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Nurse Jones: The List part 8
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 8/14
Date: 25 Nov 91 09:35:30 GMT
Lines: 704
Reply-To: [email protected]
-*-
Afterward he washed me, unlocked my legs, and left me
on the bed, a jumble of conflicting emotions.
He liked -- in a deep psychological way -- how I looked, I
hate it; I wanted him to love me as much as he could be made to,
maybe even at the cost I had paid, but if he was as wierd as the
evening's events indicated, maybe I didn't want him as much as I
thought; he had opened a previously unknown (to me) dark inner
closet and made himself vulnerable to me in a way that gave me
power over him in an odd way (what if I told people what he did
to me?). I had wanted to be closer; now I am, but closer to
what? To whom? Also, I had given him something noone else would
have. It will be hard for him to find anyone else that would
give him what he wants, if this is any indication of what he
wants. That makes me sort of special, doesn't it? Sort of?
I was hungry, though, and in a few minutes I followed him
into the living room, my hands still locked to my thighs. On the
way I looked in the full length mirror. My hair had dried while
it was pressed against my head under the hood. It was slicked
straight back on my head; I looked like a sort of nordic Ratso
Rizzo; in fact from the front it looked almost like I didn't have
any hair at all. I couldn't do anything about it with my hands
locked where they were.
I wandered into the living room where he had already laid a
fire. It turned out he had prepared a light microwave meal while
he left me hanging from (well, not really hanging, but attached
to) the bedroom ceiling. He lit the fire he had laid, and we
sat side by side on the sofa while he fed me dinner in little
bite-sized pieces. He caressed me as he fed me, creating a
second appetite and teasing me with both the food and his
fingers.
When we had finished eating, he took out a present for me. It
was a thin gold chain that had a clasp on each end. He attached
an end to each of my nipple rings; the center hung in a gentle
curve between my out-thrust breasts. We both went into the
bedroom to admire it in the mirror, and he removed the strap that
held my shoulders back, letting my breasts and shoulders assume a
more natural posture. The chain was nice, but I still couldn't
help thinking about my hair and feeling sick inside. What has he
done to me?
He had more presents. He took me by the shoulders and stood
me facing the mirror, and told me to wait there. My shaved
forehead and slicked-back helmet of platinum hair was even less
attractive than it had been before I showered in the bodysuit. I
wanted to fluff it up or rewet it and put curlers in it, or
something. Anything.
From behind me he produced a wig. It was a huge tangled-
looking mane of black hair that reached to the center of my back.
Suddenly I looked great. Better, in fact, than I had ever looked
in either my natural color or as a blonde. The texture of the
hair on the wig was much nicer than mine had ever been, and it
was much much longer. While I was checking myself in the mirror,
turning this way and that, trying to decide if I could pass for
normal in public, he came back with another wig, this time a
blonde one in the same tangled mane style. Not platinum blonde
this time, but a more natural honey blonde. And he had yet
another: it was short and nearly matched my original color. I
could restyle it until it matched my real hair, he said.
Finally, he put leather cuffs back on just above my knees
and locked the strap between them that forced me to take small
steps; then he unlocked my wrists and told me to shower, wash and
dry my hair, and put on my makeup. Afterwards, I was to put on
just the stiletto-heeled bimbo boots.
Too much was happening at once that evening. He had shaved
my forehead. I hated that. I had learned for an absolute
certainty that my new appearance turned him on in a way that was
nearly beyond his ability to control. I didn't know how I felt
about that revelation. Still don't. There were wigs that I could
wear so all was not lost: I could still go out in public. But
would I fool anyone? Would they be able to tell? The wigs
didn't look natural to me, even the one that matched my old hair.
The others were just too stunningly magnificent to be real hair.
But then, noone here knows me except a few casual acquaintances
at the exercise spa.
And most important: did this mean J was weird in the head?
Worse, am I weird? What would I be if I found it within myself
to tolerate -- even like -- my appearance? Remember, I HAD agreed
to it originally, so there must be something there inside me.
In fact, while we were separated he had written about a slave
fantasy in which he had shaved my head for some minor infraction
of the imagined rules of the scenario, and I had responded with a
similar fantasy in which I had submitted willingly to this
treatment, and more.
I had originally started to write that letter just because I
could see it was something that intrigued J, but as I wrote I
found I actually got into the idea of total unconditional
submission. But that was as far as it went. It was only on
paper and seemed attractive only in an abstract theoretical sort
of way. The practical reality was something else. How could I
get a job and go to work now? Exercise at the spa? Even go
shopping? And in the back of my mind was the ever-present
thought that he had said this was the beginning of my punishment.
What, exactly, did that mean, the beginning...?
I wanted to discuss all this with him after I showered, but
that had to wait. When I came out of the bedroom, I had dried my
hair and put on the boots as he told me. His reaction was
instantaneous and unmistakable. He carried me back into the
bedroom, unlocked my knees, and made love to me with a renewed
urgency. I don't suppose I'll ever know what would have happened
if I could have resisted him. I think he would have stopped, but
I can't say for sure. He wasn't really violent, but I felt
completely helpless when confronted with the intensity of his
need. Just seeing me this way had done this to him. I chalked up
another orgasm for that day. So did he.
Afterward, in bed together, we discussed my feelings about
what had happened that day. He is very persuasive. It was clear
that while he was satisfied with our relationship before, he was
becoming addicted to it now. He didn't put in so many words, but
I was somehow in the process of trapping him. I admitted some
of the same feelings to him, although that day's events had
almost cured my addiction. The practical aspects of my hair
could easily be dealt with by using a wig, even at a job and
while exercising. I could stick with the stair and other
exercise machines rather than the aerobics until it grew back. I
could wear a short-haired wig and grow my hair into the same
style so there would be no conspicuous transition.
And he wanted to have me as his own, as his posession, so
that there was no question that I belonged to him alone and
absolutely. Emotionally, for me, that was a strong argument in
his favor. I finally came to the conclusion that my real
reservations all stemmed from gut-level emotional reactions to
being "different" and the nagging fear that down deep he might
be a little wierd. But there was also a kind of excitement at
being different and having no-one know. And weird or not, he
loved me and I thought I could even love him wierd. I decided to
reserve judgement until we had tried the wig out in public. But
I still hated what he had done to me.
-*-
The next day, we did just that. At the exercise spa, the
guy that runs the front desk complimented me on my hair. He
thought I had had it done. The brown wig was shorter and slightly
different in color and texture from my old hair. No-one else even
commented on the change. That evening, he got out my white knit
dress (nothing underneath, naturally, but 2 bandaids to hide my
nipple rings) and I wore the brown wig again. We went to the
movies. I had missed "9 1/2 Weeks" the first time it showed, but
it was back again and we saw it. I think he planned that
especially. I thought it was a silly and juvenile movie. I hate
it when I get turned on by something silly and juvenile.
We went to an intimate restaraunt afterwards. He made me
change into the long dark wig in the car before going into the
restaraunt.
I could get to like being wined and dined. It's great,
having a real income and living like people for a change. I have
always insisted that money isn't important to me, but having
dinner at a good restaraunt and being pampered is a nice change
from years of graduate school for J while I worked nights at the
hospital, and a house in the country is a definite improvement
over a studio apartment in Chicago. At dinner, we talked about
the List and how I felt about it. He drove home the point that
he felt "joined" to me by all this, more so than before.
As he talked about it, I realized we were doing things
together that set us apart from all the other people around us in
the restaraunt. I looked around at them and suddenly J and I had
a wonderful private very special secret together, and these
people around us were going to go home and be ordinary for the
rest of their lives. But at our table.... At our table there was
something scandalous, wicked and sexy just under the surface; I
wasn't wearing a thing under my dress but bandaids and nipple
rings. If they only knew, I thought. All this was hidden from
them only by the thinnest facade; a fraction of an inch of
material. I felt I was living dangerously. I felt I should
brighten up their lives a little. Maybe take off my wig and leave
it as a tip. Didn't someone say that scandal is merely a
compassionate allowance which the gay make to the humdrum? I
think it was Oscar Wilde. (Hey, you should see the video version
of "Salome." You know it was that play that got him in very hot
water with victorian England? It is pretty raunchy, but fun when
you think of the furor it must have caused.)
Still, (back at the restaraunt) I had misgivings. At least
he understood them, and the further we went despite them was a
measure ofthe strength of our joining. Talking about it that way
in public was a kind of a turn-on, too, in a funny way. It made
me feel that we were so very different from the people around us,
except for the thinnest veneer of behaviour and dress-- just
enough that they hadn't quite noticed yet. I know, I'm repeating
myself, but it is a new feeling to me, and I like it. I never
felt daring before. It was almost as if we were doing something
outrageous right there among the other patrons.
By the time we had gotten home that night, I had decided.
J had said that when he shaved my forehead it was the watershed
of this thing we were doing, but for me, that evening at dinner
was the moment when I made my first conscious decision to
plunge in headfirst and voluntarily begin the descent into this
other side of my sexuality. Fuck'em I thought. And fuck Indiana,
too. It wasn't even really a decision, rather a voluntary
relaxation of resistance, a letting go. What the hell, why not?
Where have I heard that before?
Not that I haven't resisted -- even rebelled -- since, but
after that evening I fought against him as a matter of form,
almost as a ritual. My resistance lacks sincerity, and I rebel
only by deliberately feeding my own fears and letting them show,
giving J my fear and embarassment as gifts rather than letting
them rule me. It is a strangely liberating experience to use and
even enjoy my own fears; to be afraid and still plunge ahead
recklessly, always secure in the knowledge that J is there and
will keep me safe even though he is the ultimate cause of my
fears. There is a fundamental contradiction here somewhere, I
know. Again, if (despite the contradiction) you think I'm not
making sense, just remember that nothing makes sense. Where is
it written that anything has to make sense? Wouldn't it be
awfully boring if everything made sense?
When we got home, we went into the living room, flopped down
on the sofa, and kicked off our shoes. He put his arm around me
and sat looking into the ashes in the fireplace. The time had
come for me to tell him my answer to his unasked question. I got
up and went into the kitchen. I ran some warm water in a basin
and brought it back, putting it on the floor in front of him. I
could see a question on his face, but I put a finger on his lips
to silence him and went into my bedroom. There, I stripped,
fixed my makeup, and put on my leather collar, ankle, and wrist
cuffs. As a last touch, I put on my nipple pendants and the thin
gold chain connecting them. Then I smeared my forehead with
shaving cream and brought a towel, razor, and mirror into the
living room, where I settled on my knees in front of him.
I began shaving the stubble off my forehead. When I was
through, I didn't look up at him: I kept my eyes lowered and
waited with my hands in my lap. He took my hands and stood,
lifting me to my feet. Together we went into the bedroom. I'm
going to leave the rest of this one to the imagination. He likes
the Elizabethan look, though. I'm convinced.
-*-
I decided to wear a wig all the time after that. Of course
he takes it off when he wants it off. But it's best if he doesn't
grow accustomed to (read bored with) my new appearance. The
visual impact is an important asset for me: it buys an instant
and almost involuntary erection from him. I kinda like that.
He has told me to keep my forehead shaved, just like I keep
my pubic hair depilated. He told me not to use depilatory on my
head since he didn't know what the cumulative effect on hair
follicles was. That gave me pause to consider: the time between
depilations has been increasing. Am I damaging my hair follicles
Down There? Anyway, every day I brush my hair back out of the way
and shave my forehead along with my legs and underarms. More
daily maintenance.
The following day I wanted to give him a special surprise.
First thing in the morning, I asked him to lock my chain back on
(the one around my waist and between my legs), and he let me have
the car keys to go into town. I went to the local costume rental
place in town, where I bought some body paint and other stuff,
and to an oriental import house that sells cheap Indian body
jewelery: silver plated necklaces, belts, toe rings, bell
earrings, etc. They will go with the harem outfit.
That afternoon, I fulfilled another fantasy. I spent the
hours after lunch preparing myself. One of the fantasies that I
had written to him about involved me as a kind of forest goddess
(sounds hokey, I know) that has green skin and tatoos of
vines growing all over her body. I covered myself (hair, too,
blow-dried) with green food coloring (quite a job, that) and
finished up with body-painting honeysuckle vines growing up both
legs, wrapping around my body, twining in spirals on my bum
cheeks and breasts, encircling my nipples and growing around my
neck and in tendrils around my arms, completely covering me. I
even had vines winding up the sides of my face to merge with my
eyebrows. It took me over two hours to get myself ready. I
finished at sunset and turned on some of the exotic dance music.
Wearing nothing but my garnet pendants, I danced for him. I
did a kind of hip-grinding combination of exotic dance and the
strip-tease moves on one of the tapes he got, but there was
nothing to strip off. It won't do any good to try and describe
the way I danced. Suffice it to say that I shook a lot more than
my pendants at him, and finished up taking his clothse almost
completely off while I danced. He was turned on enough that he
didn't mind helping me a bit there at the end. I ended up with
him deep in my mouth and we both lost track of exactly when we
made the transition from dancing to lovemaking. J had two orgasms
again. All I had to do was bring up the subject of my forehead
and how embarrased I was over it and how I wasn't sure he would
like my forest goddess idea with a shaved forehead and all.
Downcast eyes and an embarrased hand over my forehead and he was
off and running again.
Afterward, the bed was a total mess (so were we). Green
food coloring and bodypaint and various precious bodily fluids
were all over the sheets. When we showered together to wash off
the mess we ended up making love again on the shower floor, both
of us all covered with soap. I think three in one evening for J
is a record of some sort. I know I set a "personal best" record.
We sat up and rinsed while seated/sated in the steamy
shower, too exhausted to get up. Finally he turned off the
water. We sat in a delicious kind of daze for what must have
been five or ten minutes, the only noise was the water dripping
from the shower head and our own breathing. I mustered the
strength to kneel, and I covered him with body conditioner; I
like the feeling of tending to him. Then I covered myself in the
most entertaining way I could manage. When we got out of the
shower I helped him to towel off the excess conditioner; he was
ready for an encore, and we could probably have gone again it we
had put our minds to it. But neither of us wanted to. I think
the quality declines after that many orgasms. I don't exactly
know how many I had -- some of them kind of merged together and
who's counting anyway. There are only two possible numbers where
orgasms are concerned: Not enough, and enough. We had had enough.
I got his bathrobe and slippers for him and then put on the
fitted white muslin outfit. We sat and cuddled for the rest of
the evening, cooking and eating two of those great prepared
microwave dinners between cuddles. They're probably 98%
cholesterol and 2% preservatives, but they taste great. We fell
into bed at 9:30 we were so tired.
-*-
The next evening we were getting ready to go out for dinner
again and talking about this slave/master thing we are doing. He
had bought a white dress and some sandals for me and I was trying
them on while I told him that I was getting into this bondage
thing but that there were still some aspects that I couldn't
handle, the main thing (after my hair) was that we walk the edge
of the ridiculous. I fantasize about really calling him "Master"
and taking an even more seriously submissive role, but don't
think I could handle the reality without laughing. Images of
Nazis in white boxer shorts and black ankle-high socks dance
uncontrollably through my head. J had a solution.
"We need a new protocol," he said, and began to remove the
dress I had just put on. "You can start now just by NOT calling
me by my first name, and by making a habit of keeping your eyes
lowered. Whenever you speak or answer a question you will
preface your words with a phrase like: 'If it pleases you ....'
We'll start with that for a while and see how it goes. Of
course, I'll punish you for mistakes. You will have to figure
out what forms of address you can use without laughing, because
the biggest mistake you can make is laughing. Once the habit is
established, it won't be a cause for nervous laughter. Do you
think you can handle that?"
I thought about it, not paying attention while he got a
paper bag out of the closet. Three rules: No first names, lower
the eyes, and say 'If it pleases you.' And the fourth rule: no
laughing about the first three.
"I think so."
"So?" He was looking at me, waiting.
I realized what he meant and after a moment of confusion
I lowered my eyes. There was a pause while he continued to wait.
"If it pleases you," I said. I don't know why, but lowering the
eyes is a great help. Maybe it is easier for the imagination to
work without eye contact. We know each other too well, and not
having eye contact puts some distance between us. I might have
laughed out of embarrasment then if I hadn't had my eyes lowered.
Well, it was a start.
The dress he had gotten me was several layers of sheer white
cotton, midi length with long sleeves and a high neckline, lots
of buttons in front. But after I had put it on, he had taken it
off again.
"Just stand there," he said. He took a roll of white
plastic cord out of a paper bag and knelt by my ankles. Finally I
noticed we were doing more than getting me dressed.
"What are you doing? I mean, if it pleases you, what ...?"
"Just stand there," he repeated.
I stood. He untied the straps of my new sandals. They are
the kind that wrap around the ankle several times in a crisscross
pattern and then tie further up the calf. He tightened them
until they were cutting into my skin, and tied the loose end of
the roll of white plastic cord to the top. It is that colored
plastic leather substitute that boy scouts use when doing crafts,
weaving key rings and belts and such. I think they call it gimp,
or gymp or something. He began wrapping the stuff tightly around
my leg in a spiral. He spiraled up my body and out one arm, where
he tied it off and then did the same thing on the other side.
Then he spiraled up the first leg in the opposite direction,
making a crisscross pattern. It was very tight.
He continued, wrapping me over and over, until my entire
body was covered in a very tight webbing of the stuff. Every
time a roll ran out he pulled out another, white again, and tied
them together. He was very careful to keep the whole arrangement
symmetrical, my left side a mirror image of the right.
He wrapped a flanged vibrator into my vagina. The webbing
slipped off when I moved so he superglued it back onto the
vibrator. He didn't turn it on, though. After a while I began to
feel very weird. I was free to move, but I felt ... contained. No
matter what I did, moving or not, I could feel the pull of the
webbing. I felt awkward, as though every movement I made was
being opposed or deflected by something. Like being under water
with currents or something. He worked around my breasts so that
when he was through they were flattened and criscrossed and held
against my chest. Only m nipples protruded, bulging out between
the strands, pendants dangling.
Then he put my dress back on and took me out to dinner. From
the outside I looked pretty good: A blonde (I was wearing the
long honey blonde wig) in a semi-diaphanous cotton dress. No
boobs at all to speak of. White leather sandals. The wrapping
didn't show anywhere. A close observer might have noticed that
my sandal straps were tight, but there were no close observers.
We went to an Italian restaraunt, but an expensive one. I
walked slowly, sat carefully, and ate sparingly. Even so, I
spilled wine, water, and food all over the place. I wish it
hadn't been Italian food and red wine. It was a new dress. The
waiter didn't say anything, but I really made a mess.
Back at home, he cut away the strands holding the vibrator
in. He had used separate strands for the vibrator so that cutting
them didn't loosen the rest. He made love to me. I'm not going
to tell you it was the best lovemaking I had ever had, but it was
definitely an interesting experience. I never would have thought
it would be. I imagine that you probably are wondering what was
the point? I dunno, but he does good things to me, and I don't
need a point. It is a little like art, I guess. It was just
there. Because.
I kind of like being a blank canvas.
After, as I lay panting on the bed, spread out flat on my
back and feeling as though I had fallen from a great height, he
took some bandage scissors and cut the strings one at a time,
slowly. Then he untied my sandals.
All in all, a very satisfactory evening. I have no idea why,
but there it is.
-*-
Several days ago, he brought home a modem for this computer
and showed me how to log onto his work account and access the
rn news network. This is completely new to me. I have started
reading the entries under some of the headings like
rec.arts.erotica and alt.sex.bondage, although I haven't posted
anything. Apparently I'm a "lurker." Or at least I will be
until he posts this entire document and you read this. Jeez.
I'm talking to people now.
Hi, people. Two questions occur to me.
Alt.sex.bondage seems to be the most sincere news discussion
group about sex. The little boys in alt.sex remind me of a lot of
farm boys back home in Indiana. They weren't getting any there,
either. When they boast about their exploits, it reminds me of
the line from Lao Tzu:
Those who speak do not know, those who know do not speak.
(Will ya listen to me: I may well be writing the longest
autobiographical posting in history. But it doesn't matter if I
speak, because I DO know. Maybe not everything, but some things.
And besides, I have no choice other than to write this. "He made
me do it.") I'm sure many of you that post in alt.sex.bondage
actually do the things you write about, but some of you seem to
have lost the essence of what I am doing with J. Maybe I'm wrong,
but some of you seem to have become technicians, going on about
the relative merits of handcuffs vs. leather cuffs. Others are
advice-givers. Others enjoy shocking their readers with their
tales and comments. Others are almost political ("what will we
call ourselves/will society ever accept us ..."). These seem to
be displacement activities. Am I right?
My first question: I have just started to explore this
stuff; it occupies me almost full-time right now. Will it become
so mundane and familiar for me that I, too, will get into the
'lore' of bondage and take up these displacement activities? Like
writing this account, you ask. Hmmm....
Question two: I have often thought of what I would do if I
could go back to the moment when I lost my virginity and do it
over again -- take more control and do it right -- with the right
person. I was more concerned with enduring it than experiencing
it. Youth is wasted on the young, my grandfather used to say.
But now I am losing another kind of virginity. I don't want
to look back with regret and wish I had done it right. Of course
by the time you read this, it'll be too late for advice, but it's
a question I can still ask: did we do it right? Post an answer.
I'll read it, promise. This is new to J, too. I don't know what
I could have done differently to control what happened. I
suppose voluntary submission is a kind of limited control. Sex
the old way certainly is boring. 'Vanilla,' you call it. I like
that. New usage. Will we run out of interesting things to do and
then be back where we started? Will this path I have taken
escalate to an ultimate boredom?
Another question: who was Saltgirl? I liked her, but she
seems to have stopped posting. She seems sensible. Probably a
midwesterner. So anyway, a big hello to all you happytime
hardcores out there in leatherland, with special regards to Ctan,
STella, Elf, and Saltgirl, wherever you are. Maybe some day I'll
join the out-of-the-closet gang. The hell I will. I don't know
who reads this stuff. Maybe my future boss.
-*-
The next day we were showering and J was 'preparing' me for
sex again the way he almost always does when we are showering
together, by covering me with skin conditioner and exploring
every orifice until I was eager to have him inside me in any way
he chose.
Without actually saying so, I have signaled in every
nonverbal way possible that I was prepared to have sex in the one
way we have never had it. When his fingers were deep between my
buttocks, inside me, I would squirm against him, trying to push
his fingers deeper. I actually feel pleasure when he does this
to me, and the responsive noises I make indicate my sensations
clearly, but he has never penetrated me ... that way.
I have arrived at the conclusion he was toying with the idea
but that it repelled him somewhat. I must admit that my
facination with the idea was tempered with a certain amount of
apprehension: I had never had anything that big inside me there.
Also, I am perhaps overly hygenic in my approach to sex. I like
to be clean before and to wash after. The preparation and the
postcoital rituals are important to me: he almost always leaves
me a little excited afterward, no matter how sated I was during,
so cleaning up afterwards is an erotic experience. The odor of
soap evokes a more erotic response in me than the various
secretions our bodies make. It's conditioning, I guess.
Anyway, I think the hygenic aspect might still be what
bothers us both most, even now. So while we were showering I
made a tentative suggestion. It was very very hard to bring up
this subject for the first time. ASB'ers probably already know
that.
"You must know that I get tremendously turned on when you
do that," I said, trying to approach the subject obliquely.
Which was difficult, considering that I was near orgasm and he
had a number of fingers deep inside various parts of me. He
didn't answer.
"If you want me ... that way ... I could clean myself.
Inside, I mean." He still didn't answer. "If it would please
you," I added. We both got more interested in other things at
that point and further discussion had to wait until later.
I have worked in internal medecine, and have prepped
patients for rectals before. I explained. Not all the gory
details, but enough that he knew that I knew what to do.
"I hadn't even thought ... " he said.
But the thought had obviously taken root. For the rest of
the week, in the back of my mind was the thought of what would
come later.
-*-
I took a chance making that suggestion. You see, this whole
thing is something of a game. I can't seem too forward when I
suggest an innovation like that. He must take the lead and I
must follow. Reluctantly. And it is best for me when I can
resist what he does to me, even though I may secretly want it.
That way the responsibility is his. He has to believe that I am
going along against my will, at least to some extent -- which has
always been true up to now. He gets me so turned on that I want
to go forward despite a certain amount of trepidation about what
he will do to me. I am always afraid, but ready to do the next
item on the List, even though I don't know what it is. It is
only after he has started that I sometimes chicken out, even
though I agreed to it when we made up the List. But by then it
is too late. Still rushing in and fearing to tread. In fact,
today, having settled down a bit, I can even look back on when he
shaved my forehead with an equanimity that borders on sensuality.
He must know by now that I have come to like what he is
doing to me. I am becoming addicted to him. But I have to walk
a tightrope for both of us. He would lose interest if I gave in
too easily. I have to fight it all the way. So we have these
three silly rules just so I can break them so I can be punished.
Except that when he thinks I have transgressed deliberately the
punishment is much worse. He always makes me regret it. Like
this last time. He walks a tightrope too: he always makes a
time come when I myself don't know if I want him to stop. After
that, sometimes, I genuinely want him to stop, but he never does.
And if he did, I would be disappointed afterward. I knew when we
made up the List there would be some things that I would want to
stop, but I also knew intellectually that nothing on the List
could actually hurt me.
There seems to be a lot of discussion on ASB about
safewords. I think I get more of a thrill working without a net.
That's not true: the List is my safety net, and I to hang onto
that rather than a safeword. I'd have to trust J either way,
safeword or List, but the List allows me to feel I have no net. I
think a safeword would spoil it for me somehow, although it sure
would make life easier for J. He watches me like a hawk. I like
that. But he watches for real intolerable pain, not just what I
don't like. There's a grey area at the edge of the limits set by
the List. That's the terra incognita where we play. He stays
within the limits of the List, but takes liberties insofar as the
List and common sense let him. I dunno. maybe a safeword is
better. We're new to this and haven't really run into any
genuinely harmful situations yet.
I have a sneaking suspicion that my presumptuous suggestion
in the shower is what earned me the rest of my punishment, even
though he later acted on the suggestion. If I get too forward, he
takes control again by doing something else awful to me.
Remember the "rest of the punishment?" Shaving my forehead was
just the beginning? Well, it would have come eventually anyway.
-*-
The smell of neatsfoot oil has become a turn-on for me. My
next punishment began with the leather straps. I don't need to
describe again how he immobilized me, except this time he left
the strap between my knees off so I could take normal-sized
steps. My arms and shoulders were still strapped back so that
my breasts were unnaturally prominent; strapped so far back that
the chain between my nipple rings was taut.
He told me to follow him out to the garage, where he showed
me the contraption that he had kept covered with a sheet. It
looked like a wooden sawhorse -- in fact he called it a horse --
except that there were two horizontal parts side-by-side instead
of the usual one, and they were separated by a space. And in the
middle, on either side of these pieces, were two blocks of wood
shaped to form a tiny, smooth, wooden saddle, also split down the
middle by that same space. The whole was sanded and varnished
quite expertly.
He let me see it. That was all. Then he took me back to
the bedroom, put the hood on me, and locked my collar to a chain
attached to the bedpost. I had to sit on the edge of the bed and
wait, listening to him move around the house, wondering what he
was doing, and what the "horse" gizmo was for.
Finally, he led me into the living room where he hooked the
shoulder straps to something overhead, and my ankles to something
that held them apart; blindfolded, I couldn't tell what. I
also couldn't fall, and I couldn't bring my legs together. He
unbuckled the crotch strap and I felt him begin to insert
something into me. I squirmed against it, but it was only a
token squirm. I knew he had control. Besides, it wasn't
particularly large and didn't hurt, although I could feel it was
hard. It was well lubricated and completely painless. I assumed
it was a dildo. He did the same to my rear opening. I squirmed
harder against this second intrusion, but I was already getting
turned on by the first and ended up voluntarily relaxing enough
to accept the second device. He pushed the two deep into me and
held them, and I stood there, hooded, docile.
I felt something heavy brush between my legs. I didn't know
for sure, but from the noise and the prelude, I expected it to be
the horse. He told me to sit. Slowly. As I did so he
manipulated the dildos inside me into position. I didn't know
what he was doing at the time, but I soon learned that he had
slipped the ends of the dildos into the slot in the seat of the
horse and clamped them tightly (with a wrench) into place with
bolts that pulled the two parallel horizontal pieces together to
hold the dildos immobile. Once he began removing the hood and
the other restraints, I also found that the two dildos were
nearly touching deep inside me, separated only by the floor of my
vagina and the anterior wall of my rectal cavity.
When he was through I was completely unfettered: not a scrap
of leather anywhere on my body. Even my hands were free, for
what good it did me. The dildos were rounded and smoothed wooden
dowels, each covered with a condom to make it comfortable (and
splinter-free, thank God). They were clamped into position so
that even if I tried to stand up they wouldn't slip out. No
matter how I moved, I couldn't get off the horse without causing
myself pain, maybe even damage. Yet there were no visible
restraints.
"What have you done to me?!" I asked in an unsteady
voice. I looked around me, twisting as far as I could to see
what he had done, becoming increasingly nervous and uncertain. I
felt over the device that held me seated. The bolts were far too
tight for my fingers to budge them. I ran my shaking hands over
both places where the dildos disappeared into me; they were far
too firm to be shifted. I wasn't uncomfortable so long as I
didn't try to move, but I had no choice about getting free of the
thing. I had to sit there and wait for what came next.
He told me he wouldn't free me until I had an orgasm while
he watched. With my hands free, I was able to masturbate, but it
was really embarrasing, sitting there in the middle of the room.
To the casual observer I would have looked like a naked woman
sitting astride a simple wooden sawhorse. Admittedly, a naked
platinum blonde elizabethan woman with no pubic hair and a chain
connecting her nipples, but even so, you wouldn't have known that
I couldn't get up.
I really tried masturbating, but I just couldn't get into
it. On the horse, I just couldn't make it work. He stood in
front of me, hooked his finger under the chain between my
nipples and pulled me gently but firmly toward him. The horse
would let me lean just so far. My nipples stretched out to points
in front of me.
"Try again," he said, "harder." I was in too delicate a
position to resist him, and he knew it. I tried again, harder.
I still couldn't.
He put the hood back on me, and strapped my wrists to my
thighs again, and my shoulders back in that unnatural position.
I waited. When he took the hood off again, there was a small end
table in front of me. On it were a pair of scissors, a basin of
water, shaving cream, a towel, and a razor.
"Oh no, please!" I said. "I will do anything! Not the
rest of my hair!"
He didn't answer.
"I'm sure I could climax if you just let me try again..."
No response. "Master! I can call you Master now," I babbled.
"I was waiting to tell you! Truly! I can really do it! No
problem!" He knew I would have said anything to stop him,
although my last plea caught his attention, I could tell. He
gave me an appraising look and shook his head almost sadly as he
picked up the scissors.
It's no good begging when he's like that. I let out one last
whimpering cry as he stepped forward to begin.
"Please? Master?" I whined, my voice breaking and dissolving
into a kind of hiccuping crying sob. He kissed me gently on the
forehead and started cutting right away, with no nonsense or
teasing. I let out a cry that sounded like I was in pain when he
took the first cut. I was crying openly, just saying "No, please,
no, please please please don't please ..." over and over. I
could see my hair falling on the floor around me as he cut it
away, but I didn't even try to resist. I suppose I could have
twisted my head from side to side or something, but he would have
won in the end.
This time there was no mirror for me to see myself in,
and I was grateful.
He lathered my entire scalp with the shaving cream and went
to work shaving my head while I whined and blubbered in
frustration and tugged ineffectually against the straps holding
my wrists to my thighs. I had figured that maybe my bangs didn't
need to grow out to the same length as the rest of my hair in
order for me to be presentable in public. I had figured maybe I
could do something with a bandana. Now it will be half a year
before I can go without a wig.
He damp-toweled my scalp and kissed me on the mouth,
muffling my near-hysterical whimpering.
"My God but you're beautiful," he said. "Now for the
finishing touch..."
That focused my attention and stopped my crying immediately.
"Finishing touch?" I thought, "what's left to do to me?"
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