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Nurse Jones: a posted nonpost
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
From: [email protected]
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: From Nurse Jones: a posted nonpost
>From Nurse Jones,
[This is something I wrote way back before I lost my first account.
The wizvax number is defunct, BTW. Despite what I say in the next
few paragraphs, it's okay to post this now. Neets finally told Tom,
so it's not a secret anymore.]
Spring, 1992
An unposted post. You'll know why when you read it. As if wizvax and ASB
weren't "underground" enough without an additional layer of privacy
being added. E-mail responses welcome at [email protected].
I'm going to send this to a few people that I have private addresses
for, and hope they will pass it on and start sort of an e-chain letter.
At least ASB people will understand why I'm not posting so much lately.
I apologize for not having a more complete ASB mailing list. If you get
this second-hand, it's disorganization, not cliqueishness.
Some day, I may be able to post it publically, and that will be cause
for great rejoicing. If that day ever comes, raise your glass to Anita
and me, and to Tom, and to Jay. We'll be celebrating. Until then, feel
free to forward it to anyone, but please, please don't post it.
Warm fuzzies to all,
Margaret
-*-
[WordStar tells me I wrote 3 pages of turgid amateur
philosophizing followed by 27 pages describing a 'scene.' Sorry. I
get excited sometimes. Search for the next "-*-" symbol to skip the
part where I try to understand myself.]
Why do we do this?
Is it because we want it all? Is there a personality type that "wants it
all?"
Is it this: when sex first reared its ugly head (actually it wasn't
nearly as ugly as my mother said it would be) it was all very nice but
maybe it left us hungering for something more? Do I have an addictive
personality? Or do I just want MORE? There should have been roses?
Or is it this: do "normal" people have full satisfying sex lives? Are we
compensating for the lack of something? Something they can achieve
without resorting to the things we do?
Or what?
I have never thought much about it, but if I analyze MY gut feeIings, I
realize that I am operating under the assumption that "their" ("normal"
people's) sex lives are less fulfilling than "ours" because they are
afraid to find their own limits. Afraid to raise the cup to their lips.
Afraid to look in the magic mirror. Afraid to DO what they secretly
want. I admit I think a lot about sex. It's a major thing in my life.
And I feel sorry for people that don't enjoy it enough to "want it all."
It's like some part of them is missing, that they can't understand this
urgency to have everything.
Or maybe it isn't that part of them is missing. Maybe something in me
has been magnified all out of proportion.
If that's so, I think the part that's magnified is a kind of greed. To
have it all.
And I think "they" are in a trap. You're going to think I'm nuts for
quoting someone as crazy as Wilhelm Reich, but:
From "The Emotional Plague" in "The Murder of Christ" (1953):
"Wherever we turn we find man running
around in circles as if trapped and searching for the exit in vain
and in desperation .... It IS possible to get out of a trap....The
Trap is man's emotional structure, his character structure....
...the only thing to do in order to get out of the trap is to know
the trap and to find the exit. Everything else is utterly useless:
Singing hymns about the suffering in the trap, as the enslaved Negro
does; or making poems about the beauty of freedom outside of the
trap, dreamed of within the trap, or promising life outside the trap
after death, as Catholocism promises its congregations.... One can
decorate the trap to make life more comfortable in it. This is done
by the Michaelangelos and the Shakespeares and the Goethes. One can
invent makeshift contraptions to secure longer life in the trap.
This is done by the great scientists and physicians....
The crucial point is and still remains: to find the exit out of
the trap. WHERE IS THE EXIT INTO THE ENDLESS OPEN SPACE? .... THE
EXIT IS CLEARLY VISIBLE TO ALL TRAPPED IN THE HOLE. YET NOBODY SEEMS
TO SEE IT." (Reich's emphasis, BTW)
Everybody, and this means you, because you're still here, reading this,
and me, because I'm writing about it: everybody sees and ignores the
exit. You are looking at it right now, in the words I write, and you are
ignoring it. It's safer that way. There I go, sounding as crazy as
Wilhelm Reich. If you don't know what I'm talking about, this won't make
a lot of sense to you.
In a few minutes you will stop reading this; you might go back to your
"real job" shuffling papers, or you might mow the lawn. Whatever. When
you do, ask yourself: do I feel trapped? Do I feel The Trap? Do I see it
around me? Don't wait. Ask now.
But you didn't did you?
I can't blame you. It's a spot that the eyes naturally shy away from.
Like the sun.
People like "us" -- people that do what we do, they are motivated to
explore their limits out of a vague intuition, an awareness that The
Trap exists. At least we have that. This isn't a reason for
complacency, but at least we know there are bars. The door may
be unlocked, swinging open, we may be afraid to look at the exit, to
walk through it, but at least we feel the limits and push them.
"They" don't even do that. That's what I think of "them" and "us".
We may be rattling the bars of an unlocked cage, but at least we rattle.
Maybe that's just another clever way of ignoring the open door we are
all afraid of. Maybe I think too much.
But then again "they" probably feel sorry for people like us: I'm sure
"they" have a mental caricature of "us" as shallow and obsessive about
physical relationships, and they are blithely confident that they have
deeper, more spiritually meaningful relationships without the assistance
of battery-operated appliances and leather. And _I_ think that they
probably haven't scratched the surface of their own psyches and would be
afraid to look behind the curtain if they knew it was there.
But then "they" would react to a comment like that and say that they
simply aren't interested in "that kind" of sex. And they would think
that I *am* because I have some deep seated neurosis that derives from a
childhood incident involving a trainload of cigars going into a tunnel.
Or not going into a tunnel, as the case may be.
It's an important question, and like most questions, it isn't answered
just by taking sides.
So it's "them" and "us."
And I don't know why they do what they do
any more than I know why I do what I do.
Then, there's Anita and me. SM is very different from bondage. I don't
know why she does it, either. And neither does she.
Which is what this post is *really* about. Except that it won't be a
post, not for a long time. I wrote it hoping I might find a way to
post it publically, but when I got to the end...
-*-
We all sat out in the early Spring sun and watched while Jay
demonstrated his skill with leather by making cuffs and a collar and a
chastity belt and a few other goodies for Anita out of cowhide.
Those few days of warmth felt soooo good on my skin after the Winter.
Even this far south, where winters are mild, Spring brings something
special. We had had a lot of rain, and then suddenly, miraculously, one
Saturday it was clear and warm enough to sit out in the yard with
practically nothing on. It was one of those days when your skin drinks
in the sun.
Jay's fast with the leather. It took him an afternoon to make an entire
leather wardrobe. Well, there isn't much to this particular wardrobe,
granted. Plus, he had many of the straps cut and buckles and d-rings
sewn on already. Most of the rest was rivets. Tom and I just watched. We
set up our lawn furniture in front of the garage doors so we could drink
our drinks and soak in the sun and see into the workshop where Jay has
his bench.
I think Anita had plans to just sit on the lounger and turn even browner
and show off her mile-long legs (the bitch), but when he finished the
first wrist cuff, he gave it to her with some neatsfoot oil and wax and
told her to start softening it up.
He didn't ask her the way he normally would have. He's usually quiet and
polite, but he was just that little bit firm with her when he told her
to "get to work" softening the leather. She kind of looked at him funny,
as if she were taking note of the change of attitude, but he looked
right back at her and smiled his little smile; she opened the can of oil
without looking down and I thought there was going to be a standoff. She
was *supposed* to be the bottom. We had all agreed.
But then she smiled and turned to her work and made like a busy little
bee. He kept looking at her, and she looked up after a few seconds and
looked around at the three of us just watching her, and blushed and went
back to rubbing the leather furiously.
I mean, after all, she *was* bottoming. This time she was the only one
with no clothse on. Although my swimsuit, the half that I was wearing,
well, there isn't very much of it, either. But our woods are private.
Anita doesn't blush very easily, not nearly as easily as I do, but she's
so beautiful when she does, she can make you melt. If it were easy to
make her blush, I'd be dreaming up ways to do it all the time.
Later, Jay asked her and Tom if they wanted a gag. "Gag?" she said,
"Gag? We don' need no esteenking gag..." And that became a running ...er,
standing joke all weekend, until we were all sick of it.
I love the smell of Spring. There's something sensuous about a warm
breeze on your skin. And the occasional whiff of neatsfoot oil and
leather does things to me, too. It's been almost a year since we started
the month of The List. This time last year, I was trying to sublet the
old appartment and get the hell out of Chicago. It seems like so long
ago.
Long enough that my dirty little mind seems to have developed an
automatic response to the smell of neatsfoot oil, although it feels like
my body is the part responding. Well. Certain carefully selected parts
of my body. Down in sporting goods. I only associate That Smell with one
thing, and that's You Know What. That Feeling.
Does the name Pavlov ring a bell?
-*-
My swimsuit bottom doesn't really have very much of a back to it, and
when we got up to go inside there was this checkerboard pattern
impressed all over my backside from the lounger. Anita grabbed me there,
the letch, and offered to massage it away.
She's such a card.
She has nice strong hands, though...
-*-
A week later. It has turned chilly again...
I have no explanation for the difference between Anita and me. I'm
really into bondage, not pain -- except that pain sometimes defines the
limits of restraint. I've asked, and Anita doesn't really have a good
concise reason. If I can't explain my own perversions, why should I
expect her to be able to. She says she likes being the center of
attention, and there's a certain pride in the amazement that she sees in
other peoples' faces at the amount of punishment she takes, and the
warmth and attention afterward is very nice, but all that is secondary.
Bondage is intimately intertwined with sex in my head. She says that
she's different; SM isn't closely tied to sex for her, although it is
_like_ sex in its intensity. She says that she didn't have a
particularly great childhood, but she wasn't abused, and, although she
was disciplined, she really doesn't think that is related to her
um, sadomasochistic (why does that word seem so clinical when you spell
it out?) leanings. I believe her. I dunno.
You're going to think this is crazy, but I'm something of a bigot: I
think she should be like me and develop a taste for bondage. I just
can't leave her alone. I'm always trying to persuade her. Like my mother
is always trying to make me be like her.
I guess you just have to let people be different and admit you won't
understand it sometimes.
But now, something has happened, and I have to try to understand it.
One way for me to understand something is to write about it.
Anyway, what all this is leading up to is that I asked her if she had
ever tried combining sex and SM. The way Jay and I do with bondage. She
said no, idiot. Tom can't use a whip at the same time they make love.
Duh, I said.
Well, it would take three people, and she hadn't really ever been in a
situation where the chemistry was right before.
So I just looked at her as if to say, "Yes? And...?"
"Okay: until now," she said. Which was why I asked the smartass in the
first place, of course. I just wish I had known what I was getting into.
So a few weeks later, we did it.
The only place big enough to swing a whip is our living room. The three
of us (Tom, Jay, and I) agreed that in front of the fireplace would be
best. The trouble was, there was nothing to hang onto -- or um, from --
but the mantle and that's too close to the fire and too low. The living
room wall by the fireplace is about 18 feet wide (I just now measured),
so the adjacent walls on either side of the fireplace wall are that far
apart.
Jay put eye rings in the "studs" in those walls and in the ceiling so
she could be "strung up" out in the middle of the room, facing the
fireplace. He used something called a studfinder. Hmm.
Nevermind. Too easy. Besides, this isn't supposed to be a funny post and
you know how I am once I get started...
Anyway, she ended up looking like a fly spreadeagled in the middle of
a spider web, but still standing on her feet.
But that all came later. And she did't know what to expect. She just
knew she had a safeword and the rest was up to us. And she knew that the
week before, we had made a collar and cuffs and a few other leather
accessories that you won't find outside San Francisco. Where you can get
anything. I mean, where else can you find a Big and Tall Sex Aids Shoppe?
-*-
When it was my turn to run Anita's life for a few hours, I wanted to
make the most of it. We had mapped out an overall strategy that had Jay
making the leather bits, me kind of "preparing" her like a matador's
assistant, and then Tom and I together at the exciting conclusion. I
kind of thought that left Jay out, but he said that fitting a woman
with Anita's legs for a leather g-string was definitely NOT being left
out.
And when it was my turn, I had her all to myself for a couple of hours.
I played with her like a toy, and she did whatever I wanted. It was Like
having a big doll. Shame on me, at my age. I guess I wasn't a very stern
top. I'm too polite. I asked her to please not talk unless it was to use
her safeword. A top shouldn't use the word "please," I suppose. But she
was very tolerant of me.
We took a shower together. We have one of those big walk-in showers, and
we made it all steamy and then got in and shut the door. I suppose that
as top, I should have been the washee rather than the washer, but I just
wanted to put my hands on her body. She's so hard and smooth. I don't
remember if I've told you, but she's an intense, thin, hyper kind of
person. She's almost skinny; you can see her ribs. I thought I had
pretty good legs, especially in heels, but her legs are simply
unbelievable. When she shows them off, men don't see anything else. Even
*I* find them attractive. I mean, sometimes I will _envy_ another woman
for some aspect of her looks, and I'd be abnormal if I didn't envy Anita
her legs, but I'm also *attracted* to her. I mean, sexually, I see the
point of legs. Sorry, to go on about it, but this is a different feeling
for me to have toward another woman, finding her physically attractive
in more than an aesthetic sense.
Anyway, we took a shower together, partly so I could feel her body. I
asked her to flex her thighs for me. They are like rocks. I can feel and
see individual muscles. Like in an anatomical model. I'm sure if I ran
and got Gray's Anatomy I could identify them. I don't know...it was just
sexy to run my hand over those cords and ripples, all smooth and soapy
and brown. She has dark, olive skin. She looked stunning against the
white tiles.
This part is kind of embarrassing to admit. I mean, you know about my
pubic hair. How we (Jay and I) keep it plucked. It was embarrassing at
first, and it still is sometimes when Anita or Tom sees me. But I think
it is sexy. And I know Jay does, too. I mean, he likes it enough to do all
that touchup work three times a week. (I shouldn't tell you this, but
sometimes I _read_ while he plucks. Do you think the magic is going?)
Usually we talk. A few weeks ago we made up ribald verses for that poem
about "Dangerous Maggie Jones" while he plucked.
Anyway, Anita had told me that she had shaved a few times for Tom, so I
figured what the heck.
Well, okay, I wanted to feel her against me. Just pressed against me,
and naked the same way I am down there. That's such a silly, trivial
thing to want, but I guess I really do "want it all" and I am basically
a selfish person. I mean, what if I were to wake up one night 60 years
from now and still be wondering what it would have been like to feel her
soft nakedness against my own? Still, it was selfish, I know, especially
since she will have a few weeks of stubble to deal with. But I shaved
her. She didn't particularly want me to, but I did.
I gave her the chance to stop me, but she didn't, so I guess it was
okay.
She has --had-- rather more pubic hair than I. I mean, well, it was just
more *extensive* than mine used to be. Not that she was *hairy* or
anything, it's just that after I had finished, the difference was very
striking. It looked like her navel had somehow moved up and left this
big, blank expanse of nakedness down there.
I don't know why I'm going on about this. She just looked different.
She looked Very Naked.
Before, she was just nude. After ... the word 'naked' is supposed to
convey something different. It's so easy to gloss over such a word
without thinking, and I don't want you to. Naked is definitely the right
the word, though.
I've already said Anita doesn't embarrass very easily. I was kind of
hoping this would push her buttons, but I don't think it did, even when
Tom and Jay saw her later.
But she looked naked after. And it gave me kind of a thrill to think
that *I* made her that way. That I had changed her that way and she had
let me. And she couldn't undo it afterward, either.
When I soaped her -- well, we were both kind of playing with the soap
at the time -- she didn't know what I was going to do. I think she was
just enjoying the sensations. (Smirk) I *know* she was; so was I. But
that's ALL she was doing. I, on the other hand, was also thinking about
what I was going to try to do next. Anyway, we both got a little soapy
and a little, um, excited. I mean, I put my fingers inside her and
explored her, and all the while I was thinking about the fact that I was
going to try and shave her, and wondering how she would react and if she
would let me.
God, this is so weird. I was just sitting here thinking, "I don't
believe I'm writing this down for ASB," when I realized that what was
*really* unbelievable was what I did in the first place. I mean, she's a
*woman* and I had my *fingers* inside her and played games with her the
same way Jay does with me. Right there in our shower. Jay and I have
done this so often in the same shower, I kept having the vague feeling:
there really ought to be a penis here somewhere amongst all the soap and
slithery bits.
It was nice. Being kissed under the shower by someone whose hair washes
down between your faces and neither of you cares, and the water is
running between you and ...
Ahem.
So anyway, when I had her all soapy I turned my back to her to get the
razor from the soapdish on the wall. When I reached for it she
saw what I was going to do and reached past my shoulder and put her hand
over mine, I think to stop me. But her front was pressed against my
back, and for a few minutes we lost interest in the razor, just feeling
each other's bodies. She nestled her chin against my neck and shoulder
and pressed the side of her face against mine; when she put her arms
around my front and ran her hands over my body, I had a WEIRD
experience.
Have you ever been cuddling someone and just enjoying the warmth and
intimacy and then had the sudden intuition that something completely
foreign was going on in their head? That they were looking at you,
touching you, experiencing you in a way that was different, almost
alien, and unlike what was going on in your own head? And that they knew
it and they were hiding it from you? That it was supposed to be their
own private secret? Almost as though you suddenly realized your lover
was a vampire, and they wanted something more than simple affection.
Well, she wanted something else, and she was getting it.
That's what I caught Anita doing. Not that it was scary, or even sneaky,
but she was definitely doing it.
She was using me.
When she stood behind me and ran her hands over my body, down my front,
touching me, I had the distinct feeling that she was using my body as
though it were her *own*.
I mean that literally: I could *tell* as she ran her hands over me that
she was deliberately imagining she was feeling her own body instead of
mine. Suddenly, I just KNEW that she had mentally stepped into my body
and was pretending, feeling what it is like to be me touching *me*. It
was as though my body was stuck onto the front of hers, substituting my
contours for hers. It was so *personal*; it was the way I touch myself
sometimes, in private, or --rarely-- the way I might touch myself for
Jay when he thinks I don't know he's watching.
When I realized what she was doing to me, it almost felt like a
violation; it was just so intimate, so personal, the way she did it.
Yet she didn't do a single thing that I could object to; it's just that
I could tell EXACTLY what she was thinking, imagining.
She slid her right hand down *there*, where I am hairless, feeling to see
what it was like, and her left hand held my breast. But NOT the way you
would touch someone else's body to make them feel good. It was the way you
would touch your *own* body, to make *yourself* feel good.
Anyway, I *almost* felt violated when she used me that way. Almost. But
it was a good kind of violation, the kind Jay will sometimes "commit."
So I felt a little violated, and I knew what she was doing, and I let her.
I almost stopped her at first, but I caught myself and let her -- I
guess because I love her. In fact,I helped her. I put my hands over
hers and guided her over my body, moving our hands the way I might move
my own in private.
It was a delicate, fragile, moment. I didn't want her to know I knew
what she was doing.
I'm so glad I reacted that way. If you read to the end of this post,
you'll understand why I wish she could step into my body for just a
little while.
But she stopped doing it after a few minutes. I could tell, I swear,
the very second she stopped imagining my body was hers. Something about
her touch changed. I don't believe in ESP, but sometimes you can just
tell.
Anyway, then she bit my ear and I laughed, and the spell was broken, and
I turned around to face her, and I told her what I thought she had been
doing and she DID blush. And smile. She's beautiful when she blushes. I
know I've said that before, but she is.
When I turned to face her ... I don't know, there is just something
intimate and nice about standing close to Anita and looking down at our
bodies touching. Jay is so wonderful to give me this.
Then she reached over my shoulder again and got the razor and gave it to
me like she was presenting me with a rose.
I knelt and went to work making her as smooth as I am. With a few
recreational rest stops along the way. We used a lot of Nurse Jones'
Miracle Hormone Restorative and Topical Aphrodisiac Skin Cream (actually
Unicure hair/skin conditioner).
The feeling of our bodies all soapy against each other in the shower was
a miracle. Well, *I* think it was worth it, although it's Anita that has
to put up with stubble. I gave her a present of a bottle of conditioner to
soften it. God, you're going to think I own stock in it or something,
but it IS great stuff, and it will soften the stubble. And it's so
cheap, even a midwesterner can waste it without feeling guilty. And it's
fun to put on. I love to ... well, that's a bit off the subject.
Anyway, we kind of melded there in the shower. And a few other places
along the way. The feel of our bodies, even dried off, after marinating
in skin conditioner... um ....
Ahem.
That's a bit off the subject, too.
Where was I?
I don't believe I can get all squirmy from just writing about Neets and
then rereading what I just wrote.
Ahem. Back to business.
Ah, hell. I'll be right back.
-*-
Okay, I'm back.
We were in the shower, and all that time it kept coming back to me and I
would remember that what I was *really* doing was preparing Anita to be
whipped by Tom. Like I was preparing a matador to go out into the
bullring and risk getting gored. It is so foreign to me, the way she
thinks. Whipping is so foreign. I keep saying that it is brutal. I keep
coming up against this wall of non-understanding, and vering off into
repetition as though restating my own attitudes could somehow help me
to understand hers.
It isn't play. It isn't fun. It isn't something I can pass off.
It hurts. It is brutal. It is like going back in time to the days of
Christ and seeing a roman slave being punished for real. I mean really
for real. I simply can't reconcile the concept of consensuality with
that kind of pain. I don't know what made me think of a roman slave;
maybe that she looks Italian. At a gut level, I can't think of it as
consensual, even though I know intellectually that it IS. In fact, she
not only consents, she initiates...
Still, we had fun in the shower. As the time got nearer, though, she
became more and more subdued. She wasn't talking anyway, because I had
told her not to (and *I* was the top, such a big shot, I was) but she
also stopped smiling and became more passive.
After we showered, she sat at the vanity (Jay calls it my workbench)
while I blow-dried her hair. I wish I had hair like hers. I've always
envied people with soft hair, hair that, when it is brushed and clean
will blow in breezes and layers of it will slide past each other like
silk. She has hair like that. Dark brown and luscious, with rainbow
highlights like the grooves on a record. I kind of like playing with it.
I teased it a little and brushed it back in a lion's mane. She looked
great.
All during this time, I didn't say a word to her. I was having fun
playing with her as though she were a doll, and I thought she was
getting into it, too. She became more and more quiet, and I interpereted
that as concentration on the process -- a process that for me was very
erotic. The only sounds were the hairbrush in her hair, the clink and
rattle of bottles, our breathing. For me it was a moment of erotic
intimacy, but now I realize she wasn't feeling the same things I was.
She was going into a completely different head space.
So I put her makeup on. And I (for once) didn't take the time to put
any on myself. I just worked on her. The mirror is one of those that
sits on a little stand on the vanity. She started out staring into it as
though she were interested in what I was doing to her face, but later
when I moved the mirror she kept staring at the same empty place.
I gave my own hair a quick shot with the blow dryer. It's so short it
only takes a second. I was standing next to her, my thighs touching her,
and she slid her arm between my legs and hugged my thigh to her as
though it were a teddy bear, but she didn't look up at me; she just kept
staring at the place where the mirror had been.
Her upper arm, the way it pressed against my ... um ... me, down there,
was very ... well I thought she was being intentionally seductive. Now,
I don't think so.
By that time, she was really still and subdued. She seemed like she was
retreating inside herself. She barely reacted to me, and I finally began to
notice. I lifted her chin to make her meet my eyes, and she did, but her
smile was gone, and I felt like I had become separated from her by what was
about to happen.
Still, I made her face perfect. Lip liner, lipstick, every detail
absolutely perfect. A technical masterpiece. Preparation for the Big
Show. A noble gesture before sacrificing one's self. Ave Caesar. We who
are about to cry salute you ....
I wanted it to be a sensual experience for her, me putting on her
lipstick. I kissed her before I started. It *was* sensual for *me*
but she wasn't even there anymore. I just hadn't realized it yet.
Those of you that kept up with the hypnosis thread may remember that Jay
played with my head to make me react in interesting ways to putting on
my own lipstick. He gives me a refresher course, now and then. Hypnosis
is like that, by the way. The major drawback is the time it takes. You
have to do it over and over and it takes forever to get there in the
first place.
Anyway, my lipstick feels like it is going on in two places: my lips,
and, well, My Lips. That simple act is an erotically charged one for me.
Jay says that even from the outside he can see what happens in my head;
he watches my face, sometimes, when I put on my face in the morning
before work. He comes in, brings his coffee, pulls up a chair, and
watches me. Is that kinky, or what? I really love it when he watches me.
It's hard not to smile sometimes.
Anyway, I wanted it to be erotic for Anita, but she didn't react.
She became malleable, even more doll-like as I continued. It's not easy
to put lipstick on someone if she's not helping.
If I gently pulled her arm to get her to stand, she stood. If I pressed
her shoulder to get her to sit, she sat. When I put her new polished
leather cuffs on her wrists and ankles, she was passive; her wrists were
limp, her hands resting in her lap.
At the Valdosta party she must have been like that too, but I was too
preoccupied with my own emotions to realize it. She goes somewhere deep
inside herself as the time nears.
The trouble was, my job as "assistant top" was to get her really turned
on before the whipping started. I started on her in the shower, and
mostly succeeded in getting myself really turned on. The idea was to
make it a sexual SM experience. She has said several times that SM is
sex-like, but it has always been separate. The plan was to bring SM and
sex together, but I don't know if it worked, exactly. I suppose it did,
insofar as it could have.
I guess I had her pretty turned on in the shower; at least, I *thought*
she was almost over the edge. But she seemed to turn into a robot after
that, and there I was, left with my motor running. By the time I was
through with her makeup she was almost not there anymore. *I* was the
one that was *ready*. Not for being whipped, though. Not me.
I took her arm and she let herself be led out into the bedroom. She was
completely passive. I don't know what was going on in her head. She's
the only person I've ever seen whipped. Maybe I would retreat inside
myself, too, but then the sensory experience is (or ought to be) the
whole point rather than something to retreat from. Maybe one of you
experts knows. Some ASB readers report "going away" mentally during a
scene....
Anita doesn't go away, though. She remembers it all as though she were
a passive observer. Afterward, she can recount the whole sequence of
events as though it had no effect whatsoever on her.
When I lit the candles and turned out the bathroom light I realized that
the whole house was dark except for candlelight. There is a transom over
the bedroom door, and there was no light coming through from the living
room where Jay and Tom were waiting. The house was silent, too. I could
hear the occasional crack of burning firewood echoing in the living
room, but there was no music. Just silence and darkness.
Anyway, I put her on the bed, and there in the candlelight we had our
second homosexual (there, I said it) encounter. I did for her what she
had done for me a few weeks before. (I posted publically about that.
Subject heading: The List, Column 3, parts a and b.)
I don't know what the hell happened. I had planned to bring her to the
brink of orgasm and then take her out to the living room to be strung
up for Tom, where I would "finish her off" during the whipping. That was
supposed to be the plan.
It was the first time I have ever done this, though, and it was too much
for me all at once. Too much for everyone. Plus, I didn't get a lot of
feedback from her; she was passive, kind of like an Italian Barbie doll.
I sat her on the bed, she sat. I pushed her back against the pillows,
she reclined. I lifted her legs onto the bed, she lay there staring at
the ceiling.
I laid my body down on top of hers. I pressed myself against her. The
feeling of her hairless sex against mine was wonderful and new. I
tried ... well ... positions. That would press us, you know ... together.
She later said she was aware of everything in every detail, but at the
time I wondered if anyone at all was home upstairs.
What a staircase, though. I understand better now why men like to feel
our bodies against theirs. I'll have to write my e-consultant and bi-
guru and ask her about the technical aspects of this. Do those strap-on
or double-ended gizmos work? I always assumed they would be artificial
and awkward and frustrating. I'm rethinking a lot of things, now. I can
see how normal people become perverts. A step at a time. It's easy.
I felt a bit like a necrophiliac, kissing her lips. I couldn't bring her
to life, though. I slid down and kissed her *there* and still got no
reaction. So I just experimented. She was completely passive; my toy to
play with. She had let me separate her legs without even seeming to
notice. I tasted her. At first she tasted like conditioner but I
persevered.
(I SWEAR I don't own stock...but I bet I could write a helluva script
for a commercial...8)
She seemed to remain unresponsive. That was the first time she had had a
woman do that for her. You'd think she would have taken note of the
occasion. And it was my first time, too, doing it. I did all the things
that I would have liked, and I tried to imagine myself being passive and
unresponsive like that, and how I would feel and how long it would take
Jay to make me respond in spite of myself. I looked up at her: nothing.
Well, almost nothing: she was looking at me, as though she had noticed I
was there, but that was all.
I kept at it. I really wanted to get through to her. I got a vibrator
out and went to work. No dice. She seemed to drift further away. I was
doing better with the um, personal touch. At least when I put the
vibrator aside, her eyes focused on me again. After a while.
My motor was running at top RPM's, and she was in slow motion.
She really didn't react much at all, and I really tried. I wasn't teasing
her, I was trying to get a reaction out of her. Her hips moved a few
times, and I think it was in response to me, but I'm not really sure. It
was a kind of slow pulsing motion. And after a while when I looked up at
her face she was kind of straining. Kind of. She had lifted her head
up to look down at me, and was making these little spasmodic nodding
motions as though it was a strain to keep her head off the pillow. Or as
if I was getting through.
I took that as encouragement; at least she was moving. After a while,
she put her hand in my hair and made a soft noise. "Nnnnnnnh!" about
describes it. I didn't know what to think. Finally, I started talking. I
asked her what she wanted, what I could do. What I should do.
Great top I make, huh? "What do I do next?"
She wasn't the old Anita any more. She was scaring me, almost. It was as
though she was sedated or something. Patients on thorazine act like
that. I asked her if she wanted me to stop, and after a pause she shook
her head in slow motion and pressed me against her slightly with her
hand.
I expect that most of the ASB gallery is leaning over my shoulder hoping
I'll report anatomically correct details about what it is like to *give*
oral sex for the first time. Well, it wasn't what you would expect. Or
even hope for. I started out gently, seducing the way I would like to be
seduced. Nibbling, testing, tasting, working up to the fun bits, you
know the kind of thing.
It would have made perfect sense if it had been me.
But my, um, end of things could only have been made fun and exciting if
I had been able to excite Anita. I wanted to drive her crazy, and
I did all the stuff that would have driven me crazy. I kept looking up
to check, and she just kept giving me that glazed, out-of-focus look.
I kept thinking, "Jesus. What gives?" I mean, she gets incredibly turned
on when she's turning *me* on. I was focusing ALL my attention on her,
trying to turn her on, and I was getting nowhere. I'll admit I'm new to
this kind of thing, but *I* would have been airborne if she had done to
me what I did to her. Even for a first timer, I couldn't be *that*
incompetent. I mean, I know where the buttons are. My central control
panel is more or less the same model.
Finally, after a while, I realized that even though she hadn't changed
position or expression, even though she was still just looking at me
without any obvious external reaction, she had started vibrating. Every
muscle in her body was flexed and she was vibrating. Occasionally she
would give a minute twitch. I swear, she hadn't moved an inch, and you'd
never know she wasn't still completely passive, but she was stiff and
hard and vibrating with effort.
So I think to myself, "Aha!" She's just introverted. Something
important's going on in there somewhere. All systems go. We're gonna
make it, Houston. Liftoff any minute.
I want you to know, my excuse for stopping was that I was SUPPOSED to
stop. This is not my fault. I feel horribly guilty about it, but I was
supposed to take her right to the edge and leave her there, twitching.
That was The Plan. The stupid Plan.
Eventually, she WAS twitching and breathing raggedly, but he face was
nearly expressionless. She was staring down at me intently, with that
same subtle but definite urgency that I saw at Valdosta during her
whipping. She was expecting something from me. She was developing that
look of extreme need. I was sure that inside her head she was very near
the edge. I would have been stuck to the ceiling long ago.
Then her breath caught, and I had the impression she was having an
orgasm. I stopped. She made that little "Nnnnh!" noise again, as though
she was about to say, "No!" and her hand, still in my hair, clutched at
me. Her growing expression of urgency became even more urgent. I
interpreted that little noise as, "No! Don't Stop!" So, insensitive
idiot that I am, I started teasing her. Testing, taking her a little
further, pulling back.
I mean really: I thought I was reading her correctly. I thought I had
her right on the edge. I mean her reaction to me seemed so intense, what
would *you* have thought? She was *vibrating*, for chrissakes! You're
going to think I'm a really insensitive bitch when you read the
punchline. If I ever post this. If I do, I deserve it; whatever you say,
I deserve it.
My only excuse is that I didn't know what I was doing. I was like a
stupid teenager without a drivers license, showing off in the driveway
by revving the engine of her father's car. Without knowing a damn thing
about the car. Whether it had oil in it, whether it was in gear,
anything. Just looking around to see if the neighbors had noticed how
grown up I was.
Stupid.
So I kept revving her engine, teasing her. At least I thought I was
teasing her. She got more and more twitchy and strained looking, and she
began losing motor control. She let go of my hair and started acting
almost the way I do if I'm slipping over the edge. Shuddering, gasping,
panting, twitching, looking almost panicked, looking around like she had
suddenly discovered the bed was floating in the middle of the ocean
instead of in the bedroom where it belonged.
She didn't look at me, though. She was looking around the room like she
couldn't see me or the room; like I had suddenly turned invisible and
she was panicked by the fact that I had dissappeared and something
strange was happening to her. Like she was seeing something different
than I was seeing.
And all the while, I was thinking, "Cool. She has really cool orgasms.
This is going to be REALLY something. She's going to go off like a
rocket."
Idiot.
So I picked that moment to take her into the living room. I figured she
was ready. I stopped everything and told her to sit up on the edge of
the bed.
She just laid there moving spasmodically. It wasn't like an epileptic
fit or anything. She just looked a lot like I feel when I'm about to
have an orgasm. So I sat next to her at the head of the bed and put my
arm around her shoulders and helped her to a sitting position. She was
still passive, still twitching, but she sat where I sat her. When I
pulled her legs to the side of the bed, she stayed where I put her,
unresisting.
I told her to stand up. She didn't. She sat there like a big doll, too
big for me to lift. I told her again, and she just looked at me like I
had started speaking chinese. And she kept right on twitching.
I took her head between my hands and held her face so that she _had_ to
look into my eyes. And told her again: "Anita. You have to stand up
now!" I was smiling to myself during all this, thinking, "God, I wish I
could keep going that long without losing the edge." I would have been
half-playacting if I were behaving like Anita, and I interpereted what
she did on those terms.
Stupid idiot.
But when I held her face between my hands, she finally focused on me. In
an instant, she changed; I could see recognition and hunger in her face.
She grabbed my head the same way I was holding hers, and she kissed me.
She practically threw herself at me. She's strong. A LOT stronger than
I. She went at me like a starving madwoman at a bowl of food, grabbing
my head and crushing her lips against mine, trying to press herself
against me, making little desperate moaning noises.
It was over in seconds, though. I jerked away at the suddenness of her
near-attack and she fell off the bed. She slid to her knees on the
floor and threw her arms around my thighs and caught me and hugged
herself against me, holding her cheek against my stomach like a five-
year old that didn't want to leave her mommy on the first day at summer
camp. She really hung on tight. I didn't even TRY to pry her loose.
She's too strong.
I stood there like that for a few minutes, watching the candlelight on
her hair, stroking her head and wondering what she was going to do next;
she didn't do anything but relax gradually. Eventually, I took her
arms and tried to get her to stand up. Which she did, again passive,
obedient, robot-like. But a defective, twitchy robot. She crossed her
arms in front of her breasts as though she were cold. It was NOT cold.
The heat was turned up to 80.
So I got out the little polished leather g-string that Jay had made. All
part of the plan. It was to protect her during the whipping that Tom was
going to give her.
Whipping. I STILL can't get used to that word when it's applied to
someone I love. I react to it every time I type it. This isn't daddy
swatting the behind for a childhood infraction. I mean whipping. It is
so brutal sounding, that word, and the act is as brutal as the word
sounds.
Whipping.
To whip.
But she not only endures it, she is drawn toward it. Somehow, her
wanting it makes it less brutal, but if it weren't for that it would be
frightening.
No, that's nonsense. It IS frightening. It IS brutal. Her wanting it
just makes it more confusing, not less frightening.
I have to keep reminding myself that she asks for this. She endures it,
puts it to sleep, and it's over. Then she waits while the sleeping worm
grows and wakens inside her and a month or two later she wants it again.
Anyway, I put the g-string on her to protect her. I thought I was being
sexy and toppish when I made it extra tight. It is just a little shaped
piece of leather, cut and wet-molded to fit her contours, then dried and
oiled. It has three thin leather shoelace-like strands that tie in the
back; the strands bit into her hips, tight and unforgiving, the way some
of Jay's toys are on me.
I tied it around her waist and pulled the crotch piece up over the waist
band in back and cinched it down tight and tied it. It was Very Tight.
She looked in amazement at the leather piece covering her crotch as
though she had never seen it before; she looked at me with a kind of
befuddled expression and then she looked back at the g-string; she
plucked weakly at it, not really trying to get it off; she looked like
she was just trying to understand what it was.
I put on one of Jay's shirts and some heels so I would be tall enough to
kiss her. When I came out of the closet, she was still looking down at
the g-string. I looked at the both of us in the mirror on the closet
door, standing side by side. She was calm and remote, and I was a
disaster; my hair was mussed, my lips were bruised-looking, and I was
red-faced and blotchy the way I get when I'm turned very on.
I gave her one last kiss before I led her out to the living room. She
liked the kiss, I think. It distracted her from the g-string, anyway.
-*-
She looked dazed and disoriented when I led her out. I literally
pulled her to the living room: I took her hand and pulled until she
started walking. The hallway was dark after the candle-lit bedroom, but
the living room was more brightly lit by the firelight and more candles.
They had lit candles everywhere.
It's a big, cavernous room; away from the firelight it would have been
chilly and gloomy if not for the candles. Big candles, little candles,
candles on the mantle and the windowsills and tables; candles in faery
lights, candles in glass chimneys, candles in candleholders and
candelabras, on candlestands, reflected in the windows. Constellations
of candles. Jay and Tom had been busy.
I watched her distant-seeming candle-lit reflection in the picture
window as she wandered hesitantly into the room; for a moment the window
frame became the proscenium of a dimly-lit and silent aquarium-like
world with tiny reflected actors moving on a murky puppet-stage, playing
out an ancient drama of obscure meaning and alien purpose, important
only to the players, only for the moment. Her reflection looked around
inside the insubstantial little window-world as though it was
unfamiliar. I wanted to intrude, to remind her that we had made love to
each other right there on the sofa just a few weeks before, but I did
nothing. I could see myself in the background, watching, a bit player in
the drama.
She seemed to be playing the part of someone who had slept for a hundred
years and awakened in a strange house; she gave the impression of having
acted out this play a thousand times in a thousand strange houses. As
though she had grown to accept her dazed bewilderment as the normal way
of things.
The sofa was already moved back out of the way, and there was a big
cleared place in front of the fireplace. Big enough to swing a whip.
Dazed as she seemed, she knew her part: here to go and what to do.
Still looking around as though she had never seen the room before, she
walked to the cleared place in the center of the tableau and held her
wrist cuffs up in the air like a child waiting to have a pullover
sweater put on. Even with her arms in the air, she looked blandly
around, sightseeing, seemingly unconcerned with everything. She looked
into the window reflection, and for a moment it seemed that her
character was looking out at the audience, staring directly at me, but
then her gaze wandered idly over the rest of the room, and I was left
wondering if she had seen me after all.
Then the other characters were galvanized into action. Tom was
accustomed to this dazed behaviour. He turned her face to the fire and
snapped her wrists to the ends of the ropes that were looped through the
eyebolts in the walls and ceiling. Jay had made these handy little
gizmos like they put on tent ropes to tighten them; the gizmo just
slides along the rope and it tightens, so easy and quick. Like a stage
magician preparing for a trick, Tom pulled her arms straight out
toward the upper corners of the room. Her legs he separated as much as
he could and still allow her to stand, one rope on each ankle. There
were two ropes on each wrist: one to the wall, one to the ceiling.
She continued to sight-see, seemingly unaware of the ropes, looking back
over her shoulders at the room. She was a fly caught in a nylon
spiderweb, still passive, still seeming not to care that there was
a spider.
Even bewildered she was magnificent, standing there; I guess it was
partly her legs, they are so long and straight and ... well, proud. You
can tell I am impressed with them, I know, but you should see them. She
looked around, idly curious about her surroundings, but unconcerned with
what she saw. An odd and contradictory mixture of offhand disregard and
dazed vulnerability. She looked as though she owned the room but had
never seen it before. And through all this, she was still giving the
occasional twitch.
Tom and Jay looked at me and suddenly, it was my cue to go onstage.
I went over to her and gave her another kiss, sticking to The Plan. It
was a really lewd kiss, too. I put my hand on her crotch and held her
while I pressed myself against her. I kept at her, rubbing myself and my
hand against her, doing my best to keep her on the edge. Her breathing
was still ragged, she was still twitching. I was pretty twitchy myself,
actually.
I don't know if she was just nervous from anticipation or if she was as
horny as I was, but she *was* agitated. And it sounds like a
contradiction to say this, but she was agitated and passive at the same
time. Her face was relaxed and expressionless but she pressed her hips
against my hand, and her body against mine. When I backed away, her hips
continued pulsing slightly on their own. I don't know if the boys
noticed, it was such a slight, slow motion. But at the same time, she
went back to staring passively at the fire, the wall in front of her,
and at me. She looked at me the same way she looked at the wall and the
fire: with a kind of blank animal curiosity, her pelvis still moving
slightly as though it were independent of her.
Tom took the whip off the mantle. It was a different one, different from
the one he had used in Valdosta. It had a long, thin, tapered, more
flexible handle and had just one thin strap on the end instead of all
the thick ones the other had. This one didn't make the spectacular
swooshing noises that the big one did, either, and he didn't swing it as
hard.
Anita's eyes passed over Tom and the whip with that same blank, mildly
curious stare. Still sightseeing.
Then, when he swung the whip through the air, the sound captured her
full attention immediately. She stopped looking around and kept her eyes
on him. When he walked behind her back she followed him with her eyes,
straining and twisting to see over her shoulders.
She was like the proverbial bird watching the proverbial snake. Except
it wasn't so proverbial. Some part of her had suddenly become very
awake. Funny, though: the sight of the whip didn't do it; it was the
sound that changed her. It was an animal's reaction, as if only certain
things computed. The sound was what mattered. It was the thing that came
just before the pain. The thing that connected directly to her.
Tom stood off to one side, and she closed her eyes and clenched her
fists. She had done neither at the Valdosta party. He swung the whip
through the air again and she caught her breath and tensed against the
ropes in anticipation of the pain, but he didn't hit her. Just testing.
It makes a quieter, sharper, almost whistling kind of noise, this whip.
The other was spectacularly noisy. He had to hit her hard with the other
whip to leave marks, and she could stand it without much more than a
widening of the eyes every time it landed. It seemed like he was being
much more careful with this one, careful to be precise and to not hit
too hard.
But the very first time he hit her, she cried out. He hit her across the
stomach. He didn't look like he was hitting her very hard at all, but
there were thin, white marks that turned into dark pink welts.
He hit her across the front of the thighs several times. She didn't
actually cry out after the first stroke, but she made noises in her
throat that she was trying very hard to suppress, little squealing
noises. She didn't need to keep quiet; we are isolated in the middle of
ten acres of woods. But she did. Habit, maybe.
Her teeth were clenched and her eyes squinched shut, and she tried to
pull back away from the whip every time that whistling noise came. It
was an involuntary motion, I think. She never pulled away from the other
whip at the Valdosta party. Intellectually, she must have known she
couldn't get away by jerking back like that, but I don't think her
intellect was in the driver's seat.
Several times she made an ineffectual running motion with her spread-
eagled feet pulling against the ropes, stamping her feet impotently in
an effort to back away from the pain.
And all the while she made these little squealing noises in her throat.
Several times, a squeal turned into a half-gasp, half-cry, and Tom would
give her a few extra seconds to collect hersef and she would get in a
few extra pants. Then the whip noise would come back again and her
breath would catch and she would try to hold it back but still she would
squeal deep in her thoat when it hit.
After a few minutes, she was criscrossed from her stomach to her knees
with thin red welts. The leather g-string kept the whip from hitting her
there, but there were welts all around.
God this is hard to write about. I'm trying to be clinical, but this was
hurting her. I really care about her, and I have no right to interfere
in something she feels is such a ... necessary (?) part of her life. I
don't even know how to describe what she does, let alone know how to
explain WHY she does it. It hurt me to see her anticipate the pain and
flinch away and pull against the ropes. Maybe she wasn't trying to get
away, maybe she just needed something substantial to pull against, and
it was the ropes. I don't know.
The thing was, it HURT her. Everything she did, every motion, every
noise said it hurt. Her buttocks and thighs flexed; her toes curled
under. I could see the web of her pectoral muscles tensing across her
upper chest, tendons in her neck and arms. No play acting, no show put
on for the partygoers. I didn't like it. At all. The Valdosta party was
disturbing, but sexy. This time, I couldn't think of anything but the
fact that it was really hurting her. The contained, suppressed, clench-
teethed squealing noises she made weren't the kind an actress would make
in the movies. They weren't theatrical or dramatic enough. She wasn't
doing theatre. It really really hurt.
At that point, Tom paused and nodded to me. It was a prearranged signal:
I was supposed to try and bring her to orgasm while he continued. I was
in such a daze from watching her that he had to poke me with his whip to
get my attention and I jumped almost as though he had hit me with it.
I didn't even know if I could touch her without hurting her. She settled
down and relaxed a little during the lapse in the whipping; I kissed
her, trying to touch just her face. I didn't even want to *look* at her
front below the waist.
Her reaction to being kissed was completely different from the way she
was at the Valdosta party. She pressed herself against me, hungry and
demanding. I don't think she cared about the welts. It seemed to me at
the time that she wasn't even aware that it was me, but she says she was
aware of everything. Her hands opened to reach for me; if they had been
free she would have grabbed at me again.
I returned her kiss as best I could, but when I stopped she went zombie
again and lost interest in everything.
Tom cut the leather laces that held the g-string in place and I knelt in
front of her. Right in front of my nose there were indentations left on
her stomach where the knots in the laces had been, where her pubic hair
had been. Even the laces and the edges of the g-string left an
impression, they had been so tight. Pointlessly, I kissed those places
and wondered how in hell oral sex -- or for that matter anything else I
could do -- could compete with that whip for her attention. I didn't see
how she could evn be aware I was there. I kissed her there anyway, and
felt her hips pulse against me. She knew I existed, at least.
I had just started when he hit her breasts with the whip and she cried
out loud for the second time that night. Then, between pants, she made a
sound, it sounded like a word but it wasn't her safeword. I couldn't
make it out, but Tom responded with something wrapped in a wet
washcloth; he put it in her mouth for her to bite on. And the next time
the whip hit her she screamed into that wash cloth. Not quite a scream,
but an animal squeal. It's hard to describe. Have you ever heard a pig
being slaughtered? Probably not. They're so afraid of dying. I had a pet
pig once: Imelda. She got too big and they killed her while I was at
summer camp so I didn't have to hear her. But I've heard others. They're
a lot smarter than dogs. They know about dying. You can tell they know
from their voices. But it wasn't really like that, anyway. And I don't
mean to compare Anita to a pig, it's just that sound...
She was crying. In the bathroom, playing games, I had put mascara on her
and it was running down her cheeks, getting in her eyes. I took off my
shirt and tried to wipe her eyes. And her nose. Stupid of me to put on
mascara, I never think ahead. I just wanted to make her all pretty and
perfect for the big scene. Silly.
Silly, stupid, idiot.
Tom was very methodical. Her entire front was crisscrossed from neck to
knees before he went around to her left side and started on her back.
And there I was thinking I could perform daring feats of cunnilingus.
Well, I tried, I really tried. But I was (am) totally confused by Anita.
A few weeks before, she had made my first experience with her a
wonderful, special thing. But this whipping scene was a disaster. Even
so, she later said it was good for her, more than she had hoped for.
Now, as I write this, I know what she meant, but I'm still just as
confused as I was then.
As Tom continued the whipping, I tried to turn her on. I think he
lightened up a little to let her achieve some kind of balance between
the pain and my pathetic attempts to bring her to orgasm. She *was*
responding to me, I know: her hips started moving again.
After he stopped hitting her breasts and upper torso, and started on her
back, she stopped making those muffled scream noises into the thing in
her mouth and her hips definitely started to move in response to me. He
wasn't hitting her as hard, or she had gotten used to it, or something.
Twice, she stopped moving and pressed against me, straining, holding her
breath, trying. Then she would have to give up and start breathing again
and her breath would whoosh out and she would suck in air in great gulps
around that thing between her teeth -- it wasn't a "bit" since it wasn't
held there by anything, but it looked like one, a cloth-wrapped rubber
bit.
Once she had focused on what I was doing, Tom stepped up the whipping a
little, keeping her attention divided between the whip and me. Her hips
moved, sometimes rythmically, sometimes spasmodically, and she flinched
every time the whip struck.
It wasn't like it had been at the Valdosta party.
The two of them weren't nearly as organized as they had been before; her
breathing wasn't synchronized with the whip at all. Sometimes it would
land after she had exhaled and she would gasp and pull in a sharp
breath and then go back to panting; sometimes it would land when she had
her lungs full and she would let out a muffled, high-pitched, "Aaaahh!"
When she wasn't screaming she was crying. Those sounds were so pitiful.
Tears were running down her face the whole time, and I just couldn't
stand it. The noises she made got inside me. I wanted it to stop and I
wanted to take care of her, but I kept thinking, forcing myself to
remember that she had done this many many times before and that I had no
right to interfere, that I didn't know enough to know if she *wanted* me
to interfere, that I might do more harm than good and ruin something for
her.
I tried to make her focus on what I was doing rather than the whip, but
he just kept hitting her and hitting her and hitting her. It wasn't a
competition: if it had been, he could have won with no trouble at all.
He was just trying to achieve some sort of balance between us. Maybe his
judgement was good. I don't know. At the time, I just wanted him to
stop. I don't think I like SM very much.
He worked his way down her back to her knees. I have to give him credit
for precision. He knows exactly how hard to hit her, and the whip landed
exactly where he wanted it to. He says he cut her with that same whip a
couple of times, years ago, when he was learning how to give her what
she wants. Whatever that is. He says she has always been willing to go
further than he.
Anyway, he is very precise with it. When the whip reached her hips, it
was very close to my face, but he didn't touch me.
Except once, and that wasn't his fault, and he didn't hit my face.
Finally, he had covered her entire body with welts, from her shoulders
to her knees. He was working his way back up her back, crisscrossing his
tracks with harder strokes when I just couldn't take it any more. She
was screaming into the bit at almost every breath whether he had hit her
or not, and I thought she was hyperventilating and she STILL wouldn't
use her safeword.
Tom says she has never used it.
I once heard a rabbit killed by a 22 rifle. One of those Indiana good
ol' boys demonstrating his masculinity for me. It screamed and screamed
and wouldn't stop. It sounded like a human being. I don't know if you've
ever heard a rabbit die that way, but it sounds human. Much more so than
a pig. And it knows what has happened to it. It is in horrible pain, and
hysterical, and out of control, and afraid and dying, and it knows it. I
covered my ears and screamed myself to make the noise stop while he went
and killed it the rest of the way. I couldn't watch. I never spoke to
him again. I never even looked at him again; passing in the halls at
school, I stayed on the opposite side. It was silly to be so upset over
a rabbit, but he didn't have to shoot it. I asked him not to. He could
have left it.
I hate farms. I hate farming. I hate farmers. No, I don't. I'm just glad
I left.
The noises that Anita was making didn't sound like that, but I had the
same near-hysterical reaction. I just couldn't take it. I was crying and
confused and I couldn't stand the sounds she was making and I wanted to
protect her. Between two strokes of the whip, the idiot in me came to a
sudden, ill-timed last-second realization: if I didn't do something
RIGHT NOW before the VERY NEXT stroke of the whip, he would hit her
again and it would be my fault. For some reason, through some twisted
logic, it came to me that through my own inaction *I* was just as
responsible for her pain as Tom and that was all that mattered.
In that last split second, I hugged my arms around her hips and pressed
my cheek against her front and said, "Oh, stop, please just stop." It
came out as a nearly-inaudible squeak because I was kind of crying
myself. I don't even know if anyone heard me.
Idiot. Inaudible or not, before the words were half out of my mouth, the
whip had landed on the back of my left hand and across my right forearm.
It wasn't Tom's fault. My timing was just bad.
I let out a pretty loud squeal myself, then.
The mark is gone now, a few days later, but it hurt like hell. I hung
on, though, I'm proud to say. It burned so, I was sure it had cut me. I
even thought I felt blood run down my hand, but I didn't look; I just
hung on. It was my imagination, but it *really* hurt.
I was kneeling there hugging her and crying and Jay asked me if I was
allright and I just said, "Make it stop, just make it stop."
But it was already over, and the two of us were just there, panting. I
was so confused I didn't know if he had stopped, or even if he *would*
stop; I had my useless little fists clenched tight, pressed against her
backside and against the pain in case he hit me again. But of course he
had stopped; he, at least, had his wits about him.
So there she was, hanging onto the ropes, and I was kneeling and hugging
myself to her hips, holding on for dear life; we must have looked like
Laurel and Hardy hanging from a twentieth story window ledge.
I hadn't even had time to adjust to the sudden quiet when I realized
Anita was still pressing her hips rhythmically against me and making
little urgent panting noises behind that bit. I unclenched my fists and
was beginning to think maybe it was all over when she spit out the bit
and swallowed convulsively and said to me, "Hurry! Oh, God, hurry!"
I looked up and realized that I was the one she was talking to, and that
I was still right in the middle of something that somehow, despite all
that had happened, was still going on. It wasn't over.
I reacted instinctively and with mindless obedience, probably the way a
marine drill sargeant would want his recruits to react. My mind was
completely empty and I simply couldn't think of anything else to do. I
turned back to her and continued. I was afraid I had ruined it for her
and I didn't know what the hell to do so I just kept on. At least the
whipping had stopped. She was frantic. She pressed herself against me
and twice more her breathing stopped while she strained and quivered and
then gave up, gasping to catch her breath.
The third time was the end for her. Her breath was coming in loud,
rythmic, rasping gulps, and suddenly she took a huge breath and froze.
I continued; slowly her back arched and her feet left the floor.
She went rigid with effort, pulling in all directions at once, suspended
there in the middle of the room from the ropes that held her, trying.
You see, Anita has never had an orgasm.
Ever.
-*-
After an eternity suspended on the edge, she made a noise. I'm not sure,
but I think she said the word "No!"
I'm not sure because it was so long and drawn out. At least, if I were
to try to write the sound, it would start with the letter "N". And if it
was a "No," it was the single saddest word I've ever heard in my life.
It started as a tiny n-shaped squeak and turned into a thin dispairing
wail and grew louder and louder. In a single breath the word
metamorphosed into a cry of dismay and dissappointment and finally
decayed into unrestrained tears and sobbing.
By the time it was out, it wasn't even a word anymore.
She was crying. And as she cried, she collapsed slowly into the ropes,
sagging, head hanging, her body giving up piece by piece, her mind
unable to hold it together any longer. At the end of that long, drawn
out sound, she was just hanging there, beaten, making little out-of-
breath squeaks like a baby that has exhausted it's lungs in the effort
of crying. When a baby fills it's lungs for that second cry, you can
tell it's going to really cut loose. So it was with Anita. She drew in
another huge deep breath and started bawling, loud and long and in
earnest. I guess "wracked by sobs" describes it, trite as it sounds.
Everything sounds trite. I'm sitting here crying at my keyboard,
remembering, trying to write it down, and there aren't any words. I
tried big important words like "agony" and it sounded trite. I'm sorry.
The best I can do is to write the details, and you'll have to try and
guess the big words. I'm sorry. I can't do her justice. I just can't
tell you how hard she tried.
I was stunned, openmouthed, kneeling there looking up at her like an
idiot. We were all stunned. She was just hanging there, sobbing.
Suddenly, she was no longer proud and magnificent with long, straight
thighs; she was hanging, knock-kneed and limp. She wasn't holding
anything back. No words, nothing but loud shuddering wails and sobs and
frustration and anguish.
When I say loud, I mean loud. No midwestern restraint here. No concern
that the neighbors might hear.
Jay and Tom went immediately to unclip her from the ropes. In their
concern they unhooked her arms first, and they had to catch her as she
fell backwards to the floor. She was on her back, with her hands over
her face, sobbing with her legs still held apart by the ropes snapped to
her ankles. Finally, I woke up and helped Jay free her the rest of the
way.
She curled into a fetal position and kept right on crying. So loud. It
seemed like an eternity before she would even acknowledge our presence
by accepting a kleenex.
Her lower lip was bleeding, too. As she fell back I caught a glimpse
of it. She was a mess by the time she would let us clean her up; she had
smeared blood all over. The next day her lip was swollen, as though she
had been in a fight. It wasn't a serious cut, nothing to be worried
about.
She looks awful, but she's physically okay.
All systems go, Houston.
Shit. What a fiasco. I feel like such a shit. Such a little shit. I had
teased her. Or I had _thought_ I was teasing her. I never got her
anywhere near the edge. Later, when we were alone, she said it was
wonderful. That I was wonderful. She sounded so sad when she said that.
She meant it, but it sounded so sad. I want so much to believe her. But
I'm sure she told me I was wonderful in the same tone of voice she uses
to tell Tom he's wonderful afterward.
But I wonder, if I hadn't stopped Tom, if just maybe.... How was I to
know? It's not my fault.
She had never told anyone. I didn't know it at the time. Tom still
doesn't. That's why you may never read these words. I wrote them for
ASB, but they may never be posted there. If you ever see them appear,
you'll know something has happened to change things.
Eventually, she settled down a bit. I sat with her head in my lap for a
while and Tom and Jay made some hot chocolate and moved the sofa back up
to the fireplace. We got her onto it, I put more of that miraculous
skin/hair conditioner on her welts. All over her. Those marks lasted
days, and they were almost everywhere below her neck. The next day,
there were even a few little scabs where the skin was nearly broken,
oozing serous fluid. Tom comes so close. He goes as far as he dares, and
it's never enough for her. There's got to be another way.
I'm all mixed up. I keep going round and round. I feel guilty about her,
and my guilt is in proportion to the intensity of the whipping she
took, and the emotional frustration she feels. I didn't cause either,
but I feel guilty anyway because I teased her; mostly I feel guilty
because I can have orgasms and she can't, and because I love her.
You're going to think I'm two inches deep. I've said I love Anita, and
I've only known her a few months. I knew Jay a year before I would use
the "L" word. It's not the same as with Jay, and it may fade as quickly
as it came, but I do love her. If I were giving advice (which I love to
do, except to myself) I would say it's too soon; I would say it can't
mean anything, not yet.
I've never in my life plunged ahead recklessly. I've always held back,
uncertain, midwestern, afraid of being hurt, afraid of declaring myself,
afraid of looking foolish, afraid to lose what I have by grabbing for
more. Cautious. Certain that if I want it there must be some good reason
that I shouldn't have it.
I guess what I'm saying is that I'm not like this, not really, but I
wanted -- really wanted -- to be reckless with Anita. And I was, and I'm
glad. I guess that's the exit from of Wilhelm Reich's Trap: going ahead
and doing it. It feels good when you do. Like a breath of Spring air
after the Winter.
Trouble is, when you act that way, you never know what you're getting
into. I STILL don't know, and I STILL don't care. I'm going to go on
being reckless. I still love her.
I love her. I love Jay, too, and I love him more, insofar as such things
can be compared, but I love her. Flash in the pan or not, infatuation or
not, it doesn't matter right now, and right now is all that matters.
It's all we ever have. The future, the past, they are all theory
compared to the fact of the present.
So okay, I love her, and right now I'm sorry I teased her, but I'm
beginning to think that maybe that doesn't matter, either.
Because here's the irony: she didn't even perceive it as teasing. In her
mind, the fact that she didn't achieve an orgasm is normal, it's her
problem, her inability. Teasing? That's just another thing that other
people enjoy that doesn't work on her. Why should she mind it? No loss,
and who knows, maybe it would have worked. Worth a try, she says.
Being kept at the edge is perfectly normal for her. Teasing? She's never
been anything BUT frustrated. She CAN'T be teased sexually because she
doesn't know what release is.
She said, Teasing? You think THAT was teasing? She smiled at the
thought. It was such a sad little smile. And she tried to make a joke
out of it by adopting a mexican accent and mimicking that worn out line
from the old Bogart movie, the one we had been laughing at a week
before: "Badges? We don't need no esteenking badges..." It had gotten so
anything in a mexican accent was funny.
"Teeesing? Djou thin' tha' huas teeeesing?"
She smiled, but it was such a sad little smile. I tried to smile, too.
The whipping is something she wants, and I guess I don't feel guilty
about that, but I wonder now if it isn't more than a simple choice of
life style. I hesitate to call it a symptom, but....
Do you think that there is a kind of release in being whipped until
something finally breaks in you, until your body takes over and you
are finally too weak to hold back the scream? Do you think that is
how she finds the release she is looking for? Is possible that it isn't
the pain she wants, but the final release that comes when that scream is
finally torn from her? Is she escaping from something?
At that moment, is she standing in the open door of The Trap, holding
the bars on either side, screaming into the endless open space?
Is she finding what we are all looking for, even though she's never had
what she wants most?
Or is she confronting what we all fear?
She wanted something from me at the Valdosta party. I thought it was
just a kiss. She tried to grab something from me this last night. If
I could give it to her I would, if there were only something I could
give her beyond love. It doesn't seem like enough.
She wants something. She really wants something.
Maybe we all do and only some of us have the courage to take it.
-*-
What a night. Hours and hours of cuddling. Until she had cried herself
to sleep. Tom said that this had never happened before. She has trouble
having orgasms, he said, but this was not her usual reaction. He said.
The next day, we talked, but the night before, I was just baffled.
She cried, I was baffled.
Then she told me, and I cried, and she was baffled. Why should you cry,
she asks. I don't know. Don't women cry when they find out their soldier
lovers will be coming home with one leg? A part missing? Isn't that what
we're supposed to do? Isn't that what's expected of us? That's how I
felt. She sounded so hopeless, even I was convinced -- at the time --
that she would be that way for the rest of her life. And I'm generally
pretty optimistic. Well, you have to be if you're a nurse.
And she has never told Tom. I was tempted at first to try and persuade
her to tell him so that he would know there was a problem he has to help
her deal with.
My feeling was: Dammit, *some*body's got to do *some*thing.
But she has to be the judge. It's not my place to interfere. She doesn't
know how he would handle it. All these years of faking it. Suddenly she
tells him he's not a good enough lover to give her an orgasm and never
has been.
Of course she wouldn't put it that way, but he might SEE it that way.
What would he do? Maybe their relationship isn't stable enough to handle
it. Maybe he would resent the years of deception more than the
implication of inadequacy. Maybe he would feel he didn't have her trust
and she didn't deserve his.
She has to judge.
In the beginning, she says, it was just easier to fake it rather than
deal with it, and she hadn't planned on marrying him at first. And
now....
He knows that it is hard for her to have an orgasm. But he thinks that
sometimes -- rarely -- she manages to achieve one with him. She can't
bear to hurt him, so sometimes she just decides that it's time to fake
it again. He's so happy when she has an "orgasm" that she can't bear to
tell him that even those rare events are faked. They have been getting
rarer, she says.
She makes love with him and she knows from the beginning that there is
no hope, that she will lie to him in order to avoid hurting him. Lie to
him at the one moment when she most wants to tell the truth, lie to him
at the one moment when she most needs him, lie to him when he is most
vulnerable, most trusting.
That's the heartbreaking part. That's the part that makes me cry for
her. To hear her, so calm, telling how each time she fakes it she makes
the decision knowing she will have to pretend to share his joy
afterward; at the ONE time that they should be at their closest, truest,
most intimate, she is left alone and has to hide even her tears from
him.
She says that sometimes she can't keep a lid on it. Sometimes it just
gets away from her; then she pretends she's crying because she's so happy.
"I'm good at that," she says.
And she hasn't even the vestige of a hope that she will ever really have
an orgasm.
But she tries so hard, and seems to come so close. She's seen me. She
knows what it must be like, so she isn't insulated by ignorance, and she
is so tantalized she is denied even the anesthesia of indifference.
But no orgasm. No release. No communication, no sympathy and no
understanding. No hope. And on top of all that, she has to pretend that
none of it is happening.
So she is left with nothing. Nothing at all. It all runs through her
fingers like sand.
She seems so sad and vulnerable sometimes, it would be easy to assume
that she is a "bottom". I guess she is, in some technical sense.
Somehow, I had assumed that Tom, as the "top," was the dominant figure
in their relationship. But he whips her because she wants him to. He
only whips her as hard as he dares to, never as hard as she thinks she
wants. He would do almost anything for her -- anything but really hurt
her.
He's not the top, really. But neither is she. She just seems to be
pushing her way through life at her own frantic pace, dragging Tom
along behind her for as long as he can hang on.
She cares about him, she doesn't want to hurt him, but at every step she
seems to be leaving him further behind. At least it seems that way to
me. But what do I know? I've only known her a few months, and they've
been together for years.
Not that Tom is by any means a weak person. It's just that his strengths
don't seem to be the strengths that can help her. Sometimes he doesn't
know what to do, but his helplessness isn't weakness.
I've never been a strong person; I don't know what she sees in me. Maybe
she isn't looking for strength.
That night, when I couldn't give her an orgasm, she felt it was okay to
let out all those years of frustration. I've never heard a person wail
like that. Not relatives in the hospital waiting room, not anyone. She
wanted so much to let it all out, and she finally could do it without
hurting Tom. And I guess it *is* best to start our relationship off
without any deception. I wouldn't want her to lie to me about this to
keep from hurting me. I don't think she would, anyway. She's learned
that lesson.
So now there's one person who knows this. Me. One person she can talk
to. Me. Maybe that's what she sees in me.
I've known two other women that were non-orgasmic. They blamed it on the
insensitivity of their husbands, and they were probably right. I don't
think that's the problem here. Tom would -- does -- do anything for her.
He would give her anything he is able to give. And he's not insensitive.
It's so easy to believe what you want to believe. He wants to believe
her when she says she had an orgasm. I know how he feels; I wanted so
much to believe her when she told me the teasing didn't matter, that it
was good for her. But I know what she meant. She told me that to make
me feel better about it. It was true, the teasing didn't matter, but she
didn't mean it when she said it was good for her. Not really. It may
have been as good as it gets for her, but it wasn't good.
I am going to ask Jay if he would mind if Anita and I stayed together
for a night. If she could "sleep over." I'd like to wake up next to her,
just once. She's going to see how Tom feels about that, too.
Besides, just maybe, without the whip, in a bed, private and cosy....
But I'm afraid there's more to it than that. It won't be that simple.
She likes giving me pleasure, she said. That was a thrill for her. She
says my facial expressions were eloquent. In fact, she wants to have a
videotape of me. A sort of vicarious orgasm. I have to think about that.
It's such a sad thing to ask.
But our first time, if I had known about her problem, I don't know how I
would have felt. Would I have felt guilty enjoying something that is
denied her? Would I have felt I was rubbing salt on her wound by having
orgasms when she couldn't? Would I have been able to enjoy it? Or would
I have tried even harder to give her what she wanted, what she needed?
Would *I* have faked an orgasm to bring vicarious pleasure to her? What
will happen when that situation arises, as it is sure to do in the next
few weeks?
Sounds like an old fashioned cliffhanger. Stay tuned 'till next week...
Maybe a therapist...? I've never been close to anyone that went to a
therapist. Close emotionally, I mean. Everybody in Indiana that I knew
that needed a therapist was too macho to go to one. Or too inhibited or
too ashamed. I'll talk some more to her. I mentioned it once, and she
got impatient and said she had tried "all that" and it was a total
disaster. I don't know why yet. I'll try again later. It's hard for me
not to nag.
So another month or so will go by, now, and she will want to be whipped
again. To be covered with red welts and cherished afterward.
Well, dissappointed readers-in-search-of-erotica: What is the right
question to ask? Is it:
Why do we do this?
I think Anita has a better reason than most of us could give.
She doesn't know what that reason is, though. Does any of us?
Anyone out there know? Anyone?
Someone once said I was like a child playing in a sexual sandbox.
Nurse Jones,
Seems to have gotten
sand in her eyes; tears raining,
melt her new castle.
PS. I sent this unpost to Anita and she said she could only read half
of it, and she doesn't want to add anything. But she sent back a poem
that warmed me:
What did I know
thinking myself
able to go
alone all the way.
Robt. Creely
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