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Nurse Jones: The List part 6
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 6/14
Date: 25 Nov 91 09:33:55 GMT
Lines: 699
Reply-To: [email protected]
The List
Column 1
Item 11
It has been a long time since my last entry. I hope I
can remember it all. I'm not even sure what day it is. I'm way
behind in keeping this up to date, but I was busy during the week
that J had off. Really busy. I don't believe what he's done to
me. All in good time.
When J came home last Friday, he wanted to talk. It would
have looked to anyone like a typical casual evening at home for
an average couple, except that I was wearing nothing but chains
and had to take short little steps to keep up with him. And of
course I was a platinum blonde with no pubic hair. He told me to
fix drinks for us and to follow him into the yard. He was sitting
on a low brick retaining wall by the garden; I joined him and we
chatted. I crossed my legs and sipped my drink as though I were
at a cocktail party. The air was still warm, even though it was
near sunset in March; Spring smells and gentle breezes. I could
really love the South. For some reason I felt perfectly safe
being nude outdoors; I guess it is the feeling of isolation,
being surrounded by the woods. It also helps to have J there.
All this notwithstanding, feeling safe isn't the same as feeling
relaxed: I was not completely at ease having a relaxed
conversation under these circumstances. Besides, the bricks were
cold and gritty. And an ant bit me.
The conversation opened with inconsequential remarks like
"How was your day?" and "The breezes are beautiful after
winter," and "Have you finished the harem outfit?" My God, I
thought, we're talking about the weather and I have to lift both
hands to sip my vodka and orange juice because they are chained
together.
"You are beautiful, you know," he says out of the blue. He
doesn't talk much at all, and as a rule he says even less about
my appearance. "Really beautiful. Have you looked at yourself
in the mirror lately?"
Of course I had, continuously. I had changed my makeup twice
that day. I look like a different person, and I'm still getting
used to it. I do like my eyebrows thin, though. I shaped them
into high arches like the showgirls of the 1920's. They look
kind of artificial, I know, but still I like them. And my
nipples. I have really become proud of them. I want to show
them off, at least in private and for J. That sounds like an
oxymoron, I know, like "locally famous", but showing off in
private is all I could handle comfortably. I am nearly
convinced, though, that J really does like my body. All of it,
even my nipples. Maybe especially my nipples. Actually, I have a
pretty good bod. It's just the nipples. Of course my hair is a
trip: a fluffy platinum blonde near-afro. The color looks
intensely artificial, too, but for some reason the artificiality
is a turn-on for me, like badge that I wear that says to J, "See
what I will do for you." And to others, "See what I will do for
him. I'm his. Nyah, nyah, nyah." Although only a few strangers
saw me that way. More on that later.
My entire appearance is a constant symbolic reminder of the
fact that he has done something to me, put his stamp of ownership
on me, and that I like -- want -- to be owned this way. I would
call it a kind of inverted (reverse? involuted?) "pride of
ownership", but it is not a pride that I can yet show comfortably
in public. I would be embarrased; but even that potential public
embarrasment is a gift, a symbolic measure of what I will do for
him. I guess that is what he meant when he asked for my
embarrasment as a gift.
I think too much about this stuff. I can barely go into
public as it is, and not at all in these chains. Again, why
should you be embarrased, you say? I think it's because I know
what's going on, why I look the way I do, even though people on
the outside wouldn't know.
Or it could be because I'm from Indiana, where they secretly
don't even approve of natural blondes. And I nearly look like an
albino.
Why should I even care if someone else knew? The idea of
other people -- people I don't know -- reacting to the revelation
that I am J's willing slave is somehow exciting; I'll admit that
much. But if anyone I actually knew found out it would be awful.
If a stranger knew, I would be embarrased too, but I could get
into that kind of embarrasment. Maybe.
Anyway, he took special pains to tell me how beautiful he
thought I was -- especially in chains. I go all squirmy
sometimes. And I like being constrained if it is by him; I'm not
just writing that because he'll read this either. There was
genuine admiration and warmth in his eyes when he spoke; I
believed him, and, well, sometimes he just makes me go all
squirmy, that's all. The things he says. He told me he wanted me
to belong to him -- even more than I already did. But he also
told me I hadn't paid for the hacksaw blades yet, and there was a
sudden remoteness in him then, a remoteness that made him hard to
read. A bit like a parent that I had disappointed but that still
loved me. There was something he wasn't telling me, though. I
also think he was a bit pleased I had broken the rules, too. I
didn't know what to expect as punishment.
I wish to God I had known, but at the time I just felt a
flush of warmth and nervous anticipation at the implications of
what he said. Okay, so I'm a traitor to the midwest.... But if I
had known. Jesus. I still can't believe what he did to me.
When he asked me if my sewing was finished, I explained
that I needed a few things from the fabric store for the exotic
dancer outfit and a few hours work, but that I knew he would like
it when I finished it. The other, the bodysuit, was finished and
I would be glad to model it for him. I was being as careful as I
could to not remind him of the hacksaw blades, but he was still
holding himself distant. The warmth left his eyes when he lapsed
into his formal 'master mode' and said "Stand up. This
discussion is over. Step back, I want to look at you."
And look at me he did. I stood in front of him, my chained
wrists hanging in front of my thighs. I have gotten used to these
sudden changes during our conversations, and have learned to
change my attitude and react instantly. His eyes travelled over
my body, lingering on my pierced nipples. I was wearing the tiny
garnet pendants. My nipples became erect as he looked; I
embarrass so easily, even now. But then embarrassment has become
a sexual thing for me; somehow I enjoy it. Perhaps enjoy is the
wrong word, but if you don't understand by now you might as well
stop reading. I can't explain it any better than I have.
-*-
Saturday morning we went to the fabric store. I literally
haven't left the house since (nearly a week, I think). Nor have
I since had a single moment when I wasn't hopelessly trapped by
chains, those damned little locks, etc. Not a single moment.
Except for once, briefly.
Since he gave me my car keys (did I tell you that? He has
since taken them away again. It's so hard to keep you
consistently filled in on the relevant stuff), I wore my exercise
leotards nearly everywhere, and I wore them that Saturday to the
fabric store, except that he put that ...device... inside me
again, held in with the chain under my shorts.
He drove me to the store, and we went in together. I was so
embarrased by the way I looked that I wore sunglasses as a
disguise. Stupid, I know, but I felt protected by thm, somehow.
I had to walk slowly, like an invalid, and it was almost
impossible for me to concentrate on buying the elastic and stuff
that I needed. I had to pretend I was dawdling along, looking at
everything on display so that no-one would notice how slowly I
had to walk. I stupidly asked the shop assistant to help me find
what I needed, and she went dashing off to some far corner to
find it. When she came back she must have been wondering why I
was tottering after her like an old woman.
"Where did you go?" she says, "I thought you were right
behind me."
"Um," I quipped. We hoosiers are widely known for our
rapier wits.
It was bad enough having platinum blonde hair. I felt like
everyone was looking at me. Of course they weren't, but I still
don't know if they were just being polite. Especially the shop
assistant. I think she suspected that maybe I had forgotten to
take my medication or something. Finally, I had what I needed,
and we left.
I thought we would go home then, but he made me sit through
lunch at a yuppie health food brass-and-fern-bar. Sit is the
operative word. Over lunch he told me my chain was coming off
soon, for good. My feelings were mixed. At that particular
moment I would have been glad to get it off for even a few
minutes, but permanently? Did that mean J was ending our
relationship? Over the hacksaw blades? I asked him. He didn't
answer, he just smiled in a way that said "Of ourse not, silly."
When we got home, he cuffed my hands in front of me and had
me lie down on the bed while he cut the chain from my waist.
Slowly, he removed the device that was inside me. He told me to
run a shower.
In the shower, he washed me all over, my hair, everywhere.
His fingers probed everywhere, slithering into every crevice. I
got extremely turned on within minutes, and pressed against him,
sending body-language signals at every opportunity. He rinsed me
and went over me again with the conditioner. I don't think I'll
ever be able to smell that conditioner (even unscented, it has a
smell) without getting a little turned on. If you'll forgive the
pun, I guess I was being conditioned. Sorry. Does the name
Pavlov ring a bell? Sorry, sorry.
He deliberately excited me as much as is possible short of
orgasm. He inserted his fingers into both my openings at once,
stimulating until my legs gave out and I sank to my knees. He
supported me and sank to the floor with me. When I say I was
gasping, it sounds like cheap pornography, but I was -- and
rather theatrically, too. Still he continued, and I collapsed
back, sitting on my heels, my pelvis squirming against his
probing hands. I wanted him inside me sooooo much.
"Do you want me to beg?" I said, "I will if you want...."
No answer. "Please stop.... I can't stand any more!" No answer.
He continued. Soon I was making animal noises as I pushed
against his hands, grasping with both orifices at once. I began
to shudder into my first orgasm and suddenly he stopped. My
hands went to my front to finish the job, but he caught the chain
between the cuffs and held them away. I was squirming and
twisting, rubbing my legs together to no avail. He stood,
holding the chain at my wrists, and pulled me to my feet. He led
me into the bedroom, leaving the shower running, and locked my
handcuffs to a chain attached to one of those overhead rings. My
hands hung loosely just above my head.
He turned off the shower and began to dry me with a hair
dryer, pausing to kiss, caress, and otherwise tease me with his
fingers. Under the hair dryer, my hair frizzed into an total
mess, while I continued to squirm, trying to masturbate myself
with my thighs. It doesn't work, no matter how motivated you
are. I was motivated.
He reached into the trunk and pulled out the boots I had
tried on in San Francisco. They came up to my knees, and were
the tight black leather ones with zippers on the sides and four
inch stiletto heels. I remember they were enormously expensive,
but then we're not starving graduate students anymore, so why not
indulge? He put them on me, pausing between boots to caress me
again, keeping me at the edge. After he zipped the boots, under
each instep he passed a small chrome chain, crossing it over the
top of my foot and pulling it behind my ankle, where he yanked it
snug and paddlocked it. Those boots weren't coming off without
the key.
He freed my wrists from the overhead chain, leaving the
cuffs on, and put my hands behind my head. With my arms in this
position, elbows bent as much as they would, he passed
electrician's black plastic tape around and around my bent arms,
binding my wrists to my upper arms so I couldn't straighten my
elbows at all. He took off the cuffs then, but I could touch
only the lower part of my face and head and my breasts. He
pushed me back onto the bed and, one at a time, he did the same
thing to my ankles, bundling them against my upper thighs so my
heels were held tight against my buttocks. I couldn't straighten
my legs or my arms. I suppose I could have crawled with
difficulty on my elbows and knees, but I would have had problems
even getting off the bed without falling.
He continued to stimulate me. I was frantic, panting and
begging for release. He rolled me over and lifted me to my
knees, letting me sit back on my heels, legs spread, while he
continued to stimulate me. I would have had difficulty coming
with my legs bound like that, even if he had been trying to bring
me to a full orgasm, which he wasn't. He was just teasing. He
went to the garage, leaving me kneeling on the bed and panting
with need again but unable to satisfy myself. I actually tried
masturbating with my elbow. Almost got off, too.
When he came back he was carrying what looked like a full-
sized model of my torso. It was (is) made of polished black
fiberglass. He has done bodywork on his own cars (he even built
his own kayak), and he had used the same techniques to make a
mold from the plaster cast he had of my body. It is actually
quite beautifully made. Almost a work of art. It is shaped a
bit like a thong-bottomed turtle-necked sleeveless leotard
except it is smooth and polished (inside and out) with steel
rings hanging from it in various places and lockable latches all
around the edges, under the crotch, everywhere, holding together
the two halves, front and back.
I was still practically vibrating from the earlier
stimulation and was wondering if this contraption was somehow
designed to give me release since I couldn't.
He leaned the body suit (?) -- I don't really know what to
call it -- against the mirror directly in front of me at the foot
of the bed. It isn't an exact model of me: the stomach muscles
have more of a washboard appearance than my own. The nipples
aren't inverted -- quite spectacularly the opposite: they are
sculpted to look erect and tumescent. It is an idealized torso,
like the ancient Roman armor you see in the movies, but female.
The inside is shaped exactly like me.
He unlatched it and fitted the front half against me, moving
it about until my breasts slipped into the cavities in the front.
I had to straighten my posture, spread my legs, and lift my chin
over the high collar. It was especially tight in the waist and
crotch. Despite the fact that my thighs are naturally wideset,
the piece that goes between my legs is too wide to fit
comfortably, and when he fitted the back on it was far too tight
between my buttocks. I had to squirm and draw in my stomach and
wiggle to avoid being pinched in several places and he even had
to use conditioner as a lubricant in spots to slip it shut. I
almost didn't fit into it; he barely got the latches to shut
without pinching me. After my upper body was encased in this hard
black plastic shell, he locked those tiny padlocks at every
latch.
He cut the black tape and freed my arms and legs. It
actually hurt to straighten my legs out after having them cramped
in that position for so long. Electrician's tape doesn't hurt to
pull off, though. He threw my wrist cuffs on the bed with two
paddlocks and told e to pt them on. He left the oom wihout
even checking to see if I did.
Jesus. It took me a minute just to figure out how to sit up.
You have no idea how awkward it is to try to do simple things
like get out of a bed and walk when you can't bend your back or
even turn your head much. The collar of this thing (he wanted me
to be wearing it while I typed this part, so I am) is so high
that I can't look up or down, I can only turn a little to the
side. I'm looking down my nose now, just to see the monitor.
I teetered over to the mirror on the four inch heels. I have
small feet, and four inches puts me very nearly on my very
tiptoes. Strangely enough I thought I was beautiful. In a campy
Barbarellaesque sort of way. The sleek black plastic is highly
polished, and shaped to flatter my every curve. My face was
flushed with the stimulation and excitement of a near-orgasm. I
was still extremely aroused, and seeing myself in the mirror made
me more so. The high, almost orthopedic collar held my chin
tilted into the air in a kind of regal but unnatural posture. My
hair was a huge white curly cloud around my head and behind the
black collar. It held me in tightly at the hipline, pressing
against me just above my hips and compressing my waist, a bit
like a corset. It pinched a bit until I had moved and wriggled
about a bit and settled into it. It never actually got
comfortable, though.
As I have already said, my legs are wide-set, so there is a
space between them as I stand naturally, unless I squeeze them
together. The plastic between my legs widens and accentuates
that space unnaturally, almost grotestuely; a small paddlock
dangles in the gap.
I felt around the rim of the torso. I could (can) just
barely get my fingers under it at the crotch, but not enough to
touch myself there. With my hands, I felt my buttocks bulging
on either side of the crotch piece in back. Heels clicking on
the tile, I teetered to the bathroom and got the hand mirror to
look over my shoulder. My buttocks were separated and pushed far
apart by the black plastic. In fact, they are made to positively
bulge out, even though I don't have a large behind, I am squeezed
so tightly by it. I haven't decided if that is attractive or
not. The crotch strap is wide and it presses very deeply into my
rear cleft. J likes it, though. He tells me I am thoroughly
stunning all over, and getting more so at every step. He says
this even after what he did to me later in the week. Jesus. Just
thinking about it makes me feel ... oh hell. I feel like I should
just cut to the chase and tell you what he did to me. Later.
First things first. I'm not sure I can even write about it yet.
On with the show. I want to finish this part so I can take off
the torso thing.
Before going out to him, I put on my makeup. I can sit at
the vanity, but sitting is not comfortable in this thing. In
fact nothing is comfortable in this thing. It pinches now and
then, and constrains always. The worst part, other than being
unable to touch my own body, and having to wait to pee, is not
being able to turn my head or bend my back. It's not easy to
keep my balance. I have posture worthy of a queen, though.
He was seated in his armchair by the empty fireplace as I
came out of the bedroom; he looked at me appreciatively, and
nodded slowly to himself as though he were satisfied with what he
saw. I didn't say anything, just stood at the end of the hallway
and tried to sense what he wanted. I sometimes feel like a small
and vulnerable nocturnal animal that relies on subtle smells and
tiny night noises for survival. At that moment, all my antennae
were out and testing the air.
Hoping my instincts were right, I slowly turned around,
holding my arms away from my sides so he could see all of me. The
sound of my shoes scraping on the tile floor echoed in the near-
empty room. I paused when I had my back turned, and after a
moment ran my hands over the exposed parts of my buttocks where
they bulged, compressed by the fiberglass carapace. I was
feeling extremely sexy, and hoped I looked as seductive as I felt
(I still wasn't sure about the back view). Goose flesh rose
where I touched myself.
I heard him close behind me. He took my hands and held them
by my sides, leaning over my shoulder to whisper in my ear,
"Touching like that is my prerogative. Remember you are my
property." He didn't want me to touch myself, although I could
tell by the suppressed emotion in his voice that he was turned on
by what I had done.
I let him unlock the leather cuffs on my wrists. He relocked
them to a ring set in the center of my back between my shoulder
blades. He turned me around and kissed me deeply and tenderly,
his hands exploring the backs of my buttocks, the only exposed
part of me that even remotely resembled an erogenous zone. I
trembled; it had been only minutes since he had had me on the
edge of an orgasm. It takes me a long time to cool down when I
am that close. I felt shaky, swollen, engorged, oversensitive,
and tender -- almost bruised -- and frustrated.
He sat back down. Still trying to sense his mood, I walked
over to him and, with serious difficulty, tried to kneel on one
knee in front of him. I ended up doing a clumsy curtsey and he
had to catch me when I fell against him. He asked what it was I
wanted, as if he didn't know. I thought to myself that the one
thing I wanted was to have him inside of me. But he obviously
knew that.
"Would you like me to try on the black lycra bodysuit for
you? It is finished, hood and all," I said, thinking that the
first step to orgasm would be to get out of this torso. As sexy
as it looks, it is ultimately an erotic success only for the
observer, not the wearer. If I think about it objectively,
almost everything else he has done to me is more erotic than
wearing this damn thing. But it does look sexy. And for short
periods it feels sexy. Sometimes. Like now. A moment ago I was
just miserable, and I will be again. It comes and goes.
But then I had to go to the bathroom. Not a sexy motive for
getting the thing off, but there it is. He made me wait, though.
Not that he was torturing me or anything, I just didn't tell him
I had to go. I think he just wanted to keep me on the edge a
little longer. He helped me teeter out to the garage, gently
holding my upper arm and guiding me as though he were politely
ushering me into a posh restaraunt (that image flashed through my
mind for some reason) -- except that my wrists were pinioned in
the center of my back and my posture was unnaturally perfect. And
of course I wasn't exactly dressed for formal dining. I had to
roll my eyes and turn my entire torso to the side just to watch
him as we walked side by side.
Standing on the workbench in the garage was a white plaster
model of my body. He told me how he made the fiberglass torso. I
think he enjoyed explaining the technical details. He had waxed
the interior of the two halves of the mold he made of my body,
reassembled them, and filled them with plaster, leaving a core of
styrofoam to save weight and plaster. After it hardened, he
broke away the outer mold and discarded it (I had thought those
discarded pieces meant the project was a failure).
The remaining torso was an exact copy of my body. He
sculpted away parts of the plaster to shape the interior (that's
why it is smaller in the waist and crotch than an exact cast
would have been) judging how much he could remove by the fit of
the tight leather g-string (g-strap?) when he put it on and
pulled it so tight in back. Remember that? He just sculpted the
lower part of the plaster torso until the leather fit it. Later,
he knew the torso would compress me the same way.
I really had to pee.
He went on and on explaining how he had sanded it smooth and
sealed the pores in the plaster so he could build up something
called a gel coat, blah, blah, blah. Whoopie, I thought. Three
layers of epoxy-impregnated fiberglass with the latches and d-
rings and steel reinforcing imbedded, and he could cut it off and
shape the edges by adding an interlocking flange. Swell. I still
had to pee. Several additional finish coats on the outside with
sanding between, polishing, and I still had to pee.
Frankly, I think it was too much work for what you get. I
may have missed some steps: my mind was on my bladder, and my
attention had wandered to the other object in the room, still
coered with a sheet.
"You'll learn about that some other time," he said. He led
me back to the house. "Besides, it's time to finish you off," he
said. "This is really for later," he said, tapping one of my
plastic-coated breasts, "think of this as the first fitting." As
we went back to the house, he commented that he was going to save
the plaster cast of me. He had more ideas for it. Hmmm.
So anyway, he led me into the bedroom again, unlocked my arms
and retaped them the same as before. I finally had to tell him
before he taped my legs that I HAD to pee. He unlatched the
torso, telling me that he's not into that particular form of
torture, and that I should have told him sooner. But he left my
arms taped, and I couldn't wipe myself. He knew that, and when I
was through he came in and did it for me. Slowly. It was
demeaning and I looked away while he did it, but I think it put
my attention back where he wanted it.
He led me to the bed and retaped my legs. Once again, I was
helpless: I couldn't straighten either my arms or legs. He
stripped off his clothse as I watched, and got into bed beside
me. Stroking and teasing, he brought me to a near climax again,
but again my inability to straighten my legs held me back. I was
groaning and pleading for him to cut my legs free, but he
wouldn't. Finally, kneeling between my legs, he spread my
upraised knees and slowly, with maddeningly great control,
penetrated me. Within moments I was flapping my pathetic folded-
up limbs and crying out with frustration. He began thrusting
quickly and powerfuly. At that rate it would normally have been
a quickie for him and left me twisting in the wind, but I was so
close to climaxing that he drove me over the edge and my dam
burst, releasing an entire day's worth of pent-up sexual
frustration. I made pitiful efforts to grasp and hold him with
my bound arms and legs, but it was hopeless. My pelvis continued
to contract and spasm of its own accord. I was ready for more: I
had at least two more orgasms waiting in there somewhere, and he
knew it. But he didn't let me have them. Just almost.
He left me there, twitching and moaning, and got a damp
towell to clean me with. Tenderly (he is so gentle afterward) he
lifted me to my knees and damp-towelled my still-vibrating body,
soothing me into a marginally relaxed state as you might an
excited horse. But my frustration wasn't at an end.
He slathered my torso, neck to crotch, with conditioner.
I thought he was going to make love to me again -- I was sure
(knowing what I know now, I'm absolutely sure) he would have been
able to -- but just as I was getting excited he put the plastic
carapace back on me. I whimpered in frustration when I saw what
he was going to do, and begged him not to put it on, but he
didn't listen.
So I had to cook dinner that way, marinating in gooey body
conditioner inside this damned plastic torso and feeling
extremely ... ready.
All during the romantic candle lit dinner that followed, he
ignored my rather eloquent body language -- body language that,
if it were braille, a one-armed blind man in a dark room could
have read through a concrete wall. I was reduced to squirming in
my seat, (the paddlock between my legs gouged the wood -- the
torso sits directly on it) stroking my encased body sensuously
(but pointlessly: as though I could feel it through the plastic)
and casting what I hoped were smoldering, lust-filled looks his
way. I could see I was having some kind of effect, and I hammed
it up a bit. I know he was aware that I was excruciatly horny,
(I was only half kidding when I was hamming it up) but he just
ate his dinner as though we were in a formal restaraunt. He kept
up a cheery but subdued banter, refilling my wine glass,
deflecting my heavy-handed inuendos and turning them into jokes.
He seems to delight in the incongruity of putting me in an
outrageous predicament under the most ordinary of circumstances.
He kept me "conditioning" in the torso all that evening,
finally releasing me just before bed. He watched me dry off with
a towel and, after I had had one last pee, cuffed my hands
together and chained them to my neck up under my chin so I
couldn't reach my sex to masturbate. Just to make sure, he had
me sleep next to him in his bed for the first time since I had
arrived.
-*-
The next morning I woke still horny. No relief, though. I
usually wake up feeling sexy anyway. I guess I've conditioned
myself to feel sexy in the morning: I like to fantasize when I'm
half-awake. J often wakes up horny, too, but I think that's more
common in men. He thinks it is caused by a full bladder pushing
against his prostate. He also tells me he can't urinate with an
erection, which makes a lot of sense biologically. I've never
worked for a urologist, but I'd be interested to know: When a man
wakes up with a full bladder and an erection, how the hell does
he solve this problem? Can't piss until the erection goes away,
erection won't go away until the bladder is empty.... J says the
erection just goes away if he doesn't use it for anything. Which
of course he does, now and then.
Anyway, he kept strict control over me until breakfast was
over. Then, after admonishing me not to touch myself below the
waist at all, he went out to the garage. By then I was out of the
mood anyway. I went back to finishing the harem/slave girl
outfit while he fiddled around in the garage.
Are all men hobbyists? Jeez. Couldn't he have worked on me
a little? Even in the garage?
Of course, I was chained, wrists and ankles connected as
before, like those convicts you see being led out of courtrooms
on the news but with a little more freedom of movement. I
actually hurried the costume in the hope that I would have time
to impress him with my dance routine before he decided to punish
me for the hacksaw incident. No such luck. After lunch he told
me my punishment would begin that day.
I'm still not over the shock. No kidding. Look: I'm not a
raconteur; I'm not a writer; this isn't literature. So far I've
tried to make this more than a "What I Did on my Summer
Vacation". Call it "attempted literature"; I'll be the first to
admit my success has been limited. Partly because I was
constrained to tell it as it happened, and it didn't happen in a
way convenient for fiction. I've romanticized. I've glossed over
the boring parts. Sometimes my inept attempts to be a writer
have gotten in the way of even basic communication.
BUT. I have NOT gotten over what comes next. It may come
out a bit muddled. I still feel bitter about it. I alternate
between anger, frustration, hornyness, and a feeling of "What in
God's name have I gotten myself into?" Several times I have
stopped typing just to go and look in the mirror and I don't
believe it. But it is right there on the List. I don't know how I
could have been so God. Damned. Stupid.
Okay, here goes.
The List
Column 1
Item 12
Late that afternoon he took off all the chains. He told me
to put on the black bodysuit and bring the hood to his bedroom. I
had looked at myself many times in the mirror while making the
suit. It shows off my figure well, especially my breasts,
although it changes their shape by making them unnaturally
pointy. And it is TIGHT. So tight there isn't a wrinkle or fold
anywhere in the material. It pulls up into my crotch quite
uncomfortably. Exactly what he wanted.
He had me take out my contact lenses, too, and put on the
stiletto boots again, with the chains that hold them on. And my
wrist cuffs. He had me bend over and hang my hair down into the
hood while he pulled it on over my head and zipped it from my
chin to the base of my throat. He zipped the hood to the collar,
too. I was completely enclosed in the suit. I could breathe and
speak, but I couldn't see a thing. Of course I know what it
looks like, since I had tried it on before sewing up the eye
holes. I will leave it to your imagination.
He had me stand. I was very disoriented, being on four inch
heels and unable to see, but he rectified my inability to balance
by chaining my wrists overhead at the foot of the bed and my
ankles apart at the ends of a three-foot pole, a spreader bar, if
my understanding of ASBese is accurate.
Although spread-eagled, I could stand fairly easily, even on
four inch heels. I wasn't hanging by my wrists or anything
drastic like that; in fact, I might have fallen if my wrists
hadn't been chained above my head. He left me standing there for
a moment while he left the room. I didn't know it at that
particular moment, but shortly I would learn that he had gotten
his heavy oak armchair and put it in the bathroom.
God, I still can't BELIEVE what he's done to me, even now, a
week later. And that morning was only the beginning. But one
thing at a time. I have to tell it as it happened.
He unzipped the front of the bodysuit then, from neck to
crotch and up to my lowr back. His hands were inside the suit,
stroking me, arousing me. I couldn't see what he would do next,
but I was listening intently for any clue. I was still on edge
from the previous night's unresolved teasing. He stood beside
me. I felt chilly and exposed where the zipper was undone, and I
felt the lubricated fingers of one hand working into my rear
portal while his other hand stimulated my front. First one
finger, then two went in, loosening me for three. I tried to
relax and help him. Usually, being nervous is a hindrance, but
this time it made me wet in seconds, very ready, and very very
horny.
Of course, I didn't know what was coming; so far it was just
another exciting and mysterious bit of bondage. I grasped and
squeezed with both openings, my thighs quivering with the tension
and my hips grinding in both directions at once. I guess gyrating
is the word. A few more minutes and he had me on the edge of an
orgasm again, and he stopped.
I heard a buzzing noise. Then two buzzing noises. I could
feel vibration against both sides of me and knew instantly he had
two vibrators. I squirmed halfheartedly, and tried to clench both
openings, but I knew I couldn't have stopped him.
[...and I didn't want to stop him, either, but was ashamed
to admit it ... Note from the Future]
He continued
to penetrate me from both sides at once, until both vibrators
were buried deep inside me. Each of them had some kind of stop
or flange on the end to prevent them from disappearing completely
inside, but he pushed until they were pressed tight against me.
I thought he was going to use them to bring me to orgasm, but
instead, he held them in me with one hand while he zipped the
body suit back up my front to my chin.
He put the plastic torso over the bodysuit. I had to wiggle
and squirm again to keep from being pinched. He latched it into
place, and I heard the familiar rattle of tiny locks. I was
getting frantic. The bodysuit gave me something to thrust
against, but the critical vibrator, the front one, just wasn't
touching the right spot, no matter how hard I squirmed. I was
being stimulated constantly, but the vibrators couldn't make me
climax. Sometimes, I could make it touch my nasty bits, but the
vibrators buzzed against the fiberglass like a sounding board. I
know he could hear what I was doing.
Dimly I became aware that he was unlocking my legs. I could
bring them together as much as the torso would allow, but it
really didn't help. Then he freed my arms. I nearly fell, but
he was ready and caught me and half-carried me into the bathroom
where he sat me on the armchair. I helped ease myself down onto
the seat, supporting myself by my arms while I tried to settle
onto that rear vibrator, not knowing what was going on.
By the time I was able to sit I was distantly, through the
haze of the building stimulation, aware of him working at my
wrists with tape (more electrician's tape), wrapping around and
around both my wrists and the chair arms. The same with my
elbows, my upper arms, everything. My ankles and my shins were
taped to the legs of the chair, a chain locked to both sides of
the chair and to the rings on the torso. Something -- a belt I
think -- went around my thighs and the seat of the chair. I was
frantic over the vibrators, and almost unaware of what he was
doing. I had to partly lift myself with my arms to keep the rear
vibrator from becoming uncomfortable, but at the same time I was
squirming against the front of the carapace with my sex. He must
have worked very quickly. I was completely immobilized in what
must have been less than two minutes. The torso kept me from
even turning my head. But I was rubbing myself harder and harder
against the inside of the torso.
Off came the hood. I was strapped into the chair, sitting
looking at my out-of focus reflection in the full-length mirror
on the back of the bathroom door. He stepped in front of me. He
was holding the gag. THAT gag. It barely registered, I was so
disoriented. I rolled my eyes up at him, tilting my head as much
as I could. I was panting, my breath coming in short gasps, my
face flushed.
"Wha...what are you doing to me?" I asked, trying to gather
my wits. I was becoming more disoriented as the sensations
continued to build inside me; without my contact lenses the room
looked fuzzy and I felt like I was under water, everything moving
in slow motion, but still out of control. He held the gag against
my mouth, saying nothing. I couldn't think. I just opened up
and he put it in. He didn't even bother to buckle it in back. He
stepped to the side, revealing my reflection: eyes wild and wide
over a mouth held open by the gag in a soundless scream, face
framed by a white mane-cloud of platinum hair.
The rest of me was a study in textures and shades of black:
polished black plastic, black lycra, black leather boots, my
upper arms compressed by bands of black electrician's tape. Even
my mascara and eyeliner were black against my pale skin. Only my
lips were red. My chin was held high in that rigid, regal pose,
my neck unnaturally long. Black tape was around my plastic-
encased neck, too, holding me immobile against the top of the
armchair's back.
I was an absolute total knockout.
A slight pulsating movement of my thighs and a slight
straining of my neck against the high collar and the occasional
squeezing shut or fluttering of my eyelids were the only outward
signs of the turmoil going on inside the torso. And the puffing
noises escaping around the gag and through my nostrils.
I rolled my eyes to follow his motions. I blinked and tried
to focus my myopic attention on him despite what the vibrators
wer doing to me. I was starting to slide into an orgasm. He
stepped behind me; I could see him in the mirror. He smiled in a
way that I can only describe as compassionate, and fluffed my
hair out with his hands like a hairdresser might have, but he was
looking straight into my eyes, gauging how close to orgasm I was.
He didn't say anything. He just nodded to himself as though he
had made a personal decision when he saw I was ready. He should
have said something. I had a right to some explanation, some
words, something. My orgasm started even as he was making his
decision.
There was a pair of scissors in his hand.
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