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Nurse Jones: The List part 2
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 2/14
Date: 25 Nov 91 09:28:09 GMT
Lines: 856
Note that the authoress is Nurse Jones, wi.1761. I just repost - I can't
write this well.
Column 1
Item 2
J told me to write this such that people will want to read it.
So for dramatic effect I should have stopped at the word "Yes",
but that wasn't the end of last night. Besides, I have time to
tell the rest: he won't be home from work for a while, and I
don't have to get ready for him yet.
He took my car keys and suitcases with all my clothing when
he left this morning. All I have to wear is the sheer cotton
outfit (you know about that one already -- I wore it last night)
and a lycra one that he also had me make while I was in Chicago.
Neither one is practical or warm, or even very comfortable, and
it's late February. It's warm here (compared to Chicago) but
not that warm. He also left me all my shoes and boots, my
fleece-lined knee-length overcoat (thank God -- I'm wearing it
now, and nothing else, as I write this), toiletries, and some
books I had brought. The television is near-useless: the house
is so rural that cable isn't even available. I can't start my
car, even if I had clothing, so I guess I will read, and write.
Maybe I will do a little gardening once I get my feet on the
ground. There are ten acres of partly wooded land to grow stuff
on, and I've wanted to try a garden of my own ever since I moved
into Chicago. My mother kept one back home in Indiana.
This is quite a change for me. A few days ago I was
spending my last night in the old appartment, sleeping on a
mattress on the floor after the yard sale; now here I am nude in
an overcoat sitting at a PC wondering when planting time for
vegetables is. Life's a funny ol' thing, that way. Best not to
dwell on the incongruities. I laughed about it last night, and
learned my first lesson the hard way.
Last night, when I agreed to try this (by this, I mean This
Whole Thing, not just the writing), I felt a wierd combination of
relief at having made a decision, apprehension about what would
come later, sexual excitement, of course (why do I say of
course?), and at the same time a kind of serenity: a sense of
freedom that comes from not having to care what comes next. You
wouldn't think apprehension and serenity would go together, would
you? It was like I was outside myself, watching myself worry
about the future and at the same time thinking: the apprehension
is okay, I can "get into" the experience; it somehow doesn't
bother me that I am apprehensive: I am floating above it all.
Does that make sense? Reading back over it, I can see how you
might think it nonsensical to achieve a completely relaxed state
of nervous apprehension, but it was a very real sense of ...
release, I guess. As the feeling fades, I wish I knew how to
recapture it; last night I really had it going strong.
Sorry about all the introspection. You probably want me to
get to the "good stuff" but if I'm going to have to write this,
I'm going to "do it my way." Mah own se'f. Besides, I know that
if I just "tell it like it was" without any explanation, there's
no way you could possibly understand why a previously
conservative (in my social attitudes, not my politics)
midwesterner would agree to do these sorts of things.
My growing attitude of 'what the hell, why not' got me into
all this that night when he visited me in Chicago and I agreed to
leave and to go with the List. It led me to take the next steps
last night, when I said to myself 'what the hell, what will it
hurt to give him what he wants and remove my pubic hair,' and
later, 'what the hell, I'll follow through with the whole bargain
and live the part, what difference will a month make?' Besides,
I really wanted so much to belong to him, and for him to want me
to belong to him. So anyway, I said 'Yes.' Okay?
At that word, I felt him relax behind me, and I knew he had
been relieved to hear the answer. I relaxed too, not because I
was relieved, but because I liked leaning back into him, letting
him enclose me in his arms.
Still standing behind me, he ran his hands over my body, up
over my breasts, lightly caressing my nipples through the filmy
cotton, down my front and between my legs. I moaned and pushed
against his hand, trying to send him the message: I am ready. He
caressed me more firmly: I was getting wet again. He put one
hand on my front between my legs and one behind, exploring both
halves of me through the flimsy cloth. Again my breath was
becoming ragged. I turned in his arms and asked, "Now can
we...?" I had been in various states of arousal all through the
evening. So had he, but he was in control and he wasn't going to
let it end yet; he whispered "Not yet," and that was okay, too.
I was still floating, you see. I just went with the flow. But I
remember feeling a secret glow of anticipation when I realized
that at least he had used the word 'yet.' He caressed me again,
this time slipping his hands inside the waistband of my pants,
over my satiny smooth heavily-conditioned skin, and down to
explore and excite me more.
When I was once again on the razor's edge, he pulled away
and said, "Strip." He sat down in the armchair again and just
watched me. I stayed by the fire where it was warm; when I had
collected myself, I unzipped my top. It's hard to take off
without tearing because it's so tight and at the same time so
delicate. I kind of had to wiggle and shake to get it off my arms
behind me without ripping it. That made my breasts kind of
bounce, and I felt the embarrasment coing back; I checked to see
if he was watching, but he was looking into my eyes rather than
at my body. He kept his eyes on mine as I kicked off my shoes and
slid my pants down over my hips. They are so tight around the
thighs that they don't just fall down by themselves, I have to
pull them down, so I had to bend over (I don't BELIEVE I'm
writing this!).
I tilted my head up, all the while looking directly at his
face. My eyes never left his. I could feel my breasts hanging
down between my arms as I pulled the pants down to my ankles and
then off. Funny the everyday things you can suddenly become
acutely aware of. The tile floor was freezing on my bare feet.
When I stood upright I I was chilled despite the fire. I began
shivering; I think it was mostly (but not totally) the cold. I
held the clothse to the front of my lower body with one hand,
trying to cover and warm myself. I hugged my breasts with my
other arm. My nipples were erect again, and I was shivering with
cold and, once again, embarrasment. He was still fully dressed,
remember.
"Drop the clothse," he said. This time, voluntarily, I put
my arms at my sides, leaving myself uncovered. Suddenly I really
was cold. I was shivering violently, but I forced myself to stand
erect and face him squarely, keeping my eyes directly on his. I
had lost my sense of benign detachment. There is nothing like
physical discomfort to do that for you. I was no longer a third
party in the room, floating ad watching two strangers act out a
scene in a play.
I was totally focused on keeping control of my shivering
body. It was stupid. I should have given in and told him I was
too cold, but I could see that he knew. I could have asked; he
was probably waiting for me to, but I wanted to prove something
to him -- I don't know what, but something, and it meant standing
there as long as I could. Silly. Silly and stubborn. He smiled
a little; his eyes left mine and travelled slowly down my
twitching body. My jaw was clenched to stop my teeth from
chattering, because they would have. My hands were fists at my
sides, arms and legs stiff, stomach muscles tense with effort.
His eyes lingered on my hairless sex, which by now was covered in
goose bumps: I'm sure I looked like a plucked chicken. His gaze
travelled back up my body to my face. I was on the edge of losing
control.
Suddenly he stood, stepped over to me, and picked me up,
cradling me in his arms. He carried me down a hall and into his
bedroom.
Blessed warmth! The room was such a relief! It seemed almost
hot after the living room. He put me on the bed and told me to
get under the covers. I got up on my knees on the bed and
crouched to pull back the comforter; I was shivering so violently
it took me two tries to even grasp the covers to pull them back.
There was a toasty electric blanket somewhere under me. God that
felt great.
While I was thawing out, I looked around the room --
remember, at this point all I had seen was the living room and my
bedroom, with a few glimpses of other rooms we had walked by. I
could see an adjoining bathroom; the bed was in an alcove with
mosquito netting hanging from an arch over the alcove. There is
a sink right out in the bedroom, as though the bedroom had once
been used for something else. He lit a candle and put it on a
small shelf in the alcove. I could see some paintings on the
wall that I didn't recognize, landscapes. I knew he hadn't had
them in Chicago. We had slept on a heated waterbed in Chicago,
but this was a futon. Quite a change. We'll be sleeping on grass
mats next. There were speaker grilles overhead in the ceiling,
but no music was coming out.
There were four metal eye-rings set in the ceiling, too,
over the bed. They are new additions, I think. There were crumbs
of ceiling plaster on the floor. He pushed the heavy, old-
fashioned oak door shut with an unnecessarily loud bang. He had
my attention. I watched him from a warm, cosy nest; I was
floating again, detached, but watching. He moved a chair to the
foot of the bed, a heavy oak armchair; it looked like a piece of
old office furniture. Then he came over and sat on the edge of
the bed and stroked my forehead with his hand.
"How are you? Warmed up?"
I nodded.
"Good." He leaned down and kissed me. His hand felt good
through the covers. "I have a kind of test for you. But not if
you're still cold."
"I'm okay," I said, a little apprehensive. "What test?"
"You have to sit in the chair. The room is warm, though. I
think you'll be okay."
"Okay," I said, looking at the chair. When I didn't move he
slowly pulled the covers down to my waist. I sat up. The chair
was facing me at the foot of the bed. It seemed ordinary enough.
I really wanted to ask what he was going to do, what this test
business was.
He took my hand gently and stood up, waiting for me. He held
my hand by my fingertips as though he were going to be gallant
and kiss it, and when I got to my feet he held it as though I
were Cinderella stepping down from her coach.
The chair was quite ordinary, but it seemed enormous when I
sat in it. My toes barely reached the floor. It occurred to me
that it looked a bit like one of those old-fashioned Hollywood
electric chairs -- the kind they executed James Cagney in so many
times.
He sat on the foot of the bed in front of me and showed me a
roll of black tape. The kind electricians use. He peeled off
about a foot and held it across my wrist.
I could see he was going to tape my wrists to the arms of
the chair. He didn't wrap it around, though, he just held it
there and looked at me for a reaction. I was scared. I couldn't
help it. Even though I trust him completely, we had never done
anything like this before. I guess I was seeing a side of him
that was completely new, and I immediately thought of hidden
psychoses and serial killers and ritual murders with candles and
Charles Manson and I was a million miles from home and nobody
knew where I was and I was so far out in the country nobody would
even hear me scream, and they would probably never even find the
body parts.
I stiffened up a bit.
I didn't say anything, but I must have looked as scared as I
was, because he stopped and asked me if I was still okay. I
nodded, looking into his eyes for some sign of what he was really
thinking. Up to this point he had been unreadable, but something
in my expression must have touched him because he kind of melted.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
Something about his expression brought me back to reality.
I could see that concern for what I was feeling was uppermost in
his mind.
"Yeah. Really," I nodded, still looking at him like a
trapped rabbit. My heart was pounding. I had a lot of
confidence in his character, but the consequences of misjudgement
were unthinkably horrible. The very worst thing that can happen
is when someone you love turns out to be a different person.
That's what makes Invasion of the Body Snatchers and The Exorcist
the two most horrifying movies ever made.
I was scared, I admit it.
He wrapped the tape around my wrist and the arm of the
chair three times and cut it with his Swiss army knife. Both
wrists. He walked around in back of me and bent over my shoulder
to kiss me behind the ear. He taped my elbow to the back of the
chair arm, and my upper arm near the shoulder to the vertical
part of the back.
He knelt at my feet and gently separated my legs. He paused
again.
"You okay?"
Hesitant nod.
He taped my ankles and knees to the legs and corners of the
chair, opening and exposing me. Then he ran a band of tape
across my breasts and around the back of the chair. It went
right across my nipples and squeezed my breasts flat.
Standing beside me, he bent to kiss me and put his hand
between my legs. He didn't try to stimulate me, he just put his
hand there. My nipples had been erect since I sat down. They
were trying to be erect under the tape. He slid his hand up to my
breast. I pulled with my wrists against the tape.
He stopped and turned the chair to face the full length
mirror. I could see myself, legs apart, exposed. I was grateful
that the candle light was dim. He stood behind me and leaned over
my shoulder. One hand went back to my sex, and he began to gently
stroke and probe while kissing the side of my neck and nibbling
on my ears. That really gets me going, the ears. It always does.
I was still nervous, watching him, but I also responded to his
hands and became wet.
He continued, and I realized that this was his idea of
torture. In retrospect, I know it's illogical, but somehow my
mind concluded that this meant he wasn't Charles Manson. I got
more and more turned on, and finally I was fighting the tape out
of horny frustration rather than fear. He kept me going, teasing
me, until I was right on the edge again and stopped. I just
couldn't seem to come, but I was extremely turned on.
He cut the tape behind my back and released my breasts. He
began peeling it off slowly from both sides while standing in
front of me; he was watching my face closely, and as he pulled he
made the two tugging, almost-painful points of detachment move
symmetrically toward my nipples. My breath quickened as they
zeroed in. I moaned and closed my eyes so that I wouldn't be
embarrased by him watching me. Funny how the mind works
sometimes.
He kissed me again. He's a great kisser. The average guy
seems to have a theory that putting his tongue down your throat
proves he's a passionate lover. Not that I have anything against
tongues, it's just that they don't automatically impress me. J
does, though. Impress me, I mean.
"I guess you passed the test," he said. I don't know what
test, but I suspect he wanted to know if I trusted him, and he
wanted me to know I could trust him. At least I haven't been
afraid since; if he were going to do something perverted to me he
would have done it then, I figured.
Anyway, he cut me free of the chair. I was still pretty
hot. Relieved and hot. I guess the excitement, apprehension, and
foreplay are a pretty deadly combination. I will admit I was
afraid, even though I trust him much more than I would anyone
else -- afraid to be taped to the chair that way. He could have
done anything to me. I would like to be able to say that my
trust was stronger than my fear, but I don't know. My panic was
held in check partly by my reluctance to offend him with
mistrust. A midwesterner is the only animal that will allow a
sense of etiquette to overcome the instinct for self
preservation.
He told me to get into bed. I did, still turned extremely
on.
He released the mosquito netting over the bed-alcove; I
thought idly: no mosquitos in February. The netting formed a
curtain so that the alcove became a warm, candle-lit intimate,
private and secure little world. But those eye-rings. I noticed
four more on the corners of the bed, but it just didn't matter.
Floating again. He took something from the bedside table, tossed
it to me, and told me to put it on. I examined it. A blindfold.
Suddenly visions of a man wearing a Nazi SS uniform hat,
with a leather jockstrap and black socks held up by garters
flashed through my mind, and I laughed. Snorted, actually. J
looked at me impasssively, pausing with his shirt half
unbuttoned. His mouth smiled a very small smile. His eyes didn't
join in the fun.
I hadn't thought about it at the time we made up the List,
but I was going to be one of Those People. It was just too, too
ridiculous. True, as I had told J, I fantasize about being tied
down and forced to have fantastic orgasms until I was too
exhausted to cry for mercy, but somehow I didn't connect my
fantasies with that ludicrous leather-scene reality.
He asked me what was going on in my head, and I explained,
still suppressing giggles and snorts. He nodded thoughtfully,
paused, and flipped the comforter off my nakedness.
Instinctively, my hands flashed to cover myself again, but I
couldn't stop laughing.
He took something out of the bedside table. Suddenly he
rolled me over on my stomach and straddled my back. One at a
time he pulled my arms to my sides and pinned them there with his
legs. Still laughing, I twisted left and right to try and see
what he was doing. I couldn't. Gently, he twined my hair in his
hand and pulled my head back. He didn't try to hurt me, but I
had to arch my neck back and lift my upper torso off the bed to
relieve the pulling on my hair.
"Hey, come on..." I tried to say. Something was forced
against my half- open mouth. He held it there with one hand and
continued to pull gently but insistently on my hair with the
other.
"Open your mouth," he said, "all the way."
I tried to say 'It IS open,' but it just came out a garbled
burble and the thing slipped in a little more. I couldn't shake
him loose or force it out with my tongue, and he couldn't get it
in any further unless I opened my mouth more. We remained at
this impasse for a moment more, until I foolishly tried to say
something else around the object and he forced it in a little
more. Finally, still smiling to myself, I capitulated and
relaxed my jaw as much as I could. I decided to go along with it
and make the effort not to laugh. He compressed the object with
his fingers and pushed -- gently, but enough. It went in. It
felt huge. Suddenly it wasn't such an effort to stop laughing. I
couldn't even smile. Or even move my lips enough to make it look
like I would have smiled if I could have. I had never seen -- or
even heard of -- a "ball gag" before.
He took his hand away and it stayed in my mouth. I couldn't
open my mouth wide enough to push it out with my tongue, and my
hands were still held at my sides. It tasted slightly of rubber.
Hey, I thought, beginning to wake up to what was going on.
I felt him pull a strap behind my head; he buckled it in
place. Then I heard a click. He got off me. The second my hands
were free, I reached up to pull the thing out of my mouth, but
the strap held it securely. Beginning to panic, I reached around
in back of my head to undo the buckle and my scrabbling fingers
found a miniature paddlock. The strap wouldn't slide off over my
head. Again my hands went to the thing in my mouth. It wouldn't
budge. It felt like a rubber ball about the size of a racquet
ball. The strap went through the middle of it. It didn't matter
that my hands were free, I couldn't budge it. Pointlessly, I
tried to say something, I don't remember what. He turned his
back on me, threw the mosquito curtain aside, and walked out into
the bedroom. I got up and ran after him and grabbed him by the
arm. I ran around in front of him so I could make eye contact,
and tried to say "I won't laugh," but I just made a muffled
"Aaaah Ah Aaaah" noise. Looking up at him, I tried to make my
eyes talk since my mouth couldn't. Hey, come on, I was thinking.
You didn't really mean to do this to me, did you? This is a
mistake, right? Right?
"The answer is no," he said, "this is lesson time." He
walked out of the room, leaving the door open. I stood there
bewildered for a moment, not knowing what to do next. Then I ran
into the bathroom to look for scissors or a razor to cut the
strap. When I turned the light on I caught sight of myself in
the mirror. My face was grotesque. My mouth was held open -- wide
open -- my lips stretched around this THING, my lipstick smeared.
My eyes were round and frantic above it. My hair was wild,
tangled around the strap. My shaking hands fluttered uselessly
around the gag, feeling at the corners of my poor mouth and
around the back of the strap. I banged medicine cabinet doors
open and rummaged through the dressing table drawers, but there
was nothing I could use to cut it. He knew there was nothing.
That's why he'd left me alone.
I ran back out through the bedroom to the living room. He
was sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, looking into the
fire. He even didn't look up. I ran toward my bedroom where my
toiletries were -- I knew there were scissors there. The hall
door was locked. So was the kitchen door. I just stood there not
knowing what to do next. I walked back to the living room and
stood in the doorway. Obviously, I wasn't going to get around
this without his help. I needed to get control of myself. I
went to the desk and scribbled on an envelope: 'PLEASE TAKE IT
OUT!!!!!!' and handed it to him. Without looking at it he said,
"Sit down." I sat.
"Are you in serious pain?"
I thought a moment, took a long shaky breath (in through my
nose: I could only exhale, mumble, and drool around that thing in
my mouth). "Aaahh," I said, shaking my head 'no'.
"Is it on the List?"
"Aaaaha," I nodded, wiping saliva from the side of my mouth
with my hand and wiping it on my naked hip. Bound and gagged, it
was there on the List.
"Then think about it until you know what to do," he said.
"You don't have to be a rocket scientist."
So I sat there on the sofa, knees together, hands folded in
my lap, again the prim victorian except for, well, just about
everything. I was helpless. He already had complete control, so
he couldn't want that. I knew it all started because of my
laughing over the blindfold. Really, it was as much nervous
laughter as humorous. I often react to unfamiliar situations
with a nervous laugh. I have embarrased myself several times by
laughing at absolutely the exact wrong moment, like when someone
said his dog was dead and I thought for some reason that he was
kidding, and he really liked the dog. I could have died. I've
never gotten over having said that. Sometimes I twitch with the
sudden embarrasment when I remember it.
But it's not fair to punish someone for a nervous laugh.
That's like punishing someone for a hiccough. Of course, I
couldn't explain that to J. I couldn't explain anything.
I looked at him again. Hewas still looking at the fire.
He wanted me to DO something, not say something. That was fairly
obvious, even to a non-rocket scientist. I wiped more saliva
from the side of my mouth. I was getting cold again, so I got up
to go into the bedroom for the comforter. I looked at him to see
if he objected. He didn't even look up. I was at liberty to do
anything I wanted. Sort of.
While I was getting the comforter, I noticed the bedside
table was open; it was where he had gotten the blindfold. The
drawer had a heap of chains and leather and padlocks in it. I
wrapped the comforter around myself and after another mournful
glance in the mirror, went back out. God, I looked awful. He
glanced up, but said nothing.
I sat back down. My jaw was starting to ache a little, and
I had to wipe my face again. He wasn't going to let me just back
out of this gracefully. I had to apologize? Anything to get it
off. I picked up the envelope from the floor where he dropped it
and wrote: I'M SORRY. He didn't even look at it. I moaned in
frustration. Obviously action was what he wanted. I had agreed
to be his slave, so I had better start acting like one. So I got
down on my knees by his chair and waited. He looked at me. I
said "Aaaaah?" He had to know it was "Please?" He reached out
and stroked my hair. He was remarkably tender for someone who
had just done this to me. The bastard. For a moment I thought he
was going to take it off, but he just stroked my hair again, and
then stopped. I waited. That wasn't it, but I was getting warm.
Then I had a bright idea: the blindfold. Duh. I wish I
could tell you my real name. It's derived from an old Sioux
indian word meaning "not-rocket-scientist."
I got up and went into the bedroom. The blindfold was on
the pillow. I looked at the open drawer again, and lifted out
some of the stuff in there. There was a jumble of light-weight
chains and four short leather straps with buckles and rings. They
looked like extra-small dog collars with those buckle tongues
that have a hole for a dog tag. Or a lock. There were lots of
little tiny paddlocks, just like the one that I was sure was on
the back of my neck. They were all open, but no keys were in the
drawer. The chains didn't look particularly heavy duty, but I
knew they would be stronger than most people. Stronger than me.
There was one large strap like the others. A collar. Well, I was
supposed to be a slave. It seemed like a good time to start
acting like one.
I took the whole drawer out of the table and carried it out
into the living room. I got down on my knees again and put the
drawer on the floor in front of him. At least he was looking at
me instead of the fire. One by one I took the things out of the
drawer and put them on the floor between us. He rewarded me with
a faint smile, but didn't move.
I picked up the small straps, and put one on each wrist.
Then one on each ankle, hurrying against the growing discomfort
of the gag. I kept looking up at him and fumbling with the
straps, looking to see if I was doing the right thing. I had to
wipe my mouth again. Then I put on the collar and buckled it. My
jaw was really beginning to ache. I looked up at him again. At
that stage I would have begged sincerely if I could have spoken.
He glanced down at the drawer. The locks. I snapped them
through the tongues of the strap buckles. I had trouble with the
collar. I couldn't see it and my hands were trembling. He helped
me.
I sat back on my heels and waited. He motioned me to come
closer. I moved over next to him, still kneeling on the
comforter. He reached down again and stroked my hair, but didn't
do anything about the gag. I was getting desperate. The ache had
turned to real pain. I was starting to cry, which just made my
jaw hurt more. I put my arms around his legs and through my
tears tried once more to say "Please?" but I was crying and
shaking from the cold and my nose was running, and my begging
just came out as a kind of high-pitched whine. He reached down,
picked up the blindfold, and handed it to me. With shaking
hands, I put it on, at my absolute limit.
"Pick up the chains," he said. Kneeling there, I felt
blindly for the drawer and gathered the chains into my hands,
still squeaking, whining, and sniffing. It really hurt. I was
feeling what cynical doctors call 'minor discomfort.' He picked
me up and carried me into the bedroom and put me on the bed. The
chains rattled and I felt him pull my legs apart and lock my
ankle straps to the chains. I could think of nothing but my poor
mouth. Then he chained my right wrist.
At last I felt him working the lock at the back of my neck.
Then the buckle. The strap was loose. I reached to remove the
gag, but he held my left wrist and forced it back, and locked it
to the last chain. I still couldn't push the gag out of my
mouth. I moaned, and remember thinking I probably sound -- and
look -- just like those leather and bondage people. But I didn't
feel like laughing this time. I was completely beaten. I would
have given anything just to get that thing out of my mouth.
Anything.
"I'm going to take it out now. Don't say anything for the
rest of the night." Gently, he took it out and let my mouth
close. It hurt to close it after having it held open so far for
so long. I had probably had that thing in my mouth for only
ten or fifteen minutes, as I think back on it now, but it had
seemed like an eternity. The ache starts in your jaw and spreads
to pain in your ears and throat. It hurts to swallow, like I were
spraining something. My ears were ringing when he finally took it
out.
I heard water running in the bathroom, then felt him wipe my
nose and face with a warm, damp washcloth; he spread the
comforter over me, and pulled it up to just below my breasts.
Then he kissed me gently, taking care with my mouth, which
despite the extremity of my earlier pain, had almost stopped
hurting. Certainly kissing didn't hurt. He kissed me again,
through the blindfold, near the corners of my eyes. He can be so
tender. When he wants to be.
I felt him sit on the bed beside me. He stroked my face
gently with the backs of his knuckles. Chained the way I was, I
should have felt exposed, helpless, and naked, especially with
the blindfold and not being able to see what he was going to do
next, but somehow I didn't feel the nakedness as acutely; oddly,
that was because I was blindfolded. I wonder if ostriches really
hide their heads in the sand to feel safe. Of course not.
Silly. My first and middle names together translate roughly as
"Not-rocket-scientist-who-is-stupider-than-ostrich."
Safe is different from helpless, though, and I was helpless.
Safe and helpless. His kisses and caresses were nonsexual at
first, and comforting. I was warm and toasty, and realized that
nothing was required of me but that I keep my big fat mouth shut.
Anyway, I couldn't do anything in this position but passively
accept whatever he chose to do. I was not responsible for
anything.
His kisses became warmer and I became more and more
detached. Let him kiss me, I thought. Let him do anything he
wants. After what just happened I don't have to do anything but
lie here. My lips won't respond to his. And they didn't. It was
like I was there in the room watching this happen to someone
else, someone numb. He got under the covers with me and his
hands began to move over my body, his caresses more sexual. I
realized he had undressed sometime after I was blindfolded. His
hand slid down my stomach to just below my navel. And ever so
lightly, lower, where my skin turns to silk. My breath caught and
stomach muscles betrayed me by tightening involuntarily, as
though I had been tickled.
His hand slid lower still and cupped my hairless sex,
stroking gently. I was determined not to respond, and again my
detachment returned. He continued to stroke. My skin felt so
smooth down there; I could see the point of the hairlessness, I
thought for the second time. But I was determined not to respond.
Not to move. I could have an orgasm and he would never know, I
thought. I was becoming more and more detached; floating, almost
dreaming. His caresses became more insistent; his fingers
entered me. Still I didn't respond. I deliberately relaxed.
This is going to be hard to explain. As he continued to
stroke and kiss me, I remained detached, but my body began to
move through no effort on my part. Sounds like I'm making this
up, I know. It was as if I was watching from outside, still
completely relaxed, and my body was acting on its own. I watched
my body's hips move first, ever so slightly, pushing against his
expert hand. He stroked more gently, searching and probing,
finding exactly the right spot. My hips began to move
rythmically. His hand left my sex and moved up to my body's
breasts. A gentle stroke and my nipples came awake. I felt his
lips on my nipples, sucking and nibbling gently. They were
erect, hardened. He continued, becoming stronger, more insistent,
until they began to ache. Suddenly his hand was at my sex again.
My body gasped and arched, pulling against the chains. My knees
lifted up, my legs bent as far as the chains would let them.
I stopped, frozen and watched as my body's breathing become
ragged. I watched him position himself over me and slowly --
very slowly -- enter me. My body was already shuddering on its
own. He supported his weight with his arms so that he was almost
suspended above me. My spreadeagled body was floating
weightless, penetrated, and quivering with excitement. He began
moving ever so slowly and gently with what felt like enormous
but controlled strength -- strength held in reserve.
My body was gasping and panting involuntarily, drawing in
great gulps of air and making the same incoherent whining noises
I had earlier when I was crying, gagged. Then my back arched off
the bed, my limbs pulled all the chains suddenly taut, and my
body held itself rock still, almost vibrating, not breathing. My
throat made a little squeak, and he made one more powerful,
expertly timed thrust, the slowest of all. I don't think I was
even climaxing yet, but it was as good as any orgasm.
He stroked me again, slowing the pace until it was
almost imperceptibly slow. I was on the very edge. My body had
to start breathing again: suddenly I started panting frantically
and spasming uncontrollably against the chains. His weight
descended on my body, pinning me to the bed. Spasm after spasm
wracked my body, but he held me immobile. The chains tautened
rythmically as I pulled at them, and my head tosed back and
forth. He slipped his arms under my shoulders and held my head
immobile between his two hands. His mouth came down on mine,
hungry. His hips moved rhythmically now, no longer gentle.
Finally the dam broke. My orgasm seemed to last forever and ever
and ever and ever.
-*-
As I lay there exhausted, almost getting my breath back, I
felt him inside me, still hard. As soon as he felt I was ready,
he began again, this time for himself alone. Slowly at first,
then, keeping himself on the edge, slowly, ever so slowly, with
pauses to prolong his pleasure. I built to a second orgasm, and a
third, while he had his way (Listen to me! I'm even sounding like
a victorian midwesterner. Had his way.... Sheesh!) but he didn't
notice. He used me until he was shudderingly, gaspingly, through
with me. I wish I hadn't been blindfolded. I would have liked
watching his face. But on the other hand, all things
considered.... Well, why fix it if it works, as grandad used to
say. Not in exactly this context, though.
I drifted off and vaguely remember him cleaning me up,
unlocking the chains, and carrying me back to my bedroom.
-*-
When I woke up this morning, I was in my own bed, and the leather
cuffs, anklets, and collar were still on. It was just barely
sunrise, and I ached deliciously almost everywhere. I went to
the bathroom. I was a mess: my eyes were two big smudges where
my mascara had run under the blindfold last night. After a quick
pee and a wash, I dashed back to a warm bed just in time for him
to come into my room with coffee and hot english muffins. He was
fully dressed already, and after a quick kiss and a few
instructions, he was on his way to work.
The instructions were to start writing this. After a good
lie in, I got up and poked around the house. His bedroom was
locked, but the rest of the house was open to me. It wasn't
until I noticed that my suitcases were gone (cute trick) that I
realized I hadn't considered leaving him -- even during the worst
part of last night. He didn't need to take my clothse to keep me
here, but still, it gives me a kind of warm feeling that he did.
He should know better, after last night. I'll stay.
Well, that's enough for now. I have to get ready for him
and I'm tired of typing anyway. Wordstar says I did 27 pages.
Stream of consciousness writing and Mrs. Cooke's typing class, I
guess. He'll be home in another hour, and tomorrow is Saturday.
-*-
Well, he seemed satisfied with what I wrote Friday. It's Sunday
now; I don't have time to tell you about Friday night and
Saturday now. Later, though. It looks like this is going to
turn into a diary. In fact, he said he was surprised I wrote so
much. Still, he had me go back and add in some stuff, like the
part about my nipples. I hated that. And some other stuff, too.
I had to change the names, places, etc., "to protect the
innocent" (the guilty, actually) so it couldn't be traced to us.
So if anyone ends up reading this, it has been edited. But not
bowdlerized, so don't feel cheated. He makes me put in stuff,
not take it out.
I'm supposed to tell you more about myself, what I look
like, why I'm doing this, what motivates me. I only have an
hour, so today's entry will be short and factual. I am five feet
two and one half inches, one hundred and eight pounds. So for my
adult life I have had a choice between "short" and "petite"; I
don't like either. Altitudinally challenged? I wear a lot of high
heels. Old fashioned, I know, but I'm a midget without them.
When I wear running shoes, people say "Wow, I didn't know you
were so short." Wow. Thanksalot. I say.
Light brown hair, longish, bt to b honest the quality of
my hair leaves something to be desired. It is kind of coarse and
kinky with lots of little tight curls. It looks like I've had a
bad permanent and need another, but I haven't and I don't. My
hair will never be smooth and shiny like in the TV adds. Every
time I wash it, it bushes out like an afro and gets unruly. It
was down to the middle of my back in high school, but since then
I have been shortening it until it is a little longer than
shoulder length. It's really inconvenient to keep it pinned
under a nurses hat, but J doesn't want me to cut it, and I
haven't since we met. I would like to try it short, though.
My complexion is clear, my eyes are blue-grey, and together
I think they are my best features. My eyes are large, and I
enhance them a lot with makeup. I am not beautiful, but I'm
certainly not unattractive. I think somewhere between pretty and
"handsome" (definitely not butch, though) might fit me. Despite
my size, 'pert' has never been said of me, thank God. I'm also
definitely not the cheerleader type. My friends all say I am
unconventionally attractive. Back home in Indiana, I never had
trouble attracting men, even men who like conventional movie
star-type beauty, but then, most of the boys in my home town were
such jerks I didn't bothermuch. And all the conventional movie
star type beauties left as soon as they could. So did everyone
else. So did I. Even an ostrich would have left.
In my home town three bowling shirts is considered a
complete wardrobe. The guys were more interested in cars and
beer. It was unmanly for these types to actually talk to a
woman; getting the attention of one of these specimens just
wasn't worth it, believe me. Sort of like saddling a cow: it can
be done, but it's a lot of work and what's the point? These
bucolic wags would stand around the back of a pickup and belch
witicisms like "No man should plant more garden than his woman
can hoe," and then guffaw. Then some buffoon that was so dim he
hadn't heard that one before would laugh and spray beer out
through his nose and that would be the high point of the
evening. Do I sound bitter?
So through most of my high-school years I kept that
wholesome "don't-touch-me-there farm girl look" and didn't wear
much makeup until my last year. Then I met an older guy I
thought I liked and started wearing makeup to be more "mature".
That lasted two weeks until at a critical moment I discovered he
had a mirror over his bed. Talk about tacky. It should have had
a sign: Objects Appear Larger Than They Are. Besides, he didn't
like my nipples. So when that didn't work out I decided to go to
college. So I was a virgin until I was nineteen, and then again
until I was twenty-two (so I'm a little slow). That was when I
met J.
I read a lot, exercise a lot, and keep fit, but I haven't
yet achieved that lean, hard, sinewy look that many of the women
at the exercise spa "up north" had. I still have smooth rounded
curves, but I'm working on a "hardbody". I'll have to join a spa
here. Okay, okay, my measurements are 34-23-34, and I wear a B
cup. Happy now? (Thankyousomuch for eminding me, J.) My
shoulders are narrow, and my upper body strength needs a lot more
development.
I ave good legs; in heels, great, in fact. Long for my size.
My hips are rather wide, but that is because my legs are set
further apart than one finds in most women; actually my thighs
are slim. There is just a wider space between my legs than most
women have. I don't know why I have to tell you this -- I never
even thought about it until J had me add the last few sentences.
J says it makes me look great in jeans. I guess he's thought
about it. The space between my legs, I mean. I hadn't until now.
I tan easily, but don't go in for it, it's so hard on the
skin; also, where I come from, a tan means you are a farm hand. I
suppose some would describe me as pale. Others might describe me
as very pale. But I have good skin, so I'm not pasty and pale,
just pale. I try to keep my skin as perfect as possible (no junk
food). It is very fine (small pores), and I am proud of my
complexion. I do wear makeup, though, maybe a little more than I
need to. I just like putting it on, okay? Still a little girl
playing with mom's makeup, I guess.
I'm nearsighted enough that I definitely need glasses when I
drive, but I wear contact lenses instead most of the time. I
have a pair that makes my eyes look very blue, but they looked so
artificial I got another colorless pair. Too flambuoyant for a
midwesterner. Someone might think I was trying to be different,
God forbid.
So I'm just a midwestern farmgirl -- except for the makeup.
You've seen women that have absolutely perfect makeup? You know
the ones: lips crisply and perfectly outlined, the corners of
their mouths painted sharp, eyeliner neat with sharp corners,
eyeshadow a perfect blend of shades, mascara unclumped, eyebrows
neatly lined, skin smooth, uniform, and powdered. They look
like they spend too much time on their faces. Well, they do: I'm
one of them. On the other hand, there are a lot of women out
there who could take a little more care with their appearance.
J thinks I spend so much time on my makeup because I like
to keep everything under perfect control. He thinks I use makeup
to compensate for what I percieve to be other out-of-control
imperfections. I suppose he means my hair. Or my nipples. They
have been an embarrasment, but I don't tihnk they have shaped my
life. Maybe he's right. I just haven't been able to convince
myself that he is telling the truth when he says he actually
prefers them the way they are. Hell, he says he likes me without
makeup, too. He just thinks he does. Or likes to think that he
he would. Men.
My friends tell me I'm a typical midwesterner in my
attitudes. It's true. My family never ever discussed sex. I
was never told the "facts of life." In the midwest, embarassment
has been promoted from an emotion to a way of life. We just don't
discuss these things. Thank God for sex ed. in school.
Hey -- I'm multiorgasmic. I wish that meant something
important, but it really just means J is a sensitive lover. I
never thought much about it before, probably because I wasn't
that way with any other guys. My orgasms are almost predictable
(not boring, though). With J I nearly always start with a small
fluttery frissant near the beginning and then have a major one in
the middle. He works to make that one enjoyable and always waits
for me before he has his. About half the time I have a third one,
but the second is almost always the best. Sounds predictable and
boring, I know, but I know (knew) so many girls that don't have
them at all, I feel lucky. Things might change now, though. We
are definitely exploring new territory.
I have to add something else here. I don't even believe it,
but he says put it in anyway. He says I have an aloof and almost
cruel looking face. Something about the shape of my nostrils, for
God's sake. Cruel aloof nostrils? Come on. He says it's one of
the things that attracted him to me initially. I'm neither.
Really.
Motivations. We've talked about this a lot. Being in charge
of the nurses on an entire floor usually means I have to organize
and direct the people around me. I'm really not cut out for
that: it's a part of my life that's genuinely not under my
control, and yet my job demands that I be able to exert control
and I get caught in the middle. My personality just doesn't
carry the necessary weight. I guess we all have aspects of our
lives and jobs that require we be forceful. I fake it well, but
still I am faking it. Maybe that's why I have this dual urge to
give up and get out from under responsibility on the one hand,
and to exert complete and unquestioned control on the other.
Hence the two- column List(?) It seems to express the same
duality. J feels the same pressures in his job, and in many ways
the two columns reflect these two sides of our personalities.
Here's my theory: It seems certain that the differences
between male/female (dominant/passive, whatever) roles and
behavioural patterns are the result of social -- maybe even
biological -- evolution. If so, it follows that they are a
socio/biological adaptation imposed on a pre-existing background
psychology that is almost certainly more gender-intermediate than
either of those two stereotypic extremes. It then follows that
there is an unexpressed "more feminine" side to males and an
unexpressed "more masculine" side of the female psychology. Both
of these sides are perfectly "natural." Perhaps much of what is
regarded as deviant sexual behaviour (that is, deviant from the
acceptable stereotypic extremes of the male-female spectrum) is
the unguarded expression of those natural but sexually
intermediate feelings.
On the other hand, I had a younger nurse working on my floor
once that was 6'1" tall and would have been georgeous but she
wanted to be petite. She slouched, and was shy, and managed to
look unattractive just because she wasn't comfortable with
herself. I would have killed to be six feet tall, so I was
always trying to seem taller: I adopted good posture as a way of
life and tried to project confidence rather than diffidence. Odd
that our lives can be more affected by what we want to be than by
what we actually are.
Anyway, I'm required to be more dominant in my job than
comes naturally to me. I hate that, and would often prefer to be
passive and not have the responsibility. At the same time,
because I am sometimes (being female and short) unable to exert a
strong dominant influence, I would like for just once to control
someone or something without being challenged. I want both, I
guess. I've only felt that sense of control when downhill
skiing. I'm a pretty good skiier, and really feel an
exhilarating sense of domination over the mountain. I wonder if
it could be that good to dominate a man....
Or maybe I'm just justifying my facination with the List by
inventing complex pseudo-psychological excuses. Publically, I
have always claimed to be repelled by such things, but privately
I'm drawn to "the dark side" of my own nature. If I see erotic
literature on a bookshelf, I am embarrased in case anyone I know
should see me looking at it, but simultaneously I want to find
out what is in it. Repelled and attracted. What a mixed up prude
from Indiana.
After reading this manifesto of a hyper-prude, if you could
see the outfit I'm wearing right now, you'd wonder if I was the
same person. But I vas only followink ordersz, mein fuhrer. I'm
wearing what he told me to.
Oops. J is driving up the driveway. Time to go. I'll fill
you in on the weekend while he's at work tomorrow. O.K., I've
admitted all. No more pop-psych. And that's it for today anyway.
Fun and games time....
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