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Nurse Jones: The List part 5
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 5/14
Date: 25 Nov 91 09:32:56 GMT
Lines: 702
The List
Column 1
Item 9
Monday again. The swelling has finally gone down on my
nipple. There was a slight infection but Neosporin antibacterial
ointment took care of it. I'm symmetrical again, but I'll keep
treating them until I don't feel any unusual sensitivity when the
rings are disturbed. It's probably not necessary, but I still
cover them with bandaids. J can even make a bandaid a sexual
thing. Those round bandaids that look like nipples were too
small, so he had me make larger circular bandaids out of flesh-
colored "ouchless" plastic surgical tape with sterile gauze stuck
in the middle. They cover my nipples completely, and from a
distance he says it looks like I don't have any nipples at all.
Like a department store mannequin. Interesting concept. They
don't bother me any more, though.
As I look back over this account, it appears that the only
thing we do is have sex. That's not true. Sex may be the only
thing I write about, but we do lots of other things together, and
I have lots to do during the days when he is at work. Cleaning up
this gawdawful barn of a house, for one thing. And I have made
curtains for my room, done some weeding, normal stuff like that.
I sound terminally domestic, I know, but I'm used to a long and
busy work day. I'm still adjusting to not having to eat over the
sink or in my car. I get hyper and have to do something, so I
made curtains, okay?
I exercise on his weight bench in the garage almost daily:
he has moved a big full-length mirror in there for me; one end of
the garage is like a little carpeted mini-spa. And of course I
read -- and write this. And check out the usenet. It's nice to
feel I have a pipeline to the outside world.
So after working at St. Hectic and living in a big city,
the restful pampered schedule is welcome, and the sex is pretty
powerful. Overwhelming, but in a good way. Well, maybe "good"
doesn't describe it. I don't feel like a good little girl anymore
(small loss). Maybe fantastic is the correct word, because I am
living out a fantasy. I could almost go for the life of a full-
time "kept woman." Almost.
But our slave/master relationship IS full-time, for now. We
don't turn it on and off, and it gets a little tiresome
sometimes, even though I asked for it to be real. He doesn't
push it by making me scrub floors or do degrading things. What
I'm trying to say is he doesn't use me for slave labor to do
things he doesn't want to do. But I do have to cook almost all
the meals and wash the dishes. He says that is my reminder of my
(temporary) status. His turn will come, he says. When we were
both on tight schedules in Chicago, we shared the household stuff
50/50, so I don't mind.
We were a little ginger with sex right after I got pierced:
Either me on top being careful or rear entry. It wasn't really
necessary, but J thought it was, so we did. Being entered from
the rear is a position we had previously almost never used since
I found it relatively unsatisfying, but J has fixed that problem.
First we tried it with me on all fours. He had taken foreplay to
his usual extreme again, teasing me until I was a babbling
nymphomaniacal bundle of uncongealed nerve endings. I felt like
a dog in heat; on my hands and knees with my collar on, I even
looked like one. When he penetrated me, though, it still wasn't
satisfying. I just couldn't climax. It helps me to have an
orgasm if I can straighten my legs and flex my thigh muscles,
and you can't do that on all fours. Also, my clitoris isn't
stimulated as much in that position.
Then he tried a variation: with us both on our left sides,
kind of propped up by pillows, still penetrated from behind. I
was able to lift my right leg and spread myself open in front, so
that he could stroke and caress all of me (even my breasts,
carefully), and more importantly, so could I. In fact, he TOLD
me to stroke myself while we were making love this way. You can't
do this in the missionary position, so this was new to me. He
took my hand in his and guided it to my clitoris while he
continued thrusting from behind.
As I have said before, I am reluctant to masturbate in front
of anyone else, even J. I was still reluctant this time, and
withdrew my hand, but he whispered over my shoulder, "I can't
force you to enjoy this, but there are other things you can be
made to do." He guided my hand back. "If you don't..." A thinly
veiled threat was all it took. His control, my body. There was
nothing I could do. The implied threat of that gag is enough,
and I'm sure his imagination isn't limited to that particular
"minor discomfort".
So I did it. He continued stroking from behind and caressing
in front, but I was in complete control of my own orgasm; it was
almost as though I were in complete control of his lovemaking. I
brought myself to the edge and held myself there, and all the
while he continued to plunge into me and caress my front. It was
like having four hands to caress myself with. This time I drove
myself crazy, teasing and hesitating on the very edge. My nipples
became erect under the bandaids. They ached deliciously already
from the excitement, and now the ache was even more intense --
almost a stinging sensation as they hardened. Which made me even
hornier. We'll have to try that position again after my nipples
heal.
-*-
Yesterday he had me pluck my eyebrows until they were
pencil-thin. I did this my last year in high-school and my first
two years in college, but fashions change and I let them grow out
full again -- until yesterday. But I always preferred them thin.
Anything goes these days anyway, so I don't mind. I think I look
better this way. I'll leave the heavy eyebrows to Brooke
Shields. I understand she is popular in Russia. She probably
reminds them of Brezhnev.
I need depilatory again today, too. This will be the third
or fourth time. I know it sounds like I'm self-absorbed, but I
have always liked "working" on myself, whether it is with makeup,
eyebrow tweezers, shaving my legs, brushing my hair, exercising,
or whatever. You would think that after a while I would get tired
of self-maintenance, but I still get a kind of sensual pleasure
out of it, even now.
I don't think I'm narcissistic, because I enjoy the physical
act of doing these things rather than the results. Sounds like
I'm justifying something, I know, but the preparation is more
important than the finished product. Maybe a bit like a craftsman
who likes his job. I take a lot of time with it, and try out new
and different variations whenever I can. I have a tendency to
make myself look too artificial, although a little artificiality
is attractive, I think. Needless to say, I have about a ton of
partly-used experimental makeup.
Several times when things were slow on the night shift at
the hospital (a rare thing, believe me) I even removed some of my
own moles: I anesthetized the area with topical benzocaine, then
injected subcutaneous xylocaine and burned the little suckers
right off. Did as neat a job as any dermatologist, too. That's
partly why I have such perfect skin. I got nearly all of them.
I guess the point is that I like "working" on myself, and
don't see decorating my nipples, depilating, and plucking my
eyebrows as a burden, but rather another aspect of self
improvement and maintenance, just like doing my nails; until I
go back to work, I will have plenty of time for this kind of
thing, so why not indulge? Besides, it's a turn-on knowing I'm
getting ready for sex.
It's not just polishing and perfecting myself that facinates
me, though. I like being able to change myself, too. I have
experimented with just about everything about me that can be
changed: my hair, my makeup, my clothing styles, everything.
It's almost like a compulsion to try something -- anything --
else. I get a thrill out of being something different than I am,
I guess. It's a good thing "do-it-yourself plastic surgery"
isn't a reality: I would probably do it. Really. It doesn't
sound like a very healthy self-image now that I write it down.
When I got back from the spa the post office had left a note
that my sewing machine arrived at the local post office. I
shipped it and some other stuff from Chicago before I drove down
here. I'm going to pick it up myself tomorrow. I should have
used U.P.S.
I would have done a better job with the curtains if I had
waited for it to arrive, but I was antsy.
-*-
Tuesday. J has started on some kind of project. You're
going to think this is wierd. Even I do. I didn't know what he
was doing at first: yesterday evening he tied me on the oak table
again, the same as before, but with my legs straight on the top
of th table, ankles tied at the edges, and with a plastic drop-
cloth under me. He scotch-taped saran-wrap over my sex and then
covered me from just below my breasts to my upper hips with
petroleum jelly. That part was a little sexy, but I was mostly
mystified. Then with me craning my neck to watch, he mixed
plaster of paris in a big bucket on the floor by the table. At
that point I had figured out that he was going to make a plaster
cast of my front. I was half right. Anyway, tying me down was
just to keep my attention.
When he smeared the plaster over my lubricated torso, it was
kind of an interesting feeling, cool and slippery at first but
warmer as it began to set. He had imbedded strips of cloth in
the plaster partly to strengthen it, and partly to tie it into
the other sections of the cast when he added them later. When he
pulled it off it was an unbroken and faithful copy of my lower
body. He freed me then, and told me to wash myself off. I had
been dismissed.
While I cooked dinner he sawed and filed the edges of the
cast smooth, and after we had eaten he told me to get my shower
cap and come to the garage. While I watched, he covered the
edges of the mold with wax and had me stand. He fitted the cast
against my front. Naturally, it was a perfect fit. He strapped
it tightly in place with old belts, and had me help support it
with my hands.
He covered my breasts, neck and shoulders with pertoleum
jelly, bandaids and all, and mixed more plaster. He explained
that he wanted my breasts to hang naturally for this part of the
cast, so I had to do it standing up. The shower cap was to keep
my hair up out of the plaster. He built up the already-finished
mold of the lower front of my body by adding on to its upper edge
until he had a mold of me from my upper thighs to my uplifted
chin. I kept asking him why he was doing this, but he just told
me I would find out. Finally, he said he would use the gag if I
didn't just stop asking questions. The mold was quite heavy at
this point, and it was only half done.
He sawed and filed the rough edges until he had a complete
impression of the front half of my torso, and again he fitted it
to me. It required a little squirming, but it was still a perfect
fit. Then it was back to the oak table, where he put the mold
with the interior up and had me lie face down, fitting myself
into it. He supported me with pillows under my forehead and legs,
and then plastered my entire back then, neck to hips. After it
had set, the two plaster halves separated neatly where he had
wax papered the edge of the front half. The final product was a
huge and cumbersome mold of my torso. I can't figure out why he
made it. He still hasn't told me. I don't even know why he had
me write about it in such detail. It wasn't really an erotic
experience. I told him it would have been much easier if he had
used the water-activated cast material they use for broken bones.
You can get it from any medical supply store.
-*-
Wednesday. My sewing machine arrived okay. I picked it up
today. He put my chain on again last night after he came home
from work. I don't mind, except that during week days when I'm
not at the exercise spa or out shopping I like to put on what few
clothse I have (total clothing: the knit dress, the black thong,
my exercise outfit, and the sheer cotton) and now the knit dress
doesn't look good any more with the chain under it. Besides, it's
too nice for around the house. I can slip the thong through the
waistband of the chain and wear it underneath if I want, because
it unsnaps at the crotch, but it's not very comfortable; the
dress and the pants present problems in topology if I try to wear
them under the chain.
He didn't tie me down this time when he put the chain on. I
suppose I knew what was coming though, so it wouldn't have
mattered anyway. Certainly I didn't fight it. In fact I held
the torch for him, like an assisting nurse. If he would just
leave the crotch chain unlocked, I could wear those sheer cotton
pants under the chain. The waist would still be welded on. Oh
well.
Now that my sewing machine is here, maybe I can make some
more clothing. As it is, I have to wear my exercise leos with
shorts and a t-shirt everywhere I go, and pretend I just came
from the spa. Anyway, I got some material and patterns. I'll get
started this afternoon.
-*-
As soon as he proofed this, J "forbade" me to make any
clothing without his approval.(!) Of course, he prefers it when
I have to wear sexy clothing -- which is all I have (except the
exercise stuff). I have a really sexy short black knit dress in
my luggage that I could wear if he would unlock the crotch chain
(yes, that's a hint).
My period is due soon. I have to get him to unlock the
chain for it. I'm not sure he would if I just asked. After all,
it would be for convenience rather than necessity. I can perform
all my bodily functions by just pulling the waist chain down and
the crotch piece to one side. Listen to me. People in the
midwest don't discuss bodily functions; I don't think my mother
even HAS any bodily functions, and here I am discussing "feminine
hygene" on public (pubic?) TV. Monitor. Whatever. I still have
to learn computerese. At the hospital I really just followed a
cookbook when I learned the computer at the nurse's station. But
I'll learn more. Several times I've wanted to post something on
ASB and didn't really know how.
Anyway, my period might be a problem with the chain. I have
an idea that might work. I have been saving it for when I really
need something from him. I'll tell you if it works.
-*-
Thursday. Well, it worked, sort of. I am not sure it was a
great idea, but I'll put it down here anyway. I have never been
terriffic at oral sex. I am reluctant to do it in the first
place (due to a vestigial but typical midwestern conflation of
hygene and morality), and have never been able to make it very
satisfying for him. Plus I gag reflexively if I hold even half
of him in my mouth. So anyway, last night I put on my black
thong (under my chain), and some formal black heels. I made
myself as stereotypically sexy as I could. I couldn't put
pantyhose on with the chain and ankle cuffs, but I put body
makeup and powder on my legs and behind, right up to the thong,
to make my skin perfectly smooth and even. I fixed a great
chicken dish with desert and fruit; I gave him the works. I
even ate by myself earlier so I could wait on him hand and foot
before and during the meal, pouring his wine, bringing the
courses one at a time, everything I could think of from candle
light and incense to little touches like brushing my breast
against him while serving his food.
Afterwards, dishes cleared, with him sitting on the sofa by
the lit fireplace, I by his feet, I made my well-rehearsed pitch
in that same artificial style that marks all our master/slave
conversations. I guess it's role playing.
"J, I have a favor to ask of you. Before I ask, I want to
do something for you that I haven't been able to do before. It
isn't an item on the List; well, it is, but I want to go beyond
the List for you in this.
"You know I can't control my gag reflex when I try to take
all of you in my mouth," I continued (too embarrased to look him
in the eye), "but I think I might be able to with your help and
patience." Actually, didn't need much help at all to do this, but
his patience was essential.
Without telling him what I intended, I started undressing
him. When he was nude, I told him I had to go into my bathroom
to prepare myself. I had filled an old perfume atomizer with an
OTC liquid topical oral anesthetic, twenty percent benzocaine
(which is a pretty potent percentage). I looked myself in the
mirror, calming myself for a few seconds before I went ahead.
I had practiced the day before, so I knew it worked. I just
didn't know if it would work well enough. I sprayed the back of
my throat while, with my mouth wide open and tongue depressed, I
said the magic vowel, "eeeee". Of course with your tongue
depressed it doesn't come out "eeeee", but your vocal cords are
best positioned for exposure to the spray, and if you take a deep
breath first so you don't have to inhale the vaporized
anesthetic, and try not to swallow while your salivary glands go
into overdrive, the anesthetic will stay on your throat lining
long enough to numb it. You learn a few tricks working in ENT
and internal medicine.
After several applications, each time spitting out the
residue rather than swallowing, the back of my throat had that
thick feeling that accompanies numbness. The rest of my mouth
was beginning to feel tingly, too. Now I could apply the
anesthetic directly to the back of my throat with a cotton swab
without triggering a gag reflex. I rinsed my mouth well with
water so I didn't reduce his sensitivity (that would defeat the
purpose for sure).
Almost as an afterthought, I brought the hand mirror. I
wanted to see what I looked like while doing this for him. You
have to understand: this was a very daring thing for me to do.
He is the only person I have ever done oral sex for (no-one, not
even J, has ever done it to me. In case I didn't tell you, he's
a midwesterner, too.) and I have only done it a few times for
him, and not well even then. My heart wasn't in it. I have
never really gotten over the feeling it is unhygenic, and I've
never given him an orgasm that way. But I'm working on it.
When I went back out to the living room and told him I was
ready, my voice was different, or maybe because I was excited it
just felt different, kind of husky and low. No... it definitely
sounded different.
A single touch of my hand and he was ready. He didn't even
know what he was anticipating, but he obviously knew it was
something. He leaned back on the sofa and I knelt between his
legs on the flokate rug. I took him into my mouth and sucked on
the end of his penis, rotating my head around and pressing my
near-numb tongue against the underside. With every heartbeat I
could feel him pulse larger and larger in my mouth.
Tentatively, I slid forward. When he reached the back of my
mouth, I didn't gag. I almost did, but it was so easily
controlled it was forgotten in seconds. So far so good. I
stroked back and pushed forward again, this time a little deeper.
He was in firm contact with the very back of my mouth and I was
still in cntrol, so I went with that for a while and
experimented with trying to relax my throat and get the feel of
it. He fel largr than I had hoped he would, but not too large
that I couldn't slide forward a little more.
Finally he was in contact with the back of my throat, and my
breath was shut off. I backed off, gagging slightly but
unnecessarily. I needed to learn to coordinate my breathing. I
took a few deep breaths, inhaled, and tried again. Again, I took
him to the back of my throat a few times experimentally, and
tried contracting my throat around him. He gave a slight moan.
Good sign, but I had my own problems to concentrate on. I pushed
a little more, getting the feel of going even deeper. I could
tell he wanted to push, but was keeping strict control of
himself. I kept this up for a while, getting accustomed to the
feeling. I was too slow and tentative to give him an orgasm, but
one step at a time. I even tried swallowing motions, although I
couldn't really complete the action. I actually had him all the
way in! I was secretly exultant.
I had propped the mirror against the arm of the sofa so I
could reach it and look at myself while I had him inside. I had
to open my mouth very wide, and had to use my lips to keep my
teeth from scraping him, so I looked a little funny, but no more
unattractive than with that gag (I don't believe it, but J tells
me I look beautiful with that gag in). When I take him all the
way in, though, my throat is distorted: kind of distended like a
croaking frog. It looks wierd, like I have an iodine deficiency
or something. You can tell he's in there even from the outside.
Not to mention the inside.
I continued experimenting until the anesthetic began to wear
off. It doesn't last long. But even then I was able to take him
all the way in. So I kept on. It's really just a knack. My gag
reflex seemed to be under control enough for me to continue, but
my throat finally began to feel wierd, so I ended up stopping
before he had an orgasm.
J was pretty turned on, though. Basically I had worked him
into quite a state, but hadn't given him release. I could see he
was almost in pain. It gave me a secret feeling of power. And
pride. I was delighted with myself. He was delighted with me too:
he recognized that what I had done was quite an accomplishment
for me, and made our subsequent lovemaking particularly tender
and special for me. He seems to know all the right things to do,
when to change the tempo, shift positions, everything.
This morning when I got up I was a little hoarse, and I'm
afraid I hammed it up a bit more than was necessary to get
sympathy I didn't really deserve. I think I could try it again,
maybe this time with no anesthetic. I discovered that caressing
the end of his penis with my lips and tongue, and only
occasionally engulfing him completely has the best effect. J
says a mouth is not designed to be a substitute for a vagina, but
it can be very interesting nonetheless. The oral sex is
incredible, he says, but even so, it's not as fulfilling as
normal frontal sex. Whatever that is. I haven't hd normal sex
since we got back together, although a lot of it has been
frontal.
Anyway, he unlocked the chain for me. Now it is just a belt
with the crotch piece hanging down, which I wear to the side.
It looks kind of pretty. I like gold. The link where he welded
it is kind of burned looking, though. I wish it could be
replated. He told me I didn't have to do the "deep throat"
routine just to persuade him, though. He would have unlocked it
for my period if I had asked.
-*-
Friday. My period is here, and neither of us likes sex
during this time. I know some don't mind, but I do. Thank
goodness he gave me some panties from my suitcase, too.
My nipples aren't healed yet, but now I can see how they
will look. I love them. While they are just resting, inverted,
the little rings half protrude from their hiding places. I
haven't shown J yet. I'm really excited about them. Can't wait
until I can put other jewelery on them. Small pendants and such.
I wish I had thought to get some while we were in the piercing
clinic in San Francisco.
-*-
Saturday. I'm in big trouble. Or at least I will be when J
reads this. I bought a package of hacksaw blades on a shopping
trip in town after we got back from San Francisco. I don't know
what posessed me, I suppose I thought of them as insurance in
case I really needed to get out of this situation I'm in. My
feelings oscillate between a temptation/fear to explore bondage
more deeply (at least I can call a spade a spade now:
Bondage. Bondagebondagebondage) and a feeling of shame at what I
have done and what he might make me do. I'm a sort of combined
midwestern fool and an angel, wanting to rush in and fearing to
tread at the same time. Anyway, I thought of the hacksaw blades
as insurance. And a personal proof that I have at least a
vestigial intention to resist this ... process. I was going to
say experiment, but it's more than an experiment.
But I've decided to let J find them.
(They are laid flat under the rug in the living room,
J, behind the big sofa. There are three of them)
I'm doing this because not betraying you is more
important to me than insurance.
Besides, the only times I have considered
escaping were when it was clearly impossible for me to use a
hacksaw anyway. So tomorrow you will know, J, but before you
++++ Note from the Future ++++
This is a load of bull. I wanted to show J I was committed
to him. That's why I told him about the hacksaw blades. And I
wanted to give him cause to take the next step -- to punish me.
That's why I bought the blades in the first place. I could have
just buried the blades in the woods while he was at work and he
would never have known. But I didn't. I was in a rush to
descend to greater depths without having to admit to myself that
that was what I wanted. I've got all that sorted out in my mind
now. At least I know what I want.
++++ End of Note ++++
punish me I want you to remember why I told you this voluntarily:
I love you and am yours to do with as you please.
I think my nipples are almost healed now. I can move the
rings with only a little tenderness, and they've stopped exuding
fluids and crusting up. One or two more days of antibacterial
ointment should do it.
-*-
Sunday. J didn't read yesterday's entry, so I have a
reprieve. I've been extra good. Last night I told him I wanted
to make something really sexy to wear for him. He told me to
make a body stocking. What he means is a unitard. It will be
easiest to modify one from [store name deleted] rather
than make one from scratch. It has to be black, and cover me
completely. The instructions were detailed.
I guess this is our week for arts and crafts. In addition
to the body stocking, J has been fitting me for something. I'm
not sure what, but he has measured my thighs, waist, hips, upper
and lower arms in several places, inseam, sleeve length, neck,
everything. He then disappears into the garage where I hear
pounding and scraping noises. And machines. I'm not allowed to
watch. I think he's too preoccupied to proofread my latest
entries. Maybe he won't read them at all. I wish he'd hurry up
and finish his project, though. Actually, he says it's three
projects, all to do with me. Anyway, I miss using the weight
bench, since it's locked in the garage while he's at work.
I've been practicing my exotic dancing religiously every
day. I even think I'm getting pretty good. I can make my
stomach undulate in a very interesting way, although it looks a
lot sexier than it feels. J has unlocked my chain so I have more
freedom of movement, although it wasn't really a hindrance. I
loop the loose end and lock it at my waist, letting it hang at my
hip. It looks kind of nice that way. Of course I can't get it
off, since it is still welded (or whatever) around my waist.
-*-
Monday: This morning I went out and bought a black unitard
body stocking and a yard of lycra. Finding black gloves was
pretty difficult. They aren't lycra, and all of the black
material I bought is in different shades of black. It's
surprisingly hard to match black. But I will start on it later
this afternoon. I am to be covered from my toes to my
fingertips, with a zipper from the middle of my back, down
between my legs, and up to my front neckline. The neckline will
be a rollover turtleneck that, when unrolled, has a zipper along
the top edge under my chin, zipping to a hood -- a ski mask with
no openings. It will cover my head completely.
He says to make it very tight, so I bought the body stocking
a size too small. All I really have to do is sew the gloves to
the sleeves and make some feet to attach to the ankles, then work
on the hood.
-*-
Tuesday. My period will be over tomorrow. He STILL hasn't
read the latest entries (about the hacksaw blades). Normally he
sits at the computer and proofs them while I cook dinner, but now
he is working in the garage every evening. Sometimes he lets me
exercise while he's working and I can watch what he is doing, but
I can't really tell what he is making. It involves leather, and
I have a pretty good idea what it is for. I'm not a complete
idiot. But he also keeps two things covered up with old sheets.
One is three feet tall and sits on his workbench. The other is
on the floor. Sometimes the smell of leather is strong on his
hands and in the garage. Sometimes it is solvents of some kind. I
think the plaster mold of me, whatever it was for, was a failure,
though. I saw it all broken up in a cardboard box last night.
Today it is out by the garbage cans.
I've been having trouble perfecting a design for the black
hood. It's a kind of Catch-22: It doesn't quite fit right, and I
can't see to correct it while I have it on. J said cut slits for
the eyes and sew them up last. He also said I should leave small
holes for my nostrils. I said that I can breathe through the
material, but he said to do it anyway: I might need to breathe
more quickly, he said. Hmmm. I also had to cut off the thumbs of
the gloves and sew them up. And he dosen't like the way the
leotards squash my breasts. He wants me to build shaped conical
cups into the front to cradle me like a bra. I'll look like Darth
Madonna. Won't be able to hitchike, though....
As one of the the witches in Macbeth says, "By the pricking
of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes..." Wasn't that
the title of a good Ray Bradbury novel? Something about people
made into sideshow freaks by the circus owner. 'Something
Wicked' was the title, I think. Good yarn. Another one for you
SF B&D fans on the net: 'The Real Story' by Stephen R.
Donaldson. I found it on the bookshelf here in the house. The
rest of his stuff seems to be rather dull dungeons and dragons
fantasy but this is about 80% B&D. Don't miss it if you can, as
Samuel Goldwyn didn't say.
-*-
Wednesday. Last night I told J that I thought my nipples
were healed completely and showed him. They really have healed
perfectly; a little sensitive, still, but healed. The tiny
rings that pierce them are barely bigger than the nipples
themselves. When they aren't erect, only half the ring protrudes
from the little folds in my areolas. He had been saving a small
surprise for me, the dear. He'd bought a pair of very small
pendants for me. They are gold with tiny garnet teardrops at the
ends. They are sweet. I remember them from the shop in San
Francisco. He put them on for me. They dangle and brush against
my areolas when I move; they make me feel sexy -- more aware of
myself. He said he still thought the bandaids were sexy. Hmmmm.
Then he put something else on me. It was a kind of a
leather g-string, but the strap between my legs was much wider
than a string. It smelled strongly of leather. Actually, it is
neatsfoot oil and wax, he says. It has two belt buckles in
front, although it really doesn't need more than one, with a
central wide strap between my legs. Very wide. The end of the
strap buckles to the waistband behind my back. He pulled the
strap very tight between my legs. Very tight. I think he was
just trying it on for size, though, because he let me take it off
after a few minutes. We made love afterwards, and it was
satisfying (three orgasms, countthemthree) but not quite as
fulfilling as the first few times after I came here. I wonder if
bondage can become boring.
He has all of next week off, and says he will spend it all
with me.
Depilation time again.
-*-
Thursday. He proofread last night. My God. What have I
done. I've never seen him so remote. I wonder what he's going to
do. I'm only half looking forward to it. I mean, everything he
has done to me so far has been a turn-on. But I'm a little
nervous now, the way he's been acting. Usually there are hints
that he's just kidding. Well, not kidding, exactly, but playing a
role. Not any more, though. He told me to follow him out to the
living room, where he made me pull back the rug and give him the
three hacksaw blades. He took them, then locked me in my room.
At bedtime he came back and told me to use the bathroom.
Then he relocked my chain, pulling it up so tight in back that he
had eight links left over beyond the lock. It was compressed
tightly --not quite painfully but certainly uncomfortably --
between my labia, forcing them apart and pushing them to the
sides. The chain was held taut and rigidly in the crevice of my
behind; I could feel it against the hip bones at my waist, it was
pulling down so hard on them. I couldn't even get a finger under
it very easily in places. He locked another length of chain to
the leftover loose links at the center of my back and with
another lock, attached a some heavy weights from his weight
bench. A ball and chain. He left me that way all night. I
barely slept. I wonder if he really thinks I trust him so little
I have to keep hacksaw blades around. That's really not the
reason.
This morning he loosened the chain, but left the weights on.
At least I can move around, but I have to carry the weight with
me wherever I go. I haven't heard the last of this. He didn't
say a word to me this morning. I'll keep working on the body
suit. All that is left is the hood and the zippers at the neck.
It's not going to be easy working around my chains. I can put
the bodysuit on over them, but the chain will have to protrude
from the neckline while I am trying it on. Before he proofed the
last entry I had asked if I could make an exotic dancer's outfit.
He said yes, but I don't have all I need to finish it. At least
I'll get started. Maybe he'll be pleased if I dance well for
him.
Sorry if this is disjointed, but I'm a little preoccupied. I
don't know what he's going to do to me, but the tight chain isn't
the last of it.
*-
The List
Column 1
Item 10
Friday afternoon. Well, I knew he'd do something; now I'm a
platinum blonde. How's that for an opener? I don't believe I let
this happen. It's really my fault. I did it to myself.
I objected, sort of. Well, I begged him not to make me do it.
I could have just put my foot down, and said no, but it would
have ruined everything. I knew deep down it was fruitless to try
and change his mind. Somehow, he persuaded me to go through with
it. Besides, it's an interesting change. I look really
different.
Changing my hair color is on the List, after all, and J is
right when he says that I can always dye it back. I guess I was
mostly worried about getting a job, which is something I will
have to do fairly soon. Platinum blonde hair is not the
conservative kind of image a nurse should project.
Well, would you let Madonna inject anything into your
bloodstream? Don't answer that. You probably would. I think
patients feel more comfortable trusting their lives to Florence
Nightengale. Not that I look remotely like Madonna. But if it
weren't for having to get a job, it actually looks pretty good.
Still bushy, though. It's not the total disaster I thought it
would be. My hair is frizzy enough without being weakened by
bleaching, though. Now it's even frizzier.
I thought at first that having my hair bleached was my
punishment for buying the hacksaw blades, but now that I think
about it, it couldn't have been, since J had made the appointment
well ahead of time, which means he had planned this -- maybe from
the beginning. He told me that I might have to convince the
hairdresser to make me a blonde, since it was a big change, so I
actually had to cooperate in doing this to myself. I had agreed
to it as part of the List, and he has always been very
persuasive, so I agreed to go along with it (secretly, I've
always wanted to try being a blonde, although not necessarily a
platinum blonde).
As it turns out, it was a kind of avant garde place where
all the hairdressers are punk. The guy didn't even blink an eye
when I told him what I wanted. He would have given me a purple
mowhawk if I had asked. They had scheduled nearly the whole
morning for it when J called, and it took that long to do. J had
me go without my contact lenses, and he told me not to look in
the mirror while the hairdresser worked, but I couldn't help it.
I had to look when he asked me how I liked it. So I had an out-
of-focus glance at myself, but that's all.
When we got home, the first thing he did was to pull out more
chains and small locks. The chains aren't particularly heavy --
not like the dramatic clanking iron ones you find in dungeons in
the movies -- but there are no seams in the links and they are
plenty strong enough. I've tried to break them. And I am
positively festooned with chains. First he put real handcuffs on
my wrists, but joined by a one-foot length of chain with a ring
in the middle. Then "handcuffs" (I guess they are leg irons) on
my ankles, joined by a slightly longer chain. A length of chain
joined the the ring between my wrists to the chain joining my leg
irons, but it passed through a ring on the waistband paddlock of
my ever-present chain g-string. I can take short steps, and since
the chain slides through the loose ring at my waist, I can lift
my hands as far as my face if I'm not walking. By crouching I
will be able to wash my hair. I don't know how long I'll have to
stay like this. The various cuffs chafe if I move around too
much and it's boring, sometimes, being in the house alone during
the day.
But other times my nipples go erect while I'm hobbling
around the place and I think about him coming home and I wonder
what he's got planned for the evening.
He had taken time off from work for the hairdresser's
appointment and rechaining me after. After putting these chains
on, he left me like this and went back to work. It's slow going,
typing with chains hanging from my wrists. I make a lot of
mistakes, and it rattles against the printer under the table.
Before he left, he said that neither the bleaching nor the chains
were my punishment for the hacksaw blade episode. They were just
preventative. The punishment is still to come. I can't even
really practice my exotic dance routine in this getup. At least
I can sew and read.
I can't see myself going to the exercise spa anytime soon,
even without the chains. I've gotten to know a few people there
on a casual basis, but not so casual that I could show up with
platinum blonde hair and not raise eyebrows. I know, Madonna has
platinum blonde hair, so what's the big problem anyway? What's
so special about that look? She puts her cones on one at a time
just like the rest of us, right? I don't know. I guess I'm just
not Madonna. Maybe I could have gone out, but I didn't get the
chance, really. I certainly couldn't go out now.
-*-
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