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Nurse Jones: The List part 10
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
From: [email protected] (Michael Raymond Feely)
Subject: REPOST: The List 10/14
Date: 25 Nov 91 09:37:26 GMT
Lines: 669
Reply-To: [email protected]
The List
Column 1
Item 17
He began by telling me to prepare myself for the "other
kind" of intercourse. Despite all we have been through, we both
still did a kind of verbal dance around the concept.
"You remember saying how you could prepare yourself. In a
special way..." he began.
I hadn't actually given him the details, but I knew what he
meant. "You mean cleaning myself inside ... behind ...?" I said.
"Yes. I know that that kind of ... preparation ... isn't
on the List, though..."
"If it would please you we can add it. Besides, if the
alternative is no preparation, I would prefer to ...."
"There is that to consider." My my, so formal. Maybe we
haven't left Kansas after all, Toto. No matter how disgustingly
anatomical, no matter which -- or how many -- orifices are
penetrated, no matter what glandular secretions or hidden
perversions are involved, there is no situation that can't be
sanitized by midwestern etiquette.
I'll give you an example. Sorry to digress, but I once met
a gay activist playwright from Indianapolis who felt he could
challenge the homophobic political environment in the midwest by
writing plays that highlighted the supposedly more liberal social
attitudes of classical Greece and Rome. He is best known for a
disastrous satirical farce about a gay gladiator named Felonius
Orifice and his twin brother Titus.
He had hoped that if his play didn't actually make any money
it might at least be accorded the dignity of censorship at the
hands of the city comissioners or the chie of police.
Unfortunately, on opening night there was a sizeable audience of
gay activists that were attending as a politically correct
gesture of solidarity for their fellow activist.
During the first act it became apparent that the playwright
had seriously misjudged the collective sense of humor in the gay
community, although the rest of the audience seemed to enjoy it
immensely. Apparently the play was a little ambiguous as to
exactly who was being satirized, and the gays thought it was
them. They took their cause more seriously than did the
playwright. They felt betrayed. They left during the intermission
to invest in vegetables and poultry products. The play closed
during the early moments of the second act. The theater owner
had to replace the curtains.
Anyway, the playwright was notorious: you can imagine the
joy he brought to newspaper columnists, editors, and critics.
They agreed unanimously that the play should reopen, but no
theater owner would touch it. There wasn't a person within a
hundred miles that didn't know the story. EVERYBODY knew.
Even so, when I was introduced to him by a nice old
midwestern biddie, a scion of the Indianapolis cultural scene,
she says, "He's *single*, you know..." with a significant look
that was supposed to tell the Whole Story: "single" equals gay
when said in the right tone of voice and with the eyebrows in the
correct position. This is the sort of linguistic semaphore code
that midwesterners understand perfectly. It allows them to
communicate with the Deep South, for example, and to translate
for New Yorkers.
And if you think the old biddie lives in La-La Land, don't
you believe it. She bought IBM stock for peanuts as a teen-age
girl and thinks New Yorkers are overly dependent on reality
anyway. She has homes in Miami, New York, and Indianapolis.
So J and I had absolutely no problem understanding each
other, even though not a single bodily function or anatomical
feature was mentioned.
Anyway, our little exchange made it pretty clear what the
choices were: I could prepare myself for what was to come or not,
but it was finally going to happen. I only had control over the
level of hygene and nothing else.
So I prepared myself. J says I have to nclude this in the
account, so I'll put it in, but I will try to describe this a
delicately as possible. We're talking about colonic irrigation,
here, folks. Several repeats of the procedure were necessary
until I was voiding clear, clean water. Then another just to be
sure. This is more than would be required by an examining
physician, but then we weren't just looking, were we? I wanted
to be clean. For me as well as for J. 'Nuff said, especially for
someone from the midwest. As, I've already mentioned, my mother,
the archetypic midwesterner, doesn't have any bodily functions at
all, as far as I can tell. My apologies to the folks back home,
but I found out that in the real world people use words like
'colon' sometimes. They even use their *colons* sometimes, ma.
Recreationally, even.
Meanwhile, back at the raunch, the next step was the
obligatory ritual shower. I was clean inside and out, and as
naked as it is possible to be -- with the exception of a couple
of chains. He had me put a matte makeup foundation on without
the mirror, and a powder over that. Then, with the the long
tangled black wig in place, I was finished. I knew what was
coming, so I put on the same "pained" eyebrows again. That look
really turns me on -- I think [know] it does him. Besides, it
expressed how I expected to feel.
He led me out into the bedroom by the wrist chains and
started with a little light freplay and cuddling on the bed. As
he got me warmed up, my mind kept focusing on what was about to
happen (I was mostly worried that it would hurt) and I was caught
a little by surprise when he slipped a new kind of device inside
me. Another toy from chains-R-us in San Francisco; he must have
spent a fortune that day. It was a vibrator, the kind with a
flange at the outer end that pressed against my clitoris while
the rest of it rested (later vibrated) inside me. He lifted me
to my feet and had me kneel with my chest on a little bench (kind
of a short piano bench) with red velvet upholstery on the top. He
taped my wrists and knees to the legs of the stool with
electrical tape and strapped a belt all the way around the stool
and my waist so that I couldn't get up -- or in fact move much at
all except my head. I could wiggle my rear end a bit, though.
There was a full-length mirror right in front of my face,
leaning against the wall. My breasts just peeked over the edge
of the bench, and I could just barely lift my shoulders enough to
see my little garnet nipple pendants. I looked pretty good in the
long, shaggy wig. I could see the reflection of J's face and
shoulders behind me.
I squirmed a little but the way they were taped I couldn't
pull my legs together when he reached between my legs and turned
on the vibrator. When he pressed it against me it was stunning.
I pushed against the stool with my hips, which pressed the
flange-thing against my important bits, and I could tell right
away that this was a vibrator designed by a woman.
Immediately, though, I felt his fingers lubricating me for
penetration. Once again, I found myself trying to concentrate on
two things at once. The vibrator was doing very interesting
things to me, but I could see him over my shoulder and feel him
spreading and stretching me more and more. I really got into
that part.
Being able to watch my own expression during this was a bit
like making love to myself. Sounds narcissistic, I know. Well,
it was. I make no excuses: for some reason I felt unabashedly
and overtly narcissistic, and I gave in completely to the
impulse. What the hell, I said. I had never watched myself in a
mirror during sex before. (This is sex, isn't it?) Anyway, the
looks I gave that mirror were directed as much at myself as at J.
The first look was one of pained surprise as he began to
enter me. I gasped for real at the sensation and tried to push
forward away from the pain.
"Wait!!" I squeaked, "It's too big!" He was already being
gentle, but he is a little bigger than the vibrator I had had in
there before. He had prepared me well with lots of lubricant,
though, and was already partly inside. I can't describe the
sensation of being parted and penetrated there. The anticipation
when he held my cheeks apart was exquisite. I'm proud to report
that I savored the anticipation and apprehension like a gourmand
tasting a new dish for the first time, fully aware that there can
be only one first time. I felt as though I were truly being
violated, though -- more so than when I lost my virginity. But
it was a delicious violation. I remember a fleeting and
unarticulated thought flashing through my mind:
"This time I will experience rather than endure." (Actually
it was more like: "Ouch! Oops. I gotta try and enjoy it this
time.")
After that I stopped thinking. I panted, taking my breath
in short gasps as though a deep breath would have somehow hurt,
and I cried out several times as he slipped incrementally deeper
into me. He stopped and waited while I tried to relax more to
accomodate his size. During the pauses he flexed (?). I don't
know what the actual physiological basis for this is, but he kind
of twitches and seems to grow momentarily larger inside me. It's
not a motion of the hips, but of his actual organ. Anyway, I
call it flexing for lack of a better description, even though I
don't know of any muscles to explain it (I checked Gray's
Anatomy. It was no help) and J doesn't know what he does either,
but he's sure all males can do it. It is another delicious
feeling -- one that really helped as he continued to gently pulse
his way into me.
It really is profoundly different from "normal" sex. It was
a feeling of being filled up. That describes it best. It was
all the more foreign and new because it is accompanied by
sensations that I normally associate with being emptied. But I
was being filled completely and couldn't escape it: I tried to
wiggle away -- and I savored not being able to escape.
Finally he was thoroughly in. I could feel his hips tight
against my buttocks. I was dizzy with new sensations, but he
waited until my breathing stabilized and I had adjusted to the
feeling. Experimentally, I tried contracting around him, even
though I was stretched to capacity and it was all I could do to
keep myself big and relaxed enough to prevent it from hurting. He
felt the contraction and "flexed" back at me.
I didn't think of it then, but the attitude I HAD to adopt
is one that encapsulates the entire idea of bondage for me:
Relax, submit to it, welcome it, and pain can become pleasure.
Oddly the converse is not true: Fight it and the pleasure does
not become pain. Rather, if you are clever, resistance brings
you closer to the edge of pain so you can play there. Fighting
it also takes away the guilt. I can still feel the guilt, you
know, what with being from Indiana and all.
He let me be the first to begin moving, contracting around
him and pushing with that (very interesting) new vibrator against
the edge of the stool. At first I just made a few very tentative
experimental movements, exploring my limits. I decided he was
exactly the right size. If he had been even a fraction of an
inch larger I would have been in serious pain, but he filled me
completely and if I relaxed and didn't fight I could push against
him and enjoy it. (Yes, I know, who could really enjoy that,
you're thinking, but all it takes is a good vibrator and a very
sensitive lover -- one who can control his own instincts enough
to help you through these critical moments. I didn't expect to
do more than endure, but I ended up enjoying -- sort of. I take
that back. I enjoyed it, period. That doesn't mean it didn't
hurt).
Don't get me wrong though: the orgasm was entirely caused by
the vibrator. I could never have an orgasm from anal sex alone.
Those sensations were mostly penetration, wierdness and
occasional pain; it was the combination of the two with an orgasm
that made it so, well, good.
I tried sort of pushing back against him and rubbing my
front against the vibrator, and I began to get the hang of it.
He began moving gently in response to my halting motions, but he
changed the rythm: rather than thrusting into me when I pushed
back against him, he followed me as I thrust against the
vibrator and helped me push against it as well, gently pinning me
against the edge of the stool. As I pushed back, I tried to open
and relax, drawing more of him into me as he first retreated and
then followed my next thrust. So he began by moving with, rather
than against me.
All the while I was watching my own face in the mirror. I
have to admit that the expressions that semi-involuntarily
crossed my face were a turn-on. Occasinally he would thrust a
tad too hard and I would gasp and an expression of pain would
cross my face (enhanced, of course, by the expressive eyebrows I
had given myself). He watched for those signals and was very
careful with me, but I was still completely in his hands. I would
have had to accept whatever he wanted. I watched myself through
half-closed eyes as my breathing quickened and I became more and
more responsive. There was nothing making him be careful, but he
was careful nonetheless, to perfection. He also kept me just on
the edge of what I could take, now and then pushing me over by
just the right amount to make me gasp again. More than once, my
half-closed eyes sprang open with astonishment and a half-cry of
pain escaped as the breath was driven out of me -- but he had
such control that it turned instantly to pleasure. He really
walked the edge that time.
As I neared orgasm (it really was the vibrator rather than
the other that brought me there) I wanted desperately to make
great heaving motions against him and the vibrator, but every
time I tried an extreme movement I caused myself instant pain. I
was forced to control myself and limit my motions to little
thrusting twitches which suddenly, and without my volition,
became spasmodic and convulsive. I had been going slowly, not
thinking about (or even hoping for) an orgasm when, without
realizing it, I found myself in the middle of a big one.
My eyes widened and my mouth opened as though I were saying
"Oh!" but no noise came out. The temptation of the orgasmic
contractions was too great to resist, but every time I
contracted, I felt pain. Even now, I don't know whether pleasure
or pain was the dominant theme of that orgasm, but I do know the
pain intensified the pleasure in a way that I had never
experienced. I couldn't separate the two. As I say, he really
walked the edge. I guess I did, too.
At that critical moment, just when I was watching my own
face in the throes of pleasure/pain and thinking I looked really
beautiful like this, he reached up and pulled my wig off and I
saw my shaved head for the first time.
He timed this shock to come right smack in the middle of my
orgasm. I couldn't stop my own powerful pelvic contractions even
though each spasm caused me pain behind that forced increasingly
loud gasps from my lips. I was completely incoherent from the
ongoing orgasm and at the same time horrified by my appearance.
I looked so bald and naked! My gasps became louder and I heard
myself crying "No!" and "Don't!" and "Please!" and "Stop!" with
each of his thrusts even though I was the one causing the pain
more than he. And it wasn't only the sex and the pain I wanted
to stop, it was the sight of me so naked and bald and awful. I
was totally out of it, orgasmically, visually, psychologically,
every way you can imagine. I reacted strongly and without
inhibition to everything at once. It sounds silly to say this
now, but that's how I felt, that's how I remember it.
My whole body stiffened and hardened as the orgasm peaked. I
think every single muscle must have been tensed. Even my
breathing was suspended. My eyes were wide and round, staring at
my reflection with a kind of stupefied amazement. In fact, I
really was astonished by the feelings I was experiencing. More
than that, I was transfixed: my mouth was open in a surprised
but silent "O" and I was straining against the bonds at my wrists
and knees; I remember the tendons in my neck and forearms
standing out. As the orgasm held me in its grip my body just
seemed to take charge all on it's own and clench every muscle,
leaving me with no voluntary control at all. I gripped him and
the vibrator like a vise. I looked into my own eyes and had the
distinct feeling that in some way I was making love to myself, a
victim of my own needs. Even more, (it is embarrasing to admit
this) that I was in love with myself. Does that make sense? I'm
not bisexual, but narcissism really is a kind of homosexuality,
isn't it? Hey, at least it's sex with someone I love....
Finally I realized I had been holding my breath. As I tipped
over the edge and began sliding down the far side of the climax,
a surprisingly loud cry escaped and I expelled the lungful of
stale air I had been holding. I began breathing again in great
gulps and gasps.
After we were through he inched his way out slowly and
carefully. I was grateful for that. I was almost sorry to feel
him finally leave. I felt emptied. Depleted. He turned off the
vibrator, unbuckled the belt around my waist, and cut my wrists
free, leaving the scissors for me to free myself the rest of the
way. While he was in the shower, I just stared at myself in a
daze.
I am normally in a daze after a "session", but this time I
was dazed by the way I looked as much as by how I felt. I just
stared mindlessly for quite a while. Finally, I shook myself out
of it and cut my knees free. I sat on the stool for a few
minutes, peeling electrician's tape off my skin and trying to get
my head together before getting to my feet. I felt a bit wobbly.
I was still wearing those chains, but other than that, when I
stood in front of the mirror I was completely -- and I mean
completely -- nude. It was quite a shocking sight.
I'm sorry to dwell on this, but it's the biggest thing
that's happened to my body since I reached puberty and grew tits.
I really look different. So very very naked.
Words like nude, exposed, hairless, bald, shorn, and shaved
all come to mind, and I know I keep saying this over and over,
but these words just don't capture the feeling of being totally
naked everywhere and from all angles. I don't know how to express
it. It just wasn't me in the mirror. I turned to the side to see
what I looked like. Still in disbelief over my appearance, my
hand crept up to touch my scalp, half checking to make sure it
was really true, still hoping it wasn't. With the hand mirror, I
looked at the back of my head. It is so white and smooth and
round -- even paler than the rest of my skin, which was quite
pale, even after the first treatment with tanning lotion. It
isn't lumpy, like some bald men's heads are; it is a perfectly
featureless dome, front, back, and sides. Somehow that makes it
look even more naked. I usually think of my earrings as minor
accessories, but without any hair they suddenly have become a
major aspect of my facial appearance. They used to be hidden by
my hair.
This may sound odd, but I looked at my nipple rings and
thought, "Well, at least I still have those." Stupid, I know,
but for some reason I was reassured by the thought of them as the
last vestage of the "old me" even though I should logically
regard them as the earliest symbols of the "new me." Maybe I just
think of them the only part of me that hasn't been taken away.
Jesus, I don't know. I don't know what to think.
J came out of the shower and stood behind me with his arms
around me as I looked into the mirror. I asked him how he could
possibly like the way I looked, and immediately felt an erection
growing against my back. I guess I really don't need more of an
answer than that. It turns him on. Even though I hate it,
aspects of it turn me on, too. The embarrasment, for example.
Every time he does something I think I hate, he reminds me that
what I am feeling is, ultimately, embarrasment, and then he asks
for it as a gift. He asks me to let myself feel it, let it come
out. For some reason, that diverts my feelings of resentment
into something that becomes erotic. Usually. I don't know.
Over the previous few days, I had come to assume that it was
the simple visual impact of my hairlessness that turned J on, but
it seems it's more complex than that. What was just as important
was that he knew I was stunned by what he had done to me and
would be shocked again when I saw myself for the first time. My
mental state was at least as important to him as my physical
appearance, and the expression on my face (frozen there during my
orgasm) had expressed exactly the mental state that turned him
on so.
During that session J had been holding back out of concern
for the tenderness of my previously unviolated rear portal, but
something about the way I looked in the mirror at the moment of
my orgasm (he later said) caused him to lose control -- although
I wouldn't have known if he hadn't told me. As I came down from
my orgasm I ended up just panting and staring at my face and head
in the mirror. I still had kind of a shocked and surprised look
on my face: after all, I had never seen myself with absolutely no
hair before. Perhaps I shouldn't mince words. I was (am) bald.
Absolutely naked bald. (I know, I know. I'm going on about it
again...) Anyway, as I knelt there staring at myself, quivering
and twitching slightly, I felt him grow larger and harder inside
me. He began very slight but very powerful and restrained
stroking inside me and came almost immediately. That was him
"losing control" as he put it. What he means is he couldn't stop
having an orgasm, not that he lost all regard for me.
Our "usual" frontal sex normally takes more effort than that
on his part, but this time, it took almost no stimulation at all
to bring him to a climax. I asked him about it later. He said
it wasn't having sex "that way" that did it. It was the way I
looked -- the expression on my face -- during and after my
orgasm. I guess the brain is the real erogenous zone. It must
be. How else could wet dreams happen?
This really interested me, so pay attention. I quizzed him
(insofar as it is appropriate for a slave to quiz her master) on
exactly what I looked like to him, and what it was that did it
for him. He was turned on by a combination of things. First was
the idea that I was so surprised and unable to control what was
happening to me. I really was surprised, but I deliberately used
my face to express that surprise far more explicitly than I
normally would have. Somehow that's a really important lesson
for me. Of course the feelings themselves are most important to
us as human beings, but in the process of human communication,
appearances are at least as important as the feelings they
convey.
Actors watch themselves in the mirror to judge whether their
faces do a good job of communicating what they pretend to feel.
The average person doesn't bother to do this, and so doesn't
comunicate as well, even when the feelings are genuine. That's a
stupid thing of me to say: of course, that's why they pay actors
to do what they do.
THe bottom line is this: I suppose you could regard my
facial expressions as acting and therefore deceptive, but I was
only playing around with really showing well what I was actually
feeling. I MADE my face LOOK the way I FELT. In so doing, I
realized that it normally doesn't reflect my feelings accurately.
Doing this was a visual turn-on for ME, too.
Is it phony if you have to become an actor to show what you
really feel? Uh Oh. I feel a quote coming on ...
"Truth and Myth are the same thing ... you have to simulate
passion to feel it, ... man is a creature of ceremony."
Sartre, I think
-*-
I don't know what came over me that night after my first
experience with this new kind of sex. I felt very odd. I was in
an erotic mood but I didn't want to have more sex. I did
something I normally would never have thought I would do: I went
and got the plastic torso and put it on. I mean voluntarily. I
don't know why, it's such an anti-erotic thing to wear.
I showered first, and conditioned my skin, and then got the
torso and locked it in place, even though J had the only key. I
put it on over charcoal sheer-to-the-waist pantyhose. I have to
plan ahead when I put that carapace on: I had to put my boots on
before the torso, because with the torso on I can't bend enough
to put them on easily. Then I sat for what must have been an hour
or more putting on my makeup. I know it would have made a lot
more sense to put the torso on last, after the makeup, but I
didn't want to. I really don't know why.
Putting on makeup is a reassuringly familiar occupation
that I do without thinking; it is almost a kind of meditation. I
made myself look as artificial as the plastic covering I was
wearing. Kind of a doll-like, with crisply defined eyeliner and
pencil-thin arched brows (totally unexpressive, as though I were
a doll made up for a kabuki play) and lips painted to look like a
cupid bow. I even put on false eyelashes, something I haven't
done in ages. With coverup I made my skin flawless and smooth as
the plastic, and I even redid my nails in black to match the
torso. I finished myself off with the long, tangled black wig.
The mirror over the sink opens out so you can see yourself from
three sides. Seeing myself from the side, motionless, I looked
like a department store mannequin, my makeup was so heavy.
Don't ask me why I did that; I don't know. J realized I was
in a strange mood and left me to myself. In fact, he even cooked
dinner, something he does rarely and only out of deliberate
choice these days (that is, while we're doing Column One).
Usually I cook.
We ate in silence. I wasn't mad at him, or anything, I
just was in a quiet mood and I kind of retreated inside myself.
He seemed entranced. I sat there wth the erect posture that the
torso enforces, eating like a cadet in the mess hall during hell
month. He almost forgot to eat himself he was watching me with
such facination. It was a bit distracting for a moment, but I
retreated to my own interior and forgot about him while I ate.
After dinner, I rose to do the dishes and he stopped me. He
told me to relax and read a book or something -- he said he felt
like doing the dishes. Just to let him know I wasn't mad, I
answered, "If you're sure it pleases you, Master." I noticed
distantly -- almost indifferently -- that the M word slipped out
naturally and with no vestige of giggly embarrasment on my part.
It just seemed like the right thing to say. A part of me was
faintly interested in the observation that this could happen to
me, that I could refer to him that way without thinking about it.
I was in that detached, floating mood again. I felt that
nothing could touch me unless I wanted it to. Maybe I was
disassociating myself from reality, but I actually felt more in
touch with everything -- just less concerned about it. I
wandered aimlessly through the house while J rattled dishes in
the distance.
I was standing in front of the full-length mirror in his
bedroom when he finished the dishes and came to stand behind me.
I was looking at myself the way one might look at a stranger, and
wondering what I would think of that stranger if I saw her in
public dressed this way. Face it, the only place would be in a
floor show at a bar where they catered to the leather crowd.
Freakish, but sexy.
I really do look ... well ... regal ... with my chin held up
so high. I'm forced to have the posture of a queen. If I had
that kind of posture naturally, people would think I was an
incredible snob. I appear to be looking down on the world, and it
doesn't really come up to my standards, and I haven't decided yet
if I'm going to stay here. I don't feel that way, but if I look
at myself objectively, that's what I see.
And the sleek black plastic is very flattering from the
front. Whenever I move, the locks rattle against the sides of
the torso; the lock dangling in the space between my legs is
somehow especially sexy. Well, you'd have to see it to know what
I mean.
I still can't tell you why I put on that particular outfit.
I guess I just felt like throwing myself completely into ...
this. Sort of an offhand, almost careless impulse.
It's hard to describe my feelings at that moment. I felt
sorry for myself. My old life seemed so distant, and I had lost
so much. Indiana seemed very very far away. I wondered idly if
I clicked my black leather heels together three times and said
"There's no place like home... theres no place like home..."
Sorry, Auntie Em.
They all dress this way in the merry old land of Oz.
I just dropped in to pick up Toto's leash.
You can keep Toto.
Normally I would have laughed at the thought, but for some
reason I had this maudlin, self-indulgent thought that I wasn't
going home again. Metaphorically, I mean: not back to the way
it used to be.
That thought got through my armor plate and a single tear
plowed a furrow through my masklike makeup. I wasn't feeling
particularly strong or deep emotions -- in fact, it felt as if
someone else was feeling them for me, and I watched her in the
mirror almost curiously. As I say, I don't know what came over
me. Childish sentimentality, that's all it was. Here I was, with
J, careening through the List and having the most profound sexual
experience I could have hoped for, and I was feeling sorry for
myself.
That one tear seemed to have an effect on J, though. It's
not like I was crying or anything; it was just the one tear. My
face remained unchanged -- not even a quivering lip. (My lips
really do quiver when I'm about to cry.) Still, he turned all
solicitous and felt he had to do something, so he took off the
torso. Crying means so much more to men than it does to women.
They always feel they have to DO something. It's sweet, really.
Totally clueless, they are.
It was a relief to get the torso off, actually, even though
I had put it on myself. I can kind of settle into it and forget
how much more comfortable it is possible to be without it. The
relief is a surprise, in a way. He carried me into my bedroom and
took off the pantyhose and boots and put me on the bed. He said
to tell him if I wanted anything. It was sometime after ten, and
I was feeling tired anyway, but I couldn't sleep. I could hear J
getting ready for bed.
I got up and removed all my makeup, the wig, everything but
the nipple rings (I don't want the holes to close up). I lit a
candle rather than turn on lights (it just seemed appropriate)
and went into J's bedroom and stood in the doorway. I said his
name, faintly.
"Master?" Okay, so it's not his name, but that's what I
said. And not in a subservient way, either. I said it naturally,
as though it were his name, not a title.
He wasn't asleep. I couldn't see him in the darkness beyond
my candle, but I know he could see me, standing there in the
candle light as naked and bare as the day I was born. I felt
like a little girl going into her daddy's room after a nightmare
for reassurance. He told me to come to bed with him, and to
close the mosquito netting over the bed's alcove.
The candle light made the bed a cosy nest. It was just
nice...I don't know if I can even explain why I'm writing about
this part. It just made an impression on me -- almost as much of
an impression as when he shaved my head. The feeling of security
was something I needed very badly at the time. Of course that's
what I went in there for, and J knew that instinctively. He
almost always gives me what I need (not always what I want). I
think he was expecting me to come in, though. I don't even know
why I did. That day had been an interesting one. The sex was a
completely new barrier we had broken through, and I am still
inwardly proud that I got through it -- and I will look forward
to it when the time comes again. I don't think it was the very
best sex ever, but it was so different as an experience that it's
a matter of comparing apples and oranges anyway. It was good.
Really good. I'm glad he made me do it.
-*-
The next day, J was gone for the morning. He left me alone
at the house and I had the whole morning to myself. I gave
myself the artificial tanning treatment (I was getting noticeably
darker by the third treatment, but I think it is primarily the
lotion; the pills shouldn't have kicked in yet, according to the
directions.) and I worked on this account for three or four
hours. I was (still am) several days behind. He had left me
unchained, unconstrained physically in any way. Except that he
had me pack my wigs and all my clothing except the harem outfit
and the thong in a small bag for him to take with him. My credit
cards, checkbook, and bankbook were with my other clothing. He
left me my car keys, though. Nice touch, that. How far would a
bald girl in a harem outfit (even with a black thong under it)
get with no money? I suppose I could wear a bedsheet and chant
Hare Krishna. I need a tambourine.
I have given my scalp extra applications of the tanning
lotion to try and even out the color difference between my scalp
and the rest of me. I also did a bit of very careful sunbathing
(sunscreen assisted). As I have said, I normally avoid the sun,
but my scalp has NEVER seen the sun and is still very white. I
tan so easily, a couple of days at five or ten minutes a day
should do it. I didn't really want a tan, but it's a nice
experiment. I would have liked to just kind of neutralize the
bluish color that very pale skin has, but I obviously got a tan,
sun or not. Well, maybe not obviously to you, but from where I'm
sitting today .... Actually, I look pretty good with a tan.
When he came home I was exercising on the weight bench in
the garage, wearing the black thong and perspiring heavily. When
his car pulled up I went out to meet him. There must have been
something about seeing me all sweaty and pumped up that had an
effect on him: he opened the bag on the spot and handed me a wig
to put on. I got on my knees right there in the grass and asked
if I could talk with him.
I don't like being free to leave, especially when I look the
way I do. I used to ask myself a thousand times a day "why don't
you just go?" and before I could always answer "because I'm
chained here." Now the only answer I can give is that I am too
embarrased by my appearance, so I feel guilty for not leaving.
Embarrasment isn't a dignified reason for staying.
Kneeling there, I presented him with a rather confused
manifesto in which I told him I didn't like this new chainless
arrangement. I thought he was giving me too much freedom, and
suggested that he was trying to end the List and possibly our
relationship and was he tired of me?
He explained that he didn't leave me unchained to give me
freedom. He felt I was even more constrained than I had been
before, even though it was fear of public embarassment rather
than chains that keep me here. He's right, too.
He brought me home some more of the sheer cotton material
and told me to make a robe for myself. I later knocked together
a kind of monk's habit (do monks have habits, or is it just
nuns?) with a cowl and long sleeves with big cuffs. Transparent,
so it's not quite as chaste as your average monk's habit. He
didn't want anything to obscure the view, so I couldn't make it
wrap around like a bathrobe. He wanted more of a button-up
sheath. I only had four odd buttons in my sewing box, so I used
those. Still, it's the most comfortable thing I have for around
the house while he's gone. I feel dressed anyway, sort of.
That evening before dinner he gave me a present. He had had
them made by a jeweler in town. I don't know what to call them,
really. Nipple cages? Imagine a conical cage made of silver
wire. The base of the cone is a circle of wire the diameter of
my areolas. There are wire struts supporting a tiny hook that
hangs down inside the apex of the cone. There are bits of
filigree where the struts are joined to the base. With the
bases resting on my areolas, my nipple rings hook to the apexes
of the cages so my nipples are held out in little points inside
the conical cages. They are quite charming with the garnet
pendants hanging from the tips, and the feeling is exquisite --
in short doses. I worry that they will do some kind of damage if
he leaves tham on me too long. Perhaps make one of my nipples
evert permanently. It would be wonderful if I could be sure both
would evert, but I would rather be symmetrically inverted than
have one "outie" and one "innie."
But they are sweet. Maybe Jennifer, the founder of
rec.arts.bodyart, will read this and pass a comment on the
world's first orthopedic pasties. He gave me some tiny bells,
too. Actually, they're not so tiny, they just sound tiny. In
fact, they are amazing and I have no idea at all how they work.
They are small, very lightweight silver-colored spheres less than
an inch in diameter. They emit a kind of tinkling chime when
disturbed, even when you hold them between your fingers. That's
the amazing thing: you can't dampen the chiming noise by touching
the outside. There are no openings or seams. I can't figure
them out, but he has superglued them to pearl pendants in place
of the pearls and they can hang from my nipple rings. They are
absolutely delightful. He says he got them in a flea market.
They are a novelty called "faerie bells" or some such thing. So
now I tinkle.
I wore the bells dangling from the ends of the the nipple
cages during dinner. Tinkle tinkle.
-*-
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