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Nurse Jones: The List part 12
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 12/14
Date: 25 Nov 91 09:40:14 GMT
Lines: 630
Reply-To: [email protected]
The List
Column One
Item 19
I'm still catching up on these entries. He was on holiday
last week, so we spent a lot of time together and I couldn't
write. Since he went back to work on Monday, I've been able to
write up the events of last week. It's Wednesday now, and
tomorrow evening is the end of my month. Or his month, depending
on how you look at it.
Yesterday (Tuesday) I asked him if we could continue for a
while longer. I have been "bottoming" for a month now, and I
have thought a great deal about Column Two. I have decided I am
not tempramentally equipped to "top." (Will ya listen to me? A
few weeks ago I had never heard the term "bottom" and now I are
one. Thats what reading a.s.b. will do. I gotta edacation now.)
He turned me down flat. He thinks that the List should be
sacred -- if we start bending the rues, the bottom won't know
what he/she can depend on anymore. I suppose that's true, but
still, if both agree... He also thinks that a month straight
(perhaps 'continuous' is a better word) is enough. Maybe he's
right there. I think I would like to do this on special occasions
rather than continuously. But I don't want to stop just quite
yet. The month has been delicious. Still, I think if both
agree, it ought to be alright. He just won't agree, so I guess
we won't go on.
-*-
J told me to prepare a special meal for Tuesday night. And
to take special care in preparing myself. He wanted to be
surprised. I must have a pretty poor imagination, because the
only thing I could think of to do was to try out the harem
costume I had made. I am almost ashamed of it now. When I
decided to make it, it seemed so appropriate to what we were
doing, but it seems like such a juvenile fantasy by comparison
with the things we did subsequently that it was a cliche before I
had a chance to try it out.
But I went through with it, so I'll put it down here. I
think that the only two ideas I have contributed -- the harem
dance and the raggedy-anne eye makeup -- were imaginitive
failures on my part. J rescued the makeup idea and made it
interesting by taking charge; he is too kind to say so, but even
I find my ideas mundane by comparison with what J has done. I
take that back. Suppressing my own gag reflex with an anesthetic
was a stroke of genius. It was also the product of a twisted
mind, but genius nonetheless. And the forest goddess -- that was
my idea too. Maybe I'm not so dull witted. Anyway, I would
rather be the one that is entertained, rather than vice versa.
I intended to treat J like a king that night. I cooked food
that I could feed him by hand, a morcel at a time, and I dressed
the part of a harem girl. To go with the outfit I had made, I
had bought a cheap Indian silver belt that kind of drooped down
in a kind of decorative v-shaped chain mesh loincloth, and a
necklace of the same mesh. I had wrist and ankle bangles and
rings on my toes and fingers and a (fake) ring in my nose. I was
looking pretty dark and persian by then anyway, thanks to the
tanning lotion. My makeup was perfect and elaborate: slanty
persian eyes, rouged nipples, a jewelled navel, a beauty spot, a
veil, obscenely long fake nails, a black wig like a huge wild
mane, jewel hanging in the middle of my forehead, sandalwood
perfume, da woiks.
I waited on him hand and foot from the moment he walked in
the door. I bathed him, put conditioner on his skin, rubbed his
back, served him drinks and stuffed him with hors d'oeuvres. I
lit incense. I lit candles all over the house. I turned on
exotic music and danced and wriggled (and jiggled) circles around
him. I stripped as I wriggled, removing everything but my
pendants. The wig came off last during the grand finale. When
the music finished I prostrated myself at his feet (well, next to
the sofa since that was where he was reclining, sultanesque) and
asked to beg a favor of him, in the approved slaveoid manner.
I asked quite seriously to be excused from column two. I
offered to let him do anything to me if only we could go on a
little more with column one instead. I offered to let him put a
ring in my nose -- through the nostril or (even more kinky)
through the septum. He hasn't done anything that is permanent to
mark me as his. Tatoos were on the List, but he didn't make me
get one. I offered. I had prepared a long mental list of things
he might want to do to me, and as I babbled my way through this
list, he sat in complete silence. When I finally ran out of
words and faltered to a halt he remained silent. Finally, I told
him he could do anything to me that he wanted. Anything. Still
no response.
I really don't know what else I could have said or done.
I think I may have irritated him a bit by going on about
wanting him to continue "topping." Finally, he told me to stop
trying to discuss it, and that Column One would be over on
schedule as agreed.
I protested that I had been begging abjectly like a good
slave should and it wasn't fair to stop me. That was dumb of me.
Obviously a good slave would have shut up when told to do so. He
told me he was going to punish me for mouthing off, and he did.
I think he did this to make me WANT Column One to be over.
The List
Column One
Item 20
He locked the ball gag on me and led me into the bedroom
where he told me to sit in a half-lotus position. We took a yoga
course together (one night a week for nine months) and we are
both pretty limber, although not as limber as the teacher. She
was incredibly flexible but a little too much into eastern
mysticism for our taste. It's hard to find a yoga teacher that
doesn't debase the discipline by mixing it with some mystical
cosmic theory involving universal truth, beauty, peace, harmony,
virtue, and vegetarianism. Yoga could be defined as exercise
corrupted by morality. That's not why we quit, though. We
enjoyed it despite the incense and ceremony. Maybe I'm too
midwestern. I hate to keep blaming everything on my upbringing.
Maybe this time it was good old-fashioned narrow-mindedness. But
just because I'm narrow-minded doesn't mean the mysticism wasn't
bullshit.
So anyway. There I was in a half-lotus and J strapped my
shins together so I was stuck that way: right ankle on top of
left knee, left ankle beneath right knee, two belts wrapped
around several times and buckled. Then, in some kind of wierd
symmetry, he strapped my forearms in a similar position behind my
back.
I guess you could call it the corruption of yoga by
immorality?
He left the bedroom to get something; I thought he was going
to leave me that way for a while but he came right back. He
flipped me over on my face so that I was "kneeling" with my rear
end in the air at one end and resting on my chest, shoulders, and
the side of my face at the other end. Talk about awkward and
degrading verging on painful. He got the hot water bottle and a
collection of rubber hoses out of the bathroom. I figured he was
going to give me a repeat routine like he did before with the
water-filled condom (way back in "Item 17", was it?), except this
time he inserted two hoses into me, one with a condom, one
without.
"You said I could do anything to you. Anything at all," he
said. "Lets see if you still feel that way tomorrow."
He sat me back on my hips again and began filling the condom
inside me just as before. I could feel it expanding.
When it was full, he tipped me over onto my chest again and
removed the tube from the condom, just as he had considered doing
the last time. The water-filled condom was inside me, acting as
a kind of plug. It was held closed by a rubber band with a
string tied to it so it could be pierced and drained later. For
now I was plugged. There was no way I could expell anything that
large. He tipped me back again so I was sitting on my rear in
this enforced half-lotus position, and began filling me through
the second tube. As I became fuller and fuller I eventually
became unable to hold my stomach in any more. I had to relax and
let my abdomen distend under the water pressure. My stomach
protruded and filled my lap. The hot water bottle was suspended
four feet overhead and I couldn't prevent the flow by pushing
back; neither could I stop the flow by clenching my rear
opening: the tube would not collapse.
Before I became uncomfortable he stopped the flow, took out
the gag and unstrapped my legs. It took me several moments of
intense pain and whimpering to straighten my legs after being in
that position for so long. I thought he was through with me,
that this was all he was going to do, but I was wrong.
He stood me up, strapped my ankles close together so I could
only take the tiniest of steps, and locked my arms to an overhead
chain. I watched while he taped a loop of the water tube to the
flange of a vibrator and put it inside my sex with the tube
between my clitoris and the flange. He taped it in place. Then he
moved a chest of drawers nearby. I didn't know what the hell he
was doing. Then he started the flow and turned on the vibrator.
"What are you doing to me?" I asked.
"You can stop the flow by pressing the vibrator against the
edge of the chest of drawers," he said. He put the ring gag in
my mouth. At least it wasn't the ball gag again. I began filling
up.
After a while I began to feel uncomfortable and pressed
against the tube, which transmitted the vibrations directly to my
clitoris, but it stopped the flow. Something gurgled in my
abdomen and the discomfort disappeared, but I continued to press
lest it return.
As I pressed against the tube I tried to ignore the
vibrations. I discovered I had to press quite hard to stop the
flow. After about ten minutes I was unable to stop the orgasm
and while I tried to regain control of myself I began filling up
again. I went back to pressing but had another orgasm after a
few minutes. That was the last one I had that night. After a
while the vibrations just got so tiresome I had to step away and
let the flow continue unhindered.
I watched my stomach slowly distend to become a belly. It
grew until I began to look pregnant. I kept looking from my
stomach to J, trying to ask with my eyes when he would stop it.
>From time to time I made little incomprehensible mewling noises,
not really trying to talk, but expressing my growing discomfort.
Several more times I began to feel uncomfortable but each time my
stomach gurgled, the discomfort passed, and the flow continued.
I know that the length of the tube was too short for the
water pressure to do any damage, but I finally felt so big and
heavy I had to let out a moan. He let it go a little longer. I
couldn't tell if the water pressure had equilibrated with the
pressure inside me or if I was still expanding, but he finally
stopped it and took out the tube. I had been clenching to
prevent any leakage around the tub, and after he had removed it
I still tried to stop the humiliation of the water leaking out
and running down my legs. But I needn't have worried. I couldn't
have expelled the water if I had tried to, plugged the way I was.
He took off the gag, freed my ankles and released me from
the overhead chain. With my arms still strapped behind my back I
couldn't reach the string between my legs, but I was free to walk
wherever I wanted. Immediately, I went to the bathroom, but I
couldn't expell the condom or the water. Not a drop. I had a
pee, though. It didn't help. In the mirror I looked like I was
about four or five months pregnant. I felt incredibly distended
and all I could think about was getting the water out of me; of
course I was powerless to do so. I felt so ungainly and bloated.
I couldn't even walk naturally with my abdomen distended that
way. I waddled back out of the bathroom to confront him.
"My God," I whimpered, "what have you done to me!?"
I started begging him to let the water out. He left me that
way, though, and actually made love to me in that condition. I
suppose I should say he used me to satisfy himself: I didn't get
much out of it. He just sat me on the edge of the table in the
living room and penetrated me while he stood between my legs and
I lay back on the table waiting for it to be over. At least he
didn't put his weight on my abdomen. I didn't have an orgasm,
and he didn't seem to care.
When he was through with me he freed my arms. I cradled my
stomach in my hands and started to rush to the bathroom.
"Wait," he said. I stopped, but didn't turn to face him. I
just stood there shifting from foot to foot, wishing I could get
back to normal. "You're beautiful when you're worried, too," he
said. I tried to regain a measure of composure, steadied myself,
and turned to face him. I still held my abdomen in my hands as
though it were fragile enough to burst. "Okay," he said,
releasing me.
In the bathroom, I pulled gently on the string until I could
puncture the condom with a nail scissors. The condom emptied
quickly and so did I. I'm sorry if I can't dress this up and
make it sexy and entertaining, but I didn't feel very sexy or
entertained myself. I had told him he could do anything he
wanted to me, but I think (hope) he chose to do this to me in
order to get me to change my mind about continuing with him as
top. Or maybe J has better associations with this sort of thing
than I do because he has a prostate to be stimulated. Maybe a
pretty nurse gave him an enema once. Ask Freud. I was not turned
on by it.
Okay. I endured it, I wrote about it. I consider myself to
be pretty liberal on most issues. I don't think anything is so
obscene that it justifies censorship but this, to me, was pretty
gross. I felt ... well, defiled.
I define obscenity as whatever produces an erection in a
judge. At least I felt that way up to now.
I'm not so sure I feel that way any more. Maybe what J
did to me was obscene. Maybe he meant it to be. I concluded
that if he were to continue as top, I wouldn't want to explore
that particular avenue any further. Maybe that's why he did it.
I probably gave him the idea anyway when I cleaned myself out for
anal sex. But I don't want to do that scene again. I don't.
-*-
The List
Column One
Item 21
He made it up to me the next day, though. I guess he wanted
me to know how good it could be if we followed the rules. When I
say good, I mean it was the best ever, and the scariest. Earlier
I said he brought me to the edge of serious pain. Well, this is
it.
By Wednesday evening I had started to turn a quite dark
shade of brown from the tanning lotion. Quite dark. He still had
me putting it everywhere. My scalp, my face, in my ears,
everywhere. I think the pills are starting to kick in, too. It
is starting to stain the bedsheets. They will be ruined unless it
washes out. Those in his room were a disaster after the scene I
am about to describe.
I had just finished rubbing in my third dose when he had me
sit on the edge of the bed and buckle on the waistband of the
leather (un)chastity belt while he put on knee and ankle straps
with a pole to separate my ankles. Then he locked my wrists to
the back of my collar and doubled me over by chaining my knee
straps to the front of the collar. This exposed my nakedness
completely. He "arranged" me face down on the bed on my elbows
and knees with my rear end in the air and then chained my collar
to the head of the bed and my ankles to the foot.
I still can't believe I'm writing down what we did,
sometimes. Sorry to interrupt, but the thought just hits me
from time to time.
Then he spread my knees and tied them to the sideboards of
the bed. I was unable to move in any direction, couldn't roll
over, couldn't do anything but kneel there with my bum in the air
and wonder what would come next. He began loosening my rear end,
this time with a massage oil.
I really get into it now when he manipulates me with his
hands. He knows exactly what to do. He is able to masturbate me
as well as I can myself when my hands are free. Of course he
teases me instead, but he is as familiar with my body as a
violinist is with his instrument. He can be almost casual about
the way he turns me on.
I don't know if you've been able to tell, but over the last
month I've become pretty docile about what I will let him do to
me. Sure, I fight it, but my struggles have become a matter of
ritual -- on occasion fueled by real apprehension, but the List
really has protected me from anything approaching serious damage.
This night was different. I was straining to see what he was
doing behind me, twisting my head left and right as he prepared
his latest entertainment. When I saw, my apprehension became
fear.
Several times in the past, I was punished for some
infraction of a trivial rule that was made up for no other reason
than as an excuse to punish me. Sometimes I was little
rebellious, too. Now, he does these things to me without feeling
the slightest need for a pretense. It isn't punishment anymore,
it is just for his own pleasure. Or facination. I can accept
that, too. Except this time he was stretching the point --
literally and figuratively.
Finally, I saw what he had been preparing me for.
"You're not going to put that in me are you?!" I squeaked.
"...Master?" I added hastily. It was an enormous dildo. Or it
looked enormous to me. Up to now, HE was the biggest thing I had
had inside me there, and he isn't made of hard unyielding
plastic. This ... thing ... was appreciably bigger than he is.
Words like monumental spring to mind. Heroic. Legendary.
I began struggling and protesting, but even when I threw my
weight against the straps it did nothing but tip me from side to
side a bit. I couldn't even fall over, and I certainly couldn't
straighten up.
He loosened me some more, but I was finding it difficult to
cooperate. I continued my futile struggles. The SIZE of that
thing was all I could think of. When he started it in, I knew I
would have to cooperate as much as I could, and I tried, I really
did. I stopped struggling and tried to relax. He spread my cheeks
and I relaxed enough for it to get started, and at first I
thought I could stand it. It was tapered a little. But just as
I thought I had taken the whole diameter, he edged it in a little
further and I gasped a real gasp.
"Its too big," I cried, "I can't take it! It's stretching
me!" I strained forward away from it, renewing my ineffectual
rebellion, but the way I was tied caused me to just lift my rear
in the air more. I couldn't wriggle away. I kept begging him to
stop, but he just waited until I settled down and adjusted to the
sensation, and then he continued to insert it. I cried out
again. I was being stretched open to the point that I almost
wondered if I would be damaged. I know intellectually that the
human body is very resilient. People have checked into the ER
with much bigger (and more interesting) objects than that inside
them (a small bust of Mozart, for example, but that's another
story. You can imagine the bad puns about music lovers gone
bust, etc.), but I wasn't able to intellectualize this. All I
knew was that I was being invaded, it was too big, I couldn't
expel it, and I couldn't stop it.
When it was finally in all the way to its flange, I felt
extremely fragile, stretched to the absolute breaking point, and
very very FULL. He buckled the crotch strap in back, holding it
securely inside me. I couldn't do anything about it with my
hands locked to my neck. He unchained and untied me from the bed
so I could straighten out. I couldn't sit up. It would have
damaged me. Probably not really, but it certainly felt that way.
Well, some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others
have greatness thrust within them.
[Note from the Future -- but not very far in the furure: he
told me a few days later that he had showed me one dildo and
inserted another smaller one. Still, the one he DID use was
as big as he is -- and quite a bit less forgiving. I guess
this was what the folks at A.S.B. call a mindfuck.]
He took off the separator pole but left my wrists locked to the
back of my neck. It took some slow and ginger creeping about on
my part before I was able to stand up, and even then I could walk
only with great difficulty, slightly doubled over. He put the
tiny chain between my nipple rings and led me by it into the
walk-in shower in his bathroom He didn't turn on the water; he
massaged more oil into every crevice of my body. He even worked
it under the belt that held in the dildo.
In the bathroom mirror my completely hairless, brown, oiled
body was quite a sight. I looked like some kind of primitive
polynesian native captured and taken into slavery.
He attached a fine chain -- actually a necklace -- to the
chain between my nipples and used it as a leash to lead me out of
the house. It took only the slightest tug to lead me wherever he
wanted to take me. For one panicked moment I thought he was
taking me to the car (I would have had to go), but he just led me
on a stroll around the yard like a pet being taken for a walk. I
walked -- almost hobbled -- haltingly behind him. I was doubled
over slightly, trying to keep from being stretched unmercifully
by the dildo. And the nipple leash.
It was sunset after a light rain and the atmosphere in the
yard had that luminous greenish-yellow cast that sometimes comes
for a few minutes when the air is clear and fresh and the sun is
near the horizon behind the trees. The grass was wet under my
feet and glowed with the intense green of new spring growth; the
woods around us were dark and smelled of wet leaves. The air was
still and comfortably warm, and it was too early in the year for
mosquitos. We smelled the flowers and he picked two purple
azalea blossoms and tucked one into each nipple ring: in the
twilight and against my golden-brown skin they seemed to have a
fluorescent glow.
All these sights and smells were just as intense as the
emotional uncertainty, the apprehension, and the full, stretched
physical sensations I experienced as he led me around the yard. I
gasped sharply from time to time as my nipples and my distended
rear portal alternately claimed my attention.
There is a small grassy path that leads down to a little
azalea-bordered glade in the woods. It really is lovely: the
azalea bushes are as old as the house (more than fifty years) and
are monstrous. Earlier, without telling me, he had spread a big
blanket on the ground in the clearing, and it was there that he
led me.
While I stood in the middle of the clearing, he took off the
tiny leash. He knelt in front of me and took off the ankle and
knee straps, and then stood to release my wrists from the ring at
back of my neck. My hand went to the strap between my legs that
held in the dildo, but he took my hand in his and guided it to
his sex. I could feel he was rigid inside his pants. He told me
to undress him. I did, kneeling as gracefully as the device
inside me would permit, and taking off his sandals and pants.
When he was naked he knelt beside me and helped me to lie
back on the rough wool blanket where he unbuckled the belt from
my hips and pulled it gently away. I was wearing nothing but the
collar and the enormous device inside me.
Gently, he lifted and parted my legs, and with excruciating
slowness, he entered me. I spread myself further, welcoming him.
His lovemaking was particularly tender, perhaps because these are
the last nights of our scheduled month, perhaps out of
consideration for the device inside me. Perhaps it was just the
mood set by the azaleas surrounding us and the glow of the
sunset.
Together we climbed lazily from plateau to plateau, seeming
to wander aimlessly from one sensation to another without
searching for a climax. It was a languid and unhurried journey.
We built to the slowest, sweetest, most tantalizing crescendo.
At some point he rolled us gently and put me on top so he could
manipulate the thing inside me.
It was as though he were leading me at exactly the pace he
wanted, waiting, hesitating on the edge of a precipice,
approaching the abyss from every angle without plunging in.
Normally an orgasm is something I strive for; this one we both
knew we could have together any time we chose, so we delayed,
teasing ourselves, looking into the depths and pulling back again
and again, staying near the edge longer and longer with each
visit. Finally, we looked into each others' eyes and knew it was
time. We both smiled secret little smiles with just our eyes and
then turned inward together to look down into the depths and wait
hand in hand on the very edge for it to come to us and take us
together.
We both knew that if either of us so much as twitched it
would set off a landslide and carry us over the edge together.
Still we waited, looking into each others eyes and knowing
together about this secret interior world we shared. Finally a
little surprised gasp escaped me and I went out of focus, falling
away from him into the depths, but that tiny gasp pulled him over
the edge with me and we were falling together. We didn't lose
control, we just didn't bother keeping it. Instead we just fell
together forever. Somewhere far above me I could hear someone
crying out. It might have been me.
-*-
Okay, so I got carried away writing that, but it was the
best orgasm I have ever had, bar none, so I'm entitled. I didn't
do it justice, but that's still the general idea of what it was
like. I can see why the french call it the little death. I
remember thinking fleetingly how foolish it is to TRY to have an
orgasm. They're so much better if you just let them happen.
Imagine if a symphony orchestra's objective was to reach the end
of the music rather than to concentrate on playing the other
bits. Kind of defeats the purpose, and yet sex has been so goal-
oriented for me. "Achieving" an orgasm is subtly ingrained in
the way I think and it is a hard attitude to change.
Obviously, I'm working on it.
Afterward, we were both a long long time recovering. Or
maybe we were just enjoying the floating sensation that comes
after. See? There I go again. It wasn't really over, was it?
We had just passed a crescendo in the music, but the music was
still going on. IS! IS still going on. Sheesh! You could miss
your whole life just by not paying attention.
The sky, the azaleas, the treetops, everything seemed to be
bathed in the same afterglow I was experiencing. Eventually, I
wobbled to my hands and knees and after a while stretched
languidly the way a dog does on all fours. He ran his hand down
my back to the end of the device and touched it lightly, moving
it just enough to make me react again.
Eyes closed, I waited on my hands and knees with him lying
next to me on his side, head propped on one hand; he watched my
face closely while he slowly removed the thing from me. I
concentrated intently on enjoying/experiencing everything as he
inched it out, fully aware that he was watching me. I savored
every millimeter of it, and rather than just taking it out he
helped me, reading every gasp and shudder, every bitten lip and
arched back, every sudden breath, every movement. He has always
known that the journey is far more important than the
destination. I shuddered through several aftershocks and when he
came to the end, the suddenness of it slipping completely out
left me twitching and contracting on my own with no stimulation
other than that of my own mind. I was so far gone I wasn't sure
if it was even out of me.
I collapsed onto the blanket and he cuddled and stroked me
while I settled back down to earth. I ended up sprawled face up
on the blanket looking up at the stars coming out in the evening
sky. After a while he clipped the tiny necklace-leash to my
nipple-ring chain again and we got to our feet.
After he led me back into the house he told me to dress for
him while he cooked a light dinner. I held everything I have up
in front of me in the mirror, and nothing looked right with my
dark brown skin. The white cotton outfits (the robe and the
tight-fitting one) looked wrong. The thong was too artificial.
A moment of inspiration and I had made a g-string-like loincloth
out of twisted scraps left over from the cotton robe. The white
looked great against my darkened skin. He thought so, too.
Eating dinner at the oak table with candles and formal silverware
while dressed that way was a turn-on, for some reason. I almost
wished we could do it at a formal restaraunt just to see the look
on the other's faces when J led me in on a leash. Of course I
wouldn't really... unless I could be sure we wouldn't get
arrested. I wonder how I would look in a fig leaf? There is a
fig tree in the yard.... BTW, I ate with my fingers, just for
effect.
The List
Column One
Item ... none
Well, this will be my last entry. When we were making love
yesterday (Thursday) evening, it was vanilla sex and, although I
didn't realize it, it was exactly (to the hour), four Thursdays
ago that we started Column One. He rolled us over so I was on
top and said, "Time to start column two," and that was that. I
mean, we went on to have our vanilla orgasms and they were all
very nice, I'm sure, but it was clear that it was over at that
moment.
I wish the final episode in this little drama could have
been an erotic Gotterdammerung, but it just didn't work out that
way. If you want an orgasmic Ride of the Valkiries, read Item 20
again and try to imagine how it was for me ...
I suppose that I don't have to even make any more entries,
since the chains are off now, as it were, but I'll finish this
one. After that, I suppose J will be the one making the entries
if I can bring myself to do it to him.
Now I can safely admit that I skipped the last two days of
tanning lotion (okay, so I lied in my last entry), and I have
been scrubbing my skin raw to get it off, but I still look
brown-yellow. I haven't even started to look blotchy yet. It'll
be a while before I can go out of the house, even with a wig.
It'll be a week before I even look like Sinead O'Connor.
I am still not ready for this topping business. I'm afraid
I'll ruin J's image as my Master. Or my image of him as my
Master. Also, after J's little trick with the condom, I'm not
sure I want to continue as bottom either, unless we work out a
new List and stick to it.
I feel like I should say something profound at this point,
but I'm not a profound person. Mostly I feel pretty silly. I
know myself a little better now, but maybe it is only the shallow
that can truly know themselves anyway.
I could quote someone ELSE profound if I could just remember
who said it: "Young girls already know all about love -- it's
just their capacity to suffer for it that grows." Except that
this hasn't really been suffering for me.
I don't know if I have lost J -- or the person I thought was
J, or what. I think I might leave him if he doesn't have the
strength to keep me. I also might leave him if that last little
condom trick of his was a glimpse of the real J rather than a
mindfuck. I haven't figured that out yet. If he did it because
of himself rather than in spite of himself, I'm history.
So goodbye all you people at A.S.B., obviously the only
readership this little account will ever enjoy. Here's a big
kiss. No kidding: I am going to make a little circle on the
screen below and press my nipple against it as a goobye kiss.
I know it's electronic and through the net and has been
stored on a diskette and it's a different monitor and all, and
you'll think me a bit flaky, but it's a real kiss nonetheless,
* *
* *
* *
* ___ *
* (_) *
* *
* *
and I really pressed myself against the screen. You may not know
it, but you all deserve a kiss for helping me get through the
last month, even if you didn't even know I existed. It was good
to know there were other people out there discovering themselves,
and that some had already done so and seemed to be normal anyway.
But don't get any fancy ideas: kiss or not, it's just a monitor
and I'm still a devout midwesterner,
Somewhere down deep where J just hasn't quite hit bottom yet ;-).
Bye,
"M"
-*-
I found this note on the kitchen table yesterday. I have added
it to the end of this document because it explains itself. Two
weeks have passed since we finished "Column One". I changed our
names in the note, and the deleted part was too personal to post.
If I post this at all. We'll see. Shit.
"J"
-*-
J,
I am leaving for a while. It isn't because of the last month.
I liked it -- almost every minute -- probably more than was
healthy for me. It was the two weeks after we finished that got
to me. I guess I just need a dose of reality. Funny, but the
last two weeks have been the unreal part. That scares me a
little. I feel like I am convalescing from a disease that I
would rather not have had cured. There is an empty place in me
and I haven't decided whether it is best left empty.
I'm going to visit Connie and see her kids. After that I
don't know, but I'll try to call. I took a wig and two
suitcases. The rest of my stuff is in my bedroom. Will you keep
it for a while?
I should have gotten a job at the hospital. If I come back
I will have to, no arguments.
(deletion)
Love, M
Fin
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