving me kneeling on the
bed and panting with need again but unable to satisfy myself. I
actually tried masturbating with my elbow. Almost got off, too.
     When he came back he was carrying what looked like a full-size
model of my torso. It was (is) made of polished black fiberglass. He
has done body work on his own cars (he even built his own kayak), and
had used the same techniques to make a mold from the plaster cast he
had of my body. It is actually quite beautifully made. Almost a work
of art. It is shaped a bit like a thong-bottomed turtle-necked sleeve-
less leotard except it is smooth and polished (inside and out) with
steel rings hanging from it in various places and lockable latches all
around the edges, under the crotch, everywhere, holding together the
two halves, front and back.
     I was still practically vibrating from the earlier stimulation
and wondered if this contraption was somehow designed to give me
release since I couldn't.
     He leaned the body suit(?)--I don't really know what to call
it--against the mirror in front of me at the foot of the bed. It isn't
an exact model of me: the stomach muscles have more of a washboard
appearance than my own. The nipples aren't inverted--quite spectacu-
larly the opposite: they are sculpted to look erect and tumescent. It
is an idealized torso, like the ancient Roman armor you see in the
movies, but female. The inside is shaped exactly like me.
     He unlatched it and fitted the front half against me, moving it
about until my breasts slipped into the cavities in the front. I had
to straighten my posture, spread my legs, and lift my chin over the
high collar. It was especially tight in the waist and crotch. Although
my thighs are naturally wide-set, the piece that goes between my legs
is too wide to fit comfortably; and when he fitted the back on, it was
far too tight between my buttocks. I had to squirm and draw in my
stomach and wiggle to avoid being pinched in several places and he
even had to use conditioner as a lubricant in spots to slip it shut. I
almost didn't fit into it; he barely got the latches to shut without
pinching me. After my upper body was encased in this hard black
plastic shell, he snapped those tiny padlocks at every latch.
     He cut the black tape and freed my arms and legs. It actually
hurt to straighten my legs after having them cramped in that position
for so long. Electrician's tape doesn't hurt to pull off, though. He
threw my wrist cuffs on the bed with two padlocks and told me to put
them on. He left the room without checking to see whether I obeyed.
     Jesus. It took me a minute just to figure out how to sit up. You
have no idea how awkward it is to try to do simple things like get out
of a bed and walk when you can't bend your back or even turn your head
much. The collar of this thing (he wanted me to be wearing it while I
typed this part, so I am) is so high that I can't look up or down, I
can only turn a little to the side. I'm looking down my nose now, just
to see the monitor.
     I teetered to the mirror on the four inch heels. I have small
feet, and four inches puts me very nearly on tiptoes. Strangely enough
I thought I was beautiful. In a campy Barbarellaesque sort of way. The
sleek black plastic is highly polished, and shaped to flatter my every
curve. My face was flushed with the stimulation and excitement of a
near-orgasm. I was still extremely aroused, and seeing myself in the
mirror made me more so. The high, almost orthopedic collar held my
chin tilted into the air in a kind of regal but unnatural posture. My
hair was a huge white curly cloud around my head and behind the black
collar. It held me in tightly at the hipline, pressing against me just
above my hips and compressing my waist, a bit like a corset. It
pinched a bit until I had moved and wriggled about a bit and settled
into it. It never actually got comfortable, though.
     As I have already said, my legs are wide-set, so there is a space
between them as I stand naturally, unless I squeeze them together. The
plastic between my legs widens and accentuates that space unnaturally,
almost grotesquely; a small padlock dangles in the gap.
     I felt round the rim of the torso. I could (can) just barely get
my fingers under it at the crotch, but not enough to touch myself
there. With my hands, I felt my buttocks bulging on either side of the
crotch piece in back. Heels clicking on the tile, I teetered to the
bathroom and got the hand mirror to look over my shoulder. My buttocks
were separated and pushed far apart by the black plastic. In fact,
they are made to positively bulge out, even though I don't have a
large behind, I am squeezed so tightly by it. I haven't decided if
that is attractive or not. The crotch strap is wide and it presses
very deeply into my rear cleft. J likes it, though. He tells me I am
thoroughly stunning all over, and getting more so at every step. He
says this even after what he did to me later in the week. Jesus. Just
thinking about it makes me feel ... oh hell. I feel like I should just
cut to the chase and tell you what he did to me. Later. First things
first. I'm not sure I can even write about it yet. On with the show. I
want to finish this part so I can take off the torso thing.
     Before going out to him, I put on my makeup. I can sit at the
vanity, but sitting is not comfortable in this thing. In fact nothing
is comfortable in this thing. It pinches now and then, and constrains
always. The worst part, other than being unable to touch my own body,
and having to wait to pee, is not being able to turn my head or bend
my back. It's not easy to keep my balance. I have posture worthy of a
queen, though.
     He was seated in his armchair by the empty fireplace as I came
out of the bedroom; he looked at me appreciatively, and nodded slowly
to himself as though he were satisfied with what he saw. I didn't say
anything, just stood at the end of the hallway and tried to sense what
he wanted. I sometimes feel like a small and vulnerable nocturnal
animal that relies on subtle smells and tiny night noises for surviv-
al. At that moment, all my antennae were out and testing the air.
     Hoping my instincts were right, I turned slowly, holding my arms
away from my sides so he could see all of me. The scrape of shoes on
the tile floor echoed in the near-empty room. I paused when I had my
back turned, and after a moment ran my hands over the exposed parts of
my buttocks where they bulged, compressed by the fiberglass carapace.
I was feeling extremely sexy, and hoped I looked as seductive as I
felt (I still wasn't sure about the back view). Goose flesh rose where
I touched myself.
     I sensed him close behind me. He took my hands and held them by
my sides, leaning over my shoulder to whisper in my ear, "Touching
like that is my prerogative. Remember you are my property." He didn't
want me to touch myself, although I could tell by the suppressed
emotion in his voice that he was turned on by what I had done.
     I let him unlock the leather cuffs on my wrists. He relocked them
to a ring set in the center of my back between my shoulder blades. He
turned me around and kissed me deeply and tenderly, hands exploring my
buttocks, the only exposed part of me that even remotely resembled an
erogenous zone. I trembled; it had been only minutes since he'd had me
on the edge of an orgasm. It takes me a long time to cool down when I
am that close. I felt shaky, swollen, engorged, oversensitive, and
tender--almost bruised--and frustrated.
     He sat back down. Still trying to sense his mood, I walked over
to him and, with serious difficulty, tried to kneel on one knee in
front of him. I ended up doing a clumsy curtsey and he had to catch me
when I fell against him. He asked what it was I wanted, as if he
didn't know. I thought to myself that the one thing I wanted was to
have him inside of me. But he obviously knew that.
     "Would you like me to try on the black lycra bodysuit for you?
It's finished, hood and all," I said, thinking that the first step to
orgasm would be to get out of this torso. No matter how sexy it looks,
it is ultimately erotic only for the observer, not for the wearer.
Thinking objectively, almost everything else he has done to me is more
erotic than wearing this damn thing. But it does look sexy. And for
short periods it feels sexy. Sometimes. Like now. A moment ago I was
just miserable, and I will be again. It comes and goes.
     But then I had to go to the bathroom. Not a sexy motive for
getting the thing off, but there it is. He made me wait, though. Not
that he was torturing me or anything, I just didn't tell him I had to
go. I think he just wanted to keep me on the edge a little longer. He
helped me teeter out to the garage, gently holding my upper arm and
guiding me as though he were politely ushering me into a posh restau-
rant (that image flashed through my mind for some reason)--except that
my wrists were pinioned in the center of my back and my posture was
unnaturally perfect. And of course I wasn't exactly dressed for formal
dining. I had to roll my eyes and turn my entire torso to the side
just to watch him as we walked side by side.
     Standing on the workbench in the garage was a white plaster model
of my body. He told me how he made the fiberglass torso. I think he
enjoyed explaining the technical details. He had waxed the interior of
the two halves of the mold he made of my body, reassembled them, and
filled them with plaster, leaving a core of styrofoam to save weight
and plaster. After it hardened, he broke away the outer mold and
discarded it (I had thought those discarded pieces meant the project
was a failure).
     The remaining torso was an exact copy of my body. He sculpted
away parts of the plaster to shape the interior (that's why it is
smaller in the waist and crotch than an exact cast would have been)
judging how much he could remove by the fit of the tight leather g-
string (g-strap?) when he put it on and pulled it so tight in back.
Remember that? He just sculpted the lower part of the plaster torso
until the leather fit it. Later, he knew the torso would compress me
the same way.
     I really had to pee.
     He went on and on explaining how he had sanded it smooth and
sealed the pores in the plaster so he could build up something called
a gel coat, blah, blah, blah. Whoopie, I thought. Three layers of
epoxy-impregnated fiberglass with the latches and d-rings and steel
reinforcing imbedded, and he could cut it off and shape the edges by
adding an interlocking flange. Swell. I still had to pee. Several
additional finish coats on the outside with sanding between, polish-
ing, and I still had to pee.
     Frankly, I think it was too much work for what you get. I may
have missed some steps: my mind was on my bladder, and my attention
had wandered to the other object in the room, still covered with a
sheet.
     "You'll learn about that some other time," he said. He led me
back to the house. "Besides, it's time to finish you off," he said.
"This is really for later," he said, tapping one plastic-coated
breast, "think of this as the first fitting." As we went back to the
house, he commented that he was going to save the plaster cast of me.
He had more ideas for it. Hmmm.
     So anyway, he led me into the bedroom again, unlocked my arms and
taped them the same as before. I finally had to tell him before he
taped my legs that I HAD to pee. He unlatched the torso, telling me
that he's not into that particular form of torture, and that I should
have told him sooner. But he left my arms taped, and I couldn't wipe
myself. He knew that, and when I was through he came in and did it for
me. Slowly. It was demeaning and I looked away while he did it, but I
think it put my attention back where he wanted it.
     He led me to the bed and taped my legs. Once again, I was help-
less: I could straighten neither arms nor legs. He stripped off his
clothes as I watched, and got into bed beside me. Stroking and teas-
ing, he brought me to a near climax again, but again my inability to
straighten my legs held me back. I was groaning and pleading for him
to cut my legs free, but he wouldn't. Finally, kneeling between my
legs, he spread my upraised knees and slowly, with maddeningly great
control, penetrated me. Within moments I was flapping my pathetic,
folded up limbs and crying in frustration. He began thrusting quickly
and powerfully. At that rate it would normally have been a quickie for
him and left me twisting in the wind, but I was so close to climaxing
that he drove me over the edge. My dam burst, releasing a full day's
worth of pent-up sexual frustration. I made pitiful efforts to grasp
and hold him with my bound arms and legs, but it was hopeless. My
pelvis contract and spasmed of its own accord. I was ready for more:
at least two more orgasms were waiting in there somewhere, and he knew
it. But he didn't let me have them. Just almost.
     He left me there, twitching and moaning, and got a damp towel to
clean me with. Tenderly (he is so gentle afterward) he lifted me to my
knees and damp-towelled my still-vibrating body, soothing me into a
marginally relaxed state as you might an excited horse. But my frus-
tration wasn't at an end.
     He slathered my torso, neck to crotch, with conditioner. I
thought he was going to make love to me again--I was sure (knowing
what I know now, I'm absolutely sure) he would have been able to--but
just as I was getting excited he put the plastic carapace back on me.
I whimpered in frustration when I saw what he was going to do, and
begged him not to put it on, but he didn't listen.
     I had to cook dinner that way, marinating in gooey body condi-
tioner inside this damned plastic torso and feeling extremely...
ready.
     All during the romantic candle lit dinner that followed, he
ignored my rather eloquent body language--body language that, if it
were braille, a one-armed blind man in a dark room could have read
through a concrete wall. I was reduced to squirming in my seat, (the
padlock between my legs gouged the wood--the torso sits directly on
it) stroking my encased body sensuously (but pointlessly: as though I
could feel it through the plastic) and casting what I hoped were
smoldering, lust-filled looks his way. I could see I was having some
kind of effect, and I hammed it up a bit. I know he was aware that I
was excruciatingly horny, (I was only half kidding when I was hamming
it up) but he just ate his dinner as though we were in a formal
restaurant. He kept up a cheery but subdued banter, refilling my wine
glass, deflecting my heavy-handed innuendos and turning them into
jokes. He seems to delight in the incongruity of putting me in an
outrageous predicament under the most ordinary of circumstances.
     He kept me "conditioning" in the torso all that evening, finally
releasing me just before bed. He watched me dry off with a towel and,
after I had one last pee, cuffed my hands together and chained them to
my neck up under my chin so I couldn't reach my sex to masturbate.
Just to make sure, he made me sleep next to him in his bed for the
first time since I had arrived.

     The next morning I woke still horny. No relief, though. I usually
wake up feeling sexy anyway. I guess I've conditioned myself to feel
sexy in the morning: I like to fantasize when I'm half-awake. J often
wakes up horny, too, but I think that's more common in men. He thinks
it is caused by a full bladder pushing against his prostate. He also
tells me he can't urinate with an erection, which makes a lot of sense
biologically. I've never worked for a urologist, but I'd be interested
to know: When a man wakes up with a full bladder and an erection, how
the hell does he solve this problem? Can't piss until the erection
goes away, erection won't go away until the bladder is empty.... J
says the erection just goes away if he doesn't use it for anything.
Which of course he does, now and then.
     Anyway, he kept strict control over me until breakfast was over.
Then, after admonishing me not to touch myself below the waist at all,
he went out to the garage. By then I was out of the mood anyway. I
went back to finishing the harem/slave girl outfit while he fiddled
around in the garage.
     Are all men hobbyists? Jeez. Couldn't he have worked on me a
little? Even in the garage?
     Of course, I was chained, wrists and ankles connected as before,
like those convicts you see being led out of courtrooms on the news
but with a little more freedom of movement. I actually hurried the
costume in the hope that I would have time to impress him with my
dance routine before he decided to punish me for the hacksaw incident.
No such luck. After lunch he told me my punishment would begin that
day.
     I'm still not over the shock. No kidding. Look: I'm not a racon-
teur; I'm not a writer; this isn't literature. So far I've tried to
make this more than a "What I Did on my Summer Vacation". Call it
"attempted literature"; I'll be the first to admit my success has been
limited. Partly because I was constrained to tell it as it happened,
and it didn't happen in a way convenient for fiction. I've romanti-
cized. I've glossed over the boring parts. Sometimes my inept attempts
to be a writer have gotten in the way of even basic communication.
     BUT. I have NOT gotten over what comes next. It may come out a
bit muddled. I still feel bitter about it. I alternate between anger,
frustration, horniness, and a feeling of "What in God's name have I
gotten myself into?" Several times I have stopped typing just to go
and look in the mirror and I don't believe it. But it is right there
on the List. I don't know how I could have been so God. Damned.
Stupid.
     Okay, here goes.


The List
     Column 1
       Item 12

     Late that afternoon he took off all the chains. He told me to put
on the black bodysuit and bring the hood to his bedroom. I had looked
at myself many times in the mirror while making the suit. It shows off
my figure well, especially my breasts, although it changes their shape
by making them unnaturally pointy. And it is TIGHT. So tight there
isn't a wrinkle or fold anywhere in the material. It pulls up into my
crotch quite uncomfortably. Exactly what he wanted.
     He had me take out my contact lenses, too, and put on the stilet-
to boots again, with the chains that hold them on. And my wrist cuffs.
He had me bend over and hang my hair down into the hood while he
pulled it on over my head and zipped it from my chin to the base of my
throat. He zipped the hood to the collar, too. I was completely
enclosed in the suit. I could breathe and speak, but I couldn't see a
thing. Of course I know what it looks like, since I had tried it on
before sewing up the eye holes. I will leave it to your imagination.
     He had me stand. I was disoriented, on four inch heels and unable
to see, but he rectified my inability to balance by chaining my wrists
overhead at the foot of the bed and my ankles apart at the ends of a
three-foot pole, a spreader bar, if my understanding of ASBese is
accurate.
     Although spread-eagled, I could stand fairly easily, even on four
inch heels. I wasn't hanging by my wrists or anything drastic like
that; in fact, I might have fallen if my wrists hadn't been chained
above my head. He left me standing there for a moment while he left
the room. I didn't know it at that particular moment, but shortly I
would learn that he had gotten his heavy oak armchair and put it in
the bathroom.
     God, I still can't BELIEVE what he's done to me, even now, a week
later. And that morning was only the beginning. But one thing at a
time. I have to tell it as it happened.
     He unzipped the front of the bodysuit then, from neck to crotch
and up to my lower back. His hands were inside the suit, stroking me,
arousing me. I couldn't see what he would do next, but I was listening
intently for any clue. I was still on edge from the previous night's
unresolved teasing. He stood beside me. I felt chilly and exposed
where the zipper was undone, and I felt the lubricated fingers of one
hand working into my rear portal while his other hand stimulated my
front. First one finger, then two went in, loosening me for three. I
tried to relax and help him. Usually, being nervous is a hindrance,
but this time it made me wet in seconds, very ready, and very horny.
     Of course, I didn't know what was coming; so far it was just
another exciting and mysterious bit of bondage. I grasped and squeezed
with both openings, my thighs quivering with the tension and my hips
grinding in both directions at once. I guess gyrating is the word. A
few more minutes and he had me on the edge of an orgasm again, and he
stopped.
     I heard a buzzing noise. Then two buzzing noises. I could feel
vibration against both sides of me and knew instantly he had two
vibrators. I squirmed halfheartedly, and tried to clench both open-
ings, but I knew I couldn't have stopped him.
     [...and I didn't want to stop him, either, but was ashamed to
admit it ... Note from the Future]
     He continued to penetrate me from both sides at once, until both
vibrators were buried deep inside me. Each of them had some kind of
stop or flange on the end to prevent them from disappearing completely
inside, but he pushed until they were pressed tight against me. I
thought he was going to use them to bring me to orgasm, but instead,
he held them in me with one hand while he zipped the body suit back up
my front to my chin.
     He put the plastic torso over the bodysuit. I had to wiggle and
squirm again to keep from being pinched. He latched it into place, and
I heard the familiar rattle of tiny locks. I was getting frantic. The
bodysuit gave me something to thrust against, but the critical vibra-
tor, the front one, wouldn't touch the right spot no matter how I
squirmed. I was being stimulated constantly, but the vibrators could-
n't make me climax. Sometimes, I could make it touch my nasty bits,
but the vibrators buzzed against the fiberglass like a sounding board.
I know he could hear what I was doing.
     Dimly I became aware that he was unlocking my legs. I could bring
them together as much as the torso would allow, but it really didn't
help. Then he freed my arms. I nearly fell, but he was ready and
caught me and half-carried me into the bathroom where he sat me on the
armchair. I helped ease myself down onto the seat, supporting myself
by my arms while I tried to settle onto that rear vibrator, not
knowing what was going on.
     By the time I was able to sit I was distantly, through the haze
of the building stimulation, aware of him working at my wrists with
tape (more electrician's tape), wrapping around and around both my
wrists and the chair arms. The same with my elbows, my upper arms,
everything. My ankles and my shins were taped to the legs of the
chair, a chain locked to both sides of the chair and to the rings on
the torso. Something--a belt I think--went around my thighs and the
seat of the chair. I was frantic over the vibrators, and almost
unaware of what he was doing. I had to partly lift myself with my arms
to keep the rear vibrator from becoming uncomfortable, but at the same
time I was squirming against the front of the carapace with my sex. He
must have worked very quickly. I was completely immobilized in what
must have been less than two minutes. The torso kept me from even
turning my head. But I was rubbing myself harder and harder against
the inside of the torso.
     Off came the hood. I was strapped into the chair, sitting looking
at my out-of focus reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of
the bathroom door. He stepped in front of me. He was holding the gag.
THAT gag. It barely registered, I was so disoriented. I rolled my eyes
up at him, tilting my head as much as I could. I was panting, my
breath coming in short gasps, my face flushed.
     "Wha- What are you doing to me?" I asked, trying to gather my
wits. I was becoming more disoriented as the sensations continued to
build inside me; without my contact lenses the room looked fuzzy and I
felt like I was under water, everything moving in slow motion, but
still out of control. He held the gag against my mouth, saying noth-
ing. I couldn't think. I just opened up and he put it in. He didn't
even bother to buckle it in back. He stepped to the side, revealing my
reflection: eyes wild and wide over a mouth held open by the gag in a
soundless scream, face framed by a white mane-cloud of platinum hair.
     The rest of me was a study in textures and shades of black:
polished black plastic, black lycra, black leather boots, my upper
arms compressed by bands of black electrician's tape. Even my mascara
and eyeliner were black against my pale skin. Only my lips were red.
My chin was held high in that rigid, regal pose, my neck unnaturally
long. Black tape was around my plastic-encased neck, too, holding me
immobile against the top of the armchair's back.
     I was an absolute total knockout.
     A slight pulsating movement of my thighs and a slight straining
of my neck against the high collar and the occasional squeezing shut
or fluttering of my eyelids were the only outward signs of the tempest
raging inside the torso. And the puffing noises escaping around the
gag and through my nostrils.
     I rolled my eyes to follow his motions. I blinked and tried to
focus my myopic attention on him despite what the vibrators were doing
to me. I was starting to slide into an orgasm. He stepped behind me; I
could see him in the mirror. He smiled in a way that I can only
describe as compassionate, and fluffed my hair out with his hands like
a hairdresser might have, but he was looking straight into my eyes,
gauging how close to orgasm I was. He didn't say anything. He just
nodded to himself as though he had made a personal decision when he
saw I was ready. He should have said something. I had a right to some
explanation, some words, something. My orgasm started even as he was
making his decision.
     There was a pair of scissors in his hand.

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist07.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List -  7 of 20


The List
     Column 1
       Item 13

     Exactly in the middle of my orgasm he took a handful the hair on
my forehead and snipped it off. I screamed against the gag. He was
cutting my hair off!
     I strained against everything that was holding me. I heaved
against the chair, trying to tip it, the vibrators forgotten in my
fear, but I could barely move. I twisted frantically inside the torso,
my movements made uncoordinated and spasmodic by the ongoing orgasm. I
couldn't even stretch the tape. I could turn my head a few inches to
the side, but that was all. I tried to jerk my head away from his
hands, but he easily took another snip, again from my forehead. And
another. In my panic, I actually forgot about the gag and continued
futilely to scream at him to stop, even though I could hear I was just
making squealing noises. My heart was racing. How could he do this to
me? My orgasm wound down rapidly, leaving behind a near-hysteria. I
hadn't really meant this to happen. At all.
     He worked across my forehead, from my ears forward. I stopped
fighting it for a few breaths to try and catch his eye. If he could
just see the expression on my face, I thought, he would have to stop.
I looked at my forehead in the mirror and went back to futile hysteri-
cal struggling when I realized it was too late to stop him. My scalp
was showing through; for a distance of three or four inches back from
my hairline, my hair was less than a half-inch long. Over my entire
forehead, in a line from the fronts of my ears to the top of my head
in front, I had a crewcut.
     He stopped snipping and I tore my eyes from what he was doing
long enough to look at the rest of me in the mirror. I was crying.
Mascara streaks ran to my chin. Air was hissing through my nostrils
like a steam engine, cheeks puffing out, nostrils dilating; my nose
was running down to my lips and over the gag, mouth leaking saliva
that dripped on the black plastic neck and breasts of the torso. My
breath was ragged, my eyes red-rimmed and round. I was making little
whining noises through the corners of my mouth around the gag.
     He smeared shaving cream on my forehead --my new forehead-- and
began shaving me with a disposable razor. Funny, the scraping noise of
the razor was the only sound I could hear--even my labored breathing
faded into the background of my awareness.
     In shock, I thought, stupidly: "At least it isn't all of my
hair," as if it mattered. I can't go out in public the way I am now.
It will be months and months growing back. As the razor scraped over
my forehead, I became aware again of the vibrators inside me. It had
been less than ten minutes since he had put them in, but it seemed so
long ago I had nearly forgotten them. I shuddered involuntarily. They
didn't feel sexy any more. I just wanted them out. I didn't want
another orgasm. I just wanted it to stop, to be undone.
     He was through. He damp-wiped my forehead and face and fluffed
out what was left of my hair. Through a film of tears I could see a
totally different person. My forehead was incredibly, impossibly high.
Like those old portraits of Elizabeth I of England. My head was
completely bare in front of my ears.
     He removed my gag. I said nothing. There was nothing to say. It
was too late. I just stared at myself in the mirror, horrified and
quaking, a jumble of conflicting emotions and sensations. He must have
cut away the tape, but I just stared at myself, seeing nothing but my
forehead. He helped me to my feet and half-carried me to the bed,
where he tenderly took off the torso, unzipped the bodysuit, and
gently removed the vibrators. They were still going strong. I was in a
daze. I didn't even help him when he rolled me over to remove the
second vibrator. I don't think I even blinked.
     I felt ruined. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. The only thing I
could think about was my hair. Without the vibrators in me I continued
to experience a kind of visceral nervous tremor, like when you get off
a lawnmower or a tractor you have been riding all day. My body was
thrumming with the sudden absence of vibration. But that didn't
matter. Nothing did.
     "Look at me," he said. I couldn't. I just stared dully at the
ceiling, the bodysuit open, my feet in the boots hanging over the foot
of the bed. He sat on the bed beside me and turned my chin with his
hand. My eyes met his.
     "I love you," he said. Suddenly my emotions all boiled to the
surface.
     "My God!!! How could you do this to me!!?" I wailed, rolling over
and burying my face in the pillows. While I was face-down sobbing
hysterically, I felt his hand on my shoulder. "Don't!" I said, jerking
away as if I had been shocked. I rolled away from him to the side of
the bed and got up, unsteady on the hooker-heels with my legs still
strapped together.
     "Look at what you've done to me!!" I cried, dissolving into tears
again as I hobbled to the mirror and turned to face him, fists
clenched at my sides. He looked so dismayed at the vehemence of my
reaction, I realized he was expecting something completely different
from me.
     "You're beautiful to me. And I'm not going to apologize. I did it
because I love you and I am going to make you mine."
     Strange way of showing it, I thought.
     "I don't believe this is happening!"
     "I want to own you. Now I do, more than before. Try to understand
that I care more about you than anything else in the world. You are a
treasure to me." Right, I thought. Sure. His voice told me he was
beginning to worry that he had gone too far. Or too fast.
     "Yeah, well you just disfigured your treasure," I said bitterly,
turning away and looking in the mirror again. I was quite a sight:
with the unitard flopping open, I was a slash of white nakedness from
the crown of my head to my hairless sex.
     "No," he said quietly but forcefully. I have never heard him so
intense and adamant. "No..." he said again, gently, turning my face to
him and looking me in the eyes. "I stripped away more of your digni-
ty." Oh great, I thought. Now I get pop philosophy to make it all
better. As I said, I was feeling a little bitter.
     "Doing this makes it easier for you," he went on.
     "What the hell are you talking about?!"
     "Dignity and pride obscure our relationship and our sexuality the
way a fire is obscured by its own smoke. I didn't disfigure you. I
took away some dignity. To me you are more beautiful than ever,
because you are almost completely mine. If you want public dignity you
can go out in public with a wig. I even have one for you, but you will
wear it when I allow it. You will have no private dignity.
     "You are not disfigured. You are changed. It is important that
you understand .... "
     "I don't believe this," I interrupted. But he went on and on.
There was more, but he wasn't connecting with me. It sounded
rehearsed. I didn't even listen to most of it, and I wasn't buying it,
but on the other hand, now, I can see what he had intended, what he
wanted to happen.
     J has always preferred subtlety as a way of getting what he
wants. I know that shaving me doesn't sound subtle, but he would
prefer to give me the superficial appearance of freedom if there were
hidden chains holding me. Best would be no restraints other than my
own fear of embarrassment. Up to now I've had complete freedom to walk
around the house and yard, but total inability to go out in public,
whether it was chains, weights, lack of clothing, or the plastic torso
that kept me home. Now it is my appearance that chains me. In public,
my wig chains me, since he can always take it from me.
     While we lived in Chicago he studied martial arts. He drove an
extra hour every Tuesday night to study judo rather than take karate
within walking distance. He explained he prefers the "soft way" to
force. Somehow it is more satisfying, he says. He is strong enough to
overpower me easily, but he would prefer not to use strength and
chains except as a temporary technical means to an unfettered but
rigidly confined end. Invisible chains may or may not be the stron-
gest, but J thinks they are the best, for some reason.
     Even as I write this down, the words sound unconvincing, and at
the time I thought it was a line of bull. I'm still not sure. It was
definitely hard to take at face value. I thought he was merely justi-
fying what he had done, and that he had in fact done it simply in
order to exert control over me. A power trip.
     But in this regard he has always been something of a mystery to
me. He has been in a position to control other people a number of
times, [partial professional record deleted] but even then, whenever
possible without shirking his responsibilities, he refused to use the
authority inherent in his position. He is genuinely more interested in
personal self-understanding than in the public trappings of success.
His desire for control has always been directed toward himself. So his
desire to exert control over me has been a mystery. Unless he regards
me as so much a part of him that I fall into a different category than
the public. No, that's not it. I don't know.
     Anyway, his "will to power" (if you read your Nietzsche) is
inwardly directed. So calling this a "power trip" for him may be a
little unfair. Maybe.
     And of course it IS on the List. Still, this was one thing I just
didn't think he would do. When he suggested it I just laughed and
said, "Sure, if I can do the same to you." I was simply thinking of
this in a different way than he was. He actually intended to DO this
to me; but I, instead of thinking of something I really wanted (enough
to trade my hair for), I just thought of a fair retaliation for such a
terrible thing. I thought: He wouldn't do that to me because he
wouldn't want me to do it to him. The key point I had missed was this:
I didn't want to do this to him. But he did want to do it to me. Why?
Who knows?
     In the end I came to the conclusion that he might just mean what
he says. He always has in the past. And I like having him in control.
It makes me feel safe. But God. My hair! Even just this morning, a
week later, I don't know how many times I have thought to myself:
"What in God's name have I gotten myself into?!"
     I've been round and round with myself trying to figure out why he
would want to do such a thing, and I have no answer. The only thing I
am sure of is that there's a lot more psychology than philosophy
behind what he did. I just hope there's no pathology. I sometimes
think the inside of his mind must look like a painting by Heironymus
Bosch (for that matter, mine does, too). Why he did it wasn't upper-
most in my mind at the time, though. My hair was.
     In fact, at that particular moment I wasn't thinking about
anything, just feeling pretty goddamn miserable. Listlessly, I stared
at myself in the full length mirror. He stepped in front of me, still
holding the damp washcloth. Tenderly, he wiped a smudge of mascara
from below an eye and even kissed me.
     "You are beautiful," he said, "Half a century ago you would have
been a great beauty exactly as you are, so don't dismiss your appear-
ance just because it is different. If you can't see your beauty, then
see this as a new kind of nakedness: a new source of that embarrass-
ment that I value so much as a gift." I wanted so much to believe in
him, to believe he wasn't crazy. I just wasn't sure. How could he want
me like this? The only thing that really touched a part of me was the
idea that he wanted to make me his completely. He stepped aside and
let me look in the mirror.
     It was hard to look without bursting into tears again. I looked
at my feet in the boots, still chained. The chained wrists rested on
my thighs, hands trembling. He reached behind me and rezipped the
bodysuit, down my back and between my legs, up my front almost to the
top. There was a wet patch between my legs. My eyes followed the
zipper to my chin. I looked at my face again. It was genuinely shock-
ing to see myself that way. I couldn't help it. Tears flowed and ran
down my face again, and my lower lip began to quiver. A pathetic
specimen. I turned and looked up at his face. I saw admiration, love,
and concern there. I looked back at my shaved forehead. Back at his
face.
     "You can't.... I look so...." I said in a tiny voice. I wanted to
believe him so much, but when I looked in the mirror it was so awful.
He took me by the shoulders and turned me to face him.
     "Really," he said, looking straight into my eyes. "To me you are
beautiful, and not just because you are mine, but also because you are
just plain beautiful."
     I stood there, still in a daze, my eyes unfocused, my thoughts
turned inward. I just wanted reassurance. I wanted to be sure he
wasn't weird. At least not pathologically weird. I wanted to know he
loved me. I reached up and zipped the front of the bodysuit back down
to my waist. It took both hands with my thumbs inside the gloves.
     "Show me....?" I said, resentful and uncertain.
     He looked into my eyes and nodded.
     He picked me up, carried me back to the bed, and sat, holding me
in his lap. He took the key from around his neck and unlocked my
wrists and kissed each one. He stood me on my feet and knelt to unlock
the leg straps and the chains that held on the boots. When he stood
and kissed me again, I could feel a tremor of suppressed emotion in
his arms. He held me by the shoulders at arm's length and stepped
back, just looking at me. I was still ashamed and resentful and
wouldn't look up at him. It was approaching sunset and we hadn't
turned on any lights yet. The late afternoon sun slanted through the
windows, casting shifting leaf-shadows on the wall in the dim light.
It was very quiet.
     He held out the hood.
     I took it and put it on, bending to tuck the remainder of my hair
inside. At least the hood covers my forehead, I thought, and with it
on he couldn't cut off any more hair. But I still felt sick inside. A
wave of near-nausea swept over me whenever I thought about what he had
done to me.
     He zipped the bodysuit the rest of the way up, and zipped the
neck of the bodysuit to the neckline of the bodysuit. He knelt and
undid my boots; while I steadied myself on his shoulder he helped me
out of them. He stood and did something under my chin to the three
zippers where they came together. I could feel with my gloved finger-
tips that something joined the zipper of the bodysuit with the neck-
line zipper and the one that closed the hood under my chin. (That, I
realized, was why he had me get zippers with holes in them, so he
could join them somehow). I was enclosed completely except for my
nostrils, and I could do nothing to release myself without scissors.
The gloves were too clumsy to figure out what held the zippers togeth-
er (it wasn't a lock), and I didn't have to be a rocket scientist to
figure out that in the game of "find the scissors first", having to
use the thumbless braille method would not give me a very big advan-
tage. I didn't even try. I heard him sit on the bed and felt my way to
him.
     He kissed me through the bodysuit and said "I can give you what
you ask, but that doesn't mean I will relinquish control of you."
     He kissed me again, lingering over the mask between our lips. I
held my face blindly out toward his kisses. There were still tears
leaking out inside the hood. He stroked my body in a way that wasn't
exactly nonsexual, but wasn't foreplay either. We leaned on pillows
propped against the headboard, his arms around me. I felt safe,
protected. As we cuddled in the darkening room, I could tell his
attention was completely focused on me, and I felt as though I was
enfolded in the center of a private little world, like I was a little
kid again, sharing secrets under a blanket. Or an embryo in the womb.
But every time I began to relax I would think of my hair. It kept
coming back. He made me feel secure and safe, but it was always there
at the back of my mind that something was wrong, and back it would
come and I would feel sick all over again. I would think: "Why did it
have to be my hair?" And then I would start crying again under the
hood.
     "I think I'll keep you like this for a few hours. As a pet," he
whispered into my ear. As he stroked me through the lycra, his caress-
es became more overtly sexual. There is something especially sexy
about the way his fingernails slide over the fabric; when he strokes
my sex that way, sliding down my stomach to between my legs, I can't
help catching my breath. It's like the good part of being tickled
without the bad part that makes me laugh uncontrollably. It drives my
breath out and my stomach muscles contract involuntarily. But he
stopped.
     I couldn't read or watch T.V., it was too early to sleep, I
couldn't cook, eat, or even walk around very easily. There was nothing
I could do in that getup but try and seduce him into taking it off. So
what the hell, I tried. I could feel him getting hard as I rubbed my
body against him, and I was getting pretty steamy too. But I still
hadn't forgiven him. This was the only thing he had ever done to me
for which I felt resentment that lasted more than a few minutes. Up to
then, anyway.
     He pushed me back, and said, "I think I'll take a shower." He got
up and left me on the bed, and I heard the shower start running. I was
still turned on, and I knew he was, too. I felt my way into the
bathroom and sat on the closed seat of the john while he took his
shower. I had a plan: get the suit wet and he'll let me take it off to
dry it. I went and stood at the entrance to the shower.
     "Hi." he said.
     "The bodysuit needs washing here," I said, indicating my sex.
"And when I cried my nose ran inside this hood. Can I come in?"
     "Sure."
     He gave me the soap and I began washing, getting the bodysuit
thoroughly soaped and soaked. Thumbless, I had to hold it with both
hands. I switched to the shampoo. The hot water made the bodysuit
relax and stretch; it felt as though it were melting and loosening on
my body. In seconds it wasn't tight at all. Wet, it was a perfect and
comfortable fit. I must be a very sensual person, but despite my
abysmal mood I got a kind of erotic pleasure out of the feeling of the
wet bodysuit moving and relaxing against my skin as I stood soaking
under the shower. When I was through, I asked if I could still be his
"pet" without the bodysuit. He said no, and gave me a towel. I dried
myself as best I could, and he turned on the hair dryer for me to
finish after he left. It took forever to get dry. I had to hold it
with both hands again, and my hair was still wet under the hood when I
finished, but the bodysuit had become a perfect fit, exactly snug and
even all over.
     He had left me there alone in the bathroom, so I felt my way
through the bedroom and hall to the living room where I could hear him
moving about. Still unused to my hair, I wanted to get the bodysuit
off to look at myself again. I was fascinated and shocked by my
appearance, the same way I would have been had I seen an Elizabethan
hairstyle on someone else. Even more shocked, because it was on me. I
wanted to look and I didn't want to look. Fools and angels rushing in
and fearing to tread again.
     I wasn't in pain, though; the bodysuit isn't at all like the gag.
It's just disconcerting not to know anything that's going on. And
frankly, after a while, the enforced inactivity gets boring. I asked
if I could put on something else instead. He said no, but he'd think
about it.
     I didn't really feel desperate enough to beg; besides, I was
still resentful enough over what he had done to me that I wasn't going
to humiliate myself willingly. On the other hand, the only two things
I could do were listen to the headphones and snuggle with J, and I
couldn't find the headphones blindfolded. I must have been quite a
sight, creeping slowly around the house, holding onto furniture to
keep my balance and trying not to break anything while I felt for the
headphones. Finally, I tried stretching the hood until I could see
through a nostril hole. That was a mistake. He saw me.
     "I can see the hood isn't tight enough," he said. He went out to
the garage. When he came back he took me by the arm and led me into
the bedroom. He said "You are going to get what you asked for. The
body suit comes off."


The List
     Column 1
       Item 14

     He did something at my throat and unzipped the collar, separating
the hood from the bodysuit. He unzipped the bodysuit from my throat to
the center of my back and pulled it down to my ankles in one motion. I
was naked except for the hood. I felt him buckle something around my
upper thighs one at a time. Then my wrists; he locked my wrists to the
sides of my thighs. I know the sound those little locks make by now. I
would be able to walk, but I couldn't see and I couldn't reach any-
thing with my hands.
     I was already worse off than before--but he wasn't through. He
buckled a collar around my neck. He didn't bother to lock it: I
couldn't reach it. Another strap around each leg just above the knee,
those connected so I could take only tiny steps--another strap around
each ankle--still another at each elbow--yet another around my waist
with a wide strap between my legs, forcing my buttocks apart. I
remembered that one: he had put it on me once before. This time,
though, my elbows were locked to the waistband.
     A strap across my back, under each arm and over each shoulder,
holding my shoulders back and making my breasts jut out unnatural-
ly--more than they ever would have even if I were deliberately trying
to make them seem big. He snapped still another strap to the back of
my collar and buckled it to the back of my waistband, pulling it tight
and forcing me to arch my back even more.
     Strap after strap after strap, and I was constrained more and
more. The last clipped to my collar in front, passed between my
breasts and through a ring on my waistband, was pulled tight and
buckled, pressing the crotch cruelly against my labia, forcing them
apart. I almost couldn't move: I couldn't bend over; I couldn't move
my arms at all, even my elbows; I couldn't see. But I wasn't in pain.
Well, not exactly.
     I could walk slowly, talk, and sit. Carefully. I didn't even feel
safe walking. What if I had lost my balance? I asked just that ques-
tion and instantly he put a gag in my mouth, a simple cloth band tied
tightly right over the hood, forcing my mouth open. I had never felt
so trapped and constrained before. Even begging for a little relief
was impossible. But still, I was not in pain.
     Being locked up and helpless that way was actually extremely
erotic for me. It would have been more so if the image of my shaved
forehead hadn't continued to wash through my consciousness. Erotic
feelings in these circumstances are not something your average mid-
westerner will admit, I know. I remember thinking that if only he had
bound me this way instead of what he had done to my hair. Always my
thoughts returned to my hair. Whenever I thought directly about it my
mind shied away, but at the same time my thoughts were drawn toward my
forehead like a bird hypnotized by a snake (I know that is an old
wife's tale, but it describes what I felt). I still can't think
directly about the idea but neither can I ignore it. I am drawn
inexorably toward something I try desperately to avoid confronting. It
helps to write about it, I guess.
     Mostly, though, I concentrated on not losing my balance. If I had
fallen with my arms locked at my sides ....
     But J was watching over me. He guided me to the foot of the bed
and clipped the front of my collar to something hanging from the
ceiling--I couldn't tell what. If I bent my knees, my weight rested on
the crotch of my leather "g-string" rather than my neck. Even if I
fainted, I would not fall, could not hurt myself.
     All I could do was stand there.
     "When I come back, I will remove one restraint. Think about what
you will do to get me to remove the next," he said. He left me stand-
ing there in the bedroom for what seemed like hours; it may have been
only fifteen minutes. I heard him moving around in the kitchen, and I
thought. About basics. Is this weird? Yes. Did I still love him? Yes.
Did I care if he loved me? Yes. Did I want to end the List? Depends on
how bad it was going to get. On the cost of ending it. It couldn't get
any worse. There was nothing else he could do that mattered. I knew
what was on the List, and was sure none of it was worse than what he
had already done to my hair. As long as he stuck to the List.
     He had forced me to take this latest step, this hair thing. I was
gagged and couldn't speak to protest. I would have stopped the List
then if I could have. I really would have, even though I had agreed to
it. (I actually got an erotic charge out of the act of agreeing to it.
I was being daring and sexy when I should have been thinking with
something other than my glands.) After, it was too late. It isn't
completely my fault; there is some solace to be found in that. And how
was he to know that my written fantasies about him shaving me were
just fantasies? After all, I agreed to the List. But I was wrong in
one thing: it did get worse.
     The only conclusion I came to was that in the short term I
wouldn't think about it. I would go along with what he wanted, and
then I would take it from there. That meant the first step was to
please him, or at least make him believe I wanted to please him. Hell,
I didn't want to please him, I wanted him to own me. Double hell. I
don't know what I wanted.
     When he came back the first thing he did was not to remove a
restraint, but to kiss me right through the gag. Gently, he tugged on
the pendants dangling from my jutting breasts. I knew from personal
experimentation that my nipples readily everted, even though I could-
n't see what was going on. He tugged a little more. The feeling was
exquisite: intense pleasure coupled with a sensation of not-quite-
pain. They were still tender, but fully healed, I think. Before, I
would have said that pulling, even the gentlest pulling (he is gentle
when it's important) on my nipple rings would have been absolutely
verboten. Now, I'm not so sure.
     He increased the tension on my nipples until my breath quickened:
each sharp exhalation/inhalation was separated by a momentary pause, a
holding of my breath, a waiting, suspended with no thought except of
the tips of my nipples.
     For some reason, it is important to me that you understand that
last paragraph. Exhale. Inhale. Pause with lungs full. Concentrate on
nipples. It was a very intense sensation. Try it. Exhale inhale. It
hurt more to exhale, so I tried to keep my lungs full. But I had to
breathe. Use your imagination. It was intense.
     Inhaling eased some of the tension on my nipples. The sensation
seems somehow to extend deep inside my breasts and to tug directly at
my womb. I know there's no physiological basis for this sensation, but
it is real. I am sorry J isn't sensitive that way and will never
experience that sensation.
     No, I'm not sorry. Well, yes, I am.
     I could feel myself getting wet beneath the leather crotch.
     He took off the gag and kissed me through the hood again. I
returned the kiss, pressing my immobilized body against him as best I
could. My nipples remained erect and hard.
     He unhooked my neck from the hanging chain. I fell against him,
pressing my body against him deliberately. He caught and held me. I
held my face blindly toward his; again he kissed me through the mask.
I told myself I was only doing this to get free, but I knew it wasn't
true even at the time. I was loving it. I even like writing about it.
     He eased me back onto the bed where he kissed me again and
tugged--a little less gently--on the pendants on my hard, erect
nipples. You can't imagine the excruciatingly exquisite feeling of a
tug on the very tip your already pebble-hard nipples, a tug that seems
to reach into the center of you and send a kind of a lazy electric
jolt through your body, stopping your breath and causing an instant
flood of warmth and moisture inside you. Or maybe you can imagine.
Until then I never had felt it that intensely. Nipple rings are great.
     He unhooked the strap connecting the back of my collar to the
waistband, making the unnatural back-arching posture no longer neces-
sary. My shoulders remained strapped together, though and my breasts
were still thrust outward. My nipples ached with excitement; they were
so stiff the pendants were held out at the very tips: they no longer
dangled against my breasts; didn't even touch them when I was stand-
ing. My breath became ragged.
     He lifted me into the center of the bed and laid me on my back.
He removed the strap between my knees. He strapped my ankles to the
bedposts, my legs held quite far apart, although not to the point of
actual discomfort. Then he attached something to my knee-straps that
pulled my knees even further toward the edges of the bed. I had never
been spread so wide before. I could feel the muscles between my thighs
straining under the tension.
     He knelt between my knees, unbuckled the waistband buckles in
front and opened the leather belt, exposing my already-wet sex. He
unhooked my elbows from the waistband and unbuckled the strap that ran
from the front of my collar to the front of the waistband. Lifting my
buttocks, he slid the waistband from underneath me. I was as exposed
to him as it is possible to be, my legs spread wide, my breasts
jutting, my wrists still locked to my thighs.
     Carefully, he let his weight settle gently on top of me; he felt
like a warm, heavy snowfall blanketing me. I was panting, partly from
the near-pain caused by the position of my legs, partly from excite-
ment. He unzipped the bottom of the hood and peeled it back to the
bridge of my nose, uncovering my mouth. I felt his breath on my face,
near-kisses teasing my blind, searching lips.
     With excruciating slowness, he penetrated me simultaneously, my
mouth with his tongue and my sex with his maleness. I was already
spasming toward an orgasm. It was hard to reach up to pull him in
while in that position, but still I tried to the limits of the strain
on my poor suffering inner thighs.
     He thrust into me, teasing. Deeply into me and out. Long pause.
In-out. Pause. Every time he penetrated me my breath rushed out in a
sharp exhalation and rushed back as he withdrew. When he paused, my
breath held suspended, waiting expectantly for the next penetration.
He increased the tempo until my breath was coming in uncontrollable
pants that he nonetheless kept timed with his thrusts. My pants merged
with ragged moans, the moans with soft cries, the cries becoming
louder and louder until our dams burst, together. Timing is all. I
subsided into a quivering exhaustion. Gradually, he became limp inside
me.
     It was after a few moments that the most wonderful thing hap-
pened. The thing that convinced me that I actually was still attrac-
tive--maybe more attractive--to him with my hair that way. He reached
up and slipped the hood the rest of the way off, exposing my naked
forehead. All thought evaporated from my head. All that was left was
the humiliation. I was totally, utterly embarrassed. Even though the
evening light was very dim and he couldn't really see me, I turned my
head to the side, trying to hide myself.
     I struggled impotently against the straps holding my wrists to my
thighs. But he held my head between his hands and turned me to face
him. Tenderly, he kissed my shaved forehead. As he did, I felt him
begin to grow again inside me. The feeling was wonderful. To have him
already in me, and growing bigger and bigger, until he was stiff and
hard again, filling me completely. In those moments I realized that
the sight of my shaved forehead was the cause of his wonderful resur-
rection. I realized he really did, at an involuntary level and in a
way that can't be faked, like the way I now looked. Which was good. At
least some small part of this whole scene was good.
     So I had my third orgasm of the day after all, and all the while,
in the back of my mind, was the thought that my new appearance, even
though I hated (still hate) it, gave me power. Power over him.

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist08.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List -  8 of 20


     Afterward he washed me, unlocked my legs, and left me on the bed,
a jumble of conflicting emotions.
     He liked--in a deep psychological way--how I looked, I hate it; I
wanted him to love me as much as he could be made to, maybe even at
the cost I had paid, but if he was as weird as the evening's events
indicated, maybe I didn't want him as much as I thought; he had opened
a previously unknown (to me) dark inner closet and made himself
vulnerable to me in a way that gave me power over him in an odd way
(what if I told people what he did to me?). I had wanted to be closer;
now I am, but closer to what? To whom? Also, I had given him something
no one else would have. It will be hard for him to find anyone else
that would give him what he wants, if this is any indication of what
he wants. That makes me sort of special, doesn't it? Sort of?
     I was hungry, though, and in a few minutes I followed him into
the living room, my hands still locked to my thighs. On the way I
looked in the full length mirror. My hair had dried while it was
pressed against my head under the hood. It was slicked straight back
on my head; I looked like a sort of nordic Ratso Rizzo; in fact from
the front it looked almost like I didn't have any hair at all. I
couldn't do anything about it with my hands locked where they were.
     I wandered into the living room where he had already laid a fire.
It turned out he had prepared a light microwave meal while he left me
hanging from (well, not really hanging, but attached to) the bedroom
ceiling. He lit the fire he had laid, and we sat side by side on the
sofa while he fed me dinner in little bite-sized pieces. He caressed
me as he fed me, creating a second appetite and teasing me with both
the food and his fingers.
     When we had finished eating, he took out a present for me. It was
a thin gold chain that had a clasp on each end. He attached an end to
each of my nipple rings; the center hung in a gentle curve between my
out-thrust breasts. We both went into the bedroom to admire it in the
mirror, and he removed the strap that held my shoulders back, letting
my breasts and shoulders assume a more natural posture. The chain was
nice, but I still couldn't help thinking about my hair and feeling
sick inside. What has he done to me?
     He had more presents. He took me by the shoulders and stood me
facing the mirror, and told me to wait there. My shaved forehead and
slicked-back helmet of platinum hair was even less attractive than it
had been before I showered in the bodysuit. I wanted to fluff it up or
wet it and put curlers in it, or something. Anything.
     From behind me he produced a wig. It was a huge tangled mane of
black hair that reached to the center of my back. Suddenly I looked
great. Better, in fact, than I had ever looked in either my natural
color or as a blonde. The texture of the hair on the wig was much
nicer than mine had ever been, and it was much longer. While I was
checking myself in the mirror, turning this way and that, trying to
decide if I could pass for normal in public, he came back with another
wig, this time a blonde one in the same tangled mane style. Not
platinum blonde this time, but a more natural honey blonde. And he had
yet another: it was short and nearly matched my original color. I
could restyle it until it matched my real hair, he said.
     Finally, he put leather cuffs back on just above my knees and
locked the strap between them that forced me to take small steps; then
he unlocked my wrists and told me to shower, wash and dry my hair, and
put on my makeup. Afterwards, I was to put on just the stiletto-heeled
bimbo boots.
     Too much was happening at once that evening. He had shaved my
forehead. I hated that. I had learned for an absolute certainty that
my new appearance turned him on in a way that was nearly beyond his
ability to control. I didn't know how I felt about that revelation.
Still don't. There were wigs that I could wear so all was not lost: I
could still go out in public. But would I fool anyone? Would they be
able to tell? The wigs didn't look natural to me, even the one that
matched my old hair. The others were just too gorgeously magnificent
to be real hair. But then, no one here knows me except a few casual
acquaintances at the exercise spa.
     And most important: did this mean J was weird in the head? Worse,
am I weird? What would I be if I found it within myself to toler-
ate--even like--my appearance? Remember, I HAD agreed to it original-
ly, so there must be something there inside me. In fact, while we were
separated he had written about a slave fantasy in which he had shaved
my head for some minor infraction of the imagined rules of the scenar-
io, and I had responded with a similar fantasy in which I had submit-
ted willingly to this treatment, and more.
     I had originally started to write that letter just because I
could see it was something that intrigued J, but as I wrote I found I
actually got into the idea of total unconditional submission. But that
was as far as it went. It was only on paper and seemed attractive only
in an abstract theoretical sort of way. The practical reality was
something else. How could I get a job and go to work now? Exercise at
the spa? Even go shopping? And in the back of my mind was the ever-
present thought that he had said this was the beginning of my punish-
ment. What, exactly, did that mean, the beginning...?
     I wanted to discuss all this with him after I showered, but that
had to wait. When I came out of the bedroom, I had dried my hair and
put on the boots as he told me. His reaction was instantaneous and
unmistakable. He carried me back into the bedroom, unlocked my knees,
and made love to me with a renewed urgency. I don't suppose I'll ever
know what would have happened if I could have resisted him. I think he
would have stopped, but I can't say for sure. He wasn't really vio-
lent, but I felt completely helpless when confronted with the intensi-
ty of his need. Just seeing me this way had done this to him. I
chalked up another orgasm for that day. So did he.
     Afterward, in bed together, we discussed my feelings about what
had happened that day. He is very persuasive. It was clear that while
he was satisfied with our relationship before, he was becoming addict-
ed to it now. He didn't put in so many words, but I was somehow in the
process of trapping him. I admitted some of the same feelings to him,
although that day's events had almost cured my addiction. The practi-
cal aspects of my hair could easily be dealt with by using a wig, even
at a job and while exercising. I could stick with the stair and other
exercise machines rather than the aerobics until it grew back. I could
wear a short-haired wig and grow my hair into the same style so there
would be no conspicuous transition.
     And he wanted to have me as his own, as his possession, so that
there was no question that I belonged to him alone and absolutely.
Emotionally, for me, that was a strong argument in his favor. I
finally came to the conclusion that my real reservations all stemmed
from gut-level emotional reactions to being "different" and the
nagging fear that down deep he might be a little weird. But there was
also a kind of excitement at being different and having no-one know.
And weird or not, he loved me and I thought I could even love him
weird. I decided to reserve judgement until we had tried the wig out
in public. But I still hated what he had done to me.
     -*-
     The next day, we did just that. At the exercise spa, the guy who
runs the front desk complimented me on my hair. He thought I'd had it
done. The brown wig was shorter and slightly different in color and
texture from my old hair. No-one else even commented on the change.
That evening, he got out my white knit dress (nothing underneath,
naturally, but a pair of bandaids to hide my nipple rings) and I wore
the brown wig again. We went to the movies. I had missed "9 1/2 Weeks"
the first time it showed, but it was back again and we saw it. I think
he planned that especially. I thought it was a silly and juvenile
movie. I hate it when I get turned on by something silly and juvenile.
     We went to an intimate restaurant afterwards. He made me change
into the long dark wig in the car before going into the restaurant.
     I could get to like being wined and dined. It's great, having a
real income and living like people for a change. I have always insist-
ed that money isn't important to me, but having dinner at a good
restaurant and being pampered is a nice change from years of graduate
school for J while I worked nights at the hospital, and a house in the
country is a definite improvement over a studio apartment in Chicago.
At dinner, we talked about the List and how I felt about it. He drove
home the point that he felt "joined" to me by all this, more so than
before.
     As he talked about it, I realized we were doing things together
that set us apart from all the other people around us in the restau-
rant. I looked around at them and suddenly J and I had a wonderful
private very special secret together, and these people around us were
going to go home and be ordinary for the rest of their lives. But at
our table.... At our table there was something scandalous, wicked and
sexy just under the surface; I wasn't wearing a thing under my dress
but bandaids and nipple rings. If they only knew, I thought. All this
was hidden from them only by the thinnest facade; a fraction of an
inch of material. I felt I was living dangerously. I felt I should
brighten up their lives a little. Maybe take off my wig and leave it
as a tip. Didn't someone say that scandal is merely a compassionate
allowance which the gay make to the humdrum? I think it was Oscar
Wilde. (Hey, you should see the video version of "Salome." You know it
was that play that got him in very hot water with victorian England?
It is pretty raunchy, but fun when you think of the furor it must have
caused.)
     Still, (back at the restaurant) I had misgivings. At least he
understood them, and the further we went despite them was a measure of
the strength of our joining. Talking about it that way in public was a
kind of a turn-on, too, in a funny way. It made me feel that we were
so very different from the people around us, except for the thinnest
veneer of behavior and dress-- just enough that they hadn't quite
noticed yet. I know, I'm repeating myself, but it is a new feeling to
me, and I like it. I never felt daring before. It was almost as if we
were doing something outrageous right there among the other patrons.
     By the time we had gotten home that night, I had decided. J had
said that when he shaved my forehead it was the watershed of this
thing we were doing, but for me, that evening at dinner was the moment
when I made my first conscious decision to plunge in headfirst and
voluntarily begin the descent into this other side of my sexuality.
Fuck 'em I thought. And fuck Indiana, too. It wasn't even really a
decision, rather a voluntary relaxation of resistance, a letting go.
What the hell, why not? Where have I heard that before?
     Not that I haven't resisted--even rebelled--since, but after that
evening I fought against him as a matter of form, almost as a ritual.
My resistance lacks sincerity, and I rebel only by deliberately
feeding my own fears and letting them show, giving J my fear and
embarrassment as gifts rather than letting them rule me. It is a
strangely liberating experience to use and even enjoy my own fears; to
be afraid and still plunge ahead recklessly, always secure in the
knowledge that J is there and will keep me safe even though he is the
ultimate cause of my fears. There is a fundamental contradiction here
somewhere, I know. Again, if (despite the contradiction) you think I'm
not making sense, just remember that nothing makes sense. Where is it
written that anything has to make sense? Wouldn't it be awfully boring
if everything made sense?
     When we got home, we went into the living room, flopped down on
the sofa, and kicked off our shoes. He put his arm around me and sat
looking into the ashes in the fireplace. The time had come for me to
tell him my answer to his unasked question. I got up and went into the
kitchen. I ran some warm water in a basin and brought it back, putting
it on the floor in front of him. I could see a question on his face,
but I put a finger on his lips to silence him and went into my bed-
room. There, I stripped, fixed my makeup, and put on my leather
collar, ankle, and wrist cuffs. As a last touch, I put on my nipple
pendants and the thin gold chain connecting them. Then I smeared my
forehead with shaving cream and brought a towel, razor, and mirror
into the living room, where I settled on my knees in front of him.
     I began shaving the stubble off my forehead. When I was through,
I didn't look up at him: I kept my eyes lowered and waited with my
hands in my lap. He took my hands and stood, lifting me to my feet.
Together we went into the bedroom. I'm going to leave the rest of this
one to the imagination. He likes the Elizabethan look, though. I'm
convinced.
     -*-
     I decided to wear a wig all the time after that. Of course he
takes it off when he wants it off. But it's best if he doesn't grow
accustomed to (read bored with) my new appearance. The visual impact
is an important asset for me: it buys an instant and almost involun-
tary erection from him. I like that.
     He has told me to keep my forehead shaved, just like I keep my
pubic hair depilated. He told me not to use depilatory on my head
since he didn't know what the cumulative effect on hair follicles was.
That gave me pause to consider: the time between depilation has been
increasing. Am I damaging my hair follicles Down There? Anyway, every
day I brush my hair back out of the way and shave my forehead along
with my legs and underarms. More daily maintenance.
     The following day I wanted to give him a special surprise. First
thing in the morning, I asked him to lock my chain back on (the one
around my waist and between my legs), and he let me have the car keys
to go into town. I went to the local costume rental place in town,
where I bought some body paint and other stuff, and to an oriental
import house that sells cheap Indian body jewelry: silver plated
necklaces, belts, toe rings, bell earrings, etc. They will go with the
harem outfit.
     That afternoon, I fulfilled another fantasy. I spent the hours
after lunch preparing myself. One of the fantasies that I had written
to him about involved me as a kind of forest goddess (sounds hokey, I
know) that has green skin and tatoos of vines growing all over her
body. I covered myself (hair, too, blow-dried) with green food color-
ing (quite a job, that) and finished up with body-painting honeysuckle
vines growing up both legs, wrapping around my body, twining in
spirals on my bum cheeks and breasts, encircling my nipples and
growing around my neck and in tendrils around my arms, completely
covering me. I even had vines winding up the sides of my face to merge
with my eyebrows. It took me over two hours to get myself ready. I
finished at sunset and turned on some of the exotic dance music.
     Wearing nothing but my garnet pendants, I danced for him. I did a
kind of hip-grinding combination of exotic dance and the strip-tease
moves on one of the tapes he got, but there was nothing to strip off.
It won't do any good to try and describe the way I danced. Suffice it
to say that I shook a lot more than my pendants at him, and finished
up taking his clothes almost completely off while I danced. He was
turned on enough that he didn't mind helping me a bit there at the
end. I ended up with him deep in my mouth and we both lost track of
exactly when we made the transition from dancing to lovemaking. J had
two orgasms again. All I had to do was bring up the subject of my
forehead and how embarrassed I was over it and how I wasn't sure he
would like my forest goddess idea with a shaved forehead and all.
Downcast eyes and an embarrassed hand over my forehead and he was off
and running again.
     Afterward, the bed was a total mess (so were we). Green food
coloring and body paint and various precious bodily fluids were all
over the sheets. When we showered together to wash off the mess we
ended up making love again on the shower floor, both of us all covered
with soap. I think three in one evening for J is a record of some
sort. I know I set a "personal best" record.
     We sat up and rinsed while seated/sated in the steamy shower, too
exhausted to get up. Finally he turned off the water. We sat in a
delicious kind of daze for what must have been five or ten minutes,
the only noise was the water dripping from the shower head and our own
breathing. I mustered the strength to kneel, and I covered him with
body conditioner; I like the feeling of tending to him. Then I covered
myself in the most entertaining way I could manage. When we got out of
the shower I helped him to towel off the excess conditioner; he was
ready for an encore, and we could probably have gone again it we had
put our minds to it. But neither of us wanted to. I think the quality
declines after that many orgasms. I don't exactly know how many I
had--some of them kind of merged together and who's counting anyway.
There are only two possible numbers where orgasms are concerned: Not
enough, and enough. We'd had enough.
     I got his bathrobe and slippers for him and then put on the
fitted white muslin outfit. We sat and cuddled for the rest of the
evening, cooking and eating two of those great prepared microwave
dinners between cuddles. They're probably 98% cholesterol and 2%
preservatives, but they taste great. We fell into bed at 9:30 we were
so tired.
     -*-
     The next evening we were getting ready to go out for dinner again
and talking about this slave/master thing we are doing. He had bought
a white dress and some sandals for me and I was trying them on while I
told him that I was getting into this bondage thing but that there
were still some aspects that I couldn't handle, the main thing (after
my hair) was that we walk the edge of the ridiculous. I fantasize
about really calling him "Master" and taking an even more seriously
submissive role, but don't think I could handle the reality without
laughing. Images of Nazis in white boxer shorts and black ankle-high
socks dance uncontrollably through my head. J had a solution.
     "We need a new protocol," he said, and began to remove the dress
I had just put on. "You can start now just by NOT calling me by my
first name, and by making a habit of keeping your eyes lowered.
Whenever you speak or answer a question you will preface your words
with a phrase like: 'If it pleases you ....' We'll start with that for
a while and see how it goes. Of course, I'll punish you for mistakes.
You will have to figure out what forms of address you can use without
laughing, because the biggest mistake you can make is laughing. Once
the habit is established, it won't be a cause for nervous laughter. Do
you think you can handle that?"
     I thought about it, not paying attention while he got a paper bag
out of the closet. Three rules: No first names, lower the eyes, and
say 'If it pleases you.' And the fourth rule: no laughing about the
first three.
     "I think so."
     "So?" He was looking at me, waiting.
     I realized what he meant and after a moment of confusion I
lowered my eyes. There was a pause while he continued to wait. "If it
pleases you," I said. I don't know why, but lowering the eyes is a
great help. Maybe it is easier for the imagination to work without eye
contact. We know each other too well, and not having eye contact puts
some distance between us. I might have laughed out of embarrassment
then if I hadn't had my eyes lowered. Well, it was a start.
     The dress he had gotten me was several layers of sheer white
cotton, midi length with long sleeves and a high neckline, lots of
buttons in front. But after I had put it on, he had taken it off
again.
     "Just stand there," he said. He took a roll of white plastic cord
out of a paper bag and knelt by my ankles. Finally I noticed we were
doing more than getting me dressed.
     "What are you doing? I mean, if it pleases you, what ...?"
     "Just stand there," he repeated.
     I stood. He untied the straps of my new sandals. They are the
kind that wrap around the ankle several times in a crisscross pattern
and then tie further up the calf. He tightened them until they were
cutting into my skin, and tied the loose end of the roll of white
plastic cord to the top. It is that colored plastic leather substitute
that boy scouts use when doing crafts, weaving key rings and belts and
such. I think they call it gimp, or gymp or something. He began
wrapping the stuff tightly around my leg in a spiral. He spiraled up
my body and out one arm, where he tied it off and then did the same
thing on the other side. Then he spiraled up the first leg in the
opposite direction, making a crisscross pattern. It was very tight.
     He continued, wrapping me over and over, until my entire body was
covered in a tight webbing of the stuff. Every time a roll ran out he
pulled out another, white again, and tied them together. He was
careful to keep the arrangement symmetrical, left side a mirror image
of the right.
     He wrapped a flanged vibrator into my vagina. The webbing slipped
off when I moved so he superglued it back onto the vibrator. He didn't
turn it on, though. After a while I began to feel very weird. I was
free to move, but I felt ... contained. No matter what I did, moving
or not, I could feel the pull of the webbing. I felt awkward, as
though every movement I made was being opposed or deflected by some-
thing. Like being under water with currents or something. He worked
around my breasts so that when he was through they were flattened and
crisscrossed and held against my chest. Only my nipples protruded,
bulging out between the strands, pendants dangling.
     Then he put my dress back on and took me out to dinner. From the
outside I looked pretty good: A blonde (I was wearing the long honey
blonde wig) in a semi-diaphanous cotton dress. No boobs at all to
speak of. White leather sandals. The wrapping didn't show anywhere. A
close observer might have noticed that my sandal straps were tight,
but there were no close observers.
     We went to an Italian restaurant, but an expensive one. I walked
slowly, sat carefully, and ate sparingly. Even so, I spilled wine,
water, and food all over the place. I wish it hadn't been Italian food
and red wine. It was a new dress. The waiter didn't say anything, but
I really made a mess.
     Back at home, he cut away the strands holding the vibrator in. He
had used separate strands for the vibrator so that cutting them didn't
loosen the rest. He made love to me. I'm not going to tell you it was
the best lovemaking I had ever had, but it was definitely an interest-
ing experience. I never would have thought it would be. I imagine that
you probably are wondering what was the point? I don't know, but he
does good things to me, and I don't need a point. It is a little like
art, I guess. It was just there. Because.
     I kind of like being a blank canvas.
     After, as I lay panting on the bed, spread out flat on my back
and feeling as though I had fallen from a great height, he took some
bandage scissors and cut the strings one at a time, slowly. Then he
untied my sandals.
     All in all, a very satisfactory evening. I have no idea why, but
there it is.
     -*-
     Several days ago, he brought home a modem for his computer and
showed me how to log onto his work account to access the rn news
network. This is completely new to me. I have started reading the
entries under some of the headings like rec.arts.erotica and
alt.sex.bondage, although I haven't posted anything. Apparently I'm a
"lurker." Or at least I will be until he posts this entire document
and you read this. Jeez. I'm talking to people now.
     Hi, people. Two questions occur to me.
     Alt.sex.bondage seems to be the most sincere news discussion
group about sex. The little boys in alt.sex remind me of a lot of farm
boys back home in Indiana. They weren't getting any there, either.
When they boast about their exploits, it reminds me of the line from
Lao Tzu:
     Those who speak do not know, those who know do not speak.
     (Will ya listen to me? I may well be writing the longest autobio-
graphical posting in history. But it doesn't matter if I speak,
because I DO know. Maybe not everything, but some things. And besides,
I have no choice other than to write this. "He made me do it.") I'm
sure many of you that post in alt.sex.bondage actually do the things
you write about, but some of you seem to have lost the essence of what
I am doing with J. Maybe I'm wrong, but some of you seem to have
become technicians, going on about the relative merits of handcuffs
and leather cuffs. Others are advice-givers. Others enjoy shocking
their readers with their tales and comments. Others are almost politi-
cal ("what will we call ourselves/will society ever accept us ...").
These seem to be displacement activities. Am I right?
     My first question: I have just started to explore this stuff; it
occupies me almost full-time right now. Will it become so mundane and
familiar for me that I, too, will get into the 'lore' of bondage and
take up these displacement activities? Like writing this account, you
ask. Hmmm....
     Question two: I have often thought of what I would do if I could
go back to the moment when I lost my virginity and do it over
again--take more control and do it right--with the right person. I was
more concerned with enduring it than experiencing it. Youth is wasted
on the young, my grandfather used to say.
     But now I am losing another kind of virginity. I don't want to
look back with regret and wish I had done it right. Of course by the
time you read this, it'll be too late for advice, but it's a question
I can still ask: did we do it right? Post an answer. I'll read it,
promise. This is new to J, too. I don't know what I could have done
differently to control what happened. I suppose voluntary submission
is a kind of limited control. Sex the old way certainly is boring.
'Vanilla,' you call it. I like that. New usage. Will we run out of
interesting things to do and then be back where we started? Will this
path I have taken escalate to an ultimate boredom?
     Another question: who was Saltgirl? I liked her, but she seems to
have stopped posting. She seems sensible. Probably a midwesterner. So
anyway, a big hello to all you happytime hardcores out there in
leatherland, with special regards to Ctan, STella, Elf, and Saltgirl,
wherever you are. Maybe some day I'll join the out-of-the-closet gang.
The hell I will. I don't know who reads this stuff. Maybe my future
boss.
     -*-
     The next day we were showering and J was 'preparing' me for sex
again the way he almost always does when we are showering together, by
covering me with skin conditioner and exploring every orifice until I
was eager to have him inside me in any way he chose.
     Without actually saying so, I have signaled in every nonverbal
way possible that I was prepared to have sex in the one way we have
never had it. When his fingers were deep between my buttocks, inside
me, I would squirm against him, trying to push his fingers deeper. I
actually feel pleasure when he does this to me, and the responsive
noises I make indicate my sensations clearly, but he has never pene-
trated me ... that way.
     I have arrived at the conclusion he was toying with the idea but
that it repelled him somewhat. I must admit that my fascination with
the idea was tempered with a certain amount of apprehension: I had
never had anything that big inside me there. Also, I am perhaps overly
hygienic in my approach to sex. I like to be clean before and to wash
after. The preparation and the postcoital rituals are important to me:
he almost always leaves me a little excited afterward, no matter how
sated I was during, so cleaning up afterwards is an erotic experience.
The odor of soap evokes a more erotic response in me than the various
secretions our bodies make. It's conditioning, I guess.
     Anyway, I think the hygienic aspect might still be what bothers
us both most, even now. So while we were showering I made a tentative
suggestion. It was very difficult to bring up this subject for the
first time. ASB'ers probably already know that.
     "You must know that I get tremendously turned on when you do
that," I said, trying to approach the subject obliquely. Which was
difficult, considering that I was near orgasm and he had a number of
fingers deep inside various parts of me. He didn't answer.
     "If you want me ... that way ... I could clean myself. Inside, I
mean." He still didn't answer. "If it would please you," I added. We
both got more interested in other things at that point and further
discussion had to wait until later.
     I have worked in internal medicine, and prepped patients for
rectals before. I explained. Not all the gory details, but enough so
that he knew that I knew what to do.
     "I hadn't even thought-" he said.
     But the thought had obviously taken root. For the rest of the
week, in the back of my mind was the thought of what would come later.
     -*-
     I took a chance making that suggestion. You see, this whole thing
is something of a game. I can't seem too forward when I suggest an
innovation like that. He must take the lead and I must follow. Reluc-
tantly. And it is best for me when I can resist what he does to me,
even though I may secretly want it. That way the responsibility is
his. He has to believe that I am going along against my will, at least
to some extent--which has always been true up to now. He gets me so
turned on that I want to go forward despite a certain amount of
trepidation about what he will do to me. I am always afraid, but ready
to do the next item on the List, even though I don't know what it is.
It is only after he has started that I sometimes chicken out, even
though I agreed to it when we made up the List. But by then it is too
late. Still rushing in and fearing to tread. In fact, today, having
settled down a bit, I can even look back on when he shaved my forehead
with an equanimity that borders on sensuality.
     He must know by now that I have come to like what he is doing to
me. I am becoming addicted to him. But I have to walk a tightrope for
both of us. He would lose interest if I gave in too easily. I have to
fight it all the way. So we have these three silly rules just so I can
break them so I can be punished. Except that when he thinks I have
transgressed deliberately the punishment is much worse. He always
makes me regret it. Like this last time. He walks a tightrope too: he
always makes a time come when I myself don't know if I want him to
stop. After that, sometimes, I genuinely want him to stop, but he
never does. And if he did, I would be disappointed afterward. I knew
when we made up the List there would be some things that I would want
to stop, but I also knew intellectually that nothing on the List could
actually hurt me.
     There seems to be a lot of discussion on ASB about safewords. I
think I get more of a thrill working without a net. That's not true:
the List is my safety net, and I to hang onto that rather than a
safeword. I'd have to trust J either way, safeword or List, but the
List allows me to feel I have no net. I think a safeword would spoil
it for me somehow, although it sure would make life easier for J. He
watches me like a hawk. I like that. But he watches for real intolera-
ble pain, not just what I don't like. There's a grey area at the edge
of the limits set by the List. That's the terra incognita where we
play. He stays within the limits of the List, but takes liberties
insofar as the List and common sense let him. Maybe a safeword is
better. We're new to this and haven't really run into any genuinely
harmful situations yet.
     I have a sneaking suspicion that my presumptuous suggestion in
the shower is what earned me the rest of my punishment, even though he
later acted on the suggestion. If I get too forward, he takes control
again by doing something else awful to me. Remember the "rest of the
punishment?" Shaving my forehead was just the beginning? Well, it
would have come eventually anyway.
     -*-
     The smell of neatsfoot oil has become a turn-on for me. My next
punishment began with the leather straps. I don't need to describe
again how he immobilized me, except this time he left the strap
between my knees off so I could take normal-sized steps. My arms and
shoulders were still strapped back so that my breasts were unnaturally
prominent; strapped so far back that the chain between my nipple rings
was taut.
     He told me to follow him out to the garage, where he showed me
the contraption that he had kept covered with a sheet. It looked like
a wooden sawhorse--in fact he called it a horse--except that there
were two horizontal parts side-by-side instead of the usual one, and
they were separated by a space. And in the middle, on either side of
these pieces, were two blocks of wood shaped to form a tiny, smooth,
wooden saddle, also split down the middle by that same space. The
whole was sanded and varnished quite expertly.
     He let me see it. That was all. Then he took me back to the
bedroom, put the hood on me, and locked my collar to a chain attached
to the bedpost. I had to sit on the edge of the bed and wait, listen-
ing to him move around the house, wondering what he was doing, and
what the "horse" gizmo was for.
     Finally, he led me into the living room where he hooked the
shoulder straps to something overhead, and my ankles to something that
held them apart; blindfolded, I couldn't tell what. I also couldn't
fall, and I couldn't bring my legs together. He unbuckled the crotch
strap and I felt him begin to insert something into me. I squirmed
against it, but it was only a token squirm. I knew he had control.
Besides, it wasn't particularly large and didn't hurt, although I
could feel it was hard. It was well lubricated and completely pain-
less. I assumed it was a dildo. He did the same to my rear opening. I
squirmed harder against this second intrusion, but I was already
getting turned on by the first and ended up voluntarily relaxing
enough to accept the second device. He pushed the two deep into me and
held them, and I stood there, hooded, docile.
     I felt something heavy brush between my legs. I didn't know for
sure, but from the noise and the prelude, I expected it to be the
horse. He told me to sit. Slowly. As I did so he manipulated the
dildos inside me into position. I didn't know what he was doing at the
time, but I soon learned that he had slipped the ends of the dildos
into the slot in the seat of the horse and clamped them tightly (with
a wrench) into place with bolts that pulled the two parallel horizon-
tal pieces together to hold the dildos immobile. Once he began remov-
ing the hood and the other restraints, I also found that the two
dildos were nearly touching deep inside me, separated only by the
floor of my vagina and the anterior wall of my rectal cavity.
     When he was through I was completely unfettered: not a scrap of
leather anywhere on my body. Even my hands were free, for what good it
did me. The dildos were rounded and smoothed wooden dowels, each
covered with a condom to make it comfortable (and splinter-free, thank
God). They were clamped into position so that even if I tried to stand
up they wouldn't slip out. No matter how I moved, I couldn't get off
the horse without causing myself pain, maybe even damage. Yet there
were no visible restraints.
     "What have you done to me?!" I asked in an unsteady voice. I
looked around me, twisting as far as I could to see what he had done,
becoming increasingly nervous and uncertain. I felt over the device
that held me seated. The bolts were far too tight for my fingers to
budge them. I ran my shaking hands over both places where the dildos
disappeared into me; they were far too firm to be shifted. I wasn't
uncomfortable so long as I didn't try to move, but I had no choice
about getting free of the thing. I had to sit there and wait for what
came next.
     He told me he wouldn't free me until I had an orgasm while he
watched. With my hands free, I was able to masturbate, but it was
really embarrassing, sitting there in the middle of the room. To the
casual observer I would have looked like a naked woman sitting astride
a simple wooden sawhorse. Admittedly, a naked platinum blonde elizabe-
than woman with no pubic hair and a chain connecting her nipples, but
even so, you wouldn't have known that I couldn't get up.
     I really tried masturbating, but I just couldn't get into it. On
the horse, I just couldn't make it work. He stood in front of me,
hooked his finger under the chain between my nipples and pulled me
gently but firmly toward him. The horse would let me lean just so far.
My nipples stretched out to points in front of me.
     "Try again," he said, "harder." I was in too delicate a position
to resist him, and he knew it. I tried again, harder. I still could-
n't.
     He put the hood back on me, and strapped my wrists to my thighs
again, and my shoulders back in that unnatural position. I waited.
When he took the hood off again, there was a small end table in front
of me. On it were a pair of scissors, a basin of water, shaving cream,
a towel, and a razor.
     "Oh no, please!" I said. "I will do anything! Not the rest of my
hair!"
     He didn't answer.
     "I'm sure I could climax if you just let me try again..." No
response. "Master! I can call you Master now," I babbled. "I was
waiting to tell you! Truly! I can really do it! No problem!" He knew I
would have said anything to stop him, although my last plea caught his
attention, I could tell. He gave me an appraising look and shook his
head almost sadly as he picked up the scissors.
     It's no good begging when he's like that. I let out one last
whimpering cry as he stepped forward to begin.
     "Please? Master?" I whined, my voice breaking and dissolving into
a kind of hiccuping crying sob. He kissed me gently on the forehead
and started cutting right away, with no nonsense or teasing. I let out
a cry that sounded like I was in pain when he took the first cut. I
was crying openly, just saying "No, please, no, please, please,
please, don't, please..." over and over. I could see my hair falling
on the floor around me as he cut it away, but I didn't even try to
resist. I suppose I could have twisted my head from side to side or
something, but he would have won in the end.
     This time there was no mirror for me to see myself in, and I was
grateful.
     He lathered my entire scalp with the shaving cream and went to
work shaving my head while I whined and blubbered in frustration and
tugged ineffectually against the straps holding my wrists to my
thighs. I had figured that maybe my bangs didn't need to grow out to
the same length as the rest of my hair in order for me to be present-
able in public. I had figured maybe I could do something with a
bandanna. Now it will be half a year before I can go without a wig.
     He damp-toweled my scalp and kissed me on the mouth, muffling my
near-hysterical whimpering.
     "My God but you're beautiful," he said. "Now for the finishing
touch..."
     That focused my attention and stopped my crying immediately.
"Finishing touch?" I thought, "what's left to do to me?"

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist09.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List -  9 of 20


The List
     Column 1
       Item 15

     He mixed some of my cream bleach--the kind for bleaching facial
hair-- and put it on my eyebrows. I had forgotten about them.
     They were plucked thin enough as it was. They will be invisible
now, I thought. I was right. They are invisible. Which, of course, is
what he wanted. At least he didn't shave them off: I could dye them
back later. He left me sitting there while the bleach did its work.
When he came back and wiped off the bleach it was near dusk. He
cleaned away some runny mascara and dried tears too. I had stopped
crying and had time to think about what he had done to me. Somehow, it
wasn't as traumatic as the first time.
     I will have to wear a wig. So big deal, I had to wear a wig
before. I can dye my eyebrows back or even just darken them with
mascara. Otherwise no-one need know that my body is completely hair-
less. I am really no worse off than when he had shaved just my fore-
head: I had to wear a wig then, I still have to wear a wig. Shaving my
forehead was really the big step. Everything after that was inconse-
quential--just finishing an unfinished item on the List. I guess what
really bothers me now is not that I have to wear a wig to go out in
public. It is that I am now completely bald. I felt (still feel) so
NAKED without a wig or anything to cover me. I think that really was
the last shred of my dignity. While he left me sitting on the horse I
just stared into space as I thought these thoughts. No, that's not
true. I wasn't even thinking, just staring.
     He used a wrench to loosen the bolts that clamped the dildos in
place. I continued to sit and stare, and he gently slipped out the two
devices that had held me to the horse. When he helped me stand I
instinctively wouldn't look up at him--not because I was still playing
the slave role, but because I was ashamed of the way I knew I looked.
Remember, I didn't even have any eyebrows anymore. You don't get any
more naked than that.
     He took me by the elbow and led me through his bedroom to the
bathroom. On the way through I glanced at the full-length mirror, but
he had covered it with a sheet. The bathroom mirror was covered too.
He started a shower and we stepped in.
     He was gentle with me--although he didn't unlock the cuffs that
held my wrists to my thighs. I wanted so much to cover myself; I tried
to turn my face to the side as though I could hide. He washed all the
makeup off my face and soaped me from head to toe. When I rinsed off,
the sensation of the shower on my bald scalp was a surprise. Tingly;
it's a nice sensation, but I was in no mood to enjoy nice sensations.
I still couldn't make myself look at him, nor could I imagine he could
enjoy looking at me, but he was obviously--prominently--interested. He
covered me with handfuls of conditioner, again from head to toe, and
told me to do the same to him. I couldn't understand what he meant,
since he knew my hands were cuffed to my thighs.
     "How?" I asked. Long pause. "I mean, would it please you to
unlock my hands?" I had almost forgotten. Shaving my head had kind of
shocked me out of my role.
     "Your body is completely covered with conditioner. Use your
body."
     So I did, rubbing myself against his front, sliding my legs
between his, sliding my backside against him, and asking him several
times, "Would it please you to put more conditioner on me?" As I
rubbed my breasts against his back and then his erection I could tell
he was extremely ... ready. I know you probably think this was dis-
gustingly servile groveling, rubbing myself all over him, especially
after what he had just done to me. At this point I felt I had crossed
the line between dignified slavery and genuine degradation. I didn't
care.
     Suddenly he spun me around and held me to him and kissed me. He
was really turned on and poured a lot of barely-controlled emotion
into those kisses. He guided me out of the shower, and instead of
drying us off, he led me straight into the bedroom and literally threw
me onto the bed, soaking wet and still dripping with body conditioner.
Without preamble he was on top of me and inside. No foreplay, no
nothing. He ravished me. It sounds old-fashioned, I know, but there's
no other way to describe it. It's not that he was out of control, but
my appearance was driving him wild. At one moment I sensed that he
tried to slow down and exert his usually excellent control over the
timing of our orgasms, but he failed utterly. We slithered and slipped
against each other, and it felt like the smooth sensitive skin around
my depilated mons extended over my whole body to form one big eroge-
nous zone. In just a couple of minutes--long before I was ready--he
came uncontrollably in huge thrusting shuddering gasps. He collapsed
onto me, his face slithering into the hollow between my neck and
shoulder.
     To tell the truth, despite the embarrassment at my appearance,
even despite not having an orgasm, I derived a genuine sense of warmth
(power?) from the fact that I could make him lose control that way,
and I knew that it was my totally hairless appearance that did it to
him. I had to imagine how I looked: practically featureless. He had
made me into a doll, an undressed department store mannequin, with no
hair anywhere. Except that mannequins at least have makeup painted on.
     Perhaps rather than a mannequin, I looked like an unfinished
prototype for a female android (gynoid?). I flashed an image of myself
as a kind of sex object/appliance. A sort of real-live plastic inflat-
able love-doll, designed for only one function: to satisfy my owner.
     I dreaded looking in a mirror, but was nonetheless curious. I was
just beginning to get turned on by this sense of power and the really
sexy feeling of our slippery bodies against each other when I realized
his breathing had returned to normal and he was shrinking inside me. I
remember thinking that two thousand years ago, real slaves probably
got used like appliances too.
     He lifted up his head and looked me in the eyes. "What are you
feeling?" he asked.
     "If it pleases you, I was thinking I would like you to hold me
and touch me and tell me that I'm not ugly."
     [Note from the future: I couldn't write this at the time because
J would have read it and known he was being manipulated, but: getting
him to touch my bald head was a deliberate exertion of the power I
knew my appearance gave me over him.]
     "But I'm touching you all over right now--as much as it's possi-
ble to touch," he said.
     "I meant ... my head. I'm so ashamed of the way I look ... I'm
scared by all this."
     He touched my head while I kept my eyes carefully lowered. He
didn't have to tell me he thought I was beautiful: I felt him stirring
within me almost immediately. Within a minute I was on my way to a
terrific orgasm, made all the more terrific by this sudden vision of
myself as a kind of sex-machine that felt nothing, but drove him wild.
I kept my face immobile and hid all outward expression of emotion
while I squeezed him tightly and ground my hips against him the way I
imagined such an appliance/being would. All the while, though, I was
secretly building to one humdinger of a climax. I really tried to
suppress the first one, and I think I was successful: I kept up the
rhythm in my hips right through it without making a sound.
     I lost control on the second one, though. It was as though he
made me have an orgasm despite myself. Although I am almost never
noisy during sex, my breathing grew hoarse and merged with involuntary
moans that got louder and louder until there was this other person in
the room panting and crying out in near hysteria and it was me. I
rolled my head back and forth and spread myself extra wide to pull him
deeply inside me. He lifted my legs up onto his shoulders and plunged
into me, filling me up.
     Right in the middle of his orgasm, I reached the peak of mine and
for some daft reason I threw my legs apart, my feet in the air. I
don't know why, because it didn't feel any better, just different. I
just kept going and going, and so did he. I was moaning and babbling
incoherently, nearly having convulsions. I planted my feet on the bed
and pushed up, lifting him with my hips and opening myself as fully as
I could for him. Finally the exertion drove the breath out of me and I
could no longer make any sound beyond faint squeaks every time he
thrust. I went passive and limp, no longer capable of any action at
all. Finally, he came to a shuddering halt and collapsed onto me a
second time.
     It wasn't the very best sex I had ever had, but it was in the top
ten and it certainly was the most exhausting. I was absolutely de-
stroyed. It seems it is always different. This time, I simply couldn't
move. I felt I had been used. And used up. "Rode hard and put up wet"
as the Indiana farm boys say. Somehow, being used by J didn't bother
me. He isn't insensitive, and he doesn't "use" me like that as a
habit. In fact, I got kind of a thrill out of being used without
regard to my own needs. That's not the way I would want it all the
time, but now and then it can ... do things to me.
     Anyway, it was a long time before either of us could do anything
other than breathe like steam engines. After he rolled off of me we
both drifted off to a near-sleep. I roused myself first and took
another shower. The shower knob is chest-high for me. Fortunately, it
is started with a lever you have to push up on--otherwise I wouldn't
have been able to reach it with my wrists bound to my thighs. I just
stood there soaking under the water until he joined me. We stood
together under the stream of water for a while; he went and got the
key to my wrists and the leather straps fell to the floor of the
shower. I think the water and conditioner had stretched them anyway.
They had stained my wrists yellow-brown.
     When we started toweling off, I remembered my head. He had bound
my wrists and covered the mirrors to stop me from seeing or even
touching my scalp, so I asked for permission.
     "If it pleases you, could I touch my head now?"
     He thought about it and said yes, but I still couldn't look at
myself in the mirror.
     I was almost afraid to touch myself there. I ran my hand over the
top of my scalp. I was (am) smooth as the proverbial baby's bottom. I
didn't have a mirror, but I looked into his face as I felt my head.
You may find it hard to believe (I did), but after that one gesture,
just touching my head, he wanted me again. I could see him rising and
neither of us really even wanted sex again. It's almost like an
aphrodisiac with him. I knelt and took him in my mouth, and within
seconds he was rock- hard and ready for a third round. I would almost
have preferred to give him a third orgasm orally, I was so exhausted,
but I'm not sure I would have had the strength for that either.
Fortunately, before we really got started again he stopped me.
     "Wait," he said, "lets give it a few more minutes..."
     I stopped, but he was seriously horny again. I think his psychol-
ogy is stronger than his physiology. I sprinkled talcum powder on both
of us and spread it around. His erection didn't subside. When I put
talc on my naked scalp he went and got my wig--the long black one--
from his bedroom and told me to put it on. I don't think he could take
the sight of me like that any more.
     This is a new thing for me, and will take some getting used to:
the right kind of submission can bring a new kind of power. By paying
very close attention to his reactions and needs, I can learn by
experiment the kind of submissive behavior that he wants. It is clear
that the control I can exert on him by behaving in just the right way
is subtle, but nonetheless nearly as great as the control he exerts
over me. Perhaps this is something that I should not be writing, since
he will read it, but it is something I think will bring us closer if
he understands it.
     [Note from the future: the next few paragraphs are edited and
expanded heavily from the original. My manipulation of his reactions,
had he understood them completely at the time, would have interfered
with our relationship. Now that we are finished with Column 1 and I
control this document, I can make these changes.]
     The next few moments taught me the value of not over-using that
control.
     "If it would please you, I could put my makeup on now," I said. I
think he saw the interruption as a welcome distraction from an impend-
ing (but premature and exhausting) third session of lovemaking. That
was what I wanted him to think. With appropriately downcast eyes, I
promised not to remove my wig or try to look at myself in a mirror if
he would allow me to bring my makeup into his bathroom. I have to use
a small mirror to put on my makeup, I said, but he could watch me and
make sure I didn't sneak a peek at my head. Besides, I had my wig on.
     There is a small table in his bathroom. I put my makeup box on it
and looked in it for my small hand mirror. He had removed it. The
mirrors in my bathroom had been covered, too. He is thorough.
     But he gave me a small mirror to use. My face looks just plain
weird without eyebrows. Well, not totally without, but you have to
look very closely to see that they are there. Without any makeup I
really looked like a blank canvas. I thought I would look like I was
on chemotherapy, but my face was flushed from the shower, so I looked
wholesome, healthy and pink. Except ....
     While he put on some clothes in the next room, I put on a founda-
tion and a very pale coverup with the faintest touch of blush. Next,
heavy eyeshadow and mascara (I know he likes that). Then I put a shot
across his bow, as they say in the movies.
     "There's more of me to cover with makeup now. I can continue
without the mirror if you will help me. If it would please you," I
said, turning the mirror face down. I didn't look up--I just waited
for him to react.
     "Okay," he said.
     "May I take the wig off now?"
     "Okay."
     "Tell me if I miss anywhere."
     I put foundation over my entire scalp and followed it with the
same pale makeup while he watched. Just a touch of the same blusher
high up on my forehead. I could see his erection was still going
strong, straining against his pants. Maybe stronger, it was hard to
tell.
     "Would you put some more blusher on? This is new to me and I
can't tell where it would look good. Maybe some on my temples or the
top of my head?" I said. "If it would please you," I added. I knew it
would. Another shot to take the wind out of his tops'l, me hearties.
Arrrrh.
     When he had finished, I put the wig back on as if nothing had
happened, but something had: he had to adjust himself inside his
pants, and I knew I was touching some very sensitive nerves. Perhaps
not wisely, I pushed it even further.
     Instead of my usual lip gloss, I put on a flesh-colored blemish
cover that comes in a twist-out tube like a lipstick. I thought that
was kind of in keeping with my new "featureless" look, since it is
almost the same color as my skin. He was watching, and despite the
unusual look it gave me, he didn't tell me to change it. He seemed
mesmerized. I was loving it.
     So I gave my face the piece de resistance. My invisible eyebrows
gave me the liberty to put my eyebrows wherever I wanted. I sketched
in razor-thin eyebrows that had those high arches like movie stars
from the 1930's, but with an inspired touch: where they neared the
bridge of my nose, I turned them upward slightly instead of down. This
gave me a very interesting look--as though I were either very worried
or possibly even in pain. It's amazing how expressive eyebrows are.
And pants, too.
     I stood and walked into the bedroom with my eyes carefully down,
but with as much sensuality as I could squeeze into four or five
steps. He followed me. I gave him another broadside.
     I knelt in front of him and, keeping my eyes down, asked in an
almost inaudible whisper, "Would it please ... my Master ... if I wore
my boots tonight?"
     He cleared his throat and said, "Yes," also in a (rather hoarse)
whisper.
     I put them on and walked over to the bedside table with my back
to him. I know that my behind looks great when I walk in heels. He has
told me so a hundred times. It has something to do with those little
creases under my cheeks and the way they shift with each step. Of
course I exaggerated that for his benefit as I walked. His masts were
shot away and he was ready for boarding. As it were. Avast me heart-
ies.
     I'll never understand men. Back in Indiana a pair of well filled
short shorts would cause an entire room full of male eyes to turn as
one, and after she had passed there would be unanimous hooting, foot
stomping, and table pounding. The simplest and most predictable things
turn them on, but if you asked me what it is about J that turns me on,
I couldn't tell you. Well, I could, but it's so complex and personal
it wouldn't mean anything to you. His eyes maybe. I can go all soft
and squirmy sometimes when he just looks at me with those icy blue
nordic eyes. But then I've seen more beautiful eyes on guys that did
nothing for me. I guess it's the whole package that attracts me. The
point being, it's too complex to reduce to a formula.
     On the other hand, I would be willing to bet that almost all men
would be turned on by the way I walked then, not just the Indiana
Clampetts. I'm like most women, and I complain about how hard it is to
find a good man, how we have to wait for them to come to us rather
than going out and hog-tying the one we want, so it's going to sound
odd when I say this: Gals, in some ways we have it easy when it comes
to attracting men.
     It is something you could learn from a three-page instruction
book even if you were from another planet. If they only knew how
predictable they are. High heels, tight short skirts, dark eye makeup,
all that kind of stuff. Sounds sleazy, I know, but it comes with a
100% guarantee.
     But, you say, that kind of look attracts the wrong kind of man.
You're half right: it attracts all kinds of men, right kind or wrong.
It's up to us to sort 'em out.
     Their tastes are simple: they like either slinky black or virgin-
al white--but virginal white with no underwear, at least metaphorical-
ly. You see, the most important part is that the poor dear has to KNOW
it's just for him and him alone. Their little egos need that most of
all. And their capacity for believing that is infinite.
     Even better: they like to believe that most men would overlook
you because you are shy and that they alone were discerning enough to
have "discovered" you. The poor dears are so pathetically eager to
believe this that once they have got the idea in their heads, no
amount of evidence to the contrary will dislodge it.
     You're going to think I'm a cynic. I'm not. I love men. They're
easily the best aphrodisiac. And just because they're easy to under-
stand (some parts) doesn't mean you can't love 'em. We might be
initially attracted to them for all kinds of complex reasons: because
they are good looking, because they are powerful, because they are
mysterious, smart, talented, whatever. All these are strengths, and we
respect them because they are strong, but we love them because they
are weak, and love makes the choice.
     And when you get right down to it, their major weakness is how
easy they are to please. The old Sampson and Delilah routine. Just
push the right buttons. I could almost write a how-to manual; it could
be full of simple step-by-step instructions.
     But what does your man have to do to please you? It's a lot more
complex, isn't it? And the poor things are without a clue. I almost
pity them. But then on the other hand they don't have to put up with
our monthly friend, do they? And they run the world, by the way. Ah,
but that way lies madness. I like being a woman, but I can't think for
too long about how unfair it is. Being around doctors all day drives
the point home too often as it is: they have egos the size of small
planets, some of them. The modest ones. Large planets, the rest of
them.
     Most of the time, I can live my day-to-day existence and not
think about it at all, and then some subtle realization will hit me. I
was listening to a call-in talk-radio program featuring a family
psychologist and a thought occurred to me: have you ever heard a MAN
ask for advice on how to combine a career and marriage? Ever? Even
once? We women write books about it. Books! What does that imply?
Don't think about it.
     It just isn't very healthy to step back and look at the overall
picture too often. Aldous Huxley once gave some advice on that; I
can't remember which of his novels it was in. He said that if you are
ever sitting at your desk, doing whatever it is you do for a living,
and you begin to wonder if this particular activity is what nature or
God had intended as the culmination of three and a half billion years
of biological evolution, then you must be very careful, because you
will sense a bottomless pit opening beneath your desk and you will
feel your chair tilting forward and yourself sliding into it. The only
cure is to immediately put aside all such thoughts and concentrate on
alphabetizing the papers in front of you.
     I feel that way if I think too long about the monumental unfair-
ness that being a woman imposes. And I feel that way almost daily,
now, as I slip deeper and deeper into this thing J and I are doing.
Not the unfairness, the panicky sliding out-of-control sensation.
     If I step back and look at what I have done to myself by letting
this happen, I feel a growing sense of panic. And an urge to alphabet-
ize my life; get it back in order, even though it's simpler now than
it has ever been. Let's say I actually put on a wig and dye my eye-
brows back and get a job at the hospital. I have a good C.V.; it
wouldn't be a problem to do that. But every day at work, I would be
masquerading as a normal person, and every time I came home I would
have this totally different life. I am completely isolated from the
world I used to know at home, and from the "real" world here. And I
know nobody other than J that I can discuss this with, except the
friendly folks down at A.S.B., and that's not really an option since I
am determined to remain a "lurker".
     Maybe Huxley was wrong, though. It may not be fair to look back
on your life and ask 'is this what it was all leading toward?' Maybe a
life can't be judged by the present moment any more than a piece of
music can be judged by the final note. He was right about the cure,
though: Don't think about it. Forget the big picture; think moment to
moment, since that's the way you have to live it anyway. In any case,
I feel more comfortable alphabetizing than philosophizing, so I'll
forget the big picture and go back to writing about the bedroom. Sorry
about the soliloquy.
     -*-
     I was starting to feel pretty sexy again, especially since I knew
for an absolute undeniable fact that even though we'd had sex twice in
the last hour, I knew exactly what to do to MAKE him give me another
orgasm if I wanted one (or two). Which I did. And I had no inhibitions
whatsoever about asking for exactly what I wanted. All I had to do was
ask in the right way.
     From the bedside table I took the K/Y jelly and the vibrator that
he had used on my rear. Still keeping my eyes down, I slunk over and
knelt in front of him and said, "If it would please my Master, we
could make love with this inside me, and you might feel the vibration
and enjoy... using me more." (Good touch, that `using' huh?) The best
sex yet was when I was on top in the shower with the dildo in my rear.
I wanted to try it with the vibrator.
     Gosh, Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore. Or Indiana,
even. Shhh. Pay no attention to that woman behind the screen. No, I'm
not crazy, but everyone should know the complete script for at least
one movie.
     Funny. I made the transition to being able to address him as
"Master" in the most ironic way. I was willing to do anything (ANY-
THING) to keep him from shaving my head. I called him "Master" for the
first time when he was beginning to shave me, and once it was over, I
was too proud to stop. He might have thought I had only started
calling him Master to stop the shaving. And now I'm stuck with it.
How's that for twisted? Too proud to NOT humiliate myself?
     [ NFTF: That's the end of my editorial changes. The rest of Item
15 is as I first wrote it.]
     I knelt on the bed with shoulders on the mattress and my rear up
in the air toward him, ready to accept the vibrator. I was feeling
pretty horny myself at that moment. I was also being a little daring,
and I felt excited and exhilarated by it. Without turning it on, he
began inserting it. He insinuated it into me with much more care and
sensitivity than your average gynecologist. Of course a vibrator has a
little more erotic content than a speculum. Carefully, I rolled over
on my back and settled myself in the appropriate position: spread-
eagled, but this time voluntarily.
     But as soon as he had entered me, he rolled us over so I was on
top. He held the vibrator in and moved it in time with our lovemaking,
but he didn't turn it on until my first orgasm started. I was trying
to hold back and play the ice-queen like I had before, but my body
just started kind of fluttering inside all by itself. It's kind of
special to have your body do something all by itself without your
help--I don't know why. Just as I finished, he started. I love to
watch his face as he climaxes. His eyes go all unfocused and he
becomes completely withdrawn, self absorbed, and vulnerable. Non-
simultaneous orgasms have their strong points: you get to watch.
     Afterwards, with me still on top and the vibrator off (but still
in), we were just floating there on the bed. I was still wearing my
wig, and I was in a really mischievous mood. It's not a slave's place
to torture her master, but I don't get the chance very often. I
shifted to sit astride his hips; he had gone limp and he almost
slipped out at the motion. He likes looking up at me --especially at
my breasts--in that position. I began stroking myself. A little gentle
persuasion and my nipples were erect. I slipped my other hand down and
began stroking between my legs. I hammed it up a bit, biting my lip
and moaning--aided I'm sure by the worried/pained/surprised expression
of my painted-on eyebrows (I look like I'm in pain if my face is
relaxed; pleasure/pain if I open my mouth and gasp a little; pained
surprise if I open my eyes all the way. I've been practicing in front
of the mirror; these are expressions that don't come naturally to me,
yet they better reflect my actual feelings than my natural facial
expressions would. Is that really so deceitful?) I could feel him
stirring weakly inside me, but not enough. In a "moment of ecstacy" I
brushed my hand back over my face and accidentally-on-purpose knocked
off the wig.
     "I'm sorry, Master, it was an accident." I said, and scrabbled to
reach it and put it back on. After I had replaced it he reached up and
took it off again. I felt him growing quickly inside me. What a
feeling of power. He tells me that four times in one day is a record
that he hasn't equaled since he was a little boy just learning about
sex.
     On the whole, though, I don't think four times in as many
hours--or even four times in one day (or three, even)--is enjoyable
for either of us. He was enthusiastic, but even with the vibrator it
was more an exercise in total exhaustion than eroticism. I discovered
that my new ability to force arousal in him should not be squandered
on private ego trips unless there is some physical return--otherwise
it is just overkill for both of us. Maybe we're getting old. I'm
twenty-eight. But I read at the thirty-two year old level.
     Still, the feeling of utter depletion was delicious that evening.
I'll definitely keep the wig on whenever he's home, though, unless he
tells me to take it off.
     "It's those pesky hormones...." Thanks, Ma.
     I still haven't seen myself in the mirror. That night he had me
sleep with him so I didn't try to steal a peek at myself. I slept
without the wig, though: I took it off after he turned the lights out,
and snuggled into the crook of his arm, putting my bald head on his
shoulder. As I drifted off to sleep, he had another erection.... ( ;-)


The List
     Column 1
       Item 16

     He must have felt that I needed a bit more controlling after that
episode. I kind of overdid it and took advantage, sort of, even though
I remained submissive. Not that I actually liked having my head
shaved. He had me shave myself the next morning without a mirror. I
had to feel for the stubble with my hand and go over my head until I
felt totally smooth. It is kind of an erotic feeling. My nipples were
erect when I was through. Hmmm.
     At this point, he started doing something new to me: putting an
artificial tanning lotion all over my body. It's on the List, but I
won't be able to leave the house until it wears off. Actually, he
doesn't put it on me any more: he has ME do it every morning and every
evening while he watches, and I'm under orders to do it once at mid-
day as well, even when he's not at home.
     But that morning, after I had shaved myself, he started this
tanning routine without telling me what he was doing. The first thing
he did was to put another one of his handyman specials on me: stocks.
Simple, but well-crafted (varnished, sanded smooth, etc.) and func-
tional. Two boards, hinged at one end, locked together at the other,
held my hands and my neck. This he clipped to an overhead chain so I
had to just stand there and wait.
     He began by smearing this lotion all over my body: scalp to toes.
He didn't tell me what it was; I assumed at first it was another skin
conditioner. After I was completely covered, he brought out gauze
bandages and dipped them in the stuff and began wrapping my body like
a mummy. He really wants it to have a strong effect, because I was
positively marinated in the stuff. He started at my ankles and worked
his way up each leg independently, dipping the bandages, wringing out
the excess lotion, and wrapping it tightly around me. God only knows
what he spent on lotion and bandages, but he had emptied enough
bottles of lotion to fill a largish casserole dish. I kept asking him
what he was doing, and he just kept ignoring me, not even threatening
a gag.
     It took him a while to work out how to bandage my crotch and
hips, but he managed. The bandages around my waist were tight enough
to be a corset. He crisscrossed my chest, covering my breasts and
finished off with only my hands, head, and feet uncovered. These, he
just slathered in another dose of lotion.
     Up to this point I just stood there docile and patient because I
didn't know what he was doing to me. I began to get nervous, though,
when he covered me with saran wrap.
     This time, he wrapped me in true "mummy" style, with my legs held
tightly together. When he released me from the stocks, I struggled
weakly against him, but I was really quite helpless without the use of
my legs, and gave in after only token resistance. He wrapped my arms
and hands tightly against my sides. I had always thought of saran
wrapping as rather flimsy stuff, but it is amazing how strong a couple
of layers can be. I was cocooned and completely immobilized from the
neck down. I could wriggle a little, but after he put me on my back on
the bed I would have had real trouble even rolling myself over. He
carried me into the living room and laid me out on a folding lounger
that he brought in from the yard. A little duct tape, and I was there
for the duration.
     Only at this point did he tell me what he had done, by just
showing me a bottle of the lotion. When it dawned on me that this
wasn't just a new kind of skin conditioner, I began to struggle inside
the wrappings.
     "That's not fair," I whined. "The month is almost over and I will
be stained by this stuff for weeks after!" I felt like when the month
was over, everything should somehow magically go back to the way it
was before. Silly of me, I know. My hair will be months growing back.
But then, I wasn't really sure I wanted the month to be over quite
yet. He explained the List to me once again. There is no fine print,
no special clauses, no exceptions. Nothing about what I will look like
after the term of the contract has expired. Just a list of what he can
do during the month.
     He took some more lotion and rubbed it into my face, neck, and
scalp. Trussed up the way I was, I couldn't even wipe it off against
the lounger: my shoulders were above the level of the back. I wiped a
little off on my shoulder, but he just put more on.
     He turned on the TV and left me there for hours. I tried to
convince him that I had to pee, to no avail. He didn't believe me and
told me to go right ahead. I didn't. After a while I began to feel
pretty icky inside the wrappings. When I started to feel hot he just
turned up the air conditioning.
     I really can't stand Phil Donoghue. He's so icky. There was
nothing else on.
     When he finally decided to release me, he first made me take some
tanning pills. Knowing him, it was the maximum dosage. I've seen them
advertised in Cosmopolitan, (Oops. Are feminists supposed to admit
they read Cosmo? Or just claim we only read it for the articles?
Hardly.... Okay: I only read it for the pictures.) I don't like taking
pills, even though they are probably harmless (I think they are just
carotene). I don't mind smoking a little grass now and then, but I
don't like pills, for some reason. Even these. You would think a nurse
would have more confidence in medical technology. I've see a few
doctors get in trouble over them, though.
     Anyway, I have to keep up the pills until the last day. He has
threatened me with a sunlamp in addition if he's not satisfied with
the depth of my "tan", so he'll have me brown one way or another. I'm
not going to fight it. On the last day, I intend asking if we can keep
going with Column One. At least I feel that way right now.
     At this writing, I'm a "nice deep" rich mahogany yellow-brown. It
does NOT look natural, despite what they say about the new artificial
tanning lotions. The second it starts to wear off, I just know I'll
look blotchy and jaundiced. It's better for my skin than the sun,
though. I think.
     I learned something about myself, though. I don't know how to say
this without sounding weird.
     I like being "changed."
     That summarizes it, but it's an oversimplified trivialization of
my feelings. When I look in the mirror and see something, someone,
different than what I expected something happens. The shock of seeing
myself, I don't know, distorted, has an erotic (?) impact on me. I
like being frightened in this way, sort of. Frightened is the wrong
word. Horrified maybe? That's too strong a word.
     I have been ... distorted ... by J in a number of ways since this
month started. The most shocking transformation was when he shaved my
head, but even seeing my face distorted by the ball gag gave me a
secret thrill. The artificial tan, as I saw it gradually creeping
toward darker and darker colors, made me realize what is going on in
my head. Even my fanatical attitude toward makeup is symptomatic of
this weirdness.
     If I could experience more extreme changes--as long as they
weren't irrevocable--I would do so. I'll let my mind wander through
that psychological garden for a minute:
      I'd like to try having oriental eyes. I think the epicanthic
fold is sexy.
      I'd like to be able to change my weight and height. I don't
mean to "improve" myself, either. I'd like to turn myself into a
Junoesque near-freak. How about measurements of 45-28-45 on my five
foot two and a half frame?
      I'd like to try an all over body tatoo. Face and all. A pierced
nostril is a must, someday, I think.
      If only cosmetic breast enhancement could be safe and
reversible without surgery. I'd like to see what I could do to blow
J's mind. There was a girl in my high school gym class with, well,
very pointy breasts, prominent, swollen looking nipples. I thought
they were attractive (she didn't). I wonder how big they could be and
still look like breasts? Or how I'd look with none?
      I'd like to try being taller. Over six feet.
      I'd like to try being shorter. In a SF fantasy called "Some-
thing Wicked" by Ray Bradbury, a beautiful woman, transformed into a
circus dwarf by the evil ringmaster, was "rescued" from her plight by
the young hero of the story. I would like to be rescued like that.
Over and over.
      I would like to try being a man, of course. Who wouldn't. I
think I might be Frank Langella.... Who wouldn't.
      I'd like to try and seduce J with the body of a pubescent 12-
year old girl, but with him knowing I had the mind of a woman. Sort of
like the hundred year old young-girl-vampire in the Anne Rice story
"Interview with a Vampire."
      I'd like to be covered with short soft catlike fur. And have a
tail? Or snake scales. Or pupils with vertical slits like a cat.
Imagine the look on the bank teller's face when I took off my sun-
glasses.
     There was a circle in Dante's Inferno in which the punishment was
having your head put on backwards. I'd like to have my upper torso put
on backwards. Imagine having frontal anal sex. I would be horrified to
look in the mirror, but it would be a delicious horror. If I knew it
could be undone.
     Am I weird, or what?
      What would it be like to have a switch that J could use to turn
off all my voluntary motor functions? The ultimate bondage. What would
sex be like? Total absolute submission....
      Sometimes I feel like I would like to scream during sex, it
feels so good, but I am too midwestern to actually do it. What if I
could be a mute, so it didn't matter if I tried my utmost to scream? I
once read a Fu Manchu style mystery in which a young Chinese woman was
made into a mute: the nerves to her vocal cords were severed to keep
her from giving testimony. That would be erotic bondage if it could be
temporary.
     Are you getting the idea? Being CHANGED, voluntarily or involun-
tarily, is an erotically charged experience for me, and not necessari-
ly changed for the better, either. I discussed this insight into my
psyche with J at about this point. I think it might have influenced
his subsequent behavior. He did things to me, erotically charged
things.
     -*-
     At that point in time, though, the effects of this tanning
regimen were still minimal. I still hadn't even seen what I looked
like completely shaved, except for a weak and fleeting reflection in
still water in my sink. He made sure I didn't try to use even a
makeshift mirror (like the side of the toaster oven; I tried that).
     After the first dose of tanning lotion I spent the afternoon in
the black thong (with a wig on) and wearing chains locked around my
wrists and ankles (no leather cuffs, just chains looped around and the
links locked together with the little locks). I just lounged around
reading. And clinking.
     That afternoon as the sun was going down I went for a walk around
the yard with him. We strolled and did a little weeding together, me
in my thong and chains.
     That evening he had me shave a second time to be sure I was
smooth. He told me I was finally going to see what I looked like.
Despite the fact that I was curious, I perversely told him I didn't
want to see myself. Even now, days later, I feel alternately very sexy
and more than a little weird about all this.

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist10.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List - 10 of 20


The List
     Column 1
       Item 17

     He began by telling me to prepare myself for the "other kind" of
intercourse. Despite all we have been through, we both still did a
kind of verbal dance around the concept.
     "You remember saying how you could prepare yourself. In a special
way..." he began.
     I hadn't actually given him the details, but I knew what he
meant. "You mean cleaning myself inside? Behind?" I said.
     "Yes. I know that kind of- preparation isn't on the List,
though."
     "If it would please you, we can add it. Besides, if the alterna-
tive is no preparation, I would prefer to-"
     "There is that to consider." My, my. So formal. Maybe we haven't
left Kansas after all, Toto. No matter how disgustingly anatomical, no
matter which--or how many--orifices are penetrated, no matter what
glandular secretions or hidden perversions are involved, there is no
situation that can't be sanitized by midwestern etiquette.
     I'll give you an example. Sorry to digress, but I once met a gay
activist playwright from Indianapolis who felt he could challenge the
homophobic political environment in the midwest by writing plays that
highlighted the supposedly more liberal social attitudes of classical
Greece and Rome. He is best known for a disastrous satirical farce
about a gay gladiator named Felonius Orifice and his twin brother
Titus.
     He had hoped that if his play didn't actually make any money it
might at least be accorded the dignity of censorship at the hands of
the city commissioners or the chief of police. Unfortunately, on
opening night there was a sizeable audience of gay activists that were
attending as a politically correct gesture of solidarity for their
fellow activist.
     During the first act it became apparent that the playwright had
seriously misjudged the collective sense of humor in the gay communi-
ty, although the rest of the audience seemed to enjoy it immensely.
Apparently the play was a little ambiguous as to exactly who was being
satirized, and the gays thought it was them. They took their cause
more seriously than did the playwright. They felt betrayed. They left
during the intermission to invest in vegetables and poultry products.
The play closed during the early moments of the second act. The
theater owner had to replace the curtains.
     Anyway, the playwright was notorious: you can imagine the joy he
brought to newspaper columnists, editors, and critics. They agreed
unanimously that the play should reopen, but no theater owner would
touch it. There wasn't a person within a hundred miles that didn't
know the story. EVERYBODY knew.
     Even so, when I was introduced to him by a nice old midwestern
biddy, a scion of the Indianapolis cultural scene, she says, "He's
single, you know..." with a significant look that was supposed to tell
the Whole Story: "single" equals gay when said in the right tone of
voice and with the eyebrows in the correct position. This is the sort
of linguistic semaphore code that midwesterners understand perfectly.
It allows them to communicate with the Deep South, for example, and to
translate for New Yorkers.
     And if you think the old biddy lives in La-La Land, don't you
believe it. She bought IBM stock for peanuts as a teen-age girl and
thinks New Yorkers are overly dependent on reality anyway. She has
homes in Miami, New York, and Indianapolis.
     So J and I had absolutely no problem understanding each other,
even though not a single bodily function or anatomical feature was
mentioned.
     Anyway, our little exchange made it pretty clear what the choices
were: I could prepare myself for what was to come or not, but it was
finally going to happen. I only had control over the level of hygiene
and nothing else.
     So I prepared myself. J says I have to include this in the
account, so I'll put it in, but I will try to describe this a deli-
cately as possible. We're talking about colonic irrigation, here,
folks. Several repeats of the procedure were necessary until I was
voiding clear, clean water. Then another just to be sure. This is more
than would be required by an examining physician, but then we weren't
just looking, were we? I wanted to be clean. For me as well as for J.
Enough said, especially for someone from the midwest. As, I've already
mentioned, my mother, the archetypic midwesterner, doesn't have any
bodily functions at all, as far as I can tell. My apologies to the
folks back home, but I found out that in the real world people use
words like `colon' sometimes. They even use their colons sometimes,
Ma. Recreationally, even.
     Meanwhile, back at the raunch, the next step was the obligatory
ritual shower. I was clean inside and out, and as naked as it is
possible to be--with the exception of a couple of chains. He had me
put a matte makeup foundation on without the mirror, and a powder over
that. Then, with the long tangled black wig in place, I was finished.
I knew what was coming, so I put on the same "pained" eyebrows again.
That look really turns me on--I think [know] it does him. Besides, it
expressed how I expected to feel.
     He led me out into the bedroom by the wrist chains and started
with a little light foreplay and cuddling on the bed. As he got me
warmed up, my mind kept focusing on what was about to happen (I was
mostly worried that it would hurt) and I was caught a little by
surprise when he slipped a new kind of device inside me. Another toy
from chains-R-us in San Francisco; he must have spent a fortune that
day. It was a vibrator, the kind with a flange at the outer end that
pressed against my clitoris while the rest of it rested (later vibrat-
ed) inside me. He lifted me to my feet and had me kneel with my chest
on a little bench (kind of a short piano bench) with red velvet
upholstery on the top. He taped my wrists and knees to the legs of the
stool with electrical tape and strapped a belt all the way around the
stool and my waist so that I couldn't get up--or in fact move much at
all except my head. I could wiggle my rear end a bit, though.
     There was a full-length mirror right in front of my face, leaning
against the wall. My breasts just peeked over the edge of the bench,
and I could just barely lift my shoulders enough to see my little
garnet nipple pendants. I looked pretty good in the long, shaggy wig.
I could see the reflection of J's face and shoulders behind me.
     I squirmed a little but the way they were taped I couldn't pull
my legs together when he reached between my legs and turned on the
vibrator. When he pressed it against me it was stunning. I pushed
against the stool with my hips, which pressed the flange-thing against
my important bits, and I could tell right away that this was a vibra-
tor designed by a woman.
     Immediately, though, I felt his fingers lubricating me for
penetration. Once again, I found myself trying to concentrate on two
things at once. The vibrator was doing very interesting things to me,
but I could see him over my shoulder and feel him spreading and
stretching me more and more. I really got into that part.
     Being able to watch my own expression during this was a bit like
making love to myself. Sounds narcissistic, I know. Well, it was. I
make no excuses: for some reason I felt unabashedly and overtly
narcissistic, and I gave in completely to the impulse. What the hell,
I said. I had never watched myself in a mirror during sex before.
(This is sex, isn't it?) Anyway, the looks I gave that mirror were
directed as much at myself as at J.
     The first look was one of pained surprise as he began to enter
me. I gasped for real at the sensation and tried to push forward away
from the pain.
     "Wait!" I squeaked, "It's too big!" He was already being gentle,
but he's a little bigger than the vibrator I had in there before. He
had prepared me well with lots of lubricant, though, and was already
partly inside. I can't describe the sensation of being parted and
penetrated there. The anticipation when he held my cheeks apart was
exquisite. I'm proud to report that I savored the anticipation and
apprehension like a gourmand tasting a new dish for the first time,
fully aware that there can be only one first time. I felt as though I
were truly being violated, though--more so than when I lost my virgin-
ity. But it was a delicious violation. I remember a fleeting and
unarticulated thought flashing through my mind:
     "This time I will experience rather than endure." (Actually it
was more like: "Ouch! Oops. I gotta try and enjoy it this time.")
     After that I stopped thinking. I panted, taking my breath in
short gasps as though a deep breath would have somehow hurt, and I
cried out several times as he slipped incrementally deeper into me. He
stopped and waited while I tried to relax more to accommodate his
size. During the pauses he flexed (?). I don't know what the actual
physiological basis for this is, but he kind of twitches and seems to
grow momentarily larger inside me. It's not a motion of the hips, but
of his actual organ. Anyway, I call it flexing for lack of a better
description, even though I don't know of any muscles to explain it (I
checked Gray's Anatomy. It was no help) and J doesn't know what he
does either, but he's sure all males can do it. It is another deli-
cious feeling--one that really helped as he continued to gently pulse
his way into me.
     It really is profoundly different from "normal" sex. It was a
feeling of being filled up. That describes it best. It was all the
more foreign and new because it is accompanied by sensations that I
normally associate with being emptied. But I was being filled com-
pletely and couldn't escape it: I tried to wiggle away--and I savored
not being able to escape.
     Finally he was thoroughly in. I could feel his hips tight against
my buttocks. I was dizzy with new sensations, but he waited until my
breathing stabilized and I had adjusted to the feeling. Experimental-
ly, I tried contracting around him, even though I was stretched to
capacity and it was all I could do to keep myself big and relaxed
enough to prevent it from hurting. He felt the contraction and
"flexed" back at me.
     I didn't think of it then, but the attitude I HAD to adopt is one
that encapsulates the entire idea of bondage for me: Relax, submit to
it, welcome it, and pain can become pleasure. Oddly the converse is
not true: Fight it and the pleasure does not become pain. Rather, if
you are clever, resistance brings you closer to the edge of pain so
you can play there. Fighting it also takes away the guilt. I can still
feel the guilt, you know, what with being from Indiana and all.
     He let me be the first to begin moving, contracting around him
and pushing with that (very interesting) new vibrator against the edge
of the stool. At first I just made a few very tentative experimental
movements, exploring my limits. I decided he was exactly the right
size. If he had been even a fraction of an inch larger I would have
been in serious pain, but he filled me completely and if I relaxed and
didn't fight I could push against him and enjoy it. (Yes, I know, who
could really enjoy that, you're thinking, but all it takes is a good
vibrator and a very sensitive lover--one who can control his own
instincts enough to help you through these critical moments. I didn't
expect to do more than endure, but I ended up enjoying--sort of. I
take that back. I enjoyed it, period. That doesn't mean it didn't
hurt).
     Don't get me wrong though: the orgasm was entirely caused by the
vibrator. I could never have an orgasm from anal sex alone. Those
sensations were mostly penetration, weirdness and occasional pain; it
was the combination of the two with an orgasm that made it so, well,
good.
     I tried sort of pushing back against him and rubbing my front
against the vibrator, and I began to get the hang of it. He began
moving gently in response to my halting motions, but he changed the
rhythm: rather than thrusting into me when I pushed back against him,
he followed me as I thrust against the vibrator and helped me push
against it as well, gently pinning me against the edge of the stool.
As I pushed back, I tried to open and relax, drawing more of him into
me as he first retreated and then followed my next thrust. So he began
by moving with, rather than against me.
     All the while I was watching my own face in the mirror. I have to
admit that the expressions that semi-involuntarily crossed my face
were a turn-on. Occasionally he would thrust a tad too hard and I
would gasp and an expression of pain would cross my face (enhanced, of
course, by the expressive eyebrows I had given myself). He watched for
those signals and was very careful with me, but I was still completely
in his hands. I would have had to accept whatever he wanted. I watched
myself through half-closed eyes as my breathing quickened and I became
more and more responsive. There was nothing making him be careful, but
he was careful nonetheless, to perfection. He also kept me just on the
edge of what I could take, now and then pushing me over by just the
right amount to make me gasp again. More than once, my half-closed
eyes sprang open with astonishment and a half-cry of pain escaped as
the breath was driven out of me--but he had such control that it
turned instantly to pleasure. He really walked the edge that time.
     As I neared orgasm (it really was the vibrator rather than the
other that brought me there) I wanted desperately to make great
heaving motions against him and the vibrator, but every time I tried
an extreme movement I caused myself instant pain. I was forced to
control myself and limit my motions to little thrusting twitches which
suddenly, and without my volition, became spasmodic and convulsive. I
had been going slowly, not thinking about (or even hoping for) an
orgasm when, without realizing it, I found myself in the middle of a
big one.
     My eyes widened and my mouth opened as though I were saying "Oh!"
but no noise came out. The temptation of the orgasmic contractions was
too great to resist, but every time I contracted, I felt pain. Even
now, I don't know whether pleasure or pain was the dominant theme of
that orgasm, but I do know the pain intensified the pleasure in a way
that I had never experienced. I couldn't separate the two. As I say,
he really walked the edge. I guess I did, too.
     At that critical moment, just when I was watching my own face in
the throes of pleasure/pain and thinking I looked really beautiful
like this, he reached up and pulled my wig off and I saw my shaved
head for the first time.
     He timed this shock to come right smack in the middle of my
orgasm. I couldn't stop my own powerful pelvic contractions even
though each spasm caused me pain behind that forced increasingly loud
gasps from my lips. I was completely incoherent from the ongoing
orgasm and at the same time horrified by my appearance. I looked so
bald and naked! My gasps became louder and I heard myself crying "No!"
and "Don't!" and "Please!" and "Stop!" with each of his thrusts even
though I was the one causing the pain more than he. And it wasn't only
the sex and the pain I wanted to stop, it was the sight of me so naked
and bald and awful. I was totally out of it, orgasmically, visually,
psychologically, every way you can imagine. I reacted strongly and
without inhibition to everything at once. It sounds silly to say this
now, but that's how I felt, that's how I remember it.
     My whole body stiffened and hardened as the orgasm peaked. I
think every single muscle must have been tensed. Even my breathing was
suspended. My eyes were wide and round, staring at my reflection with
a kind of stupefied amazement. In fact, I really was astonished by the
feelings I was experiencing. More than that, I was transfixed: my
mouth was open in a surprised but silent "O" and I was straining
against the bonds at my wrists and knees; I remember the tendons in my
neck and forearms standing out. As the orgasm held me in its grip my
body just seemed to take charge all on it's own and clench every
muscle, leaving me with no voluntary control at all. I gripped him and
the vibrator like a vise. I looked into my own eyes and had the
distinct feeling that in some way I was making love to myself, a
victim of my own needs. Even more, (it is embarrassing to admit this)
that I was in love with myself. Does that make sense? I'm not bisexu-
al, but narcissism really is a kind of homosexuality, isn't it? Hey,
at least it's sex with someone I love....
     Finally I realized I had been holding my breath. As I tipped over
the edge and began sliding down the far side of the climax, a surpris-
ingly loud cry escaped and I expelled the lungful of stale air I had
been holding. I began breathing again in great gulps and gasps.
     After we were through he inched his way out slowly and carefully.
I was grateful for that. I was almost sorry to feel him finally leave.
I felt emptied. Depleted. He turned off the vibrator, unbuckled the
belt around my waist, and cut my wrists free, leaving the scissors for
me to free myself the rest of the way. While he was in the shower, I
just stared at myself in a daze.
     I am normally in a daze after a "session", but this time I was
dazed by the way I looked as much as by how I felt. I just stared
mindlessly for quite a while. Finally, I shook myself out of it and
cut my knees free. I sat on the stool for a few minutes, peeling
electrician's tape off my skin and trying to get my head together
before getting to my feet. I felt a bit wobbly. I was still wearing
those chains, but other than that, when I stood in front of the mirror
I was completely--and I mean completely--nude. It was quite a shocking
sight.
     I'm sorry to dwell on this, but it's the biggest thing that's
happened to my body since I reached puberty and grew tits. I really
look different. So very, very naked.
     Words like nude, exposed, hairless, bald, shorn, and shaved all
come to mind, and I know I keep saying this over and over, but these
words just don't capture the feeling of being totally naked everywhere
and from all angles. I don't know how to express it. It just wasn't me
in the mirror. I turned to the side to see what I looked like. Still
in disbelief over my appearance, my hand crept up to touch my scalp,
half checking to make sure it was really true, still hoping it wasn't.
With the hand mirror, I looked at the back of my head. It is so white
and smooth and round--even paler than the rest of my skin, which was
quite pale, even after the first treatment with tanning lotion. It
isn't lumpy, like some bald men's heads are; it is a perfectly fea-
tureless dome, front, back, and sides. Somehow that makes it look even
more naked. I usually think of my earrings as minor accessories, but
without any hair they suddenly have become a major aspect of my facial
appearance. They used to be hidden by my hair.
     This may sound odd, but I looked at my nipple rings and thought,
"Well, at least I still have those." Stupid, I know, but for some
reason I was reassured by the thought of them as the last vestige of
the "old me" even though I should logically regard them as the earli-
est symbols of the "new me." Maybe I just think of them the only part
of me that hasn't been taken away. Jesus, I don't know. I don't know
what to think.
     J came out of the shower and stood behind me with his arms around
me as I looked into the mirror. I asked him how he could possibly like
the way I looked, and immediately felt an erection growing against my
back. I guess I really don't need more of an answer than that. It
turns him on. Even though I hate it, aspects of it turn me on, too.
The embarrassment, for example. Every time he does something I think I
hate, he reminds me that what I am feeling is, ultimately, embarrass-
ment, and then he asks for it as a gift. He asks me to let myself feel
it, let it come out. For some reason, that diverts my feelings of
resentment into something that becomes erotic. Usually. I don't know.
     Over the previous few days, I had come to assume that it was the
simple visual impact of my hairlessness that turned J on, but it seems
it's more complex than that. What was just as important was that he
knew I was stunned by what he had done to me and would be shocked
again when I saw myself for the first time. My mental state was at
least as important to him as my physical appearance, and the expres-
sion on my face (frozen there during my orgasm) had expressed exactly
the mental state that turned him on so.
     During that session J had been holding back out of concern for
the tenderness of my previously inviolate rear portal, but something
about the way I looked in the mirror at the moment of my orgasm (he
later said) caused him to lose control--although I wouldn't have known
if he hadn't told me. As I came down from my orgasm I ended up just
panting and staring at my face and head in the mirror. I still had
kind of a shocked and surprised look on my face: after all, I had
never seen myself with absolutely no hair before. Perhaps I shouldn't
mince words. I was (am) bald. Absolutely naked bald. (I know, I know.
I'm going on about it again...) Anyway, as I knelt there staring at
myself, quivering and twitching slightly, I felt him grow larger and
harder inside me. He began very slight but very powerful and re-
strained stroking inside me and came almost immediately. That was him
"losing control" as he put it. What he means is he couldn't stop
having an orgasm, not that he lost all regard for me.
     Our "usual" frontal sex normally takes more effort than that on
his part, but this time, it took almost no stimulation at all to bring
him to a climax. I asked him about it later. He said it wasn't having
sex "that way" that did it. It was the way I looked--the expression on
my face--during and after my orgasm. I guess the brain is the real
erogenous zone. It must be. How else could wet dreams happen?
     This really interested me, so pay attention. I quizzed him
(insofar as it is appropriate for a slave to quiz her master) on
exactly what I looked like to him, and what it was that did it for
him. He was turned on by a combination of things. First was the idea
that I was so surprised and unable to control what was happening to
me. I really was surprised, but I deliberately used my face to express
that surprise far more explicitly than I normally would have. Somehow
that's a really important lesson for me. Of course the feelings
themselves are most important to us as human beings, but in the
process of human communication, appearances are at least as important
as the feelings they convey.
     Actors watch themselves in the mirror to judge whether their
faces do a good job of communicating what they pretend to feel. The
average person doesn't bother to do this, and so doesn't communicate
as well, even when the feelings are genuine. That's a stupid thing of
me to say: of course, that's why they pay actors to do what they do.
     The bottom line is this: I suppose you could regard my facial
expressions as acting and therefore deceptive, but I was only playing
around with really showing well what I was actually feeling. I MADE my
face LOOK the way I FELT. In so doing, I realized that it normally
doesn't reflect my feelings accurately. Doing this was a visual turn-
on for ME, too.
     Is it phony if you have to become an actor to show what you
really feel? Uh Oh. I feel a quote coming on ...
     "Truth and Myth are the same thing ... you have to simulate
     passion to feel it, ... man is a creature of ceremony."
     Sartre, I think
     -*-
     I don't know what came over me that night after my first experi-
ence with this new kind of sex. I felt very odd. I was in an erotic
mood but I didn't want to have more sex. I did something I normally
would never have thought I would do: I went and got the plastic torso
and put it on. I mean voluntarily. I don't know why, it's such an
anti-erotic thing to wear.
     I showered first, and conditioned my skin, and then got the torso
and locked it in place, even though J had the only key. I put it on
over charcoal sheer-to-the-waist pantyhose. I have to plan ahead when
I put that carapace on: I had to put my boots on before the torso,
because with the torso on I can't bend enough to put them on easily.
Then I sat for what must have been an hour or more putting on my
makeup. I know it would have made a lot more sense to put the torso on
last, after the makeup, but I didn't want to. I really don't know why.
     Putting on makeup is a reassuringly familiar occupation that I do
without thinking; it is almost a kind of meditation. I made myself
look as artificial as the plastic covering I was wearing. Kind of a
doll-like, with crisply defined eyeliner and pencil-thin arched brows
(totally unexpressive, as though I were a doll made up for a kabuki
play) and lips painted to look like a cupid bow. I even put on false
eyelashes, something I haven't done in ages. With coverup I made my
skin flawless and smooth as the plastic, and I even redid my nails in
black to match the torso. I finished myself off with the long, tangled
black wig. The mirror over the sink opens out so you can see yourself
from three sides. Seeing myself from the side, motionless, I looked
like a department store mannequin, my makeup was so heavy.
     Don't ask me why I did that; I don't know. J realized I was in a
strange mood and left me to myself. In fact, he even cooked dinner,
something he does rarely and only out of deliberate choice these days
(that is, while we're doing Column One). Usually I cook.
     We ate in silence. I wasn't mad at him, or anything, I just was
in a quiet mood and I kind of retreated inside myself. He seemed
entranced. I sat there with the erect posture that the torso enforces,
eating like a cadet in the mess hall during hell month. He almost
forgot to eat himself he was watching me with such fascination. It was
a bit distracting for a moment, but I retreated to my own interior and
forgot about him while I ate.
     After dinner, I rose to do the dishes and he stopped me. He told
me to relax and read a book or something--he said he felt like doing
the dishes. Just to let him know I wasn't mad, I answered, "If you're
sure it pleases you, Master." I noticed distantly--almost indifferent-
ly--that the M word slipped out naturally and with no vestige of
giggly embarrassment on my part. It just seemed like the right thing
to say. A part of me was faintly interested in the observation that
this could happen to me, that I could refer to him that way without
thinking about it.
     I was in that detached, floating mood again. I felt that nothing
could touch me unless I wanted it to. Maybe I was disassociating
myself from reality, but I actually felt more in touch with every-
thing--just less concerned about it. I wandered aimlessly through the
house while J rattled dishes in the distance.
     I was standing in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom
when he finished the dishes and came to stand behind me. I was looking
at myself the way one might look at a stranger, and wondering what I
would think of that stranger if I saw her in public dressed this way.
Face it, the only place would be in a floor show at a bar where they
catered to the leather crowd. Freakish, but sexy.
     I really do look ... well ... regal ... with my chin held up so
high. I'm forced to have the posture of a queen. If I had that kind of
posture naturally, people would think I was an incredible snob. I
appear to be looking down on the world, and it doesn't really come up
to my standards, and I haven't decided yet if I'm going to stay here.
I don't feel that way, but if I look at myself objectively, that's
what I see.
     And the sleek black plastic is very flattering from the front.
Whenever I move, the locks rattle against the sides of the torso; the
lock dangling in the space between my legs is somehow especially sexy.
Well, you'd have to see it to know what I mean.
     I still can't tell you why I put on that particular outfit. I
guess I just felt like throwing myself completely into ... this. Sort
of an offhand, almost careless impulse.
     It's hard to describe my feelings at that moment. I felt sorry
for myself. My old life seemed so distant, and I had lost so much.
Indiana seemed very far away. I wondered idly if I clicked my black
leather heels together three times and said "There's no place like
home... there's no place like home..."
     Sorry, Auntie Em.
     They all dress this way in the merry old land of Oz.
     I just dropped in to pick up Toto's leash.
     You can keep Toto.
     Normally I would have laughed at the thought, but for some reason
I had this maudlin, self-indulgent certainty that I wasn't going home
again. Metaphorically, I mean: not back to the way it used to be.
     The thought penetrated my armor plate and a single tear plowed a
furrow through the mask of my makeup. I wasn't feeling particularly
strong or deep emotions--in fact, it felt as if someone else was
feeling them for me, and I watched her in the mirror almost curiously.
As I say, I don't know what came over me. Childish sentimentality,
that's all it was. Here I was, with J, careening through the List and
having the most profound sexual experience I could have hoped for, and
I was feeling sorry for myself.
     That one tear seemed to have an effect on J, though. It's not
like I was crying or anything; it was just the one tear. My face
remained unchanged--not even a quivering lip. (My lips really do
quiver when I'm about to cry.) Still, he turned all solicitous and
felt he had to do something, so he took off the torso. Crying means so
much more to men than it does to women. They always feel they have to
DO something. It's sweet, really. Totally clueless, they are.
     It was a relief to get the torso off, actually, even though I had
put it on myself. I can kind of settle into it and forget how much
more comfortable it is possible to be without it. The relief is a
surprise, in a way. He carried me into my bedroom and took off the
pantyhose and boots and put me on the bed. He said to tell him if I
wanted anything. It was sometime after ten, and I was feeling tired
anyway, but I couldn't sleep. I could hear J getting ready for bed.
     I got up and removed all my makeup, the wig, everything but the
nipple rings (I don't want the holes to close up). I lit a candle
rather than turn on lights (it just seemed appropriate) and went into
J's bedroom and stood in the doorway. I said his name, faintly.
     "Master?" Okay, so it's not his name, but that's what I said. And
not in a subservient way, either. I said it naturally, as though it
were his name, not a title.
     He wasn't asleep. I couldn't see him in the darkness beyond my
candle, but I know he could see me, standing there in the candle light
as naked and bare as the day I was born. I felt like a little girl
going into her daddy's room after a nightmare for reassurance. He told
me to come to bed with him, and to close the mosquito netting over the
bed's alcove.
     The candle light made the bed a cozy nest. It was just nice...I
don't know if I can even explain why I'm writing about this part. It
just made an impression on me--almost as much of an impression as when
he shaved my head. The feeling of security was something I needed very
badly at the time. Of course that's what I went in there for, and J
knew that instinctively. He almost always gives me what I need (not
always what I want). I think he was expecting me to come in, though. I
don't even know why I did. That day had been an interesting one. The
sex was a completely new barrier we had broken through, and I am still
inwardly proud that I got through it--and I will look forward to it
when the time comes again. I don't think it was the very best sex
ever, but it was so different as an experience that it's a matter of
comparing apples and oranges anyway. It was good. Really good. I'm
glad he made me do it.
     -*-
     The next day, J was gone for the morning. He left me alone at the
house and I had the whole morning to myself. I gave myself the artifi-
cial tanning treatment (I was getting noticeably darker by the third
treatment, but I think it is primarily the lotion; the pills shouldn't
have kicked in yet, according to the directions.) and I worked on this
account for three or four hours. I was (still am) several days behind.
He had left me unchained, unconstrained physically in any way. Except
that he had me pack my wigs and all my clothing except the harem
outfit and the thong in a small bag for him to take with him. My
credit cards, checkbook, and bankbook were with my other clothing. He
left me my car keys, though. Nice touch, that. How far would a bald
girl in a harem outfit (even with a black thong under it) get with no
money? I suppose I could wear a bed sheet and chant Hare Krishna. I
need a tambourine.
     I have given my scalp extra applications of the tanning lotion to
try and even out the color difference between my scalp and the rest of
me. I also did a bit of very careful sunbathing (sunscreen assisted).
As I have said, I normally avoid the sun, but my scalp has NEVER seen
the sun and is still very white. I tan so easily, a couple of days at
five or ten minutes a day should do it. I didn't really want a tan,
but it's a nice experiment. I would have liked to just kind of neu-
tralize the bluish color that very pale skin has, but I obviously got
a tan, sun or not. Well, maybe not obviously to you, but from where
I'm sitting today .... Actually, I look pretty good with a tan.
     When he came home I was exercising on the weight bench in the
garage, wearing the black thong and perspiring heavily. When his car
pulled up I went out to meet him. There must have been something about
seeing me all sweaty and pumped up that had an effect on him: he
opened the bag on the spot and handed me a wig to put on. I got on my
knees right there in the grass and asked if I could talk with him.
     I don't like being free to leave, especially when I look the way
I do. I used to ask myself a thousand times a day "why don't you just
go?" and before I could always answer "because I'm chained here." Now
the only answer I can give is that I am too embarrassed by my appear-
ance, so I feel guilty for not leaving. Embarrassment isn't a digni-
fied reason for staying.
     Kneeling there, I presented him with a rather confused manifesto
in which I told him I didn't like this new chainless arrangement. I
thought he was giving me too much freedom, and suggested that he was
trying to end the List and possibly our relationship and was he tired
of me?
     He explained that he didn't leave me unchained to give me free-
dom. He felt I was even more constrained than I had been before, even
though it was fear of public embarrassment rather than chains that
keep me here. He's right, too.
     He brought me home some more of the sheer cotton material and
told me to make a robe for myself. I later knocked together a kind of
monk's habit (do monks have habits, or is it just nuns?) with a cowl
and long sleeves with big cuffs. Transparent, so it's not quite as
chaste as your average monk's habit. He didn't want anything to
obscure the view, so I couldn't make it wrap around like a bathrobe.
He wanted more of a button-up sheath. I only had four odd buttons in
my sewing box, so I used those. Still, it's the most comfortable thing
I have for around the house while he's gone. I feel dressed anyway,
sort of.
     That evening before dinner he gave me a present. He'd had them
made by a jeweler in town. I don't know what to call them, really.
Nipple cages? Imagine a conical cage made of silver wire. The base of
the cone is a circle of wire the diameter of my areolas. There are
wire struts supporting a tiny hook that hangs down inside the apex of
the cone. There are bits of filigree where the struts are joined to
the base. With the bases resting on my areolas, my nipple rings hook
to the apexes of the cages so my nipples are held out in little points
inside the conical cages. They are quite charming with the garnet
pendants hanging from the tips, and the feeling is exquisite--in short
doses. I worry that they will do some kind of damage if he leaves them
on me too long. Perhaps make one of my nipples evert permanently. It
would be wonderful if I could be sure both would evert, but I would
rather be symmetrically inverted than have one "outie" and one
"innie."
     But they are sweet. Maybe Jennifer, the founder of
rec.arts.bodyart, will read this and pass a comment on the world's
first orthopedic pasties. He gave me some tiny bells, too. Actually,
they're not so tiny, they just sound tiny. In fact, they are amazing
and I have no idea at all how they work. They are small, very light-
weight silver-colored spheres less than an inch in diameter. They emit
a kind of tinkling chime when disturbed, even when you hold them
between your fingers. That's the amazing thing: you can't dampen the
chiming noise by touching the outside. There are no openings or seams.
I can't figure them out, but he has superglued them to pearl pendants
in place of the pearls and they can hang from my nipple rings. They
are absolutely delightful. He says he got them in a flea market. They
are a novelty called "faerie bells" or some such thing. So now I
tinkle.
     I wore the bells dangling from the ends of the nipple cages
during dinner. Tinkle, tinkle.

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist11.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List - 11 of 20


     After dinner, I tried something different--something I wanted to
do before the routine with the tanning lotion changed me too much.
Actually, I was probably unnaturally pale before, anyway, but whatev-
er. I had about average coloration at that point.
     I tried a new concept in makeup. I painted big artificial blue
'baby doll' eyes on my eyelids, with large false eyelashes glued on my
upper eyelids, and painted-on lower lashes, with thirties-style
eyebrows. (I've tried just about all styles of eyebrows: simple
straight ones, surprised, pained, emotionless, even slanting Mr. Spock
and heavy Mariel Hemingway ones). I also painted on very artificial
cupid-bow lips and over-rouged my cheeks. With my eyes shut, I looked
a bit like a wide-eyed Raggedy-Anne doll. I covered my nipples and
navel with round patches of surgical tape (the kind that looks a bit
like tissue paper) and covered it with makeup blended into my skin. I
made myself look as much like a department-store mannequin as possi-
ble. Nipple-less, navel-less, expressionless. Blonde wig.
     When I came out of my bedroom he wasn't looking in my direction,
so I stood stock still in a department store pose with my eyes shut
and my hand on the back of the sofa for balance. I was completely
nude. I don't know how he reacted, if he was startled, or what. I bet
I looked like a mannequin, though. He didn't say anything.
     But he did something. To me.
     He led me into the bathroom and sat me down at my makeup table
and removed the makeup from my face. Then he stood me in front of the
full-length mirror with my wrists in straps over my head. I thought at
first he didn't like what I had done and was going to punish me for it
in some way, but I was wrong. He took more of the surgical tape and
taped my nether lips together, covering my sex completely. He blended
more makeup into the surrounding skin; I already was hairless down
there, but he made it look as though I was sexless as well.
     "What are you going to do to me?" I asked. This question has
become almost a formula with us. No matter how nervous I am about what
he's doing to me, I'm not supposed to ask it, and I always do anyway,
and his response is always disciplinary.
     This time, it was adhesive tape over my mouth. Securely over my
mouth. I tried to open my lips after a while, and couldn't. I watched
while he cut little ovals of tape and put them over my eyes, one at a
time, taping them shut. He was thoughtful enough to protect my eye-
lashes from the tape with a bit of kleenex, but my eyes were taped
securely shut. Then he reapplied the makeup job on the outside of the
tape (I figured this out later as I was taking it off and cleaning
up): Cupid-bow lips, big baby-doll eyes with false lashes, the whole
nine yards.
     He put cotton in my ears, held in with beeswax. I had only two
operating senses: touch and smell. He put a drop of sandalwood oil on
each shoulder and somewhere on the tape on my face, and for the next
few hours, that was all I could smell.
     When he unhooked me from the ceiling, I was completely disorient-
ed, and would have fallen if he hadn't supported me. I felt very odd.
He put me on the bed with my wrists strapped together and held over my
head at the headboard. I could have gotten the tape off my face if he
weren't watching, but he had too much of an advantage. When I tried to
reach my face with my hands, he pulled my ankles until my arms were
extended above my head again.
     Then he made love to me. I turned my face blindly from side to
side, trying to figure out what he was going to do next, but he kept
surprising me. During the foreplay he used partly-melted ice cubes,
feathers, clothespins, a snap with a leather shoelace here and there
(I know it doesn't qualify as a whip with you hardcore ASBers, but it
was the first time for me for all of this stuff, and it hurt--mostly
because I didn't know what it was and from the surprise of not knowing
what was coming next, or when). I screamed several times under the
tape. Each time I was rewarded with a loving kiss on the offended
spot, or a stroke of an ice cube.
     He peeled the tape off my nipples. Slowly. That was excruciating.
Then off my nether lips. Likewise. I was pretty excited by that time.
I can only imagine how I looked. Later when I took off one eye patch,
I realized I must have had a vapid, vacuous, and silly but expression-
less appearance no matter what I was feeling behind that mask.
     More foreplay with the ice cubes on my nipples and nether lips.
During my second orgasm (almost always the best) he had me on top and
he slipped an ice cube into my behind. I was too far gone at the time
to even protest, but it was a terrific orgasm--the second became a
plateau from which the third orgasm launched. I don't know how to put
it, but it was like an orgasm on top of (added to?) an orgasm rather
than two consecutive ones.
     I know, ice cubes are probably tame stuff for you. It was new to
me, though. I realize now (after reading the posting in a.s.b.) that
this entire List must seem like the inexperienced fumbling of a couple
of virgins. Especially to the guy that walked around with thumbtacks
stuck in him. Yow. I feel more than a little embarassed that you might
read this, not so much out of shame for what we did, but because we
are such vanilla softies. This is really just plain bondage--is there
such thing as vanilla bondage? I haven't really experienced any
serious pain (except that gag is still a killer). Spanking is on the
List, but I don't think J is any more interested in inflicting pain
than I am in experiencing it. Besides, spanking isn't real pain
either. I came close to some serious stuff yesterday, though. I was
really afraid. I'm coming to that.
     -*-
     We made love the following night after what must be the strangest
conversation on record. I'll try to reconstruct it.
     On his instructions, I had prepared myself with the usual shower,
shave, conditioner, makeup, wig, etc., leather cuffs and collar, too.
     Now, don't get the wrong idea when I tell you this, because I
still hate having my head shaved, but it's done and can't be undone
except by many months of waiting. Shaving my own head now just delays
regrowing it one more day, so it's not a big deal. If that seems I'm
being too logical and unemotional, that's not true. I do feel emotion-
al about it. If I could have my hair back right now, I'd do it, List
or not. But I can't, so I am experimenting with this new look--just
for a few days--before Column One is over and I can start growing it
back. So what I'm trying to tell you is that when I shaved, it was an
erotic experience. It still is. After a shower, I shaved my underarms
and legs (I didn't need depilating). Then I covered my scalp with his
fluffy white shaving cream so it looked like I had short, white hair.
I "revealed" myself with the razor. Don't ask. I can't explain. When I
read over that last paragraph it doesn't capture the eroticism of
becoming so extremely naked, but for me it is an erotic process.
     Anyway. Back to the tale.
     He had lit two candles in the bed alcove and was waiting for me.
He just started right in with the foreplay. I was unable to get into
it, even though preparing myself for sex is always a turn-on for me.
Anticipation is half the game for me. I don't like spontaneity.
Surprises, yes, but I have to know that he has thought them out well
in advance and planned the things he does to me. I like my spontaneity
to be well planned.
     But I just couldn't get into the foreplay. The worst part was
that he knew it--and he seemed to be expecting me to have trouble,
too. He was even pleased, I think.
     "What's the problem," he said. He had that smug smile that says
"I already know the answer to this question." I hate that smile.
     "I don't know, Master," I said, knowing perfectly well.
     "I think you do," he said, knowing perfectly well I knew.
     "No, really..." I said, pretending I didn't know anyone knew
anything.
     "Why did you put on the cuffs and collar?" he asked. Good ques-
tion.
     "I thought you might have wanted to use them ...?" Stupid answer.
     He just looked at me.
     "Would it please you if I put on something else?" I asked, trying
to change the subject. Stupid question.
     He just looked at me some more. I was floundering. I could see he
didn't believe me.
     "You wanted to be bound. Admit it."
     "No! Really! I don't know what it is with me tonight," I protest-
ed. "... Master," I added. "I just can't seem to ..."
     "You can't seem to get into it because this is 'vanilla sex,'" he
said. "Admit it."
     Of course it was true, but I couldn't admit it. I thought it
would spoil it if I admitted I liked something that I was supposed to
be fighting every step of the way. It takes away an essential ingredi-
ent of bondage if you don't fight it, and you can't fight it if you
admit you want it--especially to yourself. Can you?
     "We've reached another milestone here and you just haven't
realized it yet," he said. "The illusion that you are resisting me is
your last fig leaf. I'm not going to allow you even that shred of
dignity. Tonight I'm going to make you admit you want everything I do
to you. I'll even make you beg for more. You'll voluntarily give up
even the illusion of resistance.
     Drawing on my fine command of the english language, I said
nothing.
     He got out that wonderful little vibrator and put it in me and
chained my wrists to the bedposts. While I was squirming on the bed he
ran ropes through the eyes in the ceiling and pulled my ankles high in
the air and wide apart. My rear end was nearly pulled off the bed. He
went to work on my rear opening with another lubricated vibrator,
beginning by working his fingers into my opening until I was relaxed
enough to accept it. With nothing to press against, it was hard for me
to stimulate myself. My squirming became more and more frantic. I
remember thinking that this isn't exactly going to wrench a confession
from me. I just got hotter and hotter. He pressed against the front of
the vibrator, helping to bring me closer to a climax. He watched me
very closely, alternately pressing and waiting, pressing and waiting.
I came to the very edge of an orgasm. I was teetering at the very top,
panting and heaving. I held my legs straight. My thighs were quiver-
ing, I flexed them so hard trying to come.
     "I'm not going to let you have an orgasm until you beg for it,"
he said. He took out a small bottle and held it up. "This is an oral
anesthetic. It is benzocaine--not clove oil. It lasts just a few
minutes. Every time you get close to an orgasm, I will put a little
more on." It was the same anesthetic I had used earlier (ages ago) to
suppress my gag reflex. I knew it would work perfectly on sensitive
membranes--that's what it's intended for.
     I watched in dismay as he took out the vibrator and put a dab of
it on my clitoris. He massaged it in, and put a liberal dose on my
labia. After a couple of applications, I could barely feel him touch-
ing me at all. By lifting my head I could just see the tops of my
nether lips. They get kind of swollen when I am turned on. In fact,
they were engorged and dripping. I could literally feel moisture
trickle between my legs. But I couldn't feel my clitoris; I couldn't
feel anything. I watched him put the vibrator back between my numbed
lips. He pressed it solidly against me, and I felt the vibration in my
hips, but I was too numb to feel the vibrator itself. He kept watch-
ing. I was still panting, still very turned on, but groaning with
disappointment every time I strained to recapture that edge.... After
a few minutes he took a washcloth and wiped my clitoris free of the
anesthetic, but I was still numb.
     "I can keep this up all night," he said. "Or, I could wash off
the anesthetic, gag and blindfold you, and tie you suspended from the
ceiling. Which would you rather?"
     "Ceiling?" I said.
     "Look up. See the extra rings?"
     I did. there were several new eye-rings in the ceiling. I had
noticed them already.
     "I will put a harness on you--one you haven't seen yet, and
suspend you from the ceiling by it. You will be floating above the
bed, blindfolded, gagged, and spread-eagled. And you won't be able to
stop having orgasms.
     "But you'll have to beg me for it. You'll have to convince me
that you want it."
     He was still pressing on the front of the vibrator. I was begin-
ning to feel it again. I tried to keep from reacting: maybe I could
steal a secret orgasm. I wasn't exactly on the edge, but I could just
barely see the beginning of an orgasm peeking around the corner when
he took it out again, suddenly. It was almost a shock for the vibra-
tion to stop. Then he put it back in. He took nearly a half hour of
teasing to bring me to the edge again. With the control over me the
anesthetic gave him, it was much easier for him to keep me on the
edge. He kept me quivering for another fifteen minutes, letting me
rest just enough to keep me from exhaustion, but not enough to let me
cool off.
     "Alright!" I said, finally, just as he was opening the bottle
again for a second dose. I'd had enough.
     "Alright what?" he said.
     "You win," I said sullenly, "you were (pant) right."
     "About what?"
     "Me," I said. Pant, pant.
     "Say it."
     (Pant-pant, calming a little) "I want to be tied up," I said
flatly. "I get off on it." I didn't sound convincing even to myself.
Its easier to tell an unconvincing truth than it is to tell a convinc-
ing lie. Did you ever tell a truth in an unconvincing way because you
didn't want it to be believed? Even though it was true, I couldn't
make myself reveal the truth, so my answer sounded like a recitation
read from cue-cards. I didn't mind him knowing I liked bondage, I just
thought it was degrading for me to have to tell him.
     "Not good enough."
     "Please! What more do you want? I've admitted it!"
     "Admitting it's not enough."
     "But this is torture," I wailed.
     "Does it hurt?"
     "Yes! No! I don't know what you want!"
     "I want to be convinced. If it's true, convince me. If it's not,
say so and I'll stop, untie you and put you in a nice comfortable
bed."
     "But I said it's true! What more do....Oh No....!" My protest
dissolved into a wail as he put more of the stuff on me.
     "Now we'll wait for it to take effect," he said.
     [Editorial insert: Actually, he didn't put more on me, he just
pretended to. He told me after proofing this account that instead of
waiting for it to take effect he was waiting for me to cool down a
bit. We went through several cycles of this, with the pretense that he
was anesthetizing me: sometimes he really did, sometimes not (I
think); he won't tell me if he really used it again or not. It was
really the power of suggestion that did it to me. That, and a little
Anbesol. I guess this is Just another mindfuck. Well, the brain is my
second favorite organ.]
     So I squirmed and cried in frustration while I became numb for
the second time. And a third, and a fourth. Each time, using both
vibrators alternately and in concert, he brought me to the edge of a
climax--and each time he pulled me back again. The last time, I was
covered in perspiration. The bed was soaked, and my wig had come off.
My eyes were stinging from the salt and makeup. I can't remember what
my exact words were that finally convinced him, but they WERE heart-
felt in the end. I literally begged. If I could have gotten to my
hands and knees and kissed his feet to show my sincerity, I would
have. I wanted release from the torture. I wanted it to stop and I
wanted that orgasm. I had earned it. As I say, this may not be an
exact transcript:
     "Please! No more!" I wailed. I thought I was exhausted after the
first dose, but by now I had been through four. "I'll do anything!
You're right! I want to be tied up! I have to! I want to be used--I
want to be filled to overflowing! I don't even WANT an orgasm unless
you force me to have it. I can't- I need it that way. I need to be
gagged and blindfolded! Please! I'm begging!" And so on, with lots of
crying and panting in between. Actually, even though I wouldn't want
you to think I wasn't incoherent (say what?), I can't really remember
what I said. Whatever it was, it convinced him that I was sincere:
either I had gotten to the point where I sincerely wanted him to stop
even without giving me an orgasm, or I wanted one so badly I would say
anything, or I really was telling the truth about preferring bondage
to straight sex. He had no way of knowing. Actually, it was all three.
     Anyway, he freed me. Rather than suspending me like he had
promised or giving me my promised orgasm, he told me to get on my
knees on the bed while he stripped (the vibrators were still inside
me) and take him in my mouth. After just a few false starts, I was
able to take him all the way down my throat without gagging. I'm
getting pretty good at that. The vibrator in my rear tended to gradu-
ally slip out as I worked on him, and he told me to hold them both in
while I brought him closer and closer to an orgasm. I still can't have
an orgasm easily while kneeling. It helps to flex my legs and
straighten them, but I couldn't.
     He came in my mouth. He had before, over the last month but not
when he was actually down my throat. The first spurt went deep down my
throat and I swallowed it reflexively. I caught the rest in my mouth.
He hasn't ever told me I have to swallow it, but over the last few
weeks I have gotten used to the taste--and the idea. I looked up at
him to see his reaction, (looking up was a deliberate infraction of
the rules, but what did I have to lose?) and swallowed. He didn't say
anything, but I know he knew. I lowered my eyes again. I figured that
ought to win me a few points with him.
     I was incredulous at the time, but he actually made me wait until
the NEXT DAY for an orgasm. He could have made love again in a few
minutes, or even have used the vibrator on me, but he made me wait
until the morning. I was kneeling in front of him after I had swal-
lowed, and he bent me over and took the rear vibrator out. He told me
to roll over on my back, and he took out the other one. I was SO sure
he was going to finally give me my orgasm then ... but he didn't. He
told me I would have to wait until tomorrow. My nether lips were
swollen and my entire pelvis felt congested and uncomfortable. He
waited--and watched--while I got ready for sleep; then he locked me to
his bed, both hands to a long chain at the head, one ankle at the
foot. I could almost (but not quite) bring my arms down to my waist if
I straightened my leg and scooted up to the headboard. I tried after
he was asleep. I spent a fairly miserable night, although we went to
bed early and I did finally sleep. The next morning he got me up
before dawn.


The List
     Column 1
       Item 18

     I had cooled down by the next day, but he left instructions
before he went to work for me to prepare myself for him. You know the
routine. Shower, shave, conditioner, makeup, etc. This time, though,
no clothing. Not a stitch. Starting at 5:30, I waited, reading, in the
living room.
     He took me into the bedroom practically the minute he got home
and started right in putting straps and belts and constraints all over
me. He put a strap around each arm above the elbow and locked my right
wrist to my left elbow behind my back, and vice versa. What followed
was a bewildering array of straps around my ankles (held three feet
apart by a stiff pole locked to my ankle straps), thighs (upper and
lower), and neck (a stiff, high collar that had three buckles to close
it in back). There were straps around my chest above and below my
breasts, a very wide one around my waist, and two straps that went
from the front of the waistband (leaving my sex exposed) under my
crotch to join a single wide strap that buckled to the back of the
waistband--but only after he had put another device in my rear. This
one was a surprise. It was a while before I figured out what it was.
     Before buckling the back of the belt, he told me to sit on the
bed. He rolled me over and lifted me to a kneeling position with my
face and shoulders resting on the bed and my rear in the air, legs
held apart by the pole between my ankles. With my arms behind me,
there wasn't much I could do to resist. There was no foreplay. He just
lubricated his fingers and started loosening me, preparing me for
something. When I saw it, I was nonplussed.
     "What's that?! What are you going to do to me?" Contraptions make
me nervous, especially when I don't know what they're for.
     "It's on the List," he said. "Trust me." Well, it is on the List,
but only technically.
     The 'horse' had been on the List, too: two dildos at once. That
was stretching the intent of the List to the limit. I couldn't make
head nor tail of this, though. It looked like a very large condom on
the end of a small-diameter rubber hose.
     "But Master, if it pleases you, I don't remember anything
like..."
     He gagged me. This time it wasn't that horrible rubber ball, but
it was still a gag. It was a kind of ring that went in my mouth, held
in with a neck strap. The ring just held my mouth open--that's all,
just held it open. Sounds simple, but I couldn't make an intelligible
sound to save my life. It was humiliating. And I know I must have
looked like a drooling idiot with my mouth hanging open.
     I relaxed a little, though. He wouldn't gag me if he was doing
something that required feedback to avoid hurting me. He inserted the
condom-thing into my rear, poking it gently but fully inside me with
his fingers--I was left with a rubber tube hanging out of me. He
buckled the crotch strap of the 'chastity belt' (unchastity belt?) in
back, holding IT (I'll tell you what IT was in a minute) inside me.
     Then he blindfolded me and started the real show. I was already
trussed up pretty securely just lying there on the bed, but he was
tying ropes to the rings on the various bits of leather harness that
held me. Soon, I felt myself being hoisted: at first it was just my
feet being lifted. Then my shoulders and waistband. Step by step, he
hoisted different parts of me up over the bed until I was hanging,
suspended, like a kind of horizontal puppet. I was very disoriented,
but I'm sure my head was higher than my feet, and I know my legs were
held spread apart even after he took off the pole that held my ankles.
     I was well supported everywhere. There weren't any real pressure
points, and my circulation was fine. It was like sitting in a swing,
sort of.
     But something was happening inside me. The device he had put in
my rear portal was doing something, seemingly on it's own.
     I twisted my head blindly from side to side. "Ah ah oh oh!" I
said. Ha-ha. Very funny, I know, but you try saying "What are you
doing?" without being able to close your mouth. I was feeling VERY
strange down there. The sensation was one of being filled, but from
the inside. It was a warm feeling, but oddly familiar. When I finally
figured it out, I realized he was filling the condom inside me with
warm water through the rubber tubing. The sensation of being filled
increased (and increased and increased). I felt much fuller than I
ever had with anything else that had been in there. Packed, in fact.
Not stretched the way a dildo would have done, just full. My breathing
and heart rate began to increase. I guess that technically it was a
water-filled dildo?
     Meanwhile, I could feel him putting on my nipple cages. That
feeling really is exquisite.
     Then he entered me. I could feel his hands on my hips, steadying
me. He was standing on the futon between my legs. I felt a slow
stroking motion--I think it was me swinging back and forth rather than
him thrusting. Maybe both. I really felt I was floating above the bed,
though. Floating and full. (Will she resist the temptation, you ask
yourself.) I think not:
     Floating, full, and f****d. Heh heh.
     Is that the first time I've used the F word? Shame on me. It'll
probably be censored. If you're logging on in California, it may have
been censored on its way through the midwest. They have filters in the
phone lines in certain counties.
     I won't bore you with the rest. I had a few orgasms and lost all
sense of orientation in the process. I might have been weightless for
all I knew. The most interesting thing was that I was free to try to
move in any direction but still constrained. Hanging free, unable to
touch anything, but still completely trapped. I couldn't have hurt
myself no matter what I did. Like a fly in a spider web. And I like
the feeling of being filled--but this way is a little kinky for me. He
drained me, freed me, and that was that. Sorry to be so brief about
it, but I don't want to dwell on it and you are probably tired of
gratuitous sex anyway.
     We talked about it afterward, and I found out he had considered
leaving the condom inside me. At first I was horrified--didn't he know
sea turtles die that way? Digestive systems plugged with party bal-
loons? He had put a rubber band around the condom to hold it onto the
tubing, but as a safety measure he had passed a piece of string under
the band and knotted it around so the condom wouldn't be lost inside
me even if it slipped off the tubing.
     Then it occurred to him that if the tubing was slipped out
deliberately, the rubber band would close the condom and I would still
be filled by the condom but unable to expel it; a simple tug on the
rubber band would expose enough of the condom that he could burst it
with a pin. Which I wouldn't be able to do unless my hands were free.
Clever, clever. A little technical for my taste. I'm glad he didn't do
it. I think he (correctly) figured what he had done to me was weird
enough, even though the newspaper, coincidentally enough, said it was
National Condom Week
     Now there's a parade you don't want to miss....
     But I had told him (under duress) that I wanted to be filled up,
so I can hardly blame him for being weird. Still, it was weird. But
who am I to criticize anyone for unnatural practices. And no, it would
not have felt more "natural" if it had been a sheep intestine condom.
Despite what the ad on the package says. More natural, hah. For
certain guys in certain parts of Tennessee and West Virginia, maybe.
Give me artificial any day.
     Less than a week to go and the month allotted for his turn at
Master and mine as slave will be over.
     -*-
     It started raining heavily while I wrote down the preceding
entry. I went outside and stood in the rain for no good reason. You
know, one of those tropical downpours where it just pours down verti-
cally and the trees bend under the weight of water on their leaves. My
muslin robe was plastered to my skin. Good excuse for a hot shower and
some conditioner, followed by a nice cup of tea in my robe, fresh out
of the dryer. Luxury.
     There has been a lot of rain this Spring. The plants in the
garden are loving it.

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist12.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List - 12 of 20


The List
     Column One
       Item 19

     I'm still catching up on these entries. He was on holiday last
week, so we spent a lot of time together and I couldn't write. Since
he went back to work on Monday, I've been able to write up the events
of last week. It's Wednesday now, and tomorrow evening is the end of
my month. Or his month, depending on how you look at it.
     Yesterday (Tuesday) I asked him if we could continue for a while
longer. I have been "bottoming" for a month now, and I have thought a
great deal about Column Two. I have decided I am not temperamentally
equipped to "top." (Will ya listen to me? A few weeks ago I had never
heard the term "bottom" and now I are one. That's what reading a.s.b.
will do. I gotta education now.)
     He turned me down flat. He thinks that the List should be sa-
cred--if we start bending the rules, the bottom won't know what he/she
can depend on anymore. I suppose that's true, but still, if both
agree... He also thinks that a month straight (perhaps 'continuous' is
a better word) is enough. Maybe he's right there. I think I would like
to do this on special occasions rather than continuously. But I don't
want to stop just quite yet. The month has been delicious. Still, I
think if both agree, it ought to be alright. He just won't agree, so I
guess we won't go on.
     -*-
     J told me to prepare a special meal for Tuesday night. And to
take special care in preparing myself. He wanted to be surprised. I
must have a pretty poor imagination, because the only thing I could
think of to do was to try out the harem costume I had made. I am
almost ashamed of it now. When I decided to make it, it seemed so
appropriate to what we were doing, but it seems like such a juvenile
fantasy by comparison with the things we did subsequently that it was
a cliche before I had a chance to try it out.
     But I went through with it, so I'll put it down here. I think
that the only two ideas I have contributed--the harem dance and the
raggedy-anne eye makeup--were imaginative failures on my part. J
rescued the makeup idea and made it interesting by taking charge; he
is too kind to say so, but even I find my ideas mundane by comparison
with what J has done. I take that back. Suppressing my own gag reflex
with an anesthetic was a stroke of genius. It was also the product of
a twisted mind, but genius nonetheless. And the forest goddess--that
was my idea too. Maybe I'm not so dull witted. Anyway, I would rather
be the one that is entertained, rather than vice versa.
     I intended to treat J like a king that night. I cooked food that
I could feed him by hand, a morsel at a time, and I dressed the part
of a harem girl. To go with the outfit I had made, I had bought a
cheap Indian silver belt that kind of drooped down in a kind of
decorative v-shaped chain mesh loincloth, and a necklace of the same
mesh. I had wrist and ankle bangles and rings on my toes and fingers
and a (fake) ring in my nose. I was looking pretty dark and persian by
then anyway, thanks to the tanning lotion. My makeup was perfect and
elaborate: slanting persian eyes, rouged nipples, a jewelled navel, a
beauty spot, a veil, obscenely long, fake nails, a black wig like a
huge wild mane, jewel hanging in the middle of my forehead, sandalwood
perfume, da woiks.
     I waited on him hand and foot from the moment he walked in the
door. I bathed him, put conditioner on his skin, rubbed his back,
served him drinks and stuffed him with hors d'oeuvres. I lit incense.
I lit candles all over the house. I turned on exotic music and danced
and wriggled (and jiggled) circles around him. I stripped as I wrig-
gled, removing everything but my pendants. The wig came off last
during the grand finale. When the music finished I prostrated myself
at his feet (well, next to the sofa since that was where he was
reclining, sultanesque) and asked to beg a favor of him, in the
approved slave-like manner.
     I asked quite seriously to be excused from column two. I offered
to let him do anything to me if only we could go on a little more with
column one instead. I offered to let him put a ring in my
nose--through the nostril or (even more kinky) through the septum. He
hasn't done anything that is permanent to mark me as his. Tatoos were
on the List, but he didn't make me get one. I offered. I had prepared
a long mental list of things he might want to do to me, and as I
babbled my way through this list, he sat in complete silence. When I
finally ran out of words and faltered to a halt he remained silent.
Finally, I told him he could do anything to me that he wanted. Any-
thing. Still no response.
     I really don't know what else I could have said or done.
     I think I may have irritated him a bit by going on about wanting
him to continue "topping." Finally, he told me to stop trying to
discuss it, and that Column One would be over on schedule as agreed.
     I protested that I had been begging abjectly like a good slave
should and it wasn't fair to stop me. That was dumb of me. Obviously a
good slave would have shut up when told to do so. He told me he was
going to punish me for mouthing off, and he did.
     I think he did this to make me WANT Column One to be over.


The List
     Column One
       Item 20

     He locked the ball gag on me and led me into the bedroom where he
told me to sit in a half-lotus position. We took a yoga course togeth-
er (one night a week for nine months) and we are both pretty limber,
although not as limber as the teacher. She was incredibly flexible but
a little too much into eastern mysticism for our taste. It's hard to
find a yoga teacher that doesn't debase the discipline by mixing it
with some mystical cosmic theory involving universal truth, beauty,
peace, harmony, virtue, and vegetarianism. Yoga could be defined as
exercise corrupted by morality. That's not why we quit, though. We
enjoyed it despite the incense and ceremony. Maybe I'm too midwestern.
I hate to keep blaming everything on my upbringing. Maybe this time it
was good old-fashioned narrow-mindedness. But just because I'm narrow-
minded doesn't mean the mysticism wasn't bullshit.
     So anyway. There I was in a half-lotus and J strapped my shins
together so I was stuck that way: right ankle on top of left knee,
left ankle beneath right knee, two belts wrapped around several times
and buckled. Then, in some kind of weird symmetry, he strapped my
forearms in a similar position behind my back.
     I guess you could call it the corruption of yoga by immorality?
     He left the bedroom to get something; I thought he was going to
leave me that way for a while but he came right back. He flipped me
over on my face so that I was "kneeling" with my rear end in the air
at one end and resting on my chest, shoulders, and the side of my face
at the other end. Talk about awkward and degrading verging on painful.
He got the hot water bottle and a collection of rubber hoses out of
the bathroom. I figured he was going to give me a repeat routine like
he did before with the water-filled condom (way back in "Item 17", was
it?), except this time he inserted two hoses into me, one with a
condom, one without.
     "You said I could do anything to you. Anything at all," he said.
"Lets see if you still feel that way tomorrow."
     He sat me back on my hips again and began filling the condom
inside me just as before. I could feel it expanding.
     When it was full, he tipped me over onto my chest again and
removed the tube from the condom, just as he had considered doing the
last time. The water-filled condom was inside me, acting as a kind of
plug. It was held closed by a rubber band with a string tied to it so
it could be pierced and drained later. For now I was plugged. There
was no way I could expel anything that large. He tipped me back again
so I was sitting on my rear in this enforced half-lotus position, and
began filling me through the second tube. As I became fuller and
fuller I eventually became unable to hold my stomach in any more. I
had to relax and let my abdomen distend under the water pressure. My
stomach protruded and filled my lap. The hot water bottle was suspend-
ed four feet overhead and I couldn't prevent the flow by pushing back;
neither could I stop the flow by clenching my rear opening: the tube
would not collapse.
     Before I became uncomfortable he stopped the flow, took out the
gag and unstrapped my legs. It took me several moments of intense pain
and whimpering to straighten my legs after being in that position for
so long. I thought he was through with me, that this was all he was
going to do, but I was wrong.
     He stood me up, strapped my ankles close together so I could only
take the tiniest of steps, and locked my arms to an overhead chain. I
watched while he taped a loop of the water tube to the flange of a
vibrator and put it inside my sex with the tube between my clitoris
and the flange. He taped it in place. Then he moved a chest of drawers
nearby. I didn't know what the hell he was doing. Then he started the
flow and turned on the vibrator.
     "What are you doing to me?" I asked.
     "You can stop the flow by pressing the vibrator against the edge
of the chest of drawers," he said. He put the ring gag in my mouth. At
least it wasn't the ball gag again. I began filling up.
     After a while I began to feel uncomfortable and pressed against
the tube, which transmitted the vibrations directly to my clitoris,
but it stopped the flow. Something gurgled in my abdomen and the
discomfort disappeared, but I continued to press lest it return.
     As I pressed against the tube I tried to ignore the vibrations. I
discovered I had to press quite hard to stop the flow. After about ten
minutes I was unable to stop the orgasm and while I tried to regain
control of myself I began filling up again. I went back to pressing
but had another orgasm after a few minutes. That was the last one I
had that night. After a while the vibrations just got so tiresome I
had to step away and let the flow continue unhindered.
     I watched my stomach slowly distend to become a belly. It grew
until I began to look pregnant. I kept looking from my stomach to J,
trying to ask with my eyes when he would stop it. >From time to time I
made little incomprehensible mewling noises, not really trying to
talk, but expressing my growing discomfort. Several more times I began
to feel uncomfortable but each time my stomach gurgled, the discomfort
passed, and the flow continued.
     I know that the length of the tube was too short for the water
pressure to do any damage, but I finally felt so big and heavy I had
to let out a moan. He let it go a little longer. I couldn't tell if
the water pressure had equilibrated with the pressure inside me or if
I was still expanding, but he finally stopped it and took out the
tube. I had been clenching to prevent any leakage around the tube, and
after he had removed it I still tried to stop the humiliation of the
water leaking out and running down my legs. But I needn't have wor-
ried. I couldn't have expelled the water if I had tried to, plugged
the way I was.
     He took off the gag, freed my ankles and released me from the
overhead chain. With my arms still strapped behind my back I couldn't
reach the string between my legs, but I was free to walk wherever I
wanted. Immediately, I went to the bathroom, but I couldn't expel the
condom or the water. Not a drop. I had a pee, though. It didn't help.
In the mirror I looked like I was about four or five months pregnant.
I felt incredibly distended and all I could think about was getting
the water out of me; of course I was powerless to do so. I felt so
ungainly and bloated. I couldn't even walk naturally with my abdomen
distended that way. I waddled back out of the bathroom to confront
him.
     "My God," I whimpered, "what have you done to me!?"
     I started begging him to let the water out. He left me that way,
though, and actually made love to me in that condition. I suppose I
should say he used me to satisfy himself: I didn't get much out of it.
He just sat me on the edge of the table in the living room and pene-
trated me while he stood between my legs and I lay back on the table
waiting for it to be over. At least he didn't put his weight on my
abdomen. I didn't have an orgasm, and he didn't seem to care.
     When he was through with me he freed my arms. I cradled my
stomach in my hands and started to rush to the bathroom.
     "Wait," he said. I stopped, but didn't turn to face him. I just
stood there shifting from foot to foot, wishing I could get back to
normal. "You're beautiful when you're worried, too," he said. I tried
to regain a measure of composure, steadied myself, and turned to face
him. I still held my abdomen in my hands as though it were fragile
enough to burst. "Okay," he said, releasing me.
     In the bathroom, I pulled gently on the string until I could
puncture the condom with a nail scissors. The condom emptied quickly
and so did I. I'm sorry if I can't dress this up and make it sexy and
entertaining, but I didn't feel very sexy or entertained myself. I had
told him he could do anything he wanted to me, but I think (hope) he
chose to do this to me in order to get me to change my mind about
continuing with him as top. Or maybe J has better associations with
this sort of thing than I do because he has a prostate to be stimulat-
ed. Maybe a pretty nurse gave him an enema once. Ask Freud. I was not
turned on by it.
     Okay. I endured it, I wrote about it. I consider myself to be
pretty liberal on most issues. I don't think anything is so obscene
that it justifies censorship but this, to me, was pretty gross. I felt
... well, defiled.
     I define obscenity as whatever produces an erection in a judge.
At least I felt that way up to now.
     I'm not so sure I feel that way any more. Maybe what J did to me
was obscene. Maybe he meant it to be. I concluded that if he were to
continue as top, I wouldn't want to explore that particular avenue any
further. Maybe that's why he did it. I probably gave him the idea
anyway when I cleaned myself out for anal sex. But I don't want to do
that scene again. I don't.


The List
     Column One
       Item 21

     He made it up to me the next day, though. I guess he wanted me to
know how good it could be if we followed the rules. When I say good, I
mean it was the best ever, and the scariest. Earlier I said he brought
me to the edge of serious pain. Well, this is it.
     By Wednesday evening I had started to turn a quite dark shade of
brown from the tanning lotion. Quite dark. He still had me putting it
everywhere. My scalp, my face, in my ears, everywhere. I think the
pills are starting to kick in, too. It is starting to stain the bed
sheets. They'll be ruined unless it washes out. Those in his room were
a disaster after the scene I am about to describe.
     I had just finished rubbing in my third dose when he had me sit
on the edge of the bed and buckle on the waistband of the leather
(un)chastity belt while he put on knee and ankle straps with a pole to
separate my ankles. Then he locked my wrists to the back of my collar
and doubled me over by chaining my knee straps to the front of the
collar. This exposed my nakedness completely. He arranged me face down
on the bed on my elbows and knees with my rear end in the air and then
chained my collar to the head of the bed and my ankles to the foot.
     [NFTF: I still can't believe I'm writing down what we did,  
sometimes. Sorry to interrupt, but the thought just hits me from time
to time.]
     Then he spread my knees and tied them to the sideboards. I was
unable to move in any direction, couldn't roll over, couldn't do
anything but kneel there with my bum in the air and wonder what would
come next. He began loosening my rear end, this time with a massage
oil.
     I really get into it now when he manipulates me with his hands.
He knows exactly what to do. He is able to masturbate me as well as I
can myself when my hands are free. Of course he teases me instead, but
he is as familiar with my body as a violinist is with his instrument.
He can be almost casual about the way he turns me on.
     I don't know if you've been able to tell, but over the last month
I've become pretty docile about what I will let him do to me. Sure, I
fight it, but my struggles have become a matter of ritual--on occasion
fueled by real apprehension, but the List really has protected me from
anything approaching serious damage. This night was different. I was
straining to see what he was doing behind me, twisting my head left
and right as he prepared his latest entertainment. When I saw, my
apprehension became fear.
     Several times in the past, I was punished for some infraction of
a trivial rule that was made up for no other reason than as an excuse
to punish me. Sometimes I was little rebellious, too. Now, he does
these things to me without feeling the slightest need for a pretense.
It isn't punishment anymore, it is just for his own pleasure. Or
fascination. I can accept that, too. Except this time he was stretch-
ing the point--literally and figuratively.
     Finally, I saw what he had been preparing me for.
     "You're not going to put that in me are you?" I squeaked. "Mas-
ter?" I added hastily. It was an enormous dildo. Or it looked enormous
to me. Up to now, he was the biggest thing that'd been inside me
there, and he isn't made of hard unyielding plastic. This- this thing-
was appreciably bigger than he. Words like monumental spring to mind.
Heroic. Legendary.
     I began struggling and protesting, but even when I threw my
weight against the straps it did nothing but tip me from side to side
a bit. I couldn't even fall over, and I certainly couldn't straighten
up.
     He loosened me some more, but I was finding it difficult to
cooperate. I continued my futile struggles. The SIZE of that thing was
all I could think of. When he started it in, I knew I would have to
cooperate as much as I could, and I tried, I really did. I stopped
struggling and tried to relax. He spread my cheeks and I relaxed
enough for it to get started, and at first I thought I could stand it.
It was tapered a little. But just as I thought I had taken the whole
diameter, he edged it in a little further and I gasped a real gasp.
     "Its too big," I cried, "I can't take it! It's stretching me!" I
strained forward away from it, renewing my ineffectual rebellion, but
the way I was tied caused me to just lift my rear in the air more. I
couldn't wriggle away. I kept begging him to stop, but he just waited
until I settled down and adjusted to the sensation, and then he
continued to insert it. I cried out again. I was being stretched open
to the point that I almost wondered if I would be damaged. I know
intellectually that the human body is very resilient. People have
checked into the ER with much bigger (and more interesting) objects
than that inside them (a small bust of Mozart, for example, but that's
another story. You can imagine the bad puns about music lovers gone
bust, etc.), but I wasn't able to intellectualize this. All I knew was
that I was being invaded, it was too big, I couldn't expel it, and I
couldn't stop it.
     When it was finally in all the way to its flange, I felt extreme-
ly fragile, stretched to the absolute breaking point, and very, very
full. He buckled the crotch strap in back, holding it securely inside
me. I couldn't do anything about it with my hands locked to my neck.
He unchained and untied me from the bed so I could straighten out. I
couldn't sit up. It would have damaged me. Probably not really, but it
certainly felt that way.
     Well, some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others
have greatness thrust within them.
     [Note from the Future--but not very far in the future: he told me
a few days later that he had showed me one dildo and inserted another
smaller one. Still, the one he DID use was as big as he is--and quite
a bit less forgiving. I guess this was what the folks at A.S.B. call a
mindfuck.]
     He took off the separator pole but left my wrists locked to the
back of my neck. It took some slow and ginger creeping about on my
part before I was able to stand up, and even then I could walk only
with great difficulty, slightly doubled over. He put the tiny chain
between my nipple rings and led me by it into the walk-in shower in
his bathroom He didn't turn on the water; he massaged more oil into
every crevice of my body. He even worked it under the belt that held
in the dildo.
     In the bathroom mirror my completely hairless, brown, oiled body
was quite a sight. I looked like some kind of primitive polynesian
native captured and taken into slavery.
     He attached a fine chain--actually a necklace--to the chain
between my nipples and used it as a leash to lead me out of the house.
It took only the slightest tug to lead me wherever he wanted to take
me. For one panicked moment I thought he was taking me to the car (I
would have had to go), but he just led me on a stroll around the yard
like a pet being taken for a walk. I walked--almost hobbled--haltingly
behind him. I was doubled over slightly, trying to keep from being
stretched unmercifully by the dildo. And the nipple leash.
     It was sunset after a light rain and the atmosphere in the yard
had that luminous greenish-yellow cast that sometimes comes for a few
minutes when the air is clear and fresh and the sun is near the
horizon behind the trees. The grass was wet under my feet and glowed
with the intense green of new spring growth; the woods around us were
dark and smelled of wet leaves. The air was still and comfortably
warm, and it was too early in the year for mosquitos. We smelled the
flowers and he picked two purple azalea blossoms and tucked one into
each nipple ring: in the twilight and against my golden-brown skin
they seemed to have a fluorescent glow.
     All these sights and smells were just as intense as the emotional
uncertainty, the apprehension, and the full, stretched physical
sensations I experienced as he led me around the yard. I gasped
sharply from time to time as my nipples and my distended rear portal
alternately claimed my attention.
     There is a small grassy path that leads down to a little azalea-
bordered glade in the woods. It really is lovely: the azalea bushes
are as old as the house (more than fifty years) and are monstrous.
Earlier, without telling me, he had spread a big blanket on the ground
in the clearing, and it was there that he led me.
     While I stood in the middle of the clearing, he took off the tiny
leash. He knelt in front of me and took off the ankle and knee straps,
and then stood to release my wrists from the ring at back of my neck.
My hand went to the strap between my legs that held in the dildo, but
he took my hand in his and guided it to his sex. I could feel he was
rigid inside his pants. He told me to undress him. I did, kneeling as
gracefully as the device inside me would permit, and taking off his
sandals and pants.
     When he was naked he knelt beside me and helped me to lie back on
the rough wool blanket where he unbuckled the belt from my hips and
pulled it gently away. I was wearing nothing but the collar and the
enormous device inside me.
     Gently, he lifted and parted my legs, and with excruciating
slowness, he entered me. I spread myself further, welcoming him. His
lovemaking was particularly tender, perhaps because these are the last
nights of our scheduled month, perhaps out of consideration for the
device inside me. Perhaps it was just the mood set by the azaleas
surrounding us and the glow of the sunset.
     Together we climbed lazily from plateau to plateau, seeming to
wander aimlessly from one sensation to another without searching for a
climax. It was a languid and unhurried journey. We built to the
slowest, sweetest, most tantalizing crescendo. At some point he rolled
us gently and put me on top so he could manipulate the thing inside
me.
     It was as though he were leading me at exactly the pace he
wanted, waiting, hesitating on the edge of a precipice, approaching
the abyss from every angle without plunging in. Normally an orgasm is
something I strive for; this one we both knew we could have together
any time we chose, so we delayed, teasing ourselves, looking into the
depths and pulling back again and again, staying near the edge longer
and longer with each visit. Finally, we looked into each others' eyes
and knew it was time. We both smiled secret little smiles with just
our eyes and then turned inward together to look down into the depths
and wait hand in hand on the very edge for it to come to us and take
us together.
     We both knew that if either of us so much as twitched it would
set off a landslide and carry us over the edge together. Still we
waited, looking into each others eyes and knowing together about this
secret interior world we shared. Finally a little surprised gasp
escaped me and I went out of focus, falling away from him into the
depths, but that tiny gasp pulled him over the edge with me and we
were falling together. We didn't lose control, we just didn't bother
keeping it. Instead we just fell together forever. Somewhere far above
me I could hear someone crying out. It might have been me.
     -*-
     Okay, so I got carried away writing that, but it was the best
orgasm I have ever had, bar none, so I'm entitled. I didn't do it
justice, but that's still the general idea of what it was like. I can
see why the french call it the little death. I remember thinking
fleetingly how foolish it is to TRY to have an orgasm. They're so much
better if you just let them happen. Imagine if a symphony orchestra's
objective was to reach the end of the music rather than to concentrate
on playing the other bits. Kind of defeats the purpose, and yet sex
has been so goal- oriented for me. "Achieving" an orgasm is subtly
ingrained in the way I think and it is a hard attitude to change.
Obviously, I'm working on it.
     Afterward, we were a long time recovering. Or maybe we were just
enjoying the floating sensation that comes after. See? There I go
again. It wasn't really over, was it? We had just passed a crescendo
in the music, but the music was still going on. IS! IS still going on.
Sheesh! You could miss your whole life just by not paying attention.
     The sky, the azaleas, the treetops, everything seemed to be
bathed in the same afterglow I was experiencing. Eventually, I wobbled
to my hands and knees and after a while stretched languidly the way a
dog does on all fours. He ran his hand down my back to the end of the
device and touched it lightly, moving it just enough to make me react
again.
     Eyes closed, I waited on my hands and knees with him lying next
to me on his side, head propped on one hand; he watched my face
closely while he slowly removed the thing from me. I concentrated
intently on enjoying/experiencing everything as he inched it out,
fully aware that he was watching me. I savored every millimeter of it,
and rather than just taking it out he helped me, reading every gasp
and shudder, every bitten lip and arched back, every sudden breath,
every movement. He has always known that the journey is far more
important than the destination. I shuddered through several after-
shocks and when he came to the end, the suddenness of it slipping
completely out left me twitching and contracting on my own with no
stimulation other than that of my own mind. I was so far gone I wasn't
sure if it was even out of me.
     I collapsed onto the blanket and he cuddled and stroked me while
I settled back down to earth. I ended up sprawled face up on the
blanket looking up at the stars coming out in the evening sky. After a
while he clipped the tiny necklace-leash to my nipple-ring chain again
and we got to our feet.
     After he led me back into the house he told me to dress for him
while he cooked a light dinner. I held everything I have up in front
of me in the mirror, and nothing looked right with my dark brown skin.
The white cotton outfits (the robe and the tight-fitting one) looked
wrong. The thong was too artificial. A moment of inspiration and I had
made a g-string-like loincloth out of twisted scraps left over from
the cotton robe. The white looked great against my darkened skin. He
thought so, too. Eating dinner at the oak table with candles and
formal silverware while dressed that way was a turn-on, for some
reason. I almost wished we could do it at a formal restaurant just to
see the look on the other's faces when J led me in on a leash. Of
course I wouldn't really... unless I could be sure we wouldn't get
arrested. I wonder how I would look in a fig leaf? There is a fig tree
in the yard. I ate with my fingers, just for effect.


The List
     Column One
       Item ... none

     This will be my last entry. When we were making love yesterday
(Thursday) evening, it was vanilla sex and, although I didn't realize
it, it was exactly (to the hour), four Thursdays ago that we started
Column One. He rolled us over so I was on top and said, "Time to start
column two," and that was that. I mean, we went on to have our vanilla
orgasms and they were all very nice, I'm sure, but it was clear that
it was over at that moment.
     I wish the final episode in this little drama could have been an
erotic Gotterd<72>merung, but it didn't work out that way. If you want an
orgasmic Ride of the Valkuries, read Item 20 again and try to imagine
how it was for me.
     I suppose that I don't have to even make any more entries, since
the chains are off now, as it were, but I'll finish this one. After
that, I suppose J will be the one making the entries if I can bring
myself to do it to him.
     Now I can safely admit that I skipped the last two days of
tanning lotion (okay, so I lied in my last entry), and I have been
scrubbing my skin raw to get it off, but I still look brown-yellow. I
haven't even started to look blotchy yet. It'll be a while before I
can go out of the house, even with a wig. It'll be a week before I
even look like Sinead O'Connor.
     I am still not ready for this topping business. I'm afraid I'll
ruin J's image as my Master. Or my image of him as my Master. Also,
after J's little trick with the condom, I'm not sure I want to contin-
ue as bottom either, unless we work out a new List and stick to it.
     I feel like I should say something profound at this point, but
I'm not a profound person. Mostly I feel pretty silly. I know myself a
little better now, but maybe it is only the shallow that can truly
know themselves anyway.
     I could quote someone ELSE profound if I could just remember who
said it: "Young girls already know all about love--it's only their
capacity to suffer for it that grows." Except that this hasn't really
been suffering for me.
     I don't know if I have lost J--or the person I thought was J, or
what. I think I might leave him if he doesn't have the strength to
keep me. I also might leave him if that last little condom trick of
his was a glimpse of the real J rather than a mindfuck. I haven't
figured that out yet. If he did it because of himself rather than in
spite of himself, I'm history.
     So goodbye all you people at A.S.B., obviously the only reader-
ship this little account will ever enjoy. Here's a big kiss. No
kidding: I am going to make a little circle on the screen below and
press my nipple against it as a goodbye kiss.
     I know it's electronic and through the net and has been stored on
a diskette and it's a different monitor and all, and you'll think me a
bit flaky, but it's a real kiss nonetheless,
      * *
      * *
      * *
      * ___ *
      * (_) *
      * *
      * *
     and I really pressed myself against the screen. You may not know
it, but you all deserve a kiss for helping me get through the last
month, even if you didn't even know I existed. It was good to know
there were other people out there discovering themselves, and that
some had already done so and seemed to be normal anyway. But don't get
any fancy ideas: kiss or not, it's just a monitor and I'm still a
devout midwesterner,
     Somewhere down deep where J just hasn't quite hit bottom yet ;-).
     Bye,
     "M"
     -*-
     I found this note on the kitchen table yesterday. I have added it
to the end of this document because it explains itself. Two weeks have
passed since we finished "Column One". I changed our names in the
note, and the deleted part was too personal to post. If I post this at
all. We'll see. Shit.
     "J"
     -*-
     J
     I am leaving for a while. It isn't because of the last month. I
liked it--almost every minute--probably more than was healthy for me.
It was the two weeks after we finished that got to me. I guess I just
need a dose of reality. Funny, but the last two weeks have been the
unreal part. That scares me a little. I feel like I am convalescing
from a disease that I would rather not have had cured. There is an
empty place in me and I haven't decided whether it is best left empty.
     I'm going to visit Connie and see her kids. After that I don't
know, but I'll try to call. I took a wig and two suitcases. The rest
of my stuff is in my bedroom. Will you keep it for a while?
     I should have gotten a job at the hospital. If I come back I will
have to, no arguments.
     (deletion)
     Love, M
     Fin

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist13.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List - 13 of 20


From Nurse Jones:

     Okay, okay. Here is some of Column Two. I wrote it while still
lurking. But it's all wrong because a lot has changed since then. For
one thing, I know some of you through E-mail now, and I'm more than a
little embarrassed to send it out, for reasons I explained in a recent
post. And it's getting more difficult as time goes on. For some
reason, I didn't care so much if strangers read about my innermost
thoughts, so long as no one I KNEW found out this stuff. But I've just
realized that I am getting to know "you people." Anonymously, sure,
but what does that matter? You've formed a mental image of me, just
like I have of some of you. Now if I shock and disappoint you, I care.
Now it matters what you think of me. In fact, I just turned beet red
thinking about the end of Column One. Well, not BEET red, maybe
fuchsia. Which has got to be the most carefully spelled color in the
midwest, possibly the world. I could NEVER confront anyone that had
read Column One and knew all that about me. Except Jay.
     But here it is, the beginning at least, almost unedited:


The List
      Column Two

     I'm back. (in a deep, Schwartzenegger-esque voice, with sunglass-
es)
     S.F. is a pretty neat place. Almost worth chucking it all for.
I'm surprised everyone doesn't want to live there. I could probably
get a job there easier than J could, given what I do. Maybe someday
I'll go there and help them do the offbeat things they get away with
while even managing to act as if it were all perfectly normal. Start
an all-night yoga clinic or something. You laugh. There would be
competition.
     I'm NOT going back to Indiana. My home town is proof that Hell is
full and the dead walk the earth. Besides, it's easier to be kinky a
long way from home. Hmph. It's easier to be liberal when you're a long
way from my home. You know how the Jaycees put a little sign outside
their town to encourage tourism? Like "Whisk Broom Capital of the
World" or whatever. Our town motto would have to be something like:
          "Not as bad as you might have imagined,"
or maybe
          "Preferable to Gary."
How about:
          "Leave it in drive"
     Even Chicago was better. At least there was something happening
all the time. Most of it unsolved.
     Anyway, I like the South almost as much as SF and a lot more than
Chicago. You don't have to shovel water. And I like J a lot more than
I thought I did when I left.
     So anyway, I'm a top now. Sort of. I got my feet back on the
ground over the last month, and decided that J wasn't so gawdawful
weird after all. He's still adamant about me having a shot at topping,
and I still don't really feel constitutionally suited to it, but I'm
going to do it. When I decided to go back to J I called and told him I
needed some money if I was going to top him. For toys. He sent me a
bundle, so I'm back, and loaded for bear. As they say. In fact, we got
started on Column Two when I got back, but we had to stop when I
pulled a groin muscle, even though it wasn't mine.
     I mailed the first part of this document to a couple of ASB'ers
at their home addresses just before I got back to J. It was titled The
List, and added up to near 500k in 6 files, "chapters" (items) 1-21. I
don't know if it ever got posted. There's no indication that it did on
the net...

       [Note from The Present: It ended up getting posted after
       all, thanks to wizvax and some very nice wizpeople, but
       I'll leave this stuff in anyway, out of date though it
       is.]

... If it didn't, then this will seem like an extended non-sequitur to
you. I'd better explain a little. To be very brief, I was a bottom for
the very first time last Spring. Not that I had ever been a top. It
lasted a month by prior agreement with J, and the things he did to me
we also agreed upon by way of a negotiated two-column list (The List)
broken down into paired items. If he did to me something listed in
column one, I could do the corresponding thing in column two to him
and vice versa. So I guess this is about to become an account of
column two. Except that this time, I can write it my own way. He
proofed, edited, and controlled what I wrote--or should I say what he
had me write--for column one.
     I left J because I thought he had gotten too weird; the things he
was doing to me. Since then, I've thought about it a lot and decided I
was just a little slow to adapt. He's okay, really. I hope I wasn't
too hard on him when I left. I really do care about him.
     So anyway, I went to San Francisco for a few months. We midwest-
erners don't change our attitudes very readily, but I can certainly
say that I got my prejudices rearranged.
     A lot has changed on the net since those days. Saltgirl seems to
be gone for good and STella is the new netqueen. I'm still a lurker,
but maybe not for long: it looks like there is anonymous posting now,
if all this wizvax stuff is what it appears to be. I guess I'll be
posting that way some day if I can figure it out. I have a lot to
learn about using the net, I guess. There are a lot of new folks out
there now. Some of them sound about as tolerant as the hyperbaptists
in the main office of J's department. They're everywhere, like the
roaches. They tried to get the usenet feed canceled--specifically
because of ASB and AS. Except that the hyperbaptists are intolerant of
ALL perverts, not just amateurs like me. Maybe I'd better stay in the
closet a bit longer. Coming out to some of you might not be the thrill
I'd originally thought. I don't relish being forgiven for having once
been a lurker. The attitude seems a bit smug to me. I would have
thought that the people who post on ASB (ESPECIALLY there) would
     hold tolerance in such
       profound reverence
          that beside it all the other
             virtues would seem like
                sins.

       [Note from the Present: This only applies to Little
       Retchid, now. But you knew that after yesterday's post.]

     Besides, I'm afraid. I remember what happened to Elf way back
when. And you should have heard the things the hyperbaptists had to
say about ASB'ers. They are genuinely awful people. They make me
afraid, and not just for my career. The way their jowls quiver with
righteous indignation when they act on behalf of the Lord God Al-
mighty. They seem to believe they are doing what He would do if only
He knew the facts of the case.
     If you've read The List, Column One, you'll understand why I'm
pleased to report that I don't have to wear a wig any more in polite
society. My hair hasn't grown back completely yet, but I dressed a
little punk for a while (although I'm really a little too old to carry
it off. Okay, okay, I'm 28. But I read at the 35 year old level.)
     And I didn't look too out of place in the better parts of San
Francisco. Now I have enough hair to look like Brigitte Nielsen from
the hair up. I'll get a job any day now.
     My pubic hair is a problem, though.

IMPORTANT SAFETY TIP: If you want your pubic hair to look normal,
     don't use depilatory. I used it regularly for that month, and it
     didn't grow back right. I almost might as well have had electrol-
     ysis. It was weeks before it started to grow back at all, and
     nearly three months later it is still so sparse you have to look
     twice to be sure I have any at all. If this is permanent, my next
     gynecologist is in for a treat.

     Seriously. After three months. I have about 15 hairs down there,
and they are thin and only 1/2 inch long. Thank God J didn't let me
use it on my head.
     I kept the nipple rings, though, and got a nostril pierced. So
tell me: Am I an exhibitionist? I like the way I look, but I've been
hit on a lot by guys lately. Is there something about a pierced nose
that says, "Hey! Guys! Available broad here! Loose morals! Nymphomani-
ac!" or what? Men seem to think that it means I will automatically
sleep with them or something. And I didn't. I couldn't, even if I were
attracted. Have you ever seen the inside of an AIDS ward? Trust me. It
takes more guts than I have to work in one.
     So what changed? Is it the nose ring? Or do all men insist on
treating the mons veneris as though it were Mount Everest, just
because it's there? I lost some baby fat while I was traveling; maybe
I look better thinner, (read more attractive to men), even with short
hair. Although my tits lost weight, too, I'm gaining it back.

     Meet The New Me:

     So anyway, I'm back. That's what I said to him. I got back on a
Saturday afternoon, and he came to the door when I knocked. I dropped
my pack on the ground and just stood there for a minute in the sun,
looking at him. It was dry and hot as hell and I had left Houston the
previous morning in my unairconditioned beat-up VW. The car was dusty,
I was dusty, my jeans were dusty. I was wearing a dirty white tank top
and some very beat up down-at heel boots with duct tape on one. I'd
lost weight and had developed some muscle definition in my arms.
Haircut like a man, pierced nostril, sunglasses, suntan, and an
attitude.
     "I'm back," I said. He told me I looked pretty good. I did. "You
my bottom now?" He nodded. "Run a bath," I said.
     He looked at me for a second longer, picked up my pack. "Now," I
said. He gave me a sharp glance, nodded, and turned to go into the
house. That was as long as the Nouvelle Moi lasted. I screeched and
jumped on him piggy-back and wrapped my legs around him and bit his
ear.
     I had planned on being a proper top, at least for a while,
playing the same game with him that he had played with me, distant and
aloof and tough. One minute. That's how long it lasted. But I was
really hot for one minute. Then pfft. But I made him sit at the tap
end of the tub.

     -*-

     When we made up the List, J had commented that one unfulfillable
fantasy he had was to know what it felt like to be me during that
month. To be a woman, I mean. Actually, I would like to know what it's
like to have a male body, what the male orgasm is like, too. He has
this idea that the female orgasm is something mystical and special,
much more profound than the male's. I don't know how anyone can ever
prove that to be true, but it's an idee fixee with him.
       [Note from the present: this is as far as I go without
       help from my friends. I'm feeling squirrelly at the
       moment, and I don't feel comfortable talking about it.
       You already know we are experimenting with hypnosis. I
       have to let it rest here.]

-*-

     Nurse Jones, who, if she were really Arnold Schwartzenegger would
still give free medical advice:
          Exercise daily,
          Eat wisely,
          Die anyway.

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist14.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List - 14 of 20


     Clearly, my numbering system is screwy.

From Nurse Jones,

     Well, the hypnosis is progressing. I know, I know, this is 
supposed to be something that only a qualified physician should  do.
Possibly so. I've asked around at the hospital as much as I  dare, and
the verdict seems to be that no lasting psychological  damage could be
done, even by a malicious hypnotist. I won't  argue, though, we could
be taking a chance screwing around with  his sexuality, but all the
authoritative references emphasize  that it is impossible to make
someone do something they really  don't want to do. I read one refer-
ence (by an MD, not a stage  hypnotist) that said the mythology about
the danger of hypnosis  was started by psychologists as a turf-protec-
tive strategy.

References? There are hundreds. I used:
     LeCron: Self Hypnotism. Signet Pub.
     LeCron and Bordeaux, Hypnotism Today. Grune & Stratton, N.Y.
     Cooke and Van Vogt: Hypnotism Handbook, Borden Pub. Co., L.A.
     Weitzenhoffer: General Techniques of Hypnotism, Grune & Stratton.
All in the local library.

     We read and talked it over endlessly. I am more afraid than he
is. I like my men to be men. Not Arnold Schwartzenegger or Rambo, but
not swishy either. Some of the most masculine men I've known were S.F.
gays, oddly enough, and I don't mean the leather set, either. I guess
being confident enough of your masculinity that you don't feel obliged
to demonstrate it 24 hours a day is my definition of a Real Man. Which
makes _them_ more masculine than the scratch-n-burp types from back
home. I like to feel protected and cared for though, and ... hell, I
don't know what I like anymore San Francisco, and relearned it in the
hospital cafeteria recently. But I might have tendencies....
     I've told J to stop reading ASB. I'll save the fun posts for him
to read later, but here's where I ask for specific advice, and I don't
want him to read it. I finally got a post hypnotic suggestion to work.
I told him he would shave twice on Wednesday morning because his first
shave wouldn't be close enough. I told him he wouldn't remember the
session.
     He did it. He says he didn't remember. This is really eerie. It
gave me chills. Feet still cold.

My Plan:
     The first step is to work on techniques to get him into a deep
trance quickly. There are posthypnotic tricks that speed up the
process. Right now, I spend all my time getting him into a trance deep
enough to give me some influence. It seems we're always going down
stairs and escalators, deeper and deeper, ad infinitum. The books say
to gauge your success with tests like "You can't lift your arm," or
"You can't open your eyes," etc. They work. I made his face numb and
he couldn't feel pin pricks, even on his lips. Or kisses on the pin
pricks.
     But before all that we spent half a week trying to figure whether
anything at all was happening beyond him getting a comfy lie-down
while I droned on at him for an hour. Twice a day now, on weekends.
Actually, I'm not really sure it worked, even still. It seems to have,
but I have to take J's word for it. He could have been faking, but I
don't think so. Besides I trust him. He believes it worked, I'm sure.
Something happened on Wednesday, anyway.
     It was weird, though, I'm tellin' ya.
     The techniques are easy, but it's hard work. It just takes
perseverance and trust and a little reading and a positive attitude.
     And he trusts me completely: that's important. Equally important,
he has to want me to do it.

Back to the Plan:
     Hypnosis aside, I/we have to create an outwardly female appear-
ance for him--all over--and he probably shouldn't be aware of the
details of the process if he is going to believe it. He has to look in
the mirror afterward and see a woman. Knowing how I did it would spoil
that. It has to seem sudden and miraculous, even though there is a lot
to do.
     I'm going to do this from the ground up. I told you I got a
corset in SF? Did I mention I got one for him? He sent his measure-
ments no extra fittings, so keep your fingers crossed. And I got shoes
in his size.
     I'm going to use a flesh-colored unitard, padded out to look
feminine. I have scads of sterile cotton wadding from supply to make
hips. I have a selection of pastel chalks to sketch on nipples, navel,
details like that. I'm going to try water balloons, guys, unless you
have a better suggestion.
     Wig, makeup, fabulous fakes, false eyelashes, I've got tons of
that stuff. He has the face for it. He'd be better looking than I if
he were a woman.
     I'm going to convince him his anus is his vagina, and then treat
it like one. Make him a contralto. Make him walk the walk.
     Keep the light dim, him under strict control, and my fingers
crossed. But I can see that this is all a long way in the future. I
have a lot of work to do. A lot to develop in his head.
     And most of all, I have to make myself feel like I'm making him
up for a play. Or a halloween party. Not changing him on the inside,
not down deep. That way, maybe I won't lose my favorite top. He's got
to go from being a definite man to a believable woman without me
thinking of him as anything ambiguous or icky in between.
     That's the plan, troops. Elf mustered the shining-armor brigade
to present medals after the dismemberment of Little Retchid.
     (Shame, shame, I should be magnanimous in victory. But instead I
think I'll be unbearable for a page or so. It just comes over me,
sometimes).
     I think, for reasons of public health, Elf also had to relieve
some of you of your battle trophies: various internal organs, an
argyle sock, etc. An unruly bunch.
     Anyway, Elf now has my scarf to tie on the end of his, uh, lance.
And I have to ask him to muster the troops again. Don't just stand
there shuffling your feet in the dust, boys. I need suggestions.
     Kayvan, stop fiddling with your codpiece and tell me if this will
work. You're a hypnotherapist. Advice! I need advice!
     WildCard, drop that scrotum, it's nasty. Besides, it belongs to
Rechid and you don't know where it's been. No-one would be impressed
by it anyway. Battle trophies are supposed to be big.
     Pay attention, Strider. And for heaven's sake put away that pipe
wrench. I don't care if it is kippled. Or squicked.
     And Gweeb, come out from behind BlackDouga and get in line.
Wizyrd will make a space for you. I don't think I want to know what
that is behind your back. Come on, let's see it.
     Eeewww! That's disgusting! Explain yourself.
     Stop mumbling and stand up straight Gweeb, or I'll put Moon
Knight in charge of you. He didn't get a piece of Richid and he's NOT
in a good mood. (Although I'm glad to see somebody polishes his
armor...)
     Now speak up, Gweeb. What is that thing?
     Arriving too late to get a proper trophy is no excuse, Odor-
Eaters don't count. Give it back to Richid; he probably needs it
anyway.
     Now the rest of you, put on your helmets (Yft, that's not a
helmet and you know it. Give Kayvan back his codpiece) and pay atten-
tion. Sheesh! Talk about motley. Nurse Jones needs advice on how to
top Jay and keep his dignity so I can drop this role of a half-pint
Brigitte Nielsen and go gracefully back to being the topee.
     Maybe it's up to him to keep his dignity....... Help!

     Nurse Jones,
       reviewing the troops,
       a butch damsel in diaphanous fatigues,
          hands on hips,
          smile on lips,
          rings on nips.

(deep breath)

     Ten-HUT!
       Now, boys, I want to thank you all ...
       My Goodness!
       How on EARTH did you all manage to do that all at the same
          time...?
     Hmmm. Remind me not to take a deep breath next time.
       Still, Elf, I'm touched by the gesture.
       My scarf looks nice.
          Out there.
     What the hell.

(deep breath)

     DIS-MISS... Wait! I'm a top now! Maybe I'll just leave you like
       this. After all, it's my post. (giggle)

Nurse Jones,
       learning that monogamous
          and monotonous
       ain't synonymous.
     Even among us
       that be
       anonymous,

     Whose doggerel is an insult to the entire canine world, and who
       promises to be nice to Richard from now on, even though he's
       not speaking to anyone,
     silent,
     lurking, and
       anonymous behind his real name.

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist15.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List - 15 of 20


From Nurse Jones,

     Aside from making me wish Jay had shaved me "down there" (instead
of making me do it myself), Averti's wonderful story (about tying
Joker to that barber chair and shaving her) reminded me that I haven't
told you about my very first attempts at topping Jay, just after I got
back. OR how we got married, even, come to think of it. OR how we met.
     If you haven't noticed yet, I've decided to take excerpts from
The List parts 13-14 and just incorporate them into my other
rumblings. So from now on, things won't be chronological. I'll be
jumping from the present (hypnotism experiments) back a few months.
This is fun. And therapeutic.
     I guess there were a few posting in the middle there that will
fall through the cracks in somebody's archive because they didn't have
a "Subject:" line with "The List" in it. So be it. At least the ASB
regulars will know the whole story. From here on, Life is Art. I write
it as we do it, I post it as I write it. If you like it, keep it. It
only goes by once folks: I won't be saving it. If it has anything to
do with The List, I'll put it in the "Subject:" line if I remember.
And I've already forgotten a few times.

     After I settled in, having gotten back from SF, I decided to try
topping. I take that back: I didn't decide exactly. I knew I would
have to, so I did. I am not well suited to this at all, especially
with Jay. I could bluff and play the tough broad with anyone else, but
it's harder with Jay. I don't know how to say this in such a way that
the rest of you will be able to understand: you talk so much about
switching roles you make it sound easy. His role is as my protector. I
don't want to dominate him. I want to care for and cherish him. Love,
honor and obey. All that stuff. Which I vowed to do ceremoniously,
intentionally, deliberately, at our wedding. The judge was surprised I
wanted that obey part in there. But that's another story.
     Anyway, I'm not going to go through Column Two in a hurry, like J
did Column One. "Slave for a month" is on my List, but I'm just going
to browse through the other Items one scene at a time, when I feel
like it. Maybe I'll use my month a weekend at a time. Not knowing
where to start, I thought about the overall problem of showing him
what it's like to be a woman and decided I would do stuff that would
head in that direction.
     I try to keep him chained, locked up, etc., while doing this
stuff to him, not because I can't control him--although I couldn't, if
he were even half trying--but because I assuming he's like me. I kept
my dignity largely by believing I had no control, so I was absolved of
responsibility for anything that we did. "He made me do it." Maybe his
mind doesn't work the same way. Whatever.
     So here's what I did first. Remember, this was back when I was
still lurking. I had him shower; then I put ankle and wrist straps on
him and locked them together. Wrists together, ankles together, naked
on the bed. Candles all around, on the bedposts, on the bedside table,
on the shelf, the floor even. I stretched him across the bed, hands
chained loosely at the headboard, feet at the foot. I didn't think
ahead: if I had I would have covered the bed with towels to avoid
ruining the sheets. As it was, I had to kind of push a towel against
him as I worked over him.
     Then I put the ball gag in. This was the scariest (and the
sweetest) part. And the part that, for some reason, it disturbs me the
most to tell.
     I wore just my black bimbo-boots with the four inch heels for
this. Thought I'd give him a treat. I look pretty good in them. Well,
I could tell he thought so, anyway.
     I was very tender with him. Motherly, almost. As though he were a
patient. I scooted up beside him on the bed and cradled his head in my
arms and held him close, supporting him against my breast.
     I placed the gag gently against his mouth, and flashed a brief
image of myself at work feeding James, an 18 year old with cerebral
palsy. He ate mostly through a straw. This was years ago, in Chicago.
He was a regular, in and out for years because he didn't get adequate
care at home. I think he sometimes made himself sick just to get into
the hospital for TLC. It's odd to feel motherly toward someone who's
nearly as old as you are. James was special. Eighteen years is a long
time for someone with his problems. Pneumonia, finally.
     It makes me mad when I think of this old guy I've got now,
complaining about everything under the sun. He should have spent a few
weeks with James. They operated on this joker late last week and took
out his tumor and he complained that they had performed unnecessary
surgery because it turned out to be nonmalignant. This is the kind
who, if he were EXXON, would sue Alaska for getting duck feathers in
his oil.
     It's typical of modern medicine to find the only part of him that
wasn't malignant and remove it.

     Sorry to digress. So Jay looks up at me with this puppy-dog
expression that says "Anything you want to do. Anything." Total trust.
Suddenly I don't feel like a nurse anymore. I realize this is play: I
can be what I want as long as I don't hurt him. I feel like a goddess
dispensing a sacrament. Holding the gag against his lips, I might as
well have said, "Take this and eat, in remembrance of me." That's the
embarrassing part.
     It was an ego thing. I was suddenly benevolent and forgiving,
caring for a fragile mortal that worshiped me, looking down at him,
holding him, controlling his destiny if I wanted. He was mine, all
mine. I felt an unbecoming and certainly unladylike sense of power,
maybe like those Hollywood socialites that kept a panther on a leash
years ago. They controlled a powerful, dangerous animal, with gentle-
ness and subtlety, and probably felt compassion for the animal that
they had taken freedom from.
     I tightened the chains so he was stretched out full length.
     And then, and then .... Oh No! Could this be a cliffhanger?

Tune in next week, for
     Nurse Jones,
       in nothing but four inch heels,
       for whom brevity is the soul of lingerie.
          and lingerie the soul of wit.
     But wait ... (!)
       Is there more?
     Yes!
     Just kidding. I couldn't really do that to my knights in shining
       armor.

     Then I shaved him.
     Lovingly.
     Intentionally, carefully, I avoided any hint of the sense of
humiliation and embarrassment that I felt when he had shaved me months
earlier. (Don't get me wrong. It was erotic humiliation when he shaved
me. And later, well ... in retrospect, if there wasn't such a long
recovery period, and if I didn't want to keep my job, I'd do it for
him again. Or let him do it to me. Whatever. But I'd have to think
about it.)
     I held myself against him while I did it, stroking his body with
mine. I dangled my nipple pendants against him. I caressed him with
the razor, using skin conditioner as shaving cream and working in
little patches rather than covering him all at once. And I kissed
every inch of him, testing with my lips for stubble as I worked him
over. Over him. Whatever.
     I sat astride his chest, my boots against his ribs and, pressing
my--nether self?--against his abdomen, I shaved his face. He had just
shaved in the shower anyway, but I did it again, just for the chance
to be near his face, to work (and kiss) around the gag, and look into
his eyes, searching for reassurance, giving it to him, showing my
concern. Looking for the slightest hint of uncertainty. And I dis-
pensed a little goddess-like compassion and tenderness as well.
Stroking his cheeks with the backs of my hands .... I wanted to show
him how I would like to be treated. The next time. But I was still a
goddess, in complete control and not about to relinquish it, no matter
how sad and sympathetic I felt, no matter how sorry I was for what I
was going to do to him.
     It became an ego thing for me. That's the first shameful admis-
sion. I let myself go; I felt this sense of power so strongly and with
such confidence that I could afford to be benevolent, compassionate, a
benign goddess. But a hypocrite, because compassion should have made
me release him, and I didn't. My eyes filled, I wanted to take care of
him so much. And he saw my expression and looked at me like he was
concerned for what I was feeling. He wanted the gag out to reassure
me. He didn't know why I got teary and thought it might be something
bad. I felt fine. I stroked his forehead and brushed his hair back and
told him No, no, hush, it's alright, and kissed him some more. But I
didn't take the gag out, didn't release him.
     I shaved his chest, his underarms, the tops of his feet, the
backs of his arms, even the backs of his hands--fingers too-- and his
legs. I nicked one of his knuckles, just a tiny nick, and sucked on
his finger until it stopped bleeding. I turned him over and shaved
everything I had missed, his bum (Oh, his bum. Like an adorable ripe
little apple...) and finally, (of course) I turned him back over to do
his naughty bits. I (reluctantly, but firmly) had to pull his knees
apart by tying them to the sides of the bed. Well, I didn't HAVE to,
but I did. I don't know if he felt as embarrassed as I did, first time
in that position, but I blindfolded him first, the way I would have
wanted to be.
     Tch, tch. The way my mind works. _I_ blindfolded HIM so HE
wouldn't be embarrassed by what _I_ was seeing. I don't blame you.
Trust me on the ostrich principle. If you think your midwestern bottom
will be embarrassed right out of the mood, blindfold, blindfold,
blindfold.
     For me, though, by candle light, it was nice; I stood with hands
on hips, considering him for a moment. In my imagination I was an
ancient goddess (Jesus, this is embarrassing to admit) for whom a
sacrificial victim had been ceremonially left, and I was ritually
preparing him for my own pleasure. They seldom survived an evening
with me, the poor things. Even though I knew I was role playing, I
really felt that sense of power, just letting go.
     Long before I started shaving his naughty bits he had an erection
that looked ready to explode if I touched it. I went over him so
slowly and carefully that there wasn't a single additional nick on his
body, and I especially didn't want one Down There. I did him twice
There, feeling carefully and thoroughly through the conditioner for
stubble, not wanting any to scratch me. Maybe I felt a little too
thoroughly for stubble. I teased him a little, I'm afraid. After all,
he was mine.
     Not one to waste such occasions, as soon as I finished shaving
and damp-wiping him, I jumped on and had my way with him--still as
lovingly as I could (with the tenderness that one should show toward a
woman). I left my boots on, though.
     And I whispered in his ear that he was under orders not to come
until I did, or else, and he didn't. Or else what? I have no idea; he
did what I wanted for some reason other than fear, obviously. What was
I going to do? Strike him with lightening?
     I used him to masturbate, slowly, as I like it. When I was
through, I didn't tell him it was his turn. I never gave him permis-
sion. This was cruel of me (heh), but I tried to make him come even
though he was trying not to. It didn't take long. I wish I could write
this from his perspective, the way Column One was written from mine,
but I can only really tell you how I felt. And I prefer to imagine how
he felt anyway, because it makes it more erotic for me, and I'm the
one that gets to be selfish in Column Two. This was good though, very
good. Better than I thought it would be. And I started out shaving him
because I really just didn't know what else to do. I started out
nervous, hoping I could pull it off without ruining it, and ended up
playing the part of a goddess and really getting shamefully immersed
in it.
     That is my shameful thing.
     I try to be kind when I deal with people, but indulgent, benign,
forgiving benevolence is different. It has always infuriated me in
others. It assumes superiority. It presumes inferiority. It seems to
say: "I Know I'm better than you. I Know I'm Right, and you, you poor
dear thing, haven't a hope. I pity you, and I forgive you for being
pitiful. And forgiveness is such a respectable sentiment you don't
have the moral right to resent me."
     In a word: smug. And complacent. Smug and complacent. That
describes it. In a word. Or two. My supervisor, the hyperbaptist is
like that. On a good day. She's always forgiving us for things that
need no forgiveness. Somebody once told her that "to forgive is
divine" and she doesn't realize that to forgive unnecessarily is
offensive.
     And there I was, Our Lady of Extreme Discomfort, riding high on a
wave of that same feeling. You'll understand if I'm embarrassed.
Embarrassed. Embarassed? I've been meaning to look it up. Jesus, by
now you'd think I'd have learned how to spell it, wouldn't you?
     The compassion, the teary eyes, the extreme godlike tenderness,
it was all acting. The working out on myself of sentiments I didn't
really have. I can't fake tears, and I didn't then: I really felt
those emotions, but it was because I wanted to, not because they came
spontaneously. The indulgent mother- superior benevolence was what was
genuine. The compassionate sympathy wasn't. The feeling of power and
control was genuine. So powerful I could afford to be kind and sweet
and gentle as a throwaway emotion.
     Anyway, by the time I was through, the only hair on him was on
his head and eyebrows. He didn't even think of flinching when I went
for his genetic future with a razor. If he had I would have stopped
the whole scene. The whole column. That was one of my litmus tests of
his trust.
     We showered together afterwards. Before I go on, I should tell
you, this evening's festivities were intended as an experiment as well
as entertainment for me. As part of my overall strategy, I wanted to
determine what his absolute limits were. How many orgasms could I
force him to have? The reason is that if I eventually get it all
together and create a female persona for him, I don't want her (HA! I
got one of those in. IloveitIloveit!) getting an un-feminine erection
part way through the process and ruining everything from his psyche to
his panty line. So the plan was to sexually deplete him thoroughly,
totally, and completely. By whatever means I could manage, bar none.
Electrical stimulation by cattle prod if necessary. Kipling, even.
     (AHA! Now you understand my fascination with electricity, phone
sex, etc. Just to reassure you, we have given up on it after getting
frantic E-mail from a number of electrical engineers. However, the Van
de Graff generator is still on order...)
     When we were in the shower I decided I wanted sex with him with
us both shaved, so I whisked off the three or four hairs on my pus-
sy--not that they were noticeable anyway--which turned him on immedi-
ately and we had another go right there on the shower floor, both of
us covered in skin conditioner. It was divine. I recommend it highly.
Incredible, the slippery feeling, when it's both of you. Us.
     I hope my *%&**@!* pubic hair grows back. More hair has been
appearing, but still, I'm pretty bare. Shaving makes almost no differ-
ence. Take it from Nurse Jones: don't use depilatory repeatedly. At
least not until the final word is in on my little problem.
     AND! Before I forget! In one of my past posting I said we used
Nutrogena hair/skin conditioner. Wrong! (Buzzer sounds). It's Unicure.
I have so damn many bottles and jars I forget which is which. I just
recognize them by the color. Unicure. Great stuff. Any K-mart has it.
Seriously, I recommend it.
     Hey, did you notice that? My language has loosened up a bit. I
called my pussy a pussy. I don't know why, but it sounds much nicer
than "cunt." I kinda like "nether self," though....
     So anyway, total sexual exhaustion was the goal. I just KNEW he
had more than two orgasms in him. Time it right, push the right
buttons, and four in one day was the standing record.
     Why shave him? Women don't have a lot of body hair. And I will be
taping his naughty bits tightly out of the way some day soon. Wouldn't
want to pull hair out with the tape would I.
     Would I?
     FLASH!
     Wax! I have hair wax somewhere. You know the stuff. Melts at a
low temperature in a double boiler, sticky, and hardens HARD. Used to
pull unwanted hair off at beauty salons. Heat it, spread small dollops
on (maybe I'll drip it on?), yank it off. And I was having him keep
himself shaved because it gets boring. I'll tell him to let it grow
for a while in strategic areas, and ....
     Gotta go. I guess this is going to be a cliff hanger after all.
I'll tell you about the other half of this scene later, promise.


Nurse Jones,
     interrupting the creative process to do more research, so that
     when they ask J how long he's been married, he'll smile a secret
     smile and say, "Every minute of the day and night."

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist16.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List - 16 of 20


From Nurse Jones,

     Starting off with a note from the present.

     In case you were in suspense from reading my last post (which was
written while I was still lurking), and even if you weren't, I think
my pubic hair's going to grow back. I can't mix drinks for Clarence
Thomas yet, but I'm almost sure I'm on the road to complete recovery.
Whew.
     That probably isn't the report you were looking for first thing
this morning, but I've been looking for it for some time now. It's
been a gradual recovery, and it's still little more than peach fuzz,
but I think the verdict is definite.
     Which reminds me, I found the wax. I'm trying to decide if this
is a cruel thing to do to Jay. We're like two ships passing in the
night, Jay and I. Mine is starting to grow back, his on the way out.
Ha. I told him to let his grow back yesterday (he's been keeping it
shaved on my "orders" for some time now.) Little does he know what's
going to happen when it's long enough for the wax to grab hold. So I
have a few days to decide whether to do it or have him go back to
shaving.
     I got a lovely note from ROo a while back. She went to the DC-ASB
party and was a major hit. She got me thinking about the Halloween
party we went to last week. I was going to take the easy solution to
costumery and go as a nurse (Nurse Jones, in fact, although no one
there would have known that). Jay had other plans. He wanted me to go
as a TV character (that's TELEVISION, Wyzyrd). Elvira, Queen of the
Night. You MUST have seen her. She's wonderful. Not exactly Oscar
material, but she has a good attitude. I had the wig, if not the hair.
     MAJOR DIVERSION! The DRESS! I never told you about the DRESS! Jay
got it made for me with measurements taken with my corset on. The very
week I was back from S.F. He got this seamstress to come by the house
and measure me WITH THE CORSET ON! This was big time weirdness for me.
In my own house. I mean she was 60 if she was a day, and clearly
didn't think much of anyone who would wear a corset. She asked me if I
was wearing a foundation garment. Yes. I will be wearing it with the
dress, too. She sighs as though she just doesn't know what the world
is coming to.
     She doesn't.
     Jay and I had argued about this dress. He wanted it Just Like the
one this Elvira character wears: plunging neckline. Black velvet. He
had even located a bra that used more than one engineering principle
to avoid showing structural, ah, members. And he wanted me to wear it
in public. Totally sleazy. I wouldn't go for it. I mean, I don't mind
sleazy: sex is supposed to be dirty, if it's done right, but just at
home.
     We went 'round and 'round, Jay and I. I (heh, heh) came out on
top. With a compromise (see under corset, above). The neckline is
high, like those chinese dresses, chamsongs, I think they are called.
Zip up the back, long sleeves, hemline to the floor. I would only let
her put a slit in it up to the knee. Jay wanted it up to mid-thigh.
But she made it so the slit can be extended. More sighs.
     It is TIGHT. It was tight when she fitted it, and I have gained
quite a bit of the old avoirdupois back since then. (I lost a lot
while traveling). I'm up to 116, which is a little heavy for me, but
Jay thinks it's in the right places. But I mean this dress is tight!
Right down to the knees. I can barely walk in it. Running is totally
out of the question. It was practically like the good old days. So I
went as what's-her-name from the Adams Family. With fake fangs.
     Jay just wanted the dress made. He wasn't thinking Halloween. I
was thinking maybe the opera on a very dark night IF he bought me
something expensive (and long) to drape over it.
     We were both thinking about coming home after. Turns out it was
after Halloween.
     He was the wolfman in a rubber mask, and I had him on a leash.
And I brought handcuffs just for show-n-tell. The people at the party
were straight, totally, with one possible (certain, now) exception.
     In fact, as I told ROo, I made a complete ass of myself. Big
mouth. Almost all were very conservative. There was a couple there
that I thought were dressed as Ozzie and Harriet and despite the
corset I'm practically doubled over pointing and laughing so hard my
fangs fall out. Turns out they were not amused. Nor were they wearing
costumes, just their normal everyday garb.
     Oops.
     So there we were, wondering how the hell we were going to get out
of there gracefully in time to have some fun. We found the teenage
mutant ninja host and his superheroine wonder-hostess and were about
to make our excuses when (would you believe it) one thing leads to
another and they jokingly (I thought) ask if they can borrow the
collar and leash and I ask if they have a dog or would they like the
handcuffs too, which I produce voila from my bag. And they look at
each other and she turns absolutely tomato red and has the sudden urge
to pass hors d'oeuvres and circulate.
     So I decide for the both of us that maybe we should give this
party a chance to get interesting. It didn't. We left an hour later,
but I take the hostess aside in all the noise and confusion and I'm
feeling pretty good so I try to give her the handcuffs and she turns
red again and says Oh, we were just kidding, really. And I say Oh go
on, live a little, and take her hand and put them in it and she TAKES
them, holds them out of sight, and asks me if I had a good time,
looking around with elaborate nonchalance like I had just sold her
drugs or something. Ha! Southerners are as bad as midwesterners.
     So I smile and tell her to call if she wants to know where in her
house I hid the key. She looks at me and turns red again and I can
tell she is having second thoughts so I tell her to think about it and
we really do have to leave now and it was a wonderful party.
     The next day we get a call from her husband, and Jay answers:
they found a set of handcuffs that they think belong to me and they
wanted to check before they returned them and by the way, was there a
key with them, if so it's lost. Uh huh.
     So Jay tells them where it is and we STILL haven't got the cuffs
back. I hope they are having fun. I don't want 'em back. They're
uncomfortable.
     The big question is did they call before or after? What would I
have done, first time out? Tough decision. After would have been
better, before safer.
     Anyway, ROo got me thinking. When I arrived at that party
corseted in that dress, I was mortified. That's her name, Morticia.
Adams. Anyway, I was mortified at first. The guys were all looking at
me through their eye holes. It was a thrill, embarrassing, and I felt
very sexy. Especially with the Wolfman there to protect me. But I got
to thinking about that when ROo e- mailed me her tale, and I realized
that Jay and I are so private that we couldn't even discuss the topic
with kindred spirits under the very best of circumstances. Too mid-
western. You just don't talk about that to other people, at least not
when they're in the room. E-mail's OK, that doesn't count, they aren't
in the room. Obviously.
     Anyway, I thought about how I would feel if I were in Roo's
stiletto's at that party. Michael was there, I understand. I'd feel
safe around him, I think. Moon Knight would take some getting used to,
if he's anything like his posts.
     I just don't know. I feel weird just wearing that corset in
public. This party is only the second time I've done that, and I was
nearly nonfunctional from embarrassment until I became nonfunctional
from screwdrivers. It was just a costume party for crissakes. What if
I had been at the DC-ASBash?
     I just couldn't...

     Another piece of not-quite-news. My supervisor, The Blob, may
(rumor has it) be getting a lateral promotion. Pray for us now and in
the hour of our need. She's been there since before she died, the
change would do her good.

     I've been working on some important tricks, hypnosis-wise. I've
worked out some key phrases that with post-hypnotic suggestion, help
speed up the induction of trances. I spent a lot of time in the
beginning just getting him into a deep trance before we discovered
this shortcut. If I were to start over again, I would concentrate on
developing this shortcut first.
     And I can induce amnesia about the session, too. There are a
number of things I need to try out. Most important: his voice. This is
hard for me to tell about. While in the deepest trance I can induce, I
actually had him up, eyes open, and walking around. The books said
getting him to do that while in a trance would take a lot of work, and
it did, but it's crucial to the plan. And it was a big shock for me.
     During that session I had told him that every time I asked him to
speak his voice would gradually become higher and more feminine, and
it did. I began to feel a little nervous at that, for some reason. I
don't like people changing on me, even though I may be the cause of
the change. I stuck him with a rich, low contralto rather than a
falsetto. But it was still eerie. I'm not sure if I should be grossed
out or not.
     I want to back off. I'm scared. Jay is really trying to persuade
me to go on. I'll write about something else for a while.

     When J wasn't home last week I tried out, on myself, some of the
makeup tricks I would need to use on him. I erased my eyebrows with a
blemish stick and covered them with latex from the costume and novelty
shop. Makeup over that, and I had no eyebrows. I could sketch in
whatever I wanted with eyeliner. Jay's eyebrows are coarser than mine.
Maybe I should try it on him while he's under. And the padded hips. I
packed cotton under panty hose until my own hips were seven or eight
inches bigger. It came out all lumpy and took a lot of adjusting and
four more pairs of pantyhose before it looked like I had oversized but
smooth, natural-looking hips. Actually, I kind of liked seeing what I
would look like with 42 inch hips. I don't know why, but it made me
feel kind of sexy.
     This is weird stuff. I need feedback from someone.
     I could go seriously wrong here.

Nurse Jones,
     so strictly brought up she's desperately anxious to
     do the wrong thing correctly.

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist17.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List - 17 of 20


From Nurse Jones,
     I'm lost. But now I know why. And it was ASB Therapy that helped.
For me, reading and writing ASB posts is therapy. Not just a break
from work, which I need desperately sometimes, but somehow writing
stuff down clarifies it for me so I can deal with it. And hearing from
you helps me to feel I'm not (a) weird, and (b) alone down here. Jay
and I are very close, but he's really the only one I have since
leaving Chicago. After a few weeks posting I'm as close to the ASB
regulars as I am to the people I work with, and certainly more inti-
mate than I have been with anyone but Jay. How much I post seems to
depend on how bad things are going at work at the moment.
     I've said before that I'm not constitutionally suited to being a
top. As I read back over an earlier post, I realize that a motherly
attitude toward the bottom is NOT one that translates well into this
role. But it's what I've got. I'm not sure Jay got anything out of it.
He says he did, but he was such a stoic that he clearly didn't get
what I did. I was so timid and afraid of hurting him that I didn't
really do my job.
     Talk about a twisted relationship! I want to give up being a top,
but my bottom won't let me. I'm supposed to be running the show, and I
told him I was going to give him an order to top me, and he wouldn't.
I said "Wait a minute. Who's in charge here anyway?"
     "You are," he says.
     "So top me," says I.
     "Make me."
     I'm not exactly a wilting violet, (more of a willing violet) but
I don't like being a top. (Well, I do, I think, actually, but if I do
it on my terms he won't enjoy it. It will seem like weak vanilla
topping to him. )

     8<>)

     I have plans, but I know I'll go all soft once I have him all
trussed up again. My attitude is that I have to do these things to him
but my main job is to help him get through it.
     And he just seems to endure my timid fumbling as though he were
waiting for a bus. None of the writhing histrionics that I went
through. I don't know if I get through to him or not. He says I'm
doing great. He says he knows what is going on in my mind and it turns
him on. He says that when I put the gag in his mouth (back in List 15,
I think. Which I never finished writing) he could see the changes of
attitude on my face. I didn't think I was that obvious. He said he
could see the feeling of empowerment. Something about the shape of my
nostrils again. What the hell is it about my nostrils? I have heard of
people having cruel mouths, but _nostrils_? And he said he could see
it, and feel it, when I turned all gooey compassionate, too.
     So anyway, In case you forgot, I had been trying to totally
sexually deplete J. He'd had two orgasms. I tried a number of what I
thought were sexy tricks to give him a third, but the best I could
manage was half-mast. There'd been four in one day, before, remember.
Finally, I decided to take the plunge and spread-eagled him, standing
up, arms chained to those overhead eye bolts. (I have the key to the
little locks, now. Remember those?)
     I put a vibrator in him. This was simple curiosity on my part. I
was as gentle as could be, used tons of K-Y, and it still took me a
while to even find... it. I watched his face, still blindfolded, as I
pushed it in. He endured. He's such a stoic. I haven't gotten anywhere
near a limit of his.
     But his erection grew. I'm happy to report to the females in this
little group, that It Works. I mean, the prostate is really there, and
it really is an erogenous zone or something. When I touched it, the
reaction was immediate. He squirmed and his hips kind of moved as
though we were having sex. I don't know if that was involuntary or
not. I knew I had touched a very sensitive spot, though.
     So naturally I turned on the vibrator and pushed a little more,
still experimentally. Get this: he didn't have an erection, to speak
of, the poor thing was exhausted. BUT he had an orgasm anyway. He
ejaculated. Weakly, to be sure, and involuntarily. He couldn't control
his reaction.
     This is valuable data. I know that during a rectal exam a doctor
will sometimes massage the prostate to get seminal fluid for a lab
test, but this was a forced orgasm. I made him have it. I could do it
again and make him have an orgasm exactly when I want him to. On cue.
Perfect timing. I still haven't figured out a way to use this valuable
information yet.
     But I will.

Nurse Jones,
     looking up an old friend.

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist18.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List - 18 of 20


From Nurse Jones,

     I have a serious question for STella, Roo, Lothie, Amelia, and
all interested parties, especially female.
     There is this other nurse on our floor that is a "type" of
person. I know, I should talk, especially to this bunch of, shall we
say, hard-line liberals, about labeling people, but this is a legiti-
mate question. There IS a type of woman that is a man's woman. I'll
call this one "Scarlett." She doesn't even notice other women; it's
like we were furniture or something. If she's talking to you, you get
the feeling she's looking over your shoulder in case something male,
especially a doctor, comes out of the elevator. If it does she's gone
like a shot. Scarlett is attractive, and they usually are. She treats
me with a certain amount of respect, basically by acknowledging my
presence, but that's ONLY because she perceives me as potential
competition, not because she wants to communicate.
     There are women on the floor that are fantastic people, but not
physically up to her standards, and she ignores them.
     There's a young candy-striper who uses her head only to keep her
ears apart, and she's worthy of Scarlett's notice because she's
attractive.
     This is behavior I see in men, even expect, but it's not common
in a woman. I don't think she (Scarlett) is aware of it, even. I think
she believes herself perfectly normal, but she's like a different
species. I can't communicate with her any more than with a hyper-
baptist.
     Do you know the kind I mean? Men seem to find her attractive, and
I don't think they perceive her as odd because they never see the side
of her that women do. She doesn't go out with other women, shopping,
for lunch, anything. It's like she has two mental states, two modes:
being around men, and waiting. It's like she has drifted off somewhere
and her only contact is with men. She stopped being complete, somehow,
and became just part of a person, magnified all out of proportion.
     My first week on the floor, I thought she was just desperate to
marry a doctor. "There goes the good time that was had by all," I
thought. But no, she doesn't really seem to sleep around, I don't
think. I could be naive, but I don't think so. She is just drifted off
into a totally man-oriented existence.
     And then I realized that I am talking almost exclusively to men
after taking a brief census of the E-mail and ASB posting. Have I
drifted off, too? Roo and Amelia have E-mailed me, and I have a very
short group of (7 at the moment) special notes that I keep in my
mailbox (it overflows a lot, but I save ones like that) from people
that I want to write long, proper e-letters to. When I have something
really important to say.
     But there is very little feedback about what Jay and I did, and
are doing in The List, and I sometimes wonder if I have exposed so
much of myself that I seem weird like Scarlett seems to me. Roo, I
think it was, commented that I was very courageous to post that stuff
about myself. And that her hair was something she'd never give up.
That made me nervous. Today I got another E-mail from someone else
that said I was very brave to post.
     I hadn't communicated with ANY of you when I posted the first
part of The List, and I felt like a kid watching from the edge of the
playground. I could roll my ball out and see if I'd be invited to
play, and if I wasn't I could run away and hide and it wouldn't matter
because I didn't know you.
     And now I do know you, a little, but you already know stuff about
me that I would never tell you if I had to do it over now. It's almost
like meeting your gynecologist socially. And I looked back at the last
3 or 4 parts of Column One (9-12) and I wonder if I'm weird. Not to
mention when Jay shaved my head. I just realized that the only real
feedback I've gotten was from male ASB'ers who are begging me to go on
at all costs, and even they were noncommittal about exactly what
turned them on and off. I seem to be pushing only male buttons.
     Like Scarlett.
     I guess my question is: was there ANYTHING about The List that
appealed to the women? Or appalled?
     And was there anything that turned the men off?

Nurse Jones,
     Afraid to look up,
       suddenly nervous that she's standing
       in the middle of the playground
       with her panties around her ankles,
          and she's just noticed
             it's very quiet.

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist19.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List - 19 of 20


From Nurse Jones,

     I just got E-mail from a wiz-number up around 1900. Does that
mean there are over one thousand nine hundred people that have posted
here anonymously? And do small numbers mean you got your number in the
early days of wizvax? Couldn't one of you number-crunchers sample the
numbers still in use and estimate something interesting like the
average residence time of posters or something? The people running
that survey, maybe? That's a lot of lurkers. Just a thought.

Nurse Jones,
     thinking that if all the wizvaxers in the world
     were laid end to end,
       no-one would be in the least bit
          surprised.

P.S. Did I tell you? I know I told someone in an E-mail, but I can't
     remember if I posted it. There's a rumor that the Blob is getting
     a transfer. I heard it again yesterday. Yay!

--
Archive-name: Bondage/njlist20.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List - 20 of 20


From Nurse Jones,

     I'm getting pretty good at hypnosis. Or maybe Jay is just
very susceptible to induction; he seems to get more so as we work
at it. I can get him into a trance in just a few minutes now,
having planted posthypnotic suggestions that help. In fact, I
have had him following posthypnotic suggestions for a week now,
just harmless ones, but increasing in complexity. For example I
tried giving him a complicated sequence for shaving his face in
the morning, for example. It worked fine. I did that so I could
watch him to see if it worked: I'm usually in the bathroom
putting on my face while he's shaving.
     I'm even getting time compression to work. The last two
times I gave him complicated instructions, I had him repeat them
silently to himself eight times in thirty seconds real time, an
hour experiental time, and he did. He took all the time he needed
to do it, and it saved hours of repetition on my part.
     I think we're ready to "do" him. It's still me that I'm
worried about, but not as much. Jay is working on that, also
through hypnosis, and it seems to be working. I must be an easier
subject than he is. One of the books we have said that might be
the case. I'm a bit of an exhibitionist, and don't feel as
defensive as Jay about "letting myself go" in front of him.
Anyway, I'm beginning to accept the idea. Jay isn't going to be
changed, or a different person. There is this tiny, silent,
female voice inside him. It is there in most men, overwhelmed and
vestigial. She will have her moment in the sun, and Jay will
watch from the inside and learn what he wants to know about
himself, experience what he wants to experience. I will be
preparing him like a makeup artist would an actor for a part.
While she's here, I'll have a few hours to make a new friend, get
to know that side of Jay, however briefly. Someone (Phillip, I
think) said I needed a mission. That's it, I think. A few months
ago, I would have thought revenge to be mission enough. Bring her
out, send her back. LET him walk the walk. That's the mission.
That helped. It was an insight.
     Thanks, Philip.
     I have some questions for Kayvan. First, I've got the
collected papers of Milton Erickson, as you suggested, and some
commentaries by his disciples. He really is by far the most
useful. And I'm beginning to think that all this physical
preparation I've done is unnecessary. I'm pretty sure I could
make him think he was female--while in a trance--without all the
elaborate makeup, the body suit, the prosthetic femininity, etc.
Which would be better?
     My original feelings were that the experience would be
lessened for him if it all took place while I had him under. So I
had planned to work to convince him that he would be female (for
a limited time) upon waking, and reinforce the illusion with
makeup, etc., and dim lights. Have him reenter the trance and
turn back into a pumpkin at midnight. Maybe I should forget the
makeup? But the act of putting it on is part of being female, and
I was going to have him participate in that to a very limited
extent. And (this is important) _I_ want to perceive him visually
as a totally female different person rather than as a campy Jay,
which I could not stand.
     Big question: keep him under for the whole experience? or
bring him out as female and put him back under afterward? I've
tried two posthypnotic suggestions that lead me to think I can do
this:
     (1) I gave him a posthypnotic suggestion to make one of his
legs go to sleep temporarily when I triggered the response, so I
know I can cause perceptual distortion hours after the session.
     (2) I gave him a posthypnotic suggestion that put him back
into a trance while we were making love, triggered by key words
again. That worked, too. I wasn't sure if it would, because of
the situation, but it did. I was on top when I whispered the
trigger in his ear. We stopped moving, and he concentrated while
I did a sex change on him. I told him I was developing a penis
and he a vagina, breasts, etc., all the while moving my hips just
enough to create the impression that things were changing down
there. I told him that when he awoke he would be female while we
made love and that then I would put him under again.
     When he opened his eyes, he didn't say anything, he just
looked at me and began moving his hips experimentally. He spread
his legs and pulled me to him, the way I do when I'm on the
bottom. I kind of wish I had been hypnotized too. I often
fantasize that I have a penis when I'm on top, but I'd like to
know what it's like to believe it. It was actually a very tender
moment. His orgasm was much less, um, athletic (?) than usual. I
didn't even have an orgasm. I was working. I put him back under
immediately after his, though, and reversed everything. But he
remembers it all.
     I could probably go either way. Do it while he's under, or
after and put him back. With or without props. I think the props
might be more important to me, but I guess they couldn't hurt
from his standpoint, so long as they don't actually interfere. I
got a corset made for him while I was in San Fran, for example.
That would be a surprise I think he/she would welcome, but it
could interfere, too.
     Kayvan? Time is nigh. Guidance, please. Do we need more
practice runs? Option A or B?
     While I had him under last weekend, I asked him to tell me
why he wanted me to top him, what he wanted out of it. (A
suggestion from Fred.) He really thought about his answers,
concentrated on organizing his thoughts. I had asked him to do
this after I put him under, and he was very straightforward and
organized about it. When he spoke, he gave me a prepared-sounding
statement, told me there were 7 reasons (he had even counted
them):
     1. He wanted me to know how I would feel as a top so I would
          know what he was experiencing, what I was giving him,
          and
     2. So I would be able to experience the feelings I already
          had, the feelings I was so ashamed of, that earth-
          mother-god-like benevolent control. He didn't know
          specifically that that's what I would feel, but he's
          glad that was it, because
     3. He liked seeing me feel those emotions and he liked being
          the recipient of them.
     4. He said he wanted me to show him how I wanted to be
          treated as a bottom. And how I liked to be treated as a
          woman.
     5. He wanted the experience of being a woman like I was
          during The List.
     6. He wouldn't feel entitled to the experiences of Column
          One until he had paid his dues. Besides, looking to the
          future,
     7. He won't feel he has the right to go back to the way it
          was, with me as bottom, until after he's been there.

     1 and 2 were for me.
     3, 4, and 5 were selfish, for him.
     6 and 7 were guilt for the past, justification for the
future. His words, not mine.

     All this makes it seem so complex and psychological, but
it's more important to me to understand this now that I find it
so hard. When I was the bottom I didn't want to think about
motivations because I liked it and didn't want to think about
why. I don't like being a top as much, and I'm looking for
reasons; I guess I'm really just fishing for a reason to stop
being the top.
     Jesus. Wordstar tells me I've been taking myseslf seriously
for three pages now. You must be bored silly.

Nurse Jones,
     who even fits her OWN definition of a female bore:
          Someone who is more interested in herself than in me.

--