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Nurse Jones and the night of the long stockings
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From: [email protected]
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: Nurse Jones and the Night of the Long Stockings
>From Nurse Jones,
[A new post. New to the Net, that is. I wrote it after I lost my
account way back when...]
Midsummer, '92
You're going to think this was crazy, but Anita wanted to do it
and we couldn't talk her out of it. All we could do was go along
and help protect her.
Harry has had another party. I don't know if there was an
announcement on ASB this time -- especially after the last
experience Harry (and I) had. So if you didn't see one you can
probably thank Harlan for that.
Harry wanted the four of us to go and do a repeat performance of
the weird thing that happened the last time I went to Valdosta.
We explained that you can't repeat sponteneity, but he wouldn't
listen. We explained that we didn't even know each other then,
and we do now. We explained that everything is different now. He
explained he would pay Anita; he just *had* to have us there.
Well, *I* was offended.
Plus he was skeptical that we didn't know each other back then.
He thought that the first time I kissed Neets was staged and that
we had known each other all along. Well, what does he know
anyway, the old queen. I mean, *he's* the one that introduced us
in the first place, for heaven's sake.
But that's ancient history. I posted about that last year. Almost
exactly a year ago, now that I think of it.
Anyway, we were really stupid. We should have told Harry we just
plain didn't want to go, but instead we gave excuses about how
long a drive it is and how we all have jobs and have to work.
That was when he offered to pay Anita. A lot. Plus expenses. I
thought she was going to tell him to go fuck himself, but he
offered to hire a limousine to pick us all up and take us back
home, and for some reason the idea of the limousine changed her
mind.
But then she wanted *us* to go and she wouldn't do it without us.
And I definitely didn't want to go. Mostly because that's where
we met Harlan the Barbarian, lurking ASB puppydog, to whom, if he
is reading, I would like to extend my warmest middle finger.
So anyway, Jay decides that before he and I agree to go he wants
to negotiate something additional in return from Harry. Which I
thought was pretty crass, since it was Neets that was going to be
whipped, but it turns out that what he wanted was rather sweet.
He wanted to hire Hunk (I'll tell you about him later -- for now,
he's Harry's boyfriend) as a butler/waiter at a private party Jay
plans to have at our house someday. In honor of Neets and me. And
he'll pay Hunk handsomely. Which is only fair; after all, its
a long drive to our house from Valdosta.
Anyway, I was dumfounded that this whole deal went through. I
thought everybody was insane; I kept watching them make one crazy
decision after another until finally everything had been
negotiated with Harry and we were going to do it. I can't believe
she went through with it. She was ready to turn down all that
money and then for a few hundred dollars worth of VIP treatment
and a limousine she goes and says yes. It was crazy. But we all
went with her, so I guess we're as crazy as she is. I still don't
know if I should be mad at her and the rest of them. It was a
stupid, weird, depressing evening.
In a way, getting ready for it was fun, though. Like putting
on a show. It was a total sham, in fact. Fake. An act. Tom used
his noisiest, most spectacular looking but relatively harmless
(so Anita says) whip. Stagey lighting, ropes, costumes, the whole
two yards. It practically became a vaudeville act. They swallowed
the whole thing. I think.
Actually, it ended up to be only partly an act, but we didn't
understand why until after.
I got to dress her. That part was really a lot of fun.
Everything was calculated to have the most dramatic effect
possible. It certainly had an effect on Jay. Who, incidentally,
has been reading what I write and offering criticism. Most of
which centers on my midwestern tendency to leave out anatomically
correct details whenever I talk about myself or Neets. He says
men like that kind of stuff and I have to write for my audience,
which is mostly male. I guess he's right. I'll humor him anyway,
if only because he has such great buns. Little, tight rosy ones.
He's like a ripe apple.
Is that anatomically correct enough for you, wonderbuns? Hmmmm?
Well, fair's fair...
Okay, okay: Her pantyhose were sheer-to-the-waist charcoal grey,
with those patterns from the knees down that look like ornate
painted-on boots. They were a size too small so they would run
easily when the whip hit them. Harry paid for four pairs of them,
one for practice, one for real, two more that fit just because
Harry was paying. Over that were black thong panties because
after we practiced we decided torn pantyhose with holes looked a
little funny by themselves. Besides, her pubic hair hasn't grown
back completely yet. And the thong looked pretty good anyway.
I put a bra on her, but instead of doing the hooks, I sewed it
on with just one thread so she could break it by taking a deep
breath, timed with the whip. We practiced this little trick
beforehand, and I had to sew on the bra at the last minute in the
car. It looked like the whip broke the bra strap. I think.
Actually, it was kind of hokey. Who knows if they were impressed.
Who cares.
A little black collar and black elbow-length gloves (I found them
at Goodwill and they were too big for me) and 5 inch black
stilettos completed the ensemble. Heavy makeup, and I teased her
hair unmercifully. She looked like every man's dream.
Well, maybe not *every* man. Her face is a little strong-boned
for some men's taste, and she is a little small in the cup size,
but you wouldn't believe how long her legs looked in that getup.
God, I'd kill for legs like that. When she walks, it's like a
pair of long, slender scissors snicking shut and opening,
snicking shut. She knows it too, the bitch. And she has beautiful
hair, unlike yours truly with split ends up to here.
Anyway, we tested all this at home. The piece de resistance was
my own invention. I got a syringe from work and took the vitamin
E out of a gelatin capsule and replaced it with red food coloring
so she could pretend to bite her lip and bleed spectacularly. The
idjit swallowed it in the first two minutes.
Like I said: totally phoney. Almost.
I'd never ridden in a limousine before. Those things are enormous
inside. But not as exciting as I had hoped. There wasn't even a
bar. It was pretty much like riding in a car, in fact, except
backwards. But Anita looked so classy/sleazy on the seat. Is that
possible? Classy and sleazy at the same time? It costs so much to
look cheap these days.
The makeup was a bit sleazy (the false eyelashes were a leetle on
the heavy side) but when she crossed her legs .... She had a
long black silky bathrobe made of some clingy synthetic (courtesy
of Harry again) on over the costume. When she crossed her legs it
sort of slithered open. Well, classy is the only word for those
legs. Jay says there's nothing sexier than the sound of that
material and the pantyhose kind of sliding around together. In
there. Somewhere. He also says there's nothing sexier than the
sound of high heels clicking on a floor. Sounds to me like he'd
better make up his mind.
Men.
Anyway, everyone knows there's nothing sexier than a tight little
ass in tight little jeans.
-*-
This party was a lot smaller and a lot quieter than the last one.
All the men wore suits, all but Harry and his friend -- I still
don't know his name, but Harry calls him His Bohunkness, aka
Hunk.
There wasn't an even mix of men and women, either. Too many men.
Three were japanese. Two of them behaved very badly. One asked me
if I was available for the evening. I think the little nematode
was making a judgement based on what I was wearing. Which Jay
said was insufficient evidence, ha ha. Now I ask you. Well, I
can't ask you: you weren't there, but take my word for it, my
dress wasn't THAT short; I really resisted the temptation to camp
it up and look cheap. After all I wasn't supposed to be the
center of attention. Besides, it costs an awful lot to look
cheap.
Still, I'm worth it.
I think I was the youngest one there. Harry gives weird parties.
At least nobody walked out this time. The last time, a woman and
her husband left in disgust when the whipping scene started. I
think everyone knew exactly what to expect this time. In fact, I
wonder if Harry didn't sell tickets.... Hmmm? Harry? Are you
reading this...?
Anyway, after Paul (the hired hippie chauffer) parked the limo
outside the house I sewed the back of Anita's bra together, and
then Jay and I went in. It was our job to set the stage. Tom
stayed with Anita in the car.
I'm not going to bother to describe Harry's house again. Find
an archive and go back and read about the last time we were
there. It was the time I met Neets. The house is just a typical
southern one from the 19th century. I heard one of the male
guests with an english accent look around and say that "You
Americans have always had such hideous architecture." Harry,
bless him, said, "Yes, deah, Ah know. Innit jus' terrible? We
cawl it Victorian."
Harry is so sweet. Sometimes I could just kiss him. Sometimes I
do.
The only thing that really matters about the house is that it is
old, and has fifteen foot ceilings and these white wooden
columns on either side of the entrance to the dining room. To tie
Anita to. That, specifically, was where I met her, in fact.
I guess the house was in a good part of town once. Now there are
duplexes and townhouses and cheap little rented homes all around,
and a "project" nearby. It's funny how builders stopped taking
pride in what they build. A few big old three story turreted
houses like Harry's stick up through this architectural pollution
like dinosaurs in a swamp, waiting patiently for extinction and
wondering where the sun has gone. It's sad, really, what they've
done to the South. Mostly developers from the North, too.
You know, I never really took it seriously when people said that
feelings still run high over the Civil War, but it's true. Maybe
I've been listening to too many southern historians, but the
Confederacy was really gutted economically by the North, and it
has never been allowed to recover. Not that it's a conspiracy or
anything, it's just that the paper trails of ownership still all
lead to the North.
Sorry to digress; I must be turning into a Southerner. Our city
just had another twenty acres of live oaks replaced by an
unwanted shopping mall thanks to a developer from New Jersey who
said he would never live down here because he couldn't stand the
climate.
Of course, there is the heat to consider. It seems like Harry's
house is always overheated. Last Winter it was too hot because of
the fire in the fireplace; this time it was just Summer in the
South. And there were too many people in the room. Again. He had
ceiling fans, and the windows were open, but it was still hot.
And muggy.
Anyway, Jay stood up on a chair and measured up one of the
columns and nailed a big nail into the back it. Harry winced
theatrically when he saw the size of the nail, but he rolled his
eyes and shook his head and waved his arms and told us to go
ahead and destroy the place, which we did while Harry went off to
show somebody his obscene african wood carvings.
I've already seen them; he shows them to everyone -- I think just
for the shock value. He's especially proud of this huge carved
ebony monstrosity that he says is a phallic symbol. "Well," I said
in my best Vivien Leigh Southern Belle accent, "Ah don't know
about that, but I'd hate to tell you what it looks like to *me*."
That caused Harry to shriek with laughter which degenerated into
a coughing fit when His Bohunkness took me seriously and tried to
explain what a phallic symbol is. Poor Hunk. It's a shame there's
no mental equivalent of limbo dancing. The way things go over his
head he'd be a champ. I listened politely and nodded gravely and
looked so impressed with Hunk's erudite explanation that Harry
turned purple and started wheezing and pointing and coughing
again.
Sometimes I wonder about Harry.
So anyway, we tied a rope around the nail and let the ends hang
down. They had little brass clips tied on. Harry had arranged a
small spotlight, which he aimed at the column and left on for a
while. The guests wandered over and babbled to each other and
inspected the arrangements. They knew what was coming; Harry had
explained everything. He said word had gotten around after the
last party. I think *he* spread the word around. And I *still*
think he sold tickets.
It wasn't like the excitement and anticipation had built to a
fever pitch, though. They were all being very cool and
sophisticated about the whole thing. One man in a suit tugged on
a rope as though he were some kind of quality control inspector.
They all had a good look, like a bunch of tourists. I half
expected to see a bus driver come to the door and herd them away
to the next attraction.
One of them thought I was the one that was going to be whipped
and she asked if I enjoyed it. I think a friend of hers egged her
until she came over to talk to us. She was trying not to laugh as
she asked, and she cozyed up to me like we were long lost friends
or something, but she kept looking back at her buddies to see if
they were watching. She was disgusting. Besides, she stank of
cigarettes and bourbon; her breath smelled awful. Back in Indiana
we would have tiped her over on Halloween. And she insisted on
putting her arm around my shoulders and asking me in this
confidential whisper if I really liked it, hon. Her husband
tried to steer her away. I hope she was just drunk. I hope he was
embarrassed by her behaviour, but he acted more like he didn't
want her to be seen talking to us. Nice crowd.
While we were getting ready for Anita we were left pretty much to
ourselves, and I was aware of people talking about us, glancing
at us and averting their eyes if they chanced to make eye
contact. They made me feel like an accident on the highway.
Curious uncaring blank faces slowing down for a look through
empty eyeholes, then looking away in disgust if they actually
chanced to glimpse what they came to see.
I had had enough of them. Hollow people. If that's what it is to
be straight, you can have it.
Ick. I should have gone out to the car and tried to get Neets to
call it off. But I didn't, and I couldn't leave her to do it by
herself.
Harry has a pretty highly developed sense of the dramatic. He lit
bunches of candles and then had his bohunkness turn off all the
lights and at the same time Harry turned off the music and I
opened the front door wide. I left it open. The cool air felt
wonderful. Before I went back into the living room, I saw the
driver getting out to open the car door for Anita. The lights
going off were the signal for her and Tom to come in.
Everybody had been shouting to be heard over the music and each
other, but when the music and lights went off all the
conversation stopped for a second. In the silence Harry said,
"She's coming."
Deathbreath started to talk again, and someone else shushed her.
Maybe out of self defense.
We heard the car door slam shut; one of the suits looked out the
front window and said, "Jesus."
She does look unbelievable with her legs coming out the front
of that black robe. The rest of us could hear her heels on the
sidewalk.
Everybody, including Jay and myself, looked toward the door when
we heard her click up the steps.
She didn't even slow down at the front door. It was open, and she
just walked on through. When her heels hit the hardwood in the
foyer, everybody was stock still, nobody spoke, drinks were
still, not even an icecube rattled. I was bursting with pride for
her. They were all looking toward the entrance to the living
room, waiting for her clicking heels to arrive.
She stopped dead in the living room doorway: clack, clack.
She looked out over the congregation for a few seconds. She's
six-three in five inch heels, BTW. I think she was taller than
anyone in the room, even his bohunkness, who is huge.
She untied the waist cord of her robe and let it fall open a bit.
One knee came out. Then her leg emerged completely from the front
of that robe and she took a step out into the room. Click. You've
never seen anything so long and lean. Then another step.
Click.
Jay said later that as much as he loves me, he has never seen
anything more magnificent. Neither have I, dammit. She was
hamming it up for the crowd, but still ... noone else could have
had that effect, hamming or not.
She was walking so slowly that I thought at first she was
nervous, that she was being cautious about entering the room. It
was, after all, a very weird situation. But after the first few
steps, I realized she was walking very deliberately toward the
column. She walked a bit like a cowboy at a showdown; not
swaggering, but carefully, cautiously, and with measured steps,
one at a time, toward an opponent. I could hear the legs of
her pantyhose whispering against each other and against the
synthetic of the robe.
Whisper, click.
Whisper, click.
Whisper, click.
There was an open path through the guests, but one unfortunate
man happened to be standing in the middle of the room in her way
and he didn't realize it.
Click, click, she stopped in front of him.
She looked down without expression at the poor hapless twit, as
though he was a specimen of something that she was going to give
a chance to crawl away because she'd rather not have to scrape
him off her shoe.
He probably wasn't really a twit, but she made him look like one.
She just stopped and stared at him and waited for him to move.
She was nearly a head taller than he was.
He just gaped up at her and swallowed. I had the impression for
a moment that he was thinking she had singled him out of the
crowd for some purpose and that she had walked up to him and God
only knows what she had on her mind but she could do anything she
wanted and it would be alright with him and he couldn't believe
his good luck that she had picked him out of all these people.
And then he seemed to sort of wake up and look around and realize
he was just in her way and he flushed and backed away in
confusion and stepped on someone else's foot.
I guess I make it sound like she was cruel to him, and maybe she
was, but I didn't feel any sympathy for her victim. Maybe I
should have, but I didn't care then and I still don't.
I felt proud of her. Proud I was with her.
Even though she didn't say anything, I felt she was speaking for
me and everyone else on the fringe. I thought: Yeah. That's right,
dammit. You tell him. You let him know where he stands. Out of
the way. With the rest of them. Buncha tourists.
There was a second or two of confusion while the poor man sorted
his feet out and blushed furiously, but the group recovered and
returned to an embarrassed (but expectant) silence almost
immediately.
She turned her head slowly and focused her sights on the next
person that was still standing between her and the column.
Suddenly they were all galvanized into action and nearly fell
over themselves scrambling to get out of her way. She waited
until they had sorted themselves out again.
Whisper.
Click.
Whisper.
Click, click.
She stopped about six feet away and looked at the column.
Harry turned the spotlight back on. It wasn't very bright or very
big. The rest of the room was still darkish with just the
candles.
For dramatic effect, she stood there contemplating her fate until
they were all suitably impressed. The congregation took this all
very seriously. I had to put my hand in front of my mouth; I was
bugeyed from trying not to laugh. It was an effort to compose
myself.
Then she shrugged and the robe slithered to the floor behind
her. The room seemed to sigh. I watched the woman standing next
to me, obviously as straight as they come. She looked at Anita,
then looked away, ashamed, and then looked back again. Neets'
legs are so long, and her ass so perfect. I wish I ... well ... I
guess I can't complain.
Jay had to stand on tiptoe to reach her wrist cuffs when she held
them up to be clipped to the ropes.
This way of tying her up was an innovation, by the way. She
had decided to do something new during the whipping. Normally
she is spread-eagled with ropes. The last time we were in
Valdosta -- when we met -- she was tied up between those same two
columns, one arm to each, up high. But you already know about
that if you were reading ASB last Winter.
This time she was facing a column with her arms wrapped around it
and her wrist cuffs clipped to the rope on the far side, up high.
Like before, she was stretched upward so that she couldn't fall
even if she tried to. I don't know why she decided to do this
instead of her usual eagle.
Nobody even noticed when Tom came in with his little black bag.
She turned her face to the side, cheek against the column, and
waited, looking into my eyes.
I guess I should take a minute to tell you something here. Those
of you that know about Anita know that she behaves strangely
before she is whipped. She sort of retreats inside herself and it
becomes very hard for the rest of us to communicate with her. She
doesn't speak, and she turns completely passive. In fact she
doesn't do much of anything unless she is made to do it. I don't
know if it's some kind of mental anesthetic or what. She says
afterwards that she is always acutely aware of everything going
on around her, but that she has no interest in communicating; it
just seems like such a huge effort to talk and there is no point.
I know she remembers what happens, because she can tell me about
it afterward.
Anyway, thats what she normally does.
But this time wasn't normal. This time we were faking it. This
time she thought of it as a performance because so much of it was
planned, staged. She didn't go into her shell the way she
normally does. In fact, we were having a perfectly normal
conversation about how sleazy the Bush administration is (imagine
that) while we were riding in the limousine. She was alert and
aware and perfectly normal right up to the moment the whip hit
her. Nobody gave it a thought. Piece of cake.
I guess the point is that she hadn't prepared herself the way she
normally does, because she didn't think of it as a normal
encounter with her whip.
Sheesh. Will you listen to me.
"Normal...whip."
In the same sentence.
Jesus, have I changed in the last year.
Anyway, she walked into this scene uninsulated, expecting to do a
performance, and she got caught by surprise. I don't think she
was aware of how important her mental preparation had been in the
past. Certainly none of the rest of us were. I'm not even sure
she knows how much she changes before a scene.
As I said, the whip Tom used was spectacular sounding but not
normally very painful. At least not normally to her.
The trouble was, she was *supposed* to be acting. And she has a
safeword. Which she's never used, but still she has one. I don't
know how good an actress she is, but I know I would have
absolutely no trouble at all projecting realistic fear and pain
if I were being whipped like that. I bet I could even make
*myself* believe it.
So, even though she isn't normally noisy during a whipping, when
she let out a yelp on the first stroke it was exactly what
everyone, including myself (but for different reasons), was
expecting. Her arms tensed against the ropes and her hands made
claw shapes in the air, and she yelped. It was almost a shout, in
fact, and she started breathing very rapidly, the same way she
had once before when Tom had used the numero uno nasty painful
whip. But that's another story, too. One or two of you know it.
She turned her head back and forth, looking over her shoulder as
though she was trying to verify that Tom wasn't doing something
wrong, and then she looked at me with a trapped-rabbit look. She
looked really afraid. But she didn't use her safeword. Still, it
was so realistic an expression I had to remind myself: she's
SUPPOSED to be acting frightened, she HAS a safeword, and Tom IS
using the gentlest (sheesh) whip. Even so, I glanced at Tom and
made a prearranged gesture that told him to back off a little. We
never expected to actually use it, but it worked. He paused and
pretended to adjust his whip or something, and when he started
again, he had eased off a bit.
During that brief respite, she settled down and rested her cheek
against the column as though she were hugging it, but she still
had that panicked look. She was watching me, and I felt as though
she was looking to me for help, but all she had to do was use her
safeword. Tom would have paused, stopped, backed off, whatever
she wanted, if she had only used her safeword.
But she didn't. She never has.
Does there come a point when you have to try and evaluate whether
a person is realistic about using her safeword? A point when you
have to look out for her because she might not be looking out for
herself? When you have to try to second guess her? Being a good
top would be ulcer-making work, I'm beginning to learn.
She was upset. I didn't know how much of it was an act. If it
hadn't been for the fact that she was supposed to be hamming it
up I would have interrupted after the first stroke. As it was, I
interrupted again after a few more strokes anyway. She was
looking directly at me, desperately making eye contact, and the
look on her face could only be described as imploring.
I went over to her said in her ear, "Tell me," and put my ear up
as close as I could get to her mouth.
"Jesus, this really hurts," she said. She was panting.
"But it's the easy whip," I said, "and I already told him to back
off."
"I know, but it _hurts_," she whispered.
"I can tell him to back off more," I said, "or I can get him to
take a break or something, but you just started..."
"I know, but it HURTS!" She put her forehead against the column
and took a few deep breaths. "Look, don't do anything. I'll shake
my head at you if I want him to back off more. Watch me and don't
look away. Something's not right."
"I think we should stop. Right now. None of this is right. These
are assholes anyway."
"No. I'm okay. But keep your eye on me."
"Okay, okay, but I still think you should stop."
"Promise. Promise you won't look away."
"Okay. Promise. But you'd f**king well better not be doing this
for the money, that's all I can say. And you'd f**king well
better use your safeword if you need to." I was whispering
fiercely at her. I don't normally use language like that, but I
was f**king mad at her. The whole thing was idiotic. We should
have been safe at home. We should never have come. And those
people were all horrible. They treated us like we were freaks.
She just looked at me and shook her head. I took that to mean she
wasn't doing it for the money, or she didn't need to use her
safeword, or she didn't understand what was wrong. Take your
pick.
I shook my head too, in disgust, and kissed her shoulder and told
her "Yell if it helps. They expect it anyway." I blotted her face
(this time I came prepared with a towel). She was perspiring
pretty heavily already. Hell, we all were. It was a hot night.
The South can be like that.
"Hey," she said as I went to leave.
"What," I said, still furious.
"I swallowed your stupid pill."
I raised my eyes to heaven and shook my head again. I can't stay
mad with her.
I looked at Tom and shrugged my shoulders.
Then I went back to my seat and watched her for the rest of the
whipping. But she didn't shake her head. She just kept her eyes
locked on mine, looking at me with this same trapped rabbit
expression on her face, taking these short little breaths. It
sounds odd to say this, but she had a kind of a strained panicky
smile on her face. She looked bewildered, too, as if she was
saying, "Why is this happening to me?" And she did bite her
lower lip -- not so it bled -- but she caught it between her
teeth even while she was giving me that weird strained smile.
Every time the whip fell she shut her eyes and caught her breath.
Several times she shut her eyes tight and pressed her forehead
against the column, and more than once she made noises. Pretty
dramatic sounding noises. She doesn't normally cry out, but I
think she was experimenting with the theraputic value of the
release or something.
Tom could tell something was wrong, too, even though he couldn't
see her face very well. He continued to take it easy, just hoping
to get through this weirdness.
Tom worked on the backs of her legs for a while, trying to
destroy her pantyhose. Which he did. I don't think he was really
hitting her hard enough to make them run; he had some trick that
involved sort of dragging the whip after it hit or something. And
he had done something to one side of the whip. You'd have to ask
him. It took him a while, but they were full of holes when he was
through. Very dramatic looking.
And she worked up quite a sheen of perspiration, too. Well, like
I said, we all did; it was a pretty warm room. Harry is the only
one that always seems cool as a cucumber. But Anita looked
particularly spectacular. She has very dark skin now that it is
mid-Summer; she's been working on her tan at the beach. I keep
telling her that it's bad for her, but she won't listen. I have
to admit, she looks good with a tan. That night, perspiring the
way she was, she looked fabulous. The rest of us just looked
uncomfortable, especially the suits.
I think near the end she achieved some sort of equilibrium or
something. I don't know what happened inside her head, but
whatever it was, it seems to have been an improvement over her
near panic. The trouble was, she turned weird on us. I don't know
how to say this without making her sound like an exhibitionistic
slut, and she's not, really. The thing is, she started making
love to the column, sort of. She pressed her central control
panel up against it and wrapped one leg around the side. And she
started making these little rubbing motions with her hips. You
know: the way you would if you were ... you know.
I couldn't believe what I was seeing. She's not like that,
really. She's usually so dignified -- especially in public.
At this point one of the japanese contingent took a picture with
a flashbulb.
Now, I thought Zen was a big thing with the japanese. You know,
learning to live completely in the present, learning to take
things a moment at a time. Paying attention to right now.
Concentrating. So why is it that the japanese have become so
obsessed wih trapping every moment on film and putting it away
in a box instead of experiencing it? That seems to be a totally
unZen thing to do. Just a thought.
Anyway, this japanese guy took a picture.
Tom stopped and looked at Jay and shook his head; Jay went over
to have a word with the guy. I used the opportunity to check on
Anita while the attention was focused elsewhere. I mean, she
wasn't really behaving normally, even for someone from New Jersey.
"You okay?" I was talking to her but looking at Jay, worried that
there might be some kind of confrontation over the photography.
"Mmmmm." She was still rubbing herself against the column.
It seemed like the camera problem was resolving itself. The
japanese guy was nodding and smiling and sweating. I focused on
Anita. "What, exactly, are you doing? Jesus, you're obscene."
"Hurry up," she said. "Get us out of here." She didn't even look
at me. Seems like she was busy.
I looked at Tom and gave him the signal to finish. He gave me a
questioning look, we both shrugged, and he finished. Anita's bra
magically parted on cue, and it even looked realistic. It seems
she can do at least three things at once. Be whipped, breathe
deeply on cue, and ... well, she was definitely still very busy
with the column. She was supposed to have pretended to pass out
at that point. Tom looked at me, shrugged again, and swung the
whip again. She didn't slow down. So he hit her again, I thought
a little harder. And again.
The fourth time he was definitely hitting her harder than he had
earlier; any idiot, even me, could have seen the difference. I
guess he knew what he was doing. I asked him later, and he said
he knew it was alright, that it wouldn't damage her physically,
and that she knew what the message was and what to do about it.
Plus he could tell she had managed to "get inside the right head
space," whatever that means. She should have "fainted." The
fifth, sixth, and seventh times she cried out, but still kept on.
Tom looked at me bugeyed and I checked her again.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Okay, okay (pant pant swallow). Tell him go ahead. Harder."
I did, he did, and she cried out a couple of more times and
finally she sagged against the ropes. Jay swooped over and cut
her down and we supported her dramatic collapse to the floor. She
was nowhere near worn out. She looked as though she was nearly
unconscious, but she whispered fiercely in my ear: "Get me to the
f**king car! Now!"
She seemed to be in a hurry. We manhandled her into her robe and
Tom and Jay got her on her feet and we headed for the door. She
was pretending to be half conscious and dripping perspiration on
everything in sight.
The embarrassing thing was that through all this her hips were
still moving slightly, suggestively, as though she were still
wrapped around that stupid column. It wasn't a very obvious
movement and I don't know if anyone else noticed. To me it looked
really lewd, but then I know Neets and I know she really isn't
like that. I whispered to her to cut it out and she said Cut what
out? and before I could answer her the japanese camera buff
stepped in front of us, all smiles, and asked Tom if he could buy
his whip. As a souvenir.
Tom, Jay, and I all looked at Anita, partly because it is her
whip, and partly because she was acting crazy and we wanted to
see what she'd do in case we needed to stop her. Her arms were
around Tom and Jay's shoulders, or she might have reached for the
little guy. She was two heads taller than he, and probably could
have picked him up by his exquisite little lapels. As it was, I
saw her hands become claws, then fists as she got herself under
control. I think if Tom and Jay hadn't been holding her wrists
there might have been a little nip in the air.
I haven't been around the S/M culture long enough to know if such
an offer is bad form or not, but it struck me as pretty crass.
Maybe it was crass of Neets to do this for money. It certainly
felt seedy to me.
Anyway, Tom told him he didn't think it was for sale. Bub.
The man smiled and nodded and sweated and said thankyou very much
for an excellent evening; you are very beautiful and I enjoyed
watching you. Great. The original Peking Tom. He still didn't
move, though. I think maybe he thought this was the time to
strike up a conversation or something. Maybe he was hoping for a
date.
Asshole.
And these guys are supposed to be so inscrutable. This one was
completely scrutable. At the drop of a hat.
Anita became magically conscious enough to look straight at the
little fungus and for a few seconds I thought she was going to
reach out and pinch his head off. Someone had obviously already
pulled off his other four legs. In an amazingly clear, loud voice
for someone who was supposed to be nearly unconscious, she told
him to go forth and multiply. In her own words. He just smiled
and sweated and nodded some more. Then she told us to get her the
f**k out of there.
Which we did. Wouldn't want her to blow her earnings on legal fees.
So that little contretemps capped an otherwise pretty awful
evening for all of us.
Harry came out on the front steps and went to give Anita an
envelope, but she didn't make a move to take it. For one thing,
she still had her arms on the fellas shoulders. She just looked
at it. I think she was considering not taking it, but I know they
need the money. Tom was pissed off, too, and he just stood there.
They're both too stupid for words. They need the money. I took it
from him.
Well, I've always wanted to handle Anita's emoluments.
8)
I'm disgusting, I know.
She drooped her way dramatically to the foot of the stairs and
Harry stayed on the porch, looking down at us. When she got to
the bottom, Anita stood up straight and made a remarkable
recovery. In fact, she suddenly seemed to be in a good mood. She
shoved the two guys out of the way and slipped her thong off. She
threw it to Harry and said, "Give this to that japanese asshole.
Tell him I said, 'Fuck you very much.' Okay? But be polite and
smile."
Harry said he would be delighted. He would, too.
She pulled her robe around herself and swept down the front walk.
I had to practically run to keep up.
I'll never understand Anita.
Well, she took advantage of the only chance she may ever have to
say, "Home, James," and we were off. She immediately took off the
torn pantyhose and told Jay to get out his swiss army knife and
cut them in half to make two blindfolds.
"Blindfolds?" I was, I think understandably, a little curious.
"Yeah. And you put this on." She gave me the sash from her robe.
Tom, Jay, and I looked at each other, shrugged, and put them on.
For the next hour we sat on the seat opposite Anita, lined up
like three idiots. Blindfolded.
See no evil, see no evil, see no evil. Tom asked if she was okay
and she said, "Yeah." And that was that.
And guess what Anita did. I heard her. After about fifteen
minutes (it seemed like a hundred years blindfolded) we were out
of the city and on the interstate, and I heard her polishing her
hood ornament. She made little noises that I recognized. Then
quiet again. I would have liked to help, especially blindfolded
in a limousine, which I expect everyone should do at least once
in their lifetime. But I knew she would let me know if she wanted
help.
It started raining while we had the blindfolds on.
It can be pretty boring, sitting like that, so I put my head on
Jay's shoulder and tried to go to sleep. It was late -- about
one in the morning, and there is something cozy about the back
seat of a car in the rain, with the world and the other cars
rushing by outside. But I only dozed.
There was a long silence. After a while she said, "Okay."
"Okay what? You mean we can take 'em off?"
"Yeah."
So we did, but by then the boys were both pretty zonked out and
went back to sleep against the doors. Tom peeked at her and left
his blindfold on, in fact.
I watched her for a few minutes. She was just sitting looking out
the window. Every time a car passed us I could see her face in
the headlights. She looked depressed as hell. She had been
crying, but now she was just looking out the window. I slid over
onto the seat beside her and pulled her to me for a cuddle. She
put her head in my lap and I stroked her hair for a while. I wish
I could have made it all better. I kind of hoped she had managed
to make it with the column. Or there in the back seat.
But no. Nothing.
I stroked her hair and a tear ran down the inside of my thigh.
Damn, damn, damn.
Nurse Jones,
this isn't
how it was
supposed
to be.
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