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Nurse Jones: The List part 15
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 15
Date: 25 Nov 91 09:43:07 GMT
Lines: 377
Reply-To: [email protected]
>From Nurse Jones,
Aside from making me wish Jay had shaved me "down there"
(instead of making me do it myself), Averti's wonderful story
(about tying Joker to that barber chair and shaving her) reminded
me that I haven't told you about my very first attempts at
topping Jay, just after I got back. OR how we got married, even,
come to think of it. OR how we met.
If you haven't noticed yet, I've decided to take excerpts
from The List parts 13-14 and just incorporate them into my other
ramblings. So from now on, things won't be chronological. I'll be
jumping from the present (hypnotism experiments) back a few
months. This is fun. And theraputic.
I guess there were a few postings in the middle there that
will fall through the cracks in somebody's archive because they
didn't have a "Subject:" line with "The List" in it. So be it. At
least the ASB regulars will know the whole story. From here on,
Life is Art. I write it as we do it, I post it as I write it, if
you like it, keep it. It's only goin' by once folks: I won't be
saving it. If it has anything to do with The List, I'll put it in
the "Subject:" line ... if I remember. And I've already forgotten
a few times.
-*-
So anyway, after I settled in, having gotten back from SF, I
decided to try topping. I take that back: I didn't _decide_
exactly. I knew I would have to, so I did. I am NOT well suited
to this at all, ESPECIALLY with Jay. I could bluff and play the
tough broad with anyone else, but it's harder with Jay. I don't
know how to say this in such a way that the rest of you will be
able to understand: you talk so much about switching roles you
make it sound easy. His role is as my protector. I don't want to
dominate him. I want to care for and cherish him. Love, honor and
obey. All that stuff. Which I vowed to do ceremoniously,
intentionally, deliberately, at our wedding. The judge was
surprised I wanted that obey part in there. But that's another
story.
Anyway, I'm not going to go through Column Two in a hurry,
like J did Column One. "Slave for a month" is on my List, but
I'm just going to browse through the other Items one scene at a
time, when I feel like it. Maybe I'll use my month a weekend at a
time. Not knowing where to start, I thought about the overall
problem of showing him what it's like to be a woman and decided I
would do stuff that would head in that direction.
BTW, I try and keep him chained, locked up, etc., while doing
this stuff to him, not because I can't control him -- although I
couldn't, if he were even half trying -- but because I'm assuming
he's like me. I kept my dignity largely by believing I had no
control, so I was absolved of responsibility for anything that we
did. "He made me do it." Maybe his mind doesn't work the same
way. Whatever.
So here's what I did first. Remember, this was back when I
was still lurking. I had him shower; then I put ankle and wrist
straps on him and locked them together. Wrists together, ankles
together, naked on the bed. Candles all around, on the bedposts,
on the bedside table, on the shelf, the floor even. I stretched
him across the bed, hands chained loosely at the headboard, feet
at the foot. I didn't think ahead: if I had I would have covered
the bed with towels to avoid ruining the sheets. As it was, I had
to kind of push a towel against him as I worked over him.
Then I put the ball gag in. This was the scariest (and the
sweetest) part. And the part that, for some reason, it disturbs
me the most to tell.
BTW again, I wore just my black bimbo-boots with the four
inch heels for this. Thought I'd give him a treat. I look pretty
good in them. Well, I could tell HE thought so, anyway.
I was very tender with him. Motherly, almost. As though he
were a patient. I sat scootched up beside him on the bed and
cradled his head in my arms and held him close, supporting him
against my breast.
I placed the gag gently against his mouth, and flashed a
brief image of myself at work feeding James, an 18 year old
cerebral palsy victim. He ate mostly through a straw. This was
years ago back in Chicago. He was a regular, in and out for years
because he didn't get adequate care at home. I think he sometimes
made himself sick just to get into the hospital for some
TLC. It's odd to feel motherly toward someone who's nearly as
old as you are. James was special. Eighteen years is a long time
for someone with his problems. Pneumonia, finally.
It makes me mad when I think of this old guy I've got now,
complaining about everything under the sun. He should have spent
a few weeks with James. They operated on this joker late last
week and took out his tumor and he complained that they had
performed unnecessary surgery because it turned out to be
nonmalignant. This is the kind of guy that if he were EXXON he
would be sueing Alaska for getting duck feathers in his oil.
It's typical of modern medicine to find the only part of him
that wasn't malignant and remove it.
Sorry to digress. So Jay looks up at me with this puppydog
expression that says "Anything you want to do. Anything." Total
trust. Suddenly I don't feel like a nurse anymore. I realize that
this is play: I can be what I wanted, as long as I don't hurt
him. I feel like a goddess dispensing a sacriment. Holding the
gag against his lips, I might as well have said, "Take this and
eat, in rememberance of me ..." That's the embarrasing part. It
was an ego thing. I was suddenly benevloent and forgiving, caring
for a fragile mortal that worshiped me, looking down at him,
holding him, controlling his destiny if I wanted. He was mine,
all mine. I felt an unbecoming and certainly unladylike sense of
power, maybe like those Hollywood socialites that kept a panther
on a leash years ago. They controlled a powerful, dangerous
animal, with gentleness and subtlety, and probably felt
compassion for the animal that they had taken freedom from.
I tightened the chains so he was stretched out full length.
And then, and then .... Oh No! Could this be a cliffhanger?
Tune in next week, for
Nurse Jones,
in nothing but four inch heels,
for whom brevity is the soul of lingere.
and lingere the soul of wit.
but wait ... (!)
Is there more?
Yes!
Just kidding. I couldn't really do that to my knights in shining armor.
Then I shaved him.
Lovingly.
Intentionally, carefully, I avoided any hint of the sense of
humiliation and embarrassment that I felt when he had shaved me
months earlier. (Don't get me wrong. It was erotic humiliation
when he shaved me. And later, well ... in retrospect, if there
wasn't such a long recovery period, and if I didn't want to keep
my job, I'd do it for him again. Or let him do it to me.
Whatever. But I'd have to think about it.)
I held myself against him while I did it, stroking his body
with mine. I dangled my nipple pendants against him. I caressed
him with the razor, using skin conditioner as shaving cream and
working in little patches rather than covering him all at once.
And I kissed every inch of him, testing with my lips for stubble
as I worked him over. Over him. Whatever.
I sat astride his chest, my boots against his ribs and,
pressing my ...nether self? ... against his abdomen, I shaved his
face. He had just shaved in the shower anyway, but I did it
again, just for the chance to be near his face, to work (and
kiss) around the gag, and look into his eyes, searching for
reassurance, giving it to him, showing my concern. Looking for
the slightest hint of uncertainty. And I dispensed a little
goddess-like compassion and tenderness as well. Stroking his
cheeks with the backs of my hands .... I wanted to show him how
_I_ would like to be treated. The next time. But I was still a
goddess, in complete control and not about to relinquish it, no
matter how sad and sympathetic I felt, no matter how sorry I was
for what I was goig to do to him.
It became an ego thing for me. That's the first shameful
admission. I let myself go; I felt this sense of power so
strongly and with such confidence that I could afford to be
benevolent, compassionate, a benign goddess. But a hypocrite,
because the depth of compassion I felt should have made me
release him, and I didn't. My eyes teared up, I wanted to take
care of him so much. And he saw my expression and looked at me
like he was concerned for what I was feeling. He wanted the gag
out to reassure me. He didn't know why I got teary and thought it
might be something bad. I felt fine. I stroked his forehead and
brushed his hair back and told him No, no, hush, it's allright,
and kissed him some more. But I didn't take the gag out, didn't
release him.
I shaved his chest, his underarms, the tops of his feet, the
backs of his arms, even the backs of his hands -- fingers too--
and his legs. I nicked one of his knuckles, just a tiny nick,
and sucked on his finger until it stopped bleeding. I turned him
over and shaved everything I had missed, his bum (Oh, his bum.
Like an adorable ripe little apple...) and finally, (of course) I
turned him back over to do his naughty bits. I (reluctantly, but
firmly) had to pull his knees apart by tying them to the sides of
the bed. Well, I didn't HAVE to, but I did. I don't know if he
felt as embarrased as I did, first time in that position, but I
blindfolded him first, the way I would have wanted to be.
Tch, tch. The way my mind works. _I_ blindfolded HIM so HE
wouldn't be embarrased by what _I_ was seeing. I don't blame you.
Trust me on the ostrich principle. If you think your midwestern
bottom will be embarrased right out of the mood, blindfold,
blindfold, blindfold.
For me, though, by candle light it was kind of nice; I stood
there, hands on hips, considering him for a moment, and in my
imagination I was an ancient goddess (Jesus this is embarrasing
to admit) for whom a sacrificial victim had been ceremonially
left, and I was ritually preparing him for my own pleasure. And
they seldom survived an evening with me, the poor things. The
thing was, even though I knew I was role playing, I was REALLY
FEELING that sense of power, just letting it go.
Long before I started shaving his naughty bits he had an
erection that looked like it might explode if I touched it. I
went over him so slowly and carefully that there wasn't a single
additional nick on his body, and I especially didn't want one
Down There. I did him twice There, feeling carefully and
thoroughly through the conditioner for stubble, not wanting any
to scratch me. Maybe I felt a little too thoroughly for stubble.
I teased him a little, I'm afraid. After all, he was mine.
Not being one to waste such occasions, as soon as I had
finished shaving and damp-wiping him I jumped on and had my way
with him -- still as lovingly as I could (with the tenderness
that one should show toward a woman). I left my boots on,
though.
And I whispered in his ear that he was under orders not to
come until I did, or else, and he didn't. Or else what? I have no
idea; he did what I wanted for some reason other than fear,
obviously. What was I going to do? Strike him with lightening?
I just used him to masturbate with, slowly, like I like it.
When _I_ was through, I didn't tell him it was his turn. I never
gave him permission. This was cruel of me (heh), but I tried to
make him come even though he was really trying not to. It didn't
take long. I wish I could write this from his perspective, the
way Column One was written from my perspective, but I can only
really tell you how I felt. And I prefer to imagine how he felt
anyway, because it makes it more erotic for me, and I'm the one
that gets to be selfish in Column Two. This was good though, very
good. Better than I thought it would be. And I started out
shaving him because I really just didn't know what else to do. I
started out nervous, hoping I could pull it off without ruining
it, and ended up playing the part of a goddess and really getting
shamefully immersed in it.
That is my shameful thing.
I try to be kind when I deal with people, but indulgent,
benign, forgiving benevolence is different. It has always
infuriated me in others. It assumes superiority. It presumes
inferiority. It seems to say: "I Know I'm better than you. I Know
I'm Right, and you, you poor dear thing, haven't a hope. I pity
you, and I forgive you for being pitiful. And forgiveness is such
a respectable sentiment you don't have the moral right to resent
me."
In a word: smug. And complacent. Smug and complacent. That
describes it. In a word. Or two. My supervisor, the hyperbaptist
is like that. On a good day. She's always forgiving us for things
that need no forgiveness. Somebody once told her that "to forgive
is divine" and she doesn't realize that to forgive unnecessarily
is offensive.
And there I was, Our Lady of Extreme Discomfort, riding
high on a wave of that same feeling. You'll understand if I'm
embarrased. Embarrassed. Embarassed? I've been meaning to look it
up. Jesus, by now you'd think I'd have learned how to spell it,
wouldn't you?
The compassion, the teary eyes, the extreme godlike
tenderness, it was all acting. The working out on myself of
sentiments I didn't really have. I can't fake tears, and I didn't
then: I really felt those emotions, but it was because I wanted
to, not because they came spontaneously. The indulgent mother-
superior benevolence was what was genuine. The compassionate
sympathy wasn't. The feeling of power and control was genuine. So
powerful I could afford to be kind and sweet and gentle as a
throwaway emotion.
Anyway, by the time I was through, the only hair on him was
on his head and eyebrows. He didn't even think of flinching when
I went for his genetic future with a razor. If he had I would
have stopped the whole scene. The whole column. That was one of
my litmus tests of his trust.
We showered together afterwards. Before I go on, I should
tell you, this evening's festivities were intended as an
experiment as well as entertainment for me. As part of my
overall strategy, I wanted to determine what his absolute limits
were. How many orgasms could I force him to have? The reason is
that if I eventually get it all together and create a female
persona for him, I don't want hir (HA! I got one of those in.
IloveitIloveit!) getting an un-feminine erection part way through
the process and ruining everything from his psyche to his panty
line. So the plan was to sexually deplete him thoroughly,
totally, and completely. By whatever means I could manage, bar
none. Electrical stimulation by cattle prod if necessary.
Kippling, even.
(AHA! Now you understand my facination with electricity,
phone sex, etc. Just to reassure you, we have given up on it
after getting frantic e-mail from a number of electrical
engineers. However, the Van de Graff generator is still on
order...)
When we were in the shower I decided I wanted sex with him with
us both shaved, so I whisked off the three or four hairs on my
pussy -- not that they were noticeable anyway -- which turned him
on immediately and we had another go right there on the shower
floor, both of us covered in skin conditioner. It was divine. I
recommend it highly. Incredible, the slippery feeling, when it's
both of you. Us.
I hope my *%&**@!* pubic hair grows back. More hair has been
appearing, but still, I'm pretty bare. Shaving makes almost no
difference. Take it from Nurse Jones: don't use depilatory
repeatedly. At least not until the final word is in on my little
problem.
AND! Before I forget! In one of my past postings I said we used
Nutrogena hair/skin conditioner. WRONG! (Buzzer sounds). It is
Unicure. I have so damn many bottles and jars I forget which is
which. I just recognize them by the color. Unicure. Great stuff.
Any K-mart has it. Seriously, I recommend it.
Hey, did you notice that? My language has loosened up a bit. I
called my pussy a pussy. I don't know why, but it sounds SO much
nicer than "cunt." I kinda like "nether self," though....
So anyway, total sexual exhaustion was the goal. I just KNEW he
had more than two orgasms in him. Time it right, push the right
buttons, and four in one day was the standing record record.
Why shave him? Women don't have a lot of body hair. And I will
be taping his naughty bits tightly out of the way some day soon.
Wouldn't want to pull hair out with the tape would I.
Would I?
FLASH!
Wax! I have hair wax somewhere. You know the stuff. Melts at a
low temperature in a double boiler, sticky, and hardens HARD.
Used to pull unwanted hair off at beauty salons. Heat it, spread
small dollops on, (maybe I'll drip it on?), yank it off. And I
was having him keep himself shaved because it gets boring. I'll
tell him to let it grow for a while in strategic areas, and ....
Gotta go. I guess this is going to be a cliff hanger after all.
I'll tell you about the other half of this scene later, promise.
Nurse Jones, interrupting the creative process to do more
research,
so that when they ask J how long he's been
married, he'll smile a secret smile and say,
"Every minute of the day and night."
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