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Nurse Jones: The List part 1
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.
Subject: REPOST: The List 1/14
Date: 25 Nov 91 09:25:59 GMT
Lines: 928
Archive name: nj.list.01
FROM: Nurse Jones, [email protected]
The List
-*-
Prologue
Dear Michael Who Has Great Puns,
Thanks again for offering to post this for me. Nobody else
even offered. In fact, all I got was a flood of E-wannafucks from
people with nurse fetishes. Some of them were pretty icky. It was
nice to get a letter from someone that seems normal. So you get
the dubious honor of handling my tale ;-) Of being IN it even :)
because this is the beginning of it.
Yours gratefully,
Nurse Jones
Dear Everybody Else On ASB,
I imagine that most prologues are the last part written.
This one was. I wrote it at the last minute before sending this
to Michael. If I can make this thing work, the next 12 files
will contain a nearly true account of what happened to me during
the Spring of 1991. I say "nearly true" because I have changed
details that might identify us. I'll just be "M". Our physical
descriptions are accurate. And I am really a nurse from Indiana,
but everything else that might identify us is false. Please, as
a favor to me, don't take it as a challenge to try and trace it
back to me. I'm not ready to come out of the closet yet. I
don't think J (I'll call him that) is either.
Feel free to copy it (except for profit), but hey: give
credit where it's due. Besides, I made a notarized copy last
April. Then I sent it (on diskette by anonymoUS mail) to some
ASB regulars that give real names in their sigs. I asked that
they post it for me. It never appeared. Then came wizvax. I
reread and rewrote it just for the hell of it and here it is. I
don't have a spelling checker. J tells me I misspelled
"embarrasment" all the way through.
At the end of the diary, it appears that I left J to get my
head back together. I'm back, and we're married now, so it has a
happy ending even if it doesn't look that way.
It is called "The List" and it is in two columns. This is
Column One. We started Column Two before we got married. If you
like column one I'll post column two. Sorry if this doesn't make
sense. You'll have to read it to have any idea at all what I'm
talking about.
I tried to make it as readable as possible, recreating
dialogue and putting in my own thoughts as I went along. You're
probably tired of the undiluted screwing you read on
rec.arts.erotica and alt.sex.bondage anyway. And since what
follows really happened, maybe you'll forgive me for writing
about what went on inside my head as well as inside the rest of
my anatomy. Also, mistakenly believing that hindsight improved
the clarity of my vision, I couldn't resist going back and
screwing up the sponteneity of the first writing.
If I tell you it's a true story, you'll think, "Yeah, sure,
right. Where have I heard that before." But it is. So there. If
I tell you my top "made" me write it, you'll say, "that's how
they all start," but he did. It was kind of a bargain that we
made, J and I, before I even knew the news net existed.
Before I knew a lot of things.
The List
Column One
Item 1
H H
H H
HHHHH
H H
H He's at work now, but he told me to start writing this while
he is gone. So here I sit, not knowing where to begin. So I
made the big "H" at the beginning just for something to do. I want
you to understand that I am doing this because J told me to, not
because I think anyone should know what happened last night. He
says I am to write it in the first person, just like I were
telling it to a stranger, rather than to him. It is, ultimately,
part of the bargain we made.
Okay, I said that. What next? I just don't know where to
start. Earnest Hemmingway said always start with the first true
thing. I guess I'll begin at the beginning, and when I come to
the end, I'll stop. Hey, it worked for Alice in Wonderland,
someone I have a lot in common with at the moment.
Six months ago, we were living together in Chicago where I
was working as a nurse. He got a terrific job offer and had to
move. I didn't want to give up the security of my job, so we
split up. We said it would somehow only be be temporary, and I
stayed behind in the windy city.
Neither of us was particularly happy with the separation,
and we wrote to each other almost daily. The letters got pretty
steamy, and we began trading fantasies -- fantasies we had never
discussed when we lived together. We started with pretty tame
stuff like being on a tropical island together, or in a snowbound
cabin, but gradually we escalated to fantasies of being each
other's slaves, B&D, and so forth.
Every letter I wrote included comments on his last letter
and a new fantasy of my own. He did the same. We became a two-
person literary critics circle. I think it was easier to write
about these things than to talk about them face to face, maybe
because broaching a subject like this for the first time requires
such delicacy. You have to be absolutely sure you get the words
right before you say them. You can't go back and edit a
conversation the way you can a letter.
The months wore on; he became assured of success at his new
job and bought house, while I began to feel more and more
isolated and left behind. I was working three 12-hour night
shifts a week, sleeping days, exercising less and less, reading
his letters, and doing little else. I saw no-one, didn't even go
to the movies. Our fantasy life -- in letters -- grew until, as
I became more and more lonely, it occupied most of my waking
thoughts and I came to want to act out those fantasies. I wanted
desperately to get back together with him. Move in with him and
live with him again. I could quit my job -- I would be able to
get a nursing job anywhere. But he didn't ask me to, and I
couldn't bring myself to ask him. Midwestern pride, I guess.
After we had explored our fantasy life pretty thoroughly
he wrote a fantasy in which he came to visit me and we arranged
to get back together and live out the fantasies we had written
about. In my next letter I commented that I thought that was the
one I liked best, and we began to write seriously about actually
doing it, planning explicitly to get back together. The character
of our letters changed: we wrote more practical fantasies --
things that we could actually do, and how we would do them. And
we planned for the future. I was to quit my job and get a job
where he lived. Nurses are in demand everywhere, although
salaries are lower in the South. I was getting pretty tired of
Winter in Chicago anyway. You could freeze to death on the way
to stand in line to sort out the phone bill the company screwed
up if it wasn't for the muggers being so tightly crowded onto the
streets that you didn't have room to freeze in the first place.
Besides, I was tired of being lonely. Once I had made the
decision, my mood changed dramatically. Suddenly, instead of
being lonely, sexually frustrated, and obsessive about getting
and writing letters, I was OPTIMISTIC, lonely, sexually
frustrated, and obsessive.
We got together briefly before I left Chicago. J had
written a letter telling me he would visit. Our last few letters
had carried a long list of fantasies back and forth between us.
We added to the list every time it changed hands. Ultimately it
contained nearly everything we had written about and some new
things we hadn't. In his final letter he told me he had a chance
to come back to Chicago on a job-related trip and wanted to see
me. About that list.
Below is a part of the letter, copied verbatim (so I keep
letters.):
"I want you to understand something clearly before I arrive.
We have been very close, but the last four months have put a
distance between us that our letters have only partly
bridged. When you come [down here] we will be trying
something neither of us has done before. The newness will
perhaps be the best and most exciting part of it. We may be
starting something new for us in a larger sense, too. When
you come, I want you to feel that you are coming to something
new, and I want to feel anticipation -- maybe even a little
apprehension?
"For this reason, even though I will be visiting you in a
few days, I don't want to just start up where we left off. I
don't know if I can adequately explain this, but I don't want
my visit to act as a transition from our old relationship to
the new. Instead it should be a break. A point of
demarcation. I don't want my visit to be 'business as
usual' for us.
"The fantasies we have written about are part of what is
pulling us back together. I don't know if an active fantasy
life is a sound basis for a relationship, but if we are going
to do this, I want to do it right. Fantasies are killed by
reality; fortunately the time we have spent apart has removed
some of the reality from our relationship. Fundamentally, I
know you are the person I love and trust. That is still the
most important reality. But almost as important: we have
learned new things about each other through our letters,
things that make each of us, to a certain extent, strangers.
I want to meet you for the first time again, now that I
realize you're not exactly the person I thought I knew. Can
you understand that? And if I believe there is a large and
mysterious territory to be explored inside your head -- which
I am beginning to realize is the case -- so much the better.
Fantasies take root in the unknown, not the commonplace.
"So I'm not going to throw you across the bed the minute
I walk in the door, though we have both waited a long time
and I will want to. We will take care of our plans, sleep
apart, and I will come back here to wait for you. Can you
stand that? Can you stand me being a stranger?"
There was more, but that is the relevant part. When he
arrived I forgot completely, of course, and went to kiss him.
He pulled away from me. It was an interesting evening. We both
knew we were horny as hell, and we covered some of the sexiest
topics of conversation I have ever heard, but we didn't have sex.
We barely touched. I was not happy about it.
Instead, we got out paper and went over the list of
fantasies and scenarios that we had accumulated. We cut the
items out with scissors so each was on a separate slip of paper.
It became a kind of game. We added to the list. Anything we had
written about or read about -- anything. From feathers and g-
strings to piercings to tatoos to bondage. Even hypnosis,
although neither of us knew any more about it than we had read in
a popular book on self-hypnosis. Things we wanted to do to each
other, things we wanted done.
Then there followed an hour of negotiation during which we
paired up our slips of paper. If you wanted to do that to me,
then I would get to do this to you; if I do that for you, then
you do have to do this for me. The price of column 1 is column
2. The result was a two-column list of equal and opposite
(re)actions.
The deal was this: if one of us does something on the List,
that automatically gives the other the right to do the
corresponding thing from the other column. Fair is fair. His
list ended up longer than mine: I wasn't able to come up with as
many ideas as he did, so some things got left off. Still, it was
a long list. There were things I really didn't want to do and
things I really didn't want him to do on the List, but they were
paired with fair retaliations and things I wanted bad enough
that I would agree to his wants. Eventually it became clear that
some things had no single equivalent, and that sometimes several
scenarios had to be added together to achieve a balance. Any
later changes were to be agreed on by both parties and balanced
just the way the list was. Is.
[Note from the Future: Writing and posting this on electronic
mail was one of the things on the List, by the way. In my
column, that is. At the time I had only a hazy idea what e-
mail was.]
We both got excited just making up the List, but still he
wouldn't make love. He took me out to dinner instead, and we
talked. We had a booth, fortunately, because that conversation
was a very intimate one. I told him in very general terms what
turned me on, and he did the same; we kind of danced around,
getting more and more honest with each other. We traded
admissions that neither of us had ever thought we would voice
aloud. It was by far the most open verbal discussion I had ever
had about my inner desires. We told each other of fantasies that
were so unrealistic they could never be made reality, but they
did give us insights into each other's motivations. Things like
experiencing what it would be like to be the opposite sex, or
stupid little fantasies like mine about being an alien that is
able to change the shape of my body and his in interesting ways
and that comes to earth and has sex with him, captivating him
with my alien biology. Our conversation got steamier and
steamier, but still we acted, on the surface, like we had just
met. We didn't even touch. It was actually very erotic,
especially with all those people around us that didn't know what
we were talking about.
Imagine the excitement of a mysterious and sexy stranger
that you don't have to worry about whether he is safe (i.e. not a
pervert or HIV positive) and that you KNOW you will be bedding
eventually. Yet he is still mysterious. Safe danger.
We made plans for the future. It would take me a while to
quit my job and find a sublet for the appartment. Our part of
Chicago is full of student rental property and the demand for
appartments is seasonal. In the end, there were two more months
of letters and frustration while I tried to sublet.
But our plans, at least, were finalized that night. On a
flip of a coin, while we were waiting for desert, he won first
choice on the List, and he chose that I would be his slave for a
month, to start the day I arrived at his place in [deleted].
Over desert, I asked him what he wanted to get out of that
month; I got some very interesting answers. So interesting we sat
there until the restaraunt closed and talked about it. Actually
I was trying to get him so turned on he would change his mind
about waiting until I came south. Anyway, it was an education to
learn what he wanted. I am tempted to say that there were layers
upon layers of psychology to peel away, but it was really just
very complex and convoluted.
He wanted to control me -- at least for a while, the month's
duration of the List. But he doesn't want simple submission -- I
am supposed to resist ... but it has to be more than resistance
against him; he seems to want me to resist something in myself as
well. If possible, I should discover that part of me that likes
to be controlled and I should fight against that as well as
against the more superficial physical control permitted by the
list. As I say, it is covoluted.
He wants me to search my own mind to look for these
tendencies and see if I can bring them out, almost the way an
actress looks within her own experience to find something to make
a performance more convincing. It was clear from the turn our
letters had taken that there is something there to find; he was
sure of it. So am I, but I don't know what, exactly.
(I have an inkling after last night.)
But he didn't want acting; if what he was looking for just
wasn't there, he didn't want me to pretend it was.
Another convolution: Knowing that I was willing to do this
for him became a kind of a second layer, a hidden backdrop to the
more superficial physical aspects.
So letting him know that I was doing this willingly --
despite my superficial (but real) reistance (I told you it was
convoluted) -- became another undercurrent. More than a second
kind of submission, it was something akin to a gift that proved
my love and trust, because it would necessarily be something
voluntary that he could neither force nor control.
Remember: all these psychological undercurrents are not
reality; this is what he WANTS reality to be. I have no idea what
it actually is. Maybe they are the same. Sort of.
And of course, it has to be for him alone. He wants to know
that. This is an ironic twist. My mother -- and all my friends,
too -- always told me that the best way to keep a man is to make
him think he might lose you: let him know that you can get
another man any time you want. But I have learned something from
J that he didn't mean to teach me. What he wants in our
relationship can't be very easy to find; I mean, even bringing up
the subject of bondage was an almost insurmountable obstacle in
itself. It would be almost impossible for him to find anyone
else that could be the kind of person he wants. If I can be that
person, I will be irreplacable. He'd never find another one like
me, never. If, somewhere inside, I'm really like that, I'll have
him trapped, tied (bound?) to me by the fact that I'm the only
one that he will ever find that can give him what he needs.
Maybe I am that kind of person. I certainly feel that way
right now, after the first day. If I could feel this excited
about our relationship forever, I guess I WOULD be that kind of
person.
So anyway, there we were in the restaraunt. After all that
talking, I felt like a little applied theory, so I asked him what
he would do first when we started. I looked him straight in the
eye and gave him my most brazenly innocent look across the table.
I can wear my innocence at such a rakish angle it makes me seem
positively debauched. He got the message.
He told me he would wait until we were in a public place,
like a restaraunt (thrill) and he would reach into his jacket
pocket and take out a manila envelope. He paused significantly
and looked me straight in the eye right back again.
Then he reached into his jacket pocket (chills, excitement)
and took out a manila envelope. My heart started thudding and my
breath became short. He was going to do something right then, I
realized. I don't know if he improvised this or not. Now that I
think about it, he must have, because he took some papers out of
the envelope before he gave it to me.
"Go into the ladies room, and put all your underwear in
this," he said.
I did. Bra, panties, pantyhose. I gave him the envelope.
As I sat there, feeling increasingly sexy, he gave me
detailed instructions for several outfits I was to make during
the next few weeks while I was waiting to come to him. I know
it's not a very good career move to be good with a sewing
machine, but I am. And I am NOT a housewife type, as will become
clear after you read about last night. First I have to fill you
in on the rest.
By the way, he kept his promise: he never touched me that
night; the bit with the underwear was just him being him.
-*-
It is a comfortable two-day drive to his new house from
Chicago, although I could have made it in one. I arrived at
about four in the afternoon. Actually, it is not a new house: it
is old. I can't tell you exactly where it is, but it is a really
luscious house. [He also won't let me use the clinical names for
parts of the body that nurses know so well, so if I seem a
little victorian in my language, now you know the reason why. In
fact, he gives a LOT of instructions about everything, not just
how to write this.]
I can say we live in a very warm climate -- almost
Mediterranean. The house has high ceilings (twelve feet in the
living room), tile floors, a red tile roof, and lots of stucco
arches. And a fireplace with a magnificent mantle. It's one of
those pseudo-Spanish houses that were so popular in the 1930's.
It's still nearly unfurnished, even though he's been living here
six months. Men are hopeless.
There is a rather cavernous living/dining room, with two
sofas (one large, one small) and an armchair clustered around the
fire place, and a big oak table with two chairs in the middle of
the room. There is a deep fluffy white rug in front of the
hearth. No curtains, almost no other rugs, no pictures on the
walls except in the (ahem) master bedroom.
He carried my suitcases into the house; our footsteps on the
tile floors echoed in the near-empty rooms. Half the light
switches don't work and the place needed (still needs) sweeping:
sand had been tracked into the house and made a scritching noise
underfoot against the tile floors. In fact, with the exception
of my bedroom, the whole place is only superficially clean.
There are quite a few cobwebs and the windows are dusty. Dead
roaches the size of small mammals.
He put my luggage in the spare bedroom. My bedroom. It is
spotlessly clean and furnished completely in white. The bed is
an old-fashioned single, iron, in a sort of early-hospital style,
painted in white enamel. Walls: white, chest of drawers: white;
simple chair and bedside table: both white. No rug, no curtains,
no pictures on the wall, and nothing in the closet. A bright
overhead light and a small nondescript reading light on the
bedside table. That is the total contents of the room. I could
feel like a nun if it weren't for last night.
Somehow, it bothers me a little that he went to all that
trouble to prepare my room for me. All in white, I mean. It's
just a little odd.
Normally, separate bedrooms would be something you would
associate with elderly conservative couples or people on the
verge of divorce, but we weren't even married. We were SUPPOSED
to be living together, so this was verging on weird and I wanted
an explanation. Which I got. It was nothing more than an
enforced continuation of the newly distant relationship he had
written about and that we had formally started during his visit
to Chicago. We had grown apart somewhat, he said, and he wanted
to keep it that way for a while longer. Somehow it was nicer in
theory than in practice. I guess the bedroom had made me feel a
little alienated.
"Besides," he said, "you are my slave now, and not
supposed to ask questions." I had almost forgotten. Well, not
forgotten, but I wasn't in the habit of thinking that way. It
definitely made him feel a bit like a stranger. He said it like
I was one.
[Note from the Future: Near the end I was spending most
nights in his bedroom, but we kept separate bedrooms to the
very end. Somehow this made our relationship more exciting
rather than less intimate. It had a special significance
when one of us went to the other's room.]
As I said, he had won first choice on the List. I am to be
his slave for the first month. During this month he will do many
of the other items on the List. By agreeing to the List two
months earlier, I suppose I had already agreed to this, even
though at the time I hadn't considered that the choice of one
month of slavery would allow him to work through quite a few of
the other items on the List before I even got my first turn. But
it is enough that my turn would come.
He must have wanted to put me off balance from the
beginning. When my car was unloaded, he told me to change from
my jeans and sweatshirt to a blouse and skirt with heels, nothing
underneath. The act of changing my clothing, even in the privacy
of my room, was somehow charged with erotic anticipation. I felt
small and defenseless -- almost like I was a prisoner in
Dracula's castle. I know it sounds melodramatic, but the house
seems so big after the studio appartment in Chicago. Even as I
sit typing this in broad daylight the echos make it seem a bit
empty and spooky. And chilly. There is a dessicated bird corpse
on the floor of one of the screened porches. At least I swept up
the dust and roaches.
Yesterday evening, when I came out of my bedroom it was
getting darker; there was a shaft of late-afternoon sunlight
slanting through the cavernous living room. He was waiting on
the armchair; he told me to pour myself a glass of wine and sit
on the sofa. There were even little sandwiches. He had never
made little sandwiches before. Little formal ones. I was
famished, but puzzled over the sandwiches. They were so
uncharacteristic.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"Okay," I said, "maybe a little chilly." A little
attempted underwear-less humor there. Very little. He just
sipped his wine and watched me eat without expression.
Between mouthfulls, I couldn't seem to stop talking. "So,
when do we start?" I asked, in a cheerful, businesslike voice, as
though we were going to paint he livingroom or something.
"Now," he said in a neutral tone, still expressionless.
I suddenly became aware that he was looking at me. I mean
really LOOKING at me. Most men are surreptitious about looking
at women. They pretend they aren't looking and then sneak a peek
when they think you aren't going to notice. This was different.
His gaze was travelling over my body without regard to what I
might think, as though he didn't care. I was abruptly aware of
my lack of underwear; I crossed my legs and tugged at my skirt as
though such adjustments could make my discomfort go away. He let
his eyes rest on my chest and I crossed my arm in front of
myself.
"Don't," he said.
"Sorry," I blathered unnecessarily. I unfolded myself and
tried to appear casual. My damned nipples were erect, though.
"So, what'll we do first?" I said brightly, now a summer camp
counsellor. I just couldn't stop my mouth. He didn't answer
right away. I don't know if he was considering what he would do
or just letting the suspense build, but he waited until the
silence stretched to its (my) limit. I stuffed another sandwich
in my mouth just to give it something else to do.
Finally, he told me which item on the List would be first.
He just told me the number, though. I hadn't memorized the List
and didn't know what he was referring to; obviously, I hadn't
done my homework.
"You have your copy of the list, don't you?" he said.
"Yeah, somewhere in my luggage ..."
Then he gave me instructions on what to wear, and told me
that I would find everything I needed in my bathroom, but he
kept me in suspense as to what the list actually said I was to
do.
"Take your wine with you, he said. Suddenly I realized he
meant "now." Right now. I went to my room and tore through my
luggage to find my copy of the List. The numbers on the List
were only for reference; the order didn't mean anything. The
item he chose, therefore, by default, became Item One in this
account. So here it is, Item One.
As I said, he really did intend to put me off balance. Sort
of like pushing me in at the deep end. After all the time we had
spent apart I felt we were nearly strangers and needed to get
reacquainted. Perhaps that's why he did subtle little things that
put me off balance, like make little finger sandwiches. Perhaps
that is why he wanted me to come to him feeling exposed and near
naked, but naked in a new way. A way that would make me FEEL
naked, the way you would in front of a stranger.
He wanted me to remove my pubic hair.
I know many men think this is sexy, but I have never
understood why. As a nurse I had seen nearly everything, but I
never thought there was anything particularly erotic about
shaving there, especially with the itchy stubble I knew would
come later. Maybe I associate it with pre-op, too. Did I tell
you I was a R.N.? But there was no razor in the bathroom. Just a
tube of depilatory and scissors.
At this point he has begun exercising his editorial control
over what I write. I wrote -- and twice had to rewrite and
expand --the next paragraphs until he was satisfied with them. I
wouldn't otherwise have put in such detail.
I had to be extremely careful, as the directions have all
kinds of warnings about burning delicate membranes. I sat in the
bathroom for a few minutes just looking at myself in the mirror,
thinking: what am I getting myself into? But it was too late to
change my mind, and anyway I didn't want to. So here goes, I
thought. I pinched a curl of hair between my fingers and snipped
it off close. Starting at the top, I worked my way down, not
thinking about it, just snipping away until I ended up with one
foot up on the edge of the bathtub and my head between my legs.
When I finished and came up for air, the remaining stubble was
almost invisible; I looked quite naked. I stood for a moment and
looked in the mirror, wondering if this was really what J was
expecting -- hairless nakedness.
The depilatory comes in a tube like toothpaste and is pink.
It smells slightly reminiscent of the chemicals they put in home
permanents. I put the stuff on very carefully, using the round
end of my nail file like a butter knife. I followed the
directions and waited the requisite time with my legs held apart
to avoid burning myself. Then I scraped it off with the nail
file; if you are patient enough to wait for it to work, it really
does the job. For some reason there were a few hairs that just
wouldn't dissolve, so I plucked them with tweezers. At last I
was done. I'm glad he didn't watch, because I had to get into
some pretty embarrasing positions to do all this without being
burned by the stuff.
I went straight into the shower without looking at myself
again. The faint but icky depilatory smell definitely required a
shower and soap to get rid of, followed by a body conditioner
all over (Even though he didn't tell me what the List item
actually said, he was very detailed in his instructions as to how
I should prepare myself for him). The conditioner had to be
unscented "Unicure" hair/body conditioner, already there in the
shower; he told me not to rinse it off: just rub it in and towell
off. As I rubbed the conditioner over my skin I began to see that
maybe ther was a point to this preoccupation with hairlessness.
It felt like I had a whole new erogenous zone down there, so
slick and silky and, ... well ...
After I towelled myself dry, I felt really smooth and soft
all over, especially Down There, so that when I finally put on
the outfit I had made (on his instructions weeks before), I felt
like a velvet hand slipping into a velvet glove.
I had made it out of a soft, very sheer, muslin-like white
cotton from India. It is very tight and it took a lot of
tailoring to get it to fit right, since it is not made of
stretchy material. The bust is tailored to fit my breasts
exactly, and "underwired" with elastic. I stick out. The top has
long sleeves that are just barely loose enough for me to squeeze
my hands through to get my arms in; the front zips from the
waist to a high lacy collar that would look very demure on a top
that wasn't skin-tight and practically transparent. The pants
are also skin-tight, except below the knee, where they flare to
become bell-bottoms. Very 60's. The legs are so long that I have
to wear heels -- high ones -- to keep from tripping over the
cuffs. I have some white open-toed high-heeled sandals that go
with it nicely. Nicely? Somehow, "nice" doesn't seem to apply
after last night.
Last night, the crotch was the really embarrasing part.
There isn't even a seam in front to help conceal my sex. It's
just tight, sheer, and thin. In fact, there is a very tight g-
string-like elastic in back that holds the muslin close over my
newly hairless sex and pulls the back of the pants tight against
my cheeks and deeply into the cleavage of my bottom. When I made
the outfit I thought I would have pubic hair to cover me, but
last night I was so ... visible.
Still following his instructions, I brushed my hair out and
put on my makeup. I was procrastinating, taking unnecessary care
with my makeup and adjusting my outfit, examining myself in the
mirror: anything to avoid going out into the living room where
he was waiting. I really didn't want him to see me like this.
After all, we hadn't seen each other naked for six months, and he
would see a lot more of me than I had ever shown anyone before.
Again, I have to add something here. He told me to. I
wouldn't have written this at all, because I have always been a
little ashamed of this, but as I said, he makes me put in stuff,
details I would rather leave out, in this case. But here goes.
Real soon now. (If you haven't noticed, I am procrastinating
again.) There's another reason I didn't want to go out there and
let him see me dressed like that. It's irrational, I know,
because he had seen be completely naked before, but there it is.
I have unusual nipples. They have always been a source of acute
embarrasment to me.
They are inverted.
You have no idea how long it took me to type those three
words; every time I have to deal with this I look for all kinds
of ways to say it without actually saying it, but in the end I
just had to type it and the hell with it. They're inverted.
This is silly, because I'm used to them. It's not a big deal,
really. The tips of my nipples are turned inward so that all that
is visible externally is the areola, with just a little
horizontal slit across the middle where the nipple should be.
It's not all that uncommon; I have seen girls in P.E. classes
that have the same condition on one or the other of her tits.
It's just that both of mine are that way.
It's not like they're repulsive or anything, and they would
be perfectly functional if I had children. They even look normal
when erect, it's just that when they aren't, I don't have
nipples, just areolas. I haven't known very many men, partly
because of shyness over this problem, and all of them have been
surprised, and I think slightly repelled, by my breasts. All,
that is, except J. Other men have made me feel like a freak, with
questions like "What's wrong with them?"
One even asked me, "Is there anything else you haven't told
me about?" Asshole. Assholeassholeasshole.
Sorry, I don't normally use language like that, but he was
an asshole. Like maybe my day job is in a sideshow, or something?
A real Mr. Sensitivity, huh? Before I walked out on that
evening's entertainment, I told him to be fruitful and multiply,
only not in exactly those words. He was a jerk anyway. In high-
school I was young and stupid enough to be impressed that he (at
20) owned (well, had a mortgage on) his own house (well,
double-wide trailer).
Imagine, at that age boasting he was a self-made man. He
was an example of what can happen when you don't follow the
directions.
Sorry, I went off on a tangent.
Anyway, J has never commented on my nipples except to say
that I have the most beautiful breasts he has ever seen, all the
more so because they are special that way.
Special like the special olympics, but nevermind.
Still, I was hesitant coming out into the living room,
embarrased for no good reason, trying to cover myself, one hand
casually fiddling with my lace collar (and incidentally covering
my breasts with my arm), while the other hand was draped casually
(I hoped) over my southern overexposure. The room was nearly
dark, and he was sitting in an armchair in the shadows. I could
tell he was fully dressed, but couldn't see his face to judge his
reaction. I was feeling awfully exposed, and really needed some
reassuring words right then. I didn't get any.
There was a small sofa sitting under a recessed light in
the ceiling. He didn't get up; he just told me to stand in front
of the little sofa, under this very bright light. Like a
spotlight.
I couldn't see much of anything outside that little pool of
light, and I felt awkward, as though my legs were different
lengths. He told me to put my arms at my sides and stand up
straight. Hesitantly, I did as he told me, uncovering myself. I
was nearly shaking with nervousness. That afternoon I had been
cruising along the Interstate, and now I was in a totally
different world.
"Hold your shoulders back and stop slouching," he said. I
took a deep breath and tried to relax and regain some composure,
some dignity.
"Turn around. Bend over and lean on the seat with your
elbows. Legs apart." I tried to lean on my hands.
"Your elbows," he repeated. So much for dignity. My rear
was up in the air for all to see.
"Straighten up. Pull your waistband up so your pants are
tighter in the crotch; smooth the front so I can see all of you
better. Good. Now tell me how you feel right now."
"Embarrased," I whispered. My voice wasn't working. I
cleared my throat and tried again.
"Embarrased," too loudly. I couldn't look up from the
floor; I was not handling this well. It seemed a long time
before he answered.
"Tell me why."
"Its these clothse," I answered.
"I've seen you with less than that on before."
"I know, but ... not like this. I mean, not having any
hair ... there ..." I stammered, all the while thinking: dammit I
should have more composure than this -- nurses aren't supposed to
be ashamed of the human body. Nurses are supposed to be cool and
professional -- in charge.... I straightened my shoulders again.
"No, the hair isn't it either, but nevermind. Come over
here."
I walked over to him and stood by his chair. I tried to keep
from slouching to show that I had kept my dignity, and I ended up
feeling (and looking) like an army recruit trying to look
military on her first day at boot camp.
He ran his hand up the inside of my thigh. I couldn't help
shivering. He slipped his hand lightly back and forth over the
thin cloth that was held so tightly against my nether lips. His
fingers became more insistent, and I could feel myself and the
cloth of my pants becoming wet. I was still shivering with
nervousness. I was, throughout the evening, acutely aware that I
had no pubic hair. For some reason, whatever I was feeling, that
was on my mind. I just hadn't gotten used to it, I guess. I
still haven't.
I felt shaky and nervous. I was I wasn't afraid, exactly,
just aware of my nakedness and uncertain about what was coming
next. I knew he wouldn't depart from the List, but there was an
awful lot on that list, and after all, I hadn't even kissed him
for six months -- had only seen him once in all that time -- and
he was practically bringing me to a climax in a strange house
under very weird circumstances. I think he meant it to be that
way, but I was NOT comfortable.
He stood and kissed me. Finally. He must have sensed that
I need some reassurance. I could feel his stiffness as he
pressed against me. This is what I wanted, I thought, feeling
myself to be on surer ground. I ground my hips against him,
suddenly getting more deeply into the whole scene. His kiss
became more passionate, our tongues probing.
Abruptly, holding my shoulders in his hands, he separated
himself from me. Although he is slender, he is at least eight
or nine inches taller than I and quite strong; I could sense a
shudder of suppressed emotion despite the firmness of his grip on
my upper arms. I stood there breathing unsteadily, my eyes shut.
God, I was horny. He told me to go back and stand under the
light. I could feel the wetness between my legs; I was sure it
showed as a patch on my front. Again, I tried to cover myself
with my hand.
"No," he said. "Dont. You have nothing to be ashamed of
with me, and you know it." He paused. "Don't you?"
"Yes, I know," I whispered, looking down, determinedly
ashamed.
"Then why are you?"
"It's the spotlight."
"No, its not. Try again. I've seen you nude in full
daylight before, and I've seen more of your body than I can see
now, even without hair. And from closer up. Think about what's
bothering you, and tell me."
He waited silently while I thought; I finally came out with
what it was I didn't want to tell him. "I don't just feel nude.
I feel naked. I...I think it's because I haven't seen you for so
long. It's a little like being in front of a stranger." He
waited. And waited. "And it's because you're dressed and I'm
not," I rushed ahead, "its not fair and its humiliating and I
feel vulnerable and it's not like I imagined it would be." I
covered myself with my hands again as if to say 'so there', but I
stayed under the light, trying not to look awkward, looking out
at where I thought him to be, still unable to see him.
Again the silence. Finally from the darkness he said, "Good.
Sit down." My ears told me he had moved from the armchair to
stand by the unlit fireplace, but I still couldn't see his face.
I sat, relieved. At least I could hold my legs together
while sitting and hide myself a little that way. With my prim
little lace collar, my legs held tightly together, and my hands
folded neatly in my lap, I must have looked like a caricature of
the proper victorian virgin. Except that I was blushing through
transparent clothing and my nipples were erect and positively
aching. Sounds like material for a romance novel, I know, but
they were.
"I don't want you to feel humiliated. Believe that. But your
embarrasment is something else. I want that. As a kind of gift
to me," he said. "Can you understand that? As a gift...?" I'm
not sure how, but I seemed to sense him in the darkness, staring
at me, very intent on my answer. Maybe it was something in his
voice.
I hadn't thought much about the fine line between
embarrasment and humiliation. Somehow, though, I could
understand the idea of embarrasment as a gift. Don't ask me how
or why. "Allright," I said, and suddenly it really was allright.
My embarrasment surfaced; I stopped trying to suppress it, and
it all came out, but it was okay: I could show it. He wanted --
even valued it. I lowered my eyes to the floor, blushing
furiously, making no effort to hide my discomfiture. I took my
hands out of my lap and let my legs part a fraction of an inch,
deliberately letting myself feel more embarrased, really acting
the part -- only not acting, because I really was feeling exactly
what I was acting out. Or at least acting out what I was
feeling. Well, it was more honest than whatever I had been doing,
anyway.
"Now," he said, "what are you feeling? Do you like this?"
"No. I don't," I said, truthfully, I think. I'm not sure.
"Do you feel ... excited?"
"Yes." I realized that that was definitely true, whether I
liked it or not.
"Do you want it to stop?"
Another pause. "No," I said, "... no."
"Remember, you're my slave. I'm going to tell you to do
something now that you might find funny, but I don't want you to
laugh. Take it seriously. While sitting there, I want you to do
something -- anything -- that you think I will fid sexy." As he
said this he turned to the fireplace and lit the fire that was
laid there. His back was to me.
Act sexy? He made it sound so much like a homework
assignment, I almost did laugh. I had no idea what to do.
Pretend to be a porn star? Blow kisses? Pout and squirm
seductively like they do in bad x-rated movies?
I tentatively put my hands up to my breasts and rubbed my
nipples lightly with my fingertips. They were already erect from
the coolness of the evening and the excitement. I didn't know
where to go from there, so I kept rubbing, even though the entire
tips of my breasts were already very sensitive, even though my
areolas were puckered up and hard, aching. I was still excited.
But I didn't know what to do next. Then I had an idea. I would
take off my top: do a strip tease. Yeah, that's it. My hands
went to the zipper at my throat and pulled it halfway it down.
"Stop." I froze. "Lean back against the arm of the sofa and
close your eyes." I did. "Stroke yourself again." I did. I found
it was a lot easier to follow instructions than to make it up on
my own. I really wouldn't make a good stripper anyway. I don't
know the moves.
"Put your hand lower." What did he want me to do? My hand
crept down to my waistband. "Lower." Did he want me to
masturbate? I wasn't ready for that. I wouldn't. Not with him
watching me. It was just too kinky. "Lower," he repeated, more
insistently. I put my hand down, more to cover my nakedness
than to do what I thought he wanted. I could feel the wetness
from when he had carressed me, and for some reason I was acutely
aware of my hand resting on my sex. But I wouldn't masturbate, I
just couldn't, not in front of him. And as I sat there, neither
of us saying anything, I began to think maybe he wouldn't ask me
to. He had pushed me right to the edge of what I would do, and
he seemed to know it. He let me just sit there, covering myself,
extremely aware of how insecure and exposed I was, wishing I
hadn't gone as far as I had, wishing I hadn't removed my pubic
hair, feeling, not exactly frightened, but very uncertain that
this was something I wanted. And just a moment before, when he
kissed and caressed me, I had been brought to the edge of a
climax. It was a real roller coaster ride.
"I know this has been hard for you," he began, "but I have a
reason. You remember the evening we made the List. We also
discussed our motivations. I told you things about myself that I
have never told anyone. And will never. And you told me some
things too. Do you remember?" I nodded, uncertain where he was
headed, but I said nothing. He flipped a wall switch and the
spotlight went off. His face was lit from below by the
firelight. I didn't move. My hand stayed where it was, my
attention split between what he was saying and the focal point of
my hand.
"You said that one of the things that you sometimes wanted
was to have someone else take charge. That sometimes you got
tired of constantly having to deal with everything. I'm sure it
was partly the daily pressure of your job that made you feel that
way. You wanted sometimes to be the one that was cared for and
protected; you wanted to belong to someone and to have someone
that you could depend on, someone you could be sure of. And at
this moment, you don't feel that way, I know. But I want you to.
I want to make you mine. Completely. This is my way of doing
that. I know you well enough to be sure you would be far too
embarrased to let anyone else see you with no pubic hair. When
you removed it for me you took a step toward becoming mine."
I was concentrating on my hand. You talk too much, I
thought. He went on.
"That's why your embarrasment is like a special gift to me.
It's something I know you wouldn't give anyone else. I don't
want you to even be ABLE to give to anyone else. I want you
totally for myself; I want you completely committed to me, and
everything I do over the next few weeks will be to make you into
that person. I want to possess you totally."
Well, it was something like that. I wasn't concentrating
fully, but I got the gist. He seems to adopt a formal mode of
speech when he talks about the psychology of our relationship.
Almost as though he had rehearsed what he said.
Still, I was beginning to see. It DID give me a warm
feeling to know that he wanted for me to belong to him. Belong
with a capital 'B'. Like a slave. I was beginning to see there
were layers beneath the surface of this 'game'-- things he had
thought about more than I had. As he continued to talk, I began
to understand exactly where we were going, what was happening.
At least I began to relax a little and feel comfortable.
Everything started to fall into place. When he said he wanted me
to be his slave he didn't mean as a servant; he meant someone
with unreserved and absolute commitment. I dismissed the thought
that this had been in his mind from the beginning, six months
ago, even before we started writing those steamy letters. As he
droned on in the same vein (he does tend to over-explain things
sometimes) my mind wandered off on a tangent.
Ironically, what he wanted would give me a kind of power
over him: it would be hard for him to find anyone else that
would be willing to commit so deeply to him: the List contained
some pretty personal stuff; not many women would go that far.
And whatever he did to me, it was a measure of his commitment,
because the List gave me license to respond in kind. However much
he made me open up to him, he made himself just as vulnerable if
I choose to exercise my rights. Vulnerable to me. My last
coherent thought of the evening was:
The List is my safety net. He would not go beyond its
limits. It is also a direct and tangible gauge of our
commitment to each other.
I wasn't thinking with the clarity those words imply, but
the ideas were there, and I gained comfort from the thought.
I became abruptly aware of my hand, still resting There,
where he had told me to put it, and I stopped thinking
altogether. I couldn't concentrate on anything else he was
saying. I could only feel the weight and warmth of my hand
resting on my smooth, hairless mons, through the damp, sheer
cloth. I could feel every thread of the material. I became aware
of the tightness of the elastic between my buttocks, the tautness
of my breasts.... The temptation was irresistable to press down
slightly with my hand. My eyes drifted shut and my hips moved,
seemingly on their own.
Suddenly I was jerked to my feet. I found myself facing the
fireplace; he was behind me holding my wrists tightly by my
sides. I struggled feebly against him, to cover myself, but I
couldn't move.
"We could stop now if you say the word. Once again: do you
want to go on?" he said. "Total commitment?" I understood what he
was asking, but still I couldn't think. I didn't even understand
why he was asking. It seemed so unnecessary to say anything. I
know one should avoid cliches (like the plague?), but time really
did seem to stand still. The fire crackled and flickered. I
could feel the warmth on my front through the filmy cloth, his
breath on my neck. I stared down into the fire, not moving, not
breathing, suddenly at peace, serene, and, oddly, more in control
of myself than he was.
It's funny how such an important decision can be made with
so little effort. I felt as if I had been fighting a war all my
life and in the middle I simply decided to give up and wander off
the battlefield. I wanted so much to give up. So, idly, almost
carelessly, with a single word, I abandoned the fortress I had
unknowingly defended for a lifetime.
"Yes."
-*-
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