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Nurse Jones: The List part 7
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 7/14
Date: 25 Nov 91 09:34:43 GMT
Lines: 593
Reply-To: [email protected]
The List
Column 1
Item 13
Exactly in the middle of my orgasm he took a handful the
hair on my forehead and snipped it off. I screamed against the
gag. He was cutting my hair off!
I strained against everything that was holding me. I heaved
against the chair, trying to tip it, the vibrators forgotten in
my fear, but I could barely move. I twisted frantically inside
the torso, my movements made uncoordinated and spasmodic by the
ongoing orgasm. I couldn't even stretch the tape. I could turn
my head a few inches to the side, but that was all. I tried to
jerk my head away from his hands, but he easily took another
snip, again from my forehead. And another. In my panic, I
actually forgot about the gag and continued futilely to scream at
him to stop, even though I could hear I was just making squealing
noises. My heart was racing. How could he do this to me? My
orgasm wound down rapidly, leaving behind a near-hysteria. I
hadn't really meant this to happen. At all.
He worked across my forehead, from my ears forward. I
stopped fighting it for a few breaths to try and catch his eye.
If he could just see the expression on my face, I thought, he
would have to stop. I looked at my forehead in the mirror and
went back to futile hysterical struggling when I realized it was
too late to stop him. My scalp was showing through; for a
distance of three or four inches back from my hairline, my hair
was less than a half-inch long. Over my entire forehead, in a
line from the fronts of my ears to the top of my head in front, I
had a crewcut.
He stopped snipping and I tore my eyes from what he was
doing long enough to look at the rest of me in the mirror. I was
crying. Mascara streaks ran to my chin. Air was hissing through
my nostrils like a steam engine, cheeks puffing out, nostrils
dilating; my nose was running down to my lips and over the gag,
mouth leaking saliva that dripped on the black plastic neck and
breasts of the torso. My breath was ragged, my eyes red-rimmed
and round. I was making little whining noises through the
corners of my mouth around the gag.
He smeared shaving cream on my forehead --my new forehead--
and began shaving me with a disposable razor. Funny, the
scraping noise of the razor was the only sound I could hear --
even my labored breathing faded into the background of my
awareness.
In shock, I thought, stupidly: "At least it isn't all of my
hair," as if it mattered. I can't go out in public the way I am
now. It will be months and months growing back. As the razor
scraped over my forehead, I became aware again of the vibrators
inside me. It had been less than ten minutes since he had put
them in, but it seemed so long ago I had nearly forgotten them. I
shuddered involuntarily. They didn't feel sexy any more. I just
wanted them out. I didn't want another orgasm. I just wanted it
to stop, to be undone.
He was through. He damp-wiped my forehead and face and
fluffed out what was left of my hair. Through a film of tears I
could see a totally different person. My forehead was
incredibly, impossibly high. Like those old portraits of
Elizabeth I of England. My head was completely bare in front of
my ears.
He removed my gag. I said nothing. There was nothing to
say. It was too late. I just stared at myself in the mirror,
horrified and quaking, a jumble of conflicting emotions and
sensations. He must have cut away the tape, but I just stared at
myself, seeing nothing but my forehead. He helped me to my feet
and half-carried me to the bed, where he tenderly took off the
torso, unzipped the bodysuit, and gently removed the vibrators.
They were still going strong. I was in a daze. I didn't even
help him when he rolled meover to remove the second vibrator. I
don't think I even blinked.
I felt ruined. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. The only
thing I could think about was my hair. Without the vibrators in
me I continued to experience a kind of visceral nervous tremor,
like when you get off a lawnmower or a tractor you have been
riding all day. My body was thrumming with the sudden absence of
vibration. But that didn't matter. Nothing did.
"Look at me," he said. I couldn't. I just stared dully at
the ceiling, the bodysuit open, my feet in the boots hanging over
the foot of the bed. He sat on the bed beside me and turned my
chin with his hand. My eyes met his.
"I love you," he said. Suddenly my emotions all boied to
the surface.
"My God!!! How could you do this to me!!?" I wailed, rolling
over and burying my face in the pillows. While I was face-down
sobbing hysterically, I felt his hand on my shoulder. "Don't!" I
said, jerking away as if I had been shocked. I rolled away from
him to the side of the bed and got up, unsteady on the hooker-
heels with my legs still strapped together.
"Look at what you've done to me!!" I cried, dissolving into
tears again as I hobbled to the mirror and turned to face him,
fists clenched at my sides. He looked so dismayed at the
vehemence of my reaction, I realized he was expecting something
completely different from me.
"You're beautiful to me. And I'm not going to apologize. I
did it because I love you and I am going to make you mine."
Strange way of showing it, I thought.
"I don't believe this is happening!"
"I want to own you. Now I do, more than before. Try to
understand that I care more about you than anything else in the
world. You are a treasure to me." Right, I thought. Sure. His
voice told me he was beginning to worry that he had gone too far.
Or too fast.
"Yeah, well you just disfigured your treasure," I said
bitterly, turning away and looking in the mirror again. I was
quite a sight: with the unitard flopping open, I was a slash of
white nakedness from the crown of my head to my hairless sex.
"No," he said quietly but forcefully. I have never heard
him so intense and adamant. "No..." he said again, gently,
turning my face to him and looking me in the eyes. "I stripped
away more of your dignity." Oh great, I thought. Now I get pop
philosophy to make it all better. As I said, I was feeling a
little bitter.
"Doing this makes it easier for you," he went on.
"What the hell are you talking about?!"
"Dignity and pride obscure our relationship and our sexuality
the way a fire is obscured by its own smoke. I didn't disfigure
you. I took away some dignity. To me you are more beautiful
than ever, because you are almost completely mine. If you want
public dignity you can go out in public with a wig. I even have
one for you, but you will wear it when I allow it. You will have
no private dignity.
"You are not disfigured. You are changed. It is important
that you understand .... "
"I don't believe this," I interrupted. But he ent on and
on. There was more, but he wasn't connecting with me. It sounded
rehearsed. I didn't even listen to most of it, and I wasn't
buying it, but on the other hand, now, I can see what he had
intended, what he wanted to happen.
J has always preferred subtlety as a way of getting what he
wants. I know that shaving me doesn't sound subtle, but he would
prefer to give me the superficial appearance of freedom if there
were hidden chains holding me. Best would be no restraints other
than my own fear of embarrasment. Up to now I've had complete
freedom to walk around the house and yard, but total inability to
go out in public, whether it was chains, weights, lack of
clothing, or the plastic torso that kept me home. Now it is my
appearance that chains me. In public, my wig chains me, since he
can always take it from me.
While we lived in Chicago he studied martial arts. He drove
an extra hour every Tuesday night to study judo rather than take
karate within walking distance. He explained he prefers the
"soft way" to force. Somehow it is more satisfying, he says. He
is strong enough to overpower me easily, but he would prefer not
to use strength and chains except as a temporary technical means
to an unfettered but rigidly confined end. Invisible chains may
or may not be the strongest, but J thinks they are the best, for
some reason.
Even as I write this down, the words sound unconvincing, and
at the time I thought it was a line of bull. I'm still not sure.
It was definitely hard to take at face value. I thought he was
merely justifying what he had done, and that he had in fact done
it simply in order to exert control over me. A power trip.
But in this regard he has always been something of a mystery
to me. He has been in a position to control other people a
number of times, [partial professional record deleted]
but even
then, whenever possible without shirking his responsibilties, he
refused to use the authority inherent in his position. He is
genuinely more interested in personal self-understanding than in
the public trappings of success. His desire for control has
always been directed toward himself. So his desire to exert
control over me has been a mystery. Unless he regards me as so
much a part of him that I fall into a different category than the
public. No, that's not it. I don't know.
Anyway, his "will to power" (if you read your Nietzsche) is
inwardly directed. So calling this a "power trip" for him may be
a little unfair. Maybe.
And of course it IS on the List. Still, this was one thing
I just didn't think he would do. When he suggested it I just
laughed and said, "Sure, if I can do the same to you." I was
simply thinking of this in a different way than he was. He
actually intended to DO this to me; but I, instead of thinking of
something I really wanted (enough to trade my hair for), I just
thought of a fair retaliation for such a terrible thing. I
thought: He wouldn't do that to me because he wouldn't want me
to do it to him. The key point I had missed was this: I didn't
WANT to do this to him. But he DID want to do it to me. Why?
Who knows?
So in the end I came to the conclusion that he might just
mean what he says. He always has in the past. And I like having
him in control. It makes me feel safe. But God. My hair!
Even just this morning, a week later, I don't know how many times
I have thought to myself: "What in God's name have I gotten
myself into?!"
I've been round and round with myself trying to figure out
why he would want to do such a thing, and I have no answer. The
only thing I am sure of is that there's a lot more psychology
than philosophy behind what he did. I just hope there's no
pathology. I sometimes think the inside of his mind must look
like a painting by Heironymus Bosch (for that matter, mine does,
too). Why he did it wasn't uppermost in my mind at the time,
though. My hair was.
In fact, at that particular moment I wasn't thinking about
anything, just feeling pretty goddam miserable. Listlessly, I
stared at myself in the full length mirror. He stepped in front
of me, still holding the damp washcloth. Tenderly, he wiped a
smudge of mascara from below an eye and even kissed me.
"You are beautiful," he said, "Half a century ago you would
have been a great beauty exactly as you are, so don't dismiss
your appearance just because it is different. If you can't see
your beauty, then see this as a new kind of nakedness: a new
source of that embarrasment that I value so much as a gift." I
wanted so much to believe in him, to believe he wasn't crazy. I
just wasn't sure. How could he want me like this? The only thing
that really touched a part of me was the idea that he wanted to
make me his completely. He stepped aside and let me look in the
mirror.
It was hard to look without bursting into tears again. I
looked at my feet in the boots, still chained. My chained wrists
rested on my thighs, my hands trembling. He reached behind me
and rezipped the bodysuit, down my back and between my legs, up
my front almost to the top. There was a wet patch between my
legs. My eyes followed the zipper to my chin. I looked at my
face again. It was genuinely shocking to see myself that way. I
couldn't help it. Tears welled up and ran down my face again, and
my lower lip began to quiver. A pathetic specimen. I turned and
looked up at his face. I saw admiration, love, and concern
there. I looked back at my shaved forehead. Back at his face.
"You can't.... I look so...." I said in a tiny voice. I
wanted to believe him so much, but when I looked in the mirror it
was so awful. He took me by the shoulders and turned me to face
him.
"Really," he said, looking straight into my eyes. "To me you
are beautiful, and not just because you are mine, but also
because you are just plain beautiful."
I stood there, still in a daze, my eyes unfocused, my
thouhts turned inward. I just wanted reassurance. I wanted to
be sure he wasn't wierd. At least not pathologically wierd. I
wanted to know he loved me. I reached up and zipped the front of
the bodysuit back down to my waist. It took both hands with my
thumbs inside the gloves.
"Show me....?" I said, resentful and uncertain.
He looked into my eyes and nodded.
He picked me up, carried me back to the bed, and sat,
holding me in his lap. He took the key from around his neck and
unlocked my wrists and kissed each one. He stood me on my feet
and knelt to unlock the leg straps and the chains that held on
the boots. When he stood and kissed me again, I could feel a
tremor of suppressed emotion in his arms. He held me by the
shoulders at arm's length and stepped back, just looking at me.
I was still ashamed and resentful and wouldn't look up at him. It
was approaching sunset and we hadn't turned on any lights yet.
The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows, casting
shifting leaf-shadows on the wall in the dim light. It was very
quiet.
He held out the hood.
I took it and put it on, bending to tuck the remainder of my
hair inside. At least the hood covers my forehead, I thought, and
with it on he couldn't cut off any more hair. But I still felt
sick inside. A wave of near-nausea swept over me whenever I
thought about what he had done to me.
He zipped the bodysuit the rest of the way up, and zipped
the neck of the bodysuit to the neckline of the bodysuit. He
knelt and undid my boots; while I steadied myself on his shoulder
he helped me out of them. He stood and did something under my
chin to the three zippers where they came together. I could feel
with my gloved fingertips that something joined the zipper of the
bodysuit with the neckline zipper and the one that closed the
hood under my chin. (That, I realized, was why he had me get
zippers with holes in them, so he could join them somehow). I was
enclosed completely except for my nostrils, and I could do
nothing to release myself without scissors. The gloves were too
clumsy to figure out what held the zippers together (it wasn't a
lock), and I didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out
that in the game of "find the scissors first", having to use the
thumbless braille method would not give me a very big advantage.
I didn't even try. I heard him sit on the bed and felt my way to
him.
He kissed me through the bodysuit and said "I can give you
what you ask, but that doesn't mean I will relinquish control of
you."
He kissed me again, lingering over the mask between our
lips. I held my face blindly out toward his kisses. There were
still tears leaking out inside the hood. He stroked my body in a
way that wasn't exactly nonsexual, but wasn't foreplay either.
We leaned on pillows propped against the headboard, his arms
around me. I felt safe, protected. As we cuddled in the
darkening room, I could tell his attention was completely focused
on me, and I felt as though I was enfolded in the center of a
private little world, like I was a little kid again, sharing
secrets under a blanket. Or an embryo in the womb. But every time
I began to relax I would think of my hair. It kept coming back.
He made me feel secure and safe, but it was always there at the
back of my mind that something was wrong, and back it would come
and I would feel sick all over again. I would think: "Why did it
have to be my hair?" And then I would start crying again under
the hood.
"I think I'll keep you like this for a few hours. As a
pet," he whispered into my ear. As he stroked me through the
lycra, his caresses became more overtly sexual. There is
something especially sexy about the way his fingernails slide
over the fabric; when he strokes my sex that way, sliding down
my stomach to between my legs, I can't help catching my breath.
It's like the good part of being tickled without the bad part
that makes me laugh uncontrollably. It drives my breath out and
my stomach muscles contract involuntarily. But he stopped.
I couldn't read or watch T.V., it was too early to sleep, I
couldn't cook, eat, or even walk around very easily. There was
nothing I could do in that getup but try and seduce him into
taking it off. So what the hell, I tried. I could feel him
getting hard as I rubbed my body against him, and I was getting
pretty steamy too. But I still hadn't forgiven him. This was the
only thing he had ever done to me for which I felt resentment
that lasted more than a few minutes. Up to then, anyway.
He pushed me back, and said, "I think I'll take a shower."
He got up and left me on thebed, and I heard the shower start
running. I was still turned on, and I knew he was, too. I felt
my way into the bathroom and sat on the closed seat of the john
while he took his shower. I had a plan: get the suit wet and
he'll let me take it off to dry it. I went and stood at the
entrance to the shower.
"Hi." he said.
"The bodysuit needs washing here," I said, indicating my
sex. "And when I cried my nose ran inside this hood. Can I come
in?"
"Sure."
He gave me the soap and I began washing, getting the bodysuit
thouroughly soaped and soaked. Thumbless, I had to hold it with
both hands. I switched to the shampoo. The hot water made the
bodysuit relax and stretch; it felt as though it were melting and
loosening on my body. In seconds it wasn't tight at all. Wet,
it was a perfect and comfortable fit. I must be a very sensual
person, but despite my abysmal mood I got a kind of erotic
pleasure out of the feeling of the wet bodysuit moving and
relaxing against my skin as I stood soaking under the shower.
When I was through, I asked if I could still be his "pet" without
the bodysuit. He said no, and gave me a towel. I dried myself as
best I could, and he turned on the hair dryer for me to finish
after he left. It took forever to get dry. I had to hold it with
both hands again, and my hair was still wet under the hood when I
finished, but the bodysuit had become a perfect fit, exactly snug
and even all over.
He had left me there alone in the bathroom, so I felt my
way through the bedroom and hall to the living room where I could
hear him moving about. Still unused to my hair, I wanted to get
the bodysuit off to look at myself again. I was facinated and
shocked by my appearance, the same way I would have been had I
seen an Elizabethan hairstyle on someone else. Even more
shocked, because it was on me. I wanted to look and I didn't
want to look. Fools and angels rushing in and fearing to tread
again.
I wasn't in pain, though; the bodysuit isn't at all like the
gag. It's just disconcerting not to know anything that's going
on. And frankly, after a while, the enforced inactivity gets
boring. I asked if I could put on something else instead. He
said no, but he'd think about it.
I didn't really feel desperate enough to beg; besides, I was
still resentful enough over what he had done to me that I wasn't
going to humiliate myself willingly. On the other hand, the only
two things I could do were listen to the headphones and snuggle
with J, and I couldn't find the headphones blindfolded. I must
have been quite a sight, creeping slowly around the house,
holding onto furniture to keep my balance and trying not to break
anything while I felt for the headphones. Finally, I tried
stretching the hood until I could see through a nostril hole.
That was a mistake. He saw me.
"I can see the hood isn't tight enough," he said. He went
out to the garage. When he came back he took me by the arm and
led me into the bedroom. He said "You are going to get what you
asked for. The body suit comes off."
The List
Column 1
Item 14
He did something at my throat and unzipped the collar,
separating the hood from the bodysuit. He unzipped the bodysuit
from my throat to the center of my back and pulled it down to my
ankles in one motion. I was naked except for the hood. I felt
him buckle something around my upper thighs one at a time. Then
my wrists; he locked my wrists to the sides of my thighs. I know
the sound those little locks make by now. I would be able to
walk, but I couldn't see and I couldn't reach anything with my
hands.
I was already worse off than before -- but he wasn't
through. He buckled a collar around my neck. He didn't bother
to lock it: I couldn't reach it. Another strap around each leg
just above the knee, those connected so I could take only tiny
steps -- another strap around each ankle -- still another at each
elbow -- yet another around my waist with a wide strap between my
legs, forcing my buttocks apart. I remembered that one: he had
put it on me once before. This time, though, my elbows were
locked to the waistband.
A strap across my back, under each arm and over each
shoulder, holding my shoulders back and making my breasts jut out
unnaturally -- more than they ever would have even if I were
deliberately trying to make them seem big. He snapped still
another strap to the back of my collar and buckled it to the back
of my waistband, pulling it tight and forcing me to arch my back
even more.
Strap after strap after strap, and I was constrained more
and more. The last strap clipped to my collar in front, passed
between my breasts and through a ring on my waistband, was pulled
tight and buckled, pressing the crotchpiece cruelly against my
nether lips, forcing them apart. I almost couldn't move: I
couldn't bend over; I couldn't move my arms at all, even my
elbows; I couldn't see. But I wasn't in pain. Well, not
exactly.
I could walk slowly, talk, and sit. Carefully. I didn't
even feel safe walking. What if I had lost my balance? I asked
just that question and instantly he put a gag in my mouth, a
simple cloth band tied tightly right over the hood, forcing my
mouth open. I had never felt so trapped and constrained before.
Even begging for a little relief was impossible. But still, I
was not in pain.
Being locked up and helpless that way was actually extremely
erotic for me. It would have been more so if the image of my
shaved forehead hadn't continued to wash through my
consciousness. Erotic feelings in these circumstances are not
something your average midwesterner will admit, I know. I
remember thinking that if only he had bound me this way instead
of what he had done to my hair. Always my thoughts returned to
my hair. Whenever I thought directly about it my mind shied
away, but at the same time my thoughts were drawn toward my
forehead like a bird hypnotized by a snake (I know that is an
old wife's tale, but it describes what I felt). I still can't
think directly about the idea but neither can I ignore it. I am
drawn inexorably toward something I try desperately to avoid
confronting. It helps to write about it, I guess.
Mostly, though, I concentrated on not losing my balance. If
I had fallen with my arms locked at my sides ....
But J was watching over me. He guided me to the foot of the
bed and clipped the front of my collar to something hanging from
the ceiling -- I couldn't tell what. If I bent my knees, my
weight rested on the crotchpiece of my leather "g-string" rather
than my neck. Even if I fainted, I would not fall, could not hurt
myself.
All I could do was stand there.
"When I come back, I will remove one restraint. Think about
what you will do to get me to remove the next," he said. He left
me standing there in the bedroom for what seemed like hours; it
may have been only fifteen minutes. I heard him moving around in
the kitchen, and I thought. About basics. Is this wierd? Yes.
Did I still love him? Yes. Did I care if he loved me? Yes. Did I
want to end the List? Depends on how bad it was going to get.
On the cost of ending it. It couldn't get any worse. There was
nothing else he could do that mattered. I knew what was on the
List, and was sure none of it was worse than what he had already
done to my hair. As long as he stuck to the List.
He had forced me to take this latest step, this hair thing.
I was gagged and couldn't speak to protest. I would have stopped
the List then if I could have. I really would have, even though I
had agreed to it. (I actually got an erotic charge out of
the act of agreeing to it. I was being daring and sexy when I
should have been thinking with something other than my glands.)
After, it was too late. It isn't completely my fault; there is
some solace to be found in that. And how was he to know that my
written fantasies about him shaving me were just fantasies? After
all, I agreed to the List. But I was wrong in one thing: it did
get worse.
The only conclusion I came to was that in the short term I
wouldn't think about it. I would go along with what he wanted,
and then I would take it from there. That meant the first step
was to please him, or at least make him believe I wanted to
please him. Hell, I didn't want to please him, I wanted him to
own me. Double hell. I don't know what I wanted.
When he came back the first thing he did was not to remove a
restraint, but to kiss me right through the gag. Gently, he
tugged on the pendants dangling from my jutting breasts. I knew
from personal experimentation that my nipples readily everted,
even though I couldn't see what was going on. He tugged a little
more. The feeling was exquisite: intense pleasure coupled with
a sensation of not-quite-pain. They were still tender, but
fully healed, I think. Before, I would have said that pulling,
even the gentlest pulling (he is gentle when it's important) on
my nipple rings woould have been absolutely verboten. Now, I'm
not so sure.
He increased the tension on my nipples until my breath
quickened: each sharp exhalation/inhalation was separated by a
momentary pause, a holding of my breath, a waiting, suspended
with no thought except of the tips of my nipples.
For some reason, it is important to me that you understand
that last paragraph. Exhaleinhale. Pause with lungs full.
Concentrate on nipples. It was a very intense sensation. Try it.
Exhale inhale. It hurt more to exhale, so I tried to keep my
lungs full. But I had to breathe. Use your imagination. It was
intense.
Inhaling eased some of the tension on my nipples. The
sensation seems somehow to extend deep inside my breasts and to
tug directly at my womb. I know there's no physiological basis
for this sensation, but it is real. I am sorry J isn't sensitive
that way and will never experience that sensation.
No, I'm not sorry. Well, yes, I am.
I could feel myself getting wet beneath the leather of the
crotchpiece.
He took off the gag and kissed me through the hood again. I
returned the kiss, pressing my immobilized body against him as
best I could. My nipples remained erect and hard.
He unhooked my neck from the hanging chain. I fell against
him, pressing my body against him deliberately. He caught and
held me. I held my face blindly toward his; again he kissed me
through the mask. I told myself I was only doing this to get
free, but I knew it wasn't true even at the time. I was loving
it. I even like writing about it.
He eased me back onto the bed where he kissed me again and
tugged -- a little less gently -- on the pendants on my hard,
erect nipples. You can't imagine the excruciatingly exquisite
feeling of a tug on the very tip your already pebble-hard
nipples, a tug that seems to reach into the center of you and
send a kind of a lazy electric jolt through your body, stopping
your breath and causing an instant flood of warmth and moisture
inside you. Or maybe you can imagine. Until then I never had
felt it that intensely. Nipple rings are great.
He unhooked the strap connecting the back of my collar to
the waistband, making the unnatural back-arching posture no
longer necessary. My shoulders remained strapped together,
though and my breasts were still thrust outward. My nipples
ached with excitement; they were so stiff the pendants were held
out at the very tips: they no longer dangled against my breasts;
didn't even touch them when I was standing. My breath became
ragged.
He lifted me into the center of the bed and laid me on my
back. He removed the strap between my knees. He strapped my
ankles to the bedposts, my legs held quite far apart, although
not to the point of actual discomfort. Then he attached something
to my knee-straps that pulled my knees even further toward the
edges of the bed. I had never been spread so wide before. I could
feel the muscles between my thighs straining under the tension.
He knelt between my knees, unbuckled the waistband buckles
in front and opened the leather belt, exposing my already-wet
sex. He unhooked my elbows from the waistband and unbuckled the
strap that ran from the front of my collar to the front of the
waistband. Lifting my buttocks, he slid the waistband from
underneath me. I was as exposed to him as it is possible to be,
my legs spread wide, my breasts jutting, my wrists still locked
to my thighs.
Carefully, he let his weight settle gently on top of me; he
felt like a warm, heavy snowfall blanketing me. I was panting,
partly from the near-pain caused by the position of my legs,
partly from excitement. He unzipped the bottom of the hood and
peeled it back to the bridge of my nose, uncovering my mouth. I
felt his breath on my face, near-kisses teasing my blind,
searching lips.
With excruciating slowness, he penetrated me simultaneously,
my mouth with his tongue and my sex with his maleness. I was
already spasming toward an orgasm. It was hard to reach up to
pull him in while in that position, but still I tried to the
limits of the strain on my poor suffering inner thighs.
He thrust into me, teasing. Deeply into me and out. Long
pause. In-out. Pause. Every time he penetrated me my breath
rushed out in a sharp exhalation and rushed back as he withdrew.
When he paused, my breath held suspended, waiting expectantly for
the next penetration. He increased the tempo until my breath was
coming in uncontrollable pants that he nonetheless kept timed
with his thrusts. My pants merged with ragged moans, the moans
with soft cries, the cries becoming louder and louder until our
dams burst, together. Timing is all. I subsided into a
quivering exhaustion. Gradually, he became limp inside me.
It was after a few moments that the most wonderful thing
happened. The thing that convinced me that I actually was still
attractive -- maybemore atractive -- to him with my hair that
way. Hereached up and slipped the hood the rest of the way off,
exposing my naked forehead. All thought evaporated from my head.
All that was left was the humiliation. I was totally, utterly
embarrased. Even though the evening light was very dim and he
couldn't really see me, I turned my head to the side, trying to
hide myself.
I struggled impotently against the straps holding my wrists
to my thighs. But he held my head between his hands and turned
me to face him. Tenderly, he kissed my shaved forehead. As he
did, I felt him begin to grow again inside me. The feeling was
wonderful. To have him already in me, and growing bigger and
bigger, until he was stiff and hard again, filling me completely.
In those moments I realized that the sight of my shaved forehead
was the cause of his wonderful resurection. I realized he really
did, at an involuntary level and in a way that can't be faked,
like the way I now looked. Which was good. At least some small
part of this whole scene was good.
So I had my third orgasm of the day after all, and all the
while, in the back of my mind, was the thought that my new
appearance, even though I hated (still hate) it, gave me power.
Power over him.
-*-
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