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Nurse Jones gets exercised
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
From: [email protected]
Subject: Nurse Jones gets exercised
>From Nurse Jones, Spring, 1992
I'm such a hypocrite. One week I'm whining about my inverted nipples and the
next I'm showing them to the world. Anita says I'm weird in the head. I
guess she's right. Sometimes I just come over all funny and do something
outrageous.
It was last Saturday when we both went to the exercise spa. We had had a
really good workout with the best aerobics instructor. We took a sauna
afterward and this kid came into the sauna a few minutes after we did. The
same kid that has been worshiping me from afar ever since I hung my towel
over the end of his barbell one day. Well, he was ... watching ... me. Now
he worships Anita, too, ever since we've been going to the aerobics class
together on Saturdays.
Anyway, we went into the sauna after our workout and we were sitting there
at opposite ends of this shelf-bench thing and we were all demurely wrapped
in our towels and this kid comes in and sits opposite us. Wearing shorts,
like they do in the Deep South. I bet nobody in California covers up in a
sauna.
So, the three of us sat there in total silence for ages, baking and
letting the kinks drain away. The light is kind of dim in there; it is very
restful and quiet. I could hear the other two sigh now and then, and there
was a hot tin duct or something that made an occasional faint metallic
ticking noise as it expanded in the heat.
After a while, the kid took his towel and wiped his face and arms. Anita and
I were leaning back against these wooden backrests that are built into the
bench. I suppose it may have looked like we were asleep, but we were
watching each other through almost-closed eyes, Anita and I. I think the kid
was looking at Anita's legs. Anyway, I was sitting there thinking about how
nice a real sauna would be, one that didn't have a dress code, and I got
mildly irritated with the South for some reason. I don't know what came over
me, really. It must have been the heat. For some reason, I suddenly just
didn't care anymore. I mean, really. It's ridiculous sitting there wrapped
up in a towel, what with it being nearly 200 degrees and all.
I reached up to my towel, to where it was wrapped around me tucked under my
armpits, and I just put my hand there, holding the towel. Anita was watching
me, and after a minute of me sitting there with my hand on my towel looking
back at her, she figured out what I was about to do and she put her hand on
HER towel, too. Neither one of us changed expression; our eyes stayed nearly
shut, but I know Anita and I can tell when she's keeping a straight face.
Then, at the same time, we both loosened our towels and let them fall to our
waists.
Anita was the only one that could see what the kid was doing. The way I was
facing, he was just barely in my peripheral vision, but there was total
silence. It sounded exactly like the kid not breathing, a sound I had heard
before.
We just sat and baked.
That pipe was still making that ticking noise; it seemed like ages between
each tick. A drop of perspiration ran down my ribs. I didn't move. The hell
with it, I thought. The hell with everything. I relaxed again. It's The
South's problem, let The South deal with it.
Suddenly, the kid got up and left. He practically ran out the door. Still,
neither of us moved. Anita said later that when we dropped our towels he
sat there for a minute, stock still, gaping, and when he got up to run he
kind of held his towel in front of his shorts. Neither of us moved, though;
we just sat and baked. I didn't even open my eyes.
Anita said that after a few minutes of expressionless silence a very faint
smile appeared on my lips. Just for a few seconds. She said my change of
expression was so tiny that it was practically nonexistant, but she called
it a "smirk of faint and positively evil satisfaction."
Now really, it was not. And besides, can I help it if southerners are so
uptight? Whose fault is that, anyway?
She says it's not his fault he was brought up in the South.
Besides, she dropped her towel, too.
But you enjoyed it, she says. She says I like to dissect people. She says
I'm a sociopath. She says I indulge in the social equivalent of
recreational vivisection. She says I'm a psychic vampire. She says it
would be cruelty if it weren't for the fact that I do it to myself, too.
Well I mean, really. All I did was drop my towel.
Jeez. Psychic vampire?
Nurse Jones,
Vun uff de
ceeldren uff de
night...
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