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Nurse Jones: The List part 9
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 9/14
Date: 25 Nov 91 09:36:31 GMT
Lines: 738
Reply-To: [email protected]
The List
Column 1
Item 15
He mixed some of my cream bleach -- the kind for bleaching
facial hair. He put it on my eyebrows. I had forgotten about
them.
They were plucked thin enough as it was. They will be
invisible now, I thought. I was right. They are invisible.
Which, of course, is what he wanted. At least he didn't shave
them off: I could dye them back later. He left me sitting there
while the bleach did its work. When he came back and wiped off
the bleach it was near dusk. He cleaned away some runny mascara
and dried tears too. I had stopped crying and had had time to
think about what he had done to me. Somehow, it wasn't as
traumatic as the first time.
I will have to wear a wig. So big deal, I had to wear a wig
before. I can dye my eyebrows back or even just darken them with
mascara. Otherwise no-one need know that my body is completely
hairless. I am really no worse off than when he had shaved just
my forehead: I had to wear a wig then, I still have to wear a
wig. Shaving my forehead was really the big step. Everything
after that was inconsequential -- just finishing an unfinished
item on the List. I guess what really bothers me now is not that
I have to wear a wig to go out in public. It is that I am now
completely bald. I felt (still feel) so NAKED without a wig or
anything to cover me. I think that really was the last shred of
my dignity. While he left me sitting on the horse I just stared
into space as I thought these thoughts. No, that's not true. I
wasn't even thinking, just staring.
He used a wrench to loosen the bolts that clamped the dildos
in place. I continued to sit and stare, and he gently slipped
out the two devices that had held me to the horse. When he
helped me stand I instinctively wouldn't look up at him -- not
because I was still playing the slave role, but because I was
ashamed of the way I knew I looked. Remember, I didn't even
have any eyebrows anymore. You don't get any more naked than
that.
He took me by the elbow and led me through his bedroom to
the bathroom. On the way through I glanced at the full-length
mirror, but he had covered it with a sheet. The bathroom mirror
was covered too. He started a shower and we stepped in.
He was gentle with me -- although he didn't unlock the cuffs
that held my wrists to my thighs. I wanted so much to cover
myself; I tried to turn my face to the side as though I could
hide. He washed all the makeup off my face and soaped me from
head to toe. When I rinsed off, the sensation of the shower on
my bald scalp was a surprise. Tingly; it's a nice sensation, but
I was in no mood to enjoy nice sensations. I still couldn't make
myself look at him, nor could I imagine he could enjoy looking at
me, but he was obviously -- prominently -- interested. He
covered me with handfuls of conditioner, again from head to toe,
and told me to do the same to him. I couldn't understand what he
meant, since he knew my hands were cuffed to my thighs.
"How?" I asked. Long pause. "I mean, would it please you
to unlock my hands?" I had almost forgotten. Shaving my head had
kind of shocked me out of my role.
"Your body is completely covered with conditioner. Use your
body."
So I did, rubbing myself against his front, sliding my legs
between his, sliding my backside against him, and asking him
several times, "Would it please you to put more conditioner on
me?" As I rubbed my breasts against his back and then his
erection I could tell he was extremely ... ready. I know you
probably think this was disgustingly servile groveling, rubbing
myself all over him, especially after what he had just done to
me. At this point I felt I had crossed the line between
dignified slavery and genuine degradation. I didn't care.
Suddenly he spun me around and held me to him and kissed me.
He was really turned on and poured a lot of barely-controlled
emotion into those kisses. He guided me out of the shower, and
instead of drying us off, he led me straight into the bedroom and
literally threw me onto the bed, soaking wet and still dripping
with body conditioner. Without preamble he was on top of me and
inside. No foreplay, no nuttin'. He ravished me. It sounds old-
fashioned, I know, but there's no other way to describe it. It's
not that he was out of control, but my appearance was driving him
wild. At one moment I sensed that he tried to slow down and
exert his usually excellent control over the timing of our
orgasms, but he failed utterly. We slithered and slipped against
each other, and it felt like the smooth sensitive skin around my
depilated mons extended over my whole body to form one big
erogenous zone. In just a couple of minutes -- long before I was
ready -- he came uncontrollably in huge thrusting shuddering
gasps. He collapsed onto me, his face slithering into the hollow
between my neck and shoulder.
To tell the truth, despite my embarrasment at my appearance,
even despite not having an orgasm, I derived a genuine sense of
warmth (power?) from the fact that I could make him lose control
that way, and I knew that it was my totally hairless appearance
that did it to him. I had to imagine how I looked: practically
featureless. He had made me into a doll, an undressed department
store mannequin, with no hair anywhere. Except that mannequins
at least have makeup painted on.
Perhaps rather than a mannequin, I looked like an unfinished
prototype for a female android (gynoid?). I flashed an image of
myself as a kind of sex object/appliance. A sort of real-live
plastic inflatable love-doll, designed for only one function: to
satisfy my owner.
I dreaded looking in a mirror, but was nonetheless curious.
I was just beginning to get turned on by this sense of power and
the really sexy feeling of our slippery bodies against each other
when I realized his breathing had returned to normal and he was
shrinking inside me. I remember thinking that two thousand years
ago, real slaves probably got used like appliances too.
He lifted up his head and looked me in the eyes. "What are
you feeling?" he asked.
"If it pleases you, I was thinking I would like you to hold
me and touch me and tell me that I'm not ugly."
[Note from the future: I couldn't write this at the time
because J would have read it and known he was being
manipulated, but: getting him to touch my bald head was a
deliberate exertion of the power I knew my appearance gave
me over him.]
"But I'm touching you all over right now -- as much as it is
possible to touch," he said.
"I meant ... my head. I'm so ashamed of the way I look ...
I'm scared by all this."
He touched my head while I kept my eyes carefully lowered.
He didn't have to tell me he thought I was beautiful: I felt him
stirring within me almost immediately. Within a minute I was on
my way to a teriffic orgasm, made all the more teriffic by this
sudden vision of myself as a kind of sex-machine that felt
nothing, but drove him wild. I kept my face immobile and hid all
outward expression of emotion while I squeezed him tightly and
ground my hips against him the way I imagined such an
appliance/being would. All the while, though, I was secretly
building to one humdinger of a climax. I really tried to suppress
the first one, and I think I was successful: I kept up the
rhythm in my hips right through it without making a sound.
I lost control on the second one, though. It was as though
he made me have an orgasm despite myself. Although I am almost
never noisy during sex, my breathing grew hoarse and merged with
involuntary moans that got louder and louder until there was this
other person in the room panting and crying out in near hysteria
and it was me. I rolled my head back and forth and spread myself
extra wide to pull him deeply inside me. He lifted my legs up
onto his shoulders and plunged into me, filling me up.
Right in the middle of his orgasm, I reached the peak of
mine and for some daft reason I threw my legs apart, my feet in
the air. I don't know why, because it didn't feel any better,
just different. I just kept going and going, and so did he. I
was moaning and babbling incoherently, nearly having convulsions.
I planted my feet on the bed and pushed up, lifting him with my
hips and opening myself as fully as I could for him. Finally the
exertion drove the breath out of me and I could no longer make
any sound beyond faint squeaks every time he thrust. I went
passive and limp, no longer capable of any action at all.
Finally, he came to a shuddering halt and collapsed onto me a
second time.
It wasn't the very best sex I had ever had, but it was in the
top ten and it certainly was the most exhausting. I was
absolutely destroyed. It seems it is always different. This
time, I simply couldn't move. I felt I had been used. And used
up. "Rode hard and put up wet" as the Indiana farm boys say.
Somehow, being used by J didn't bother me. He isn't insensitive,
and he doesn't "use" me like that as a habit. In fact, I got
kind of a thrill out of being used without regard to my own
needs. That's not the ay I would want it all the time, but now
and then it can ... do things to me.
Anyway, it was a long time before either of us could do
anything other than breathe like steam engines. After he rolled
off of me we both drifted off to a near-sleep. I roused myself
first and took another shower. The shower knob is chest-high for
me. Fortunately, it is started with a lever you have to push up
on -- otherwise I wouldn't have been able to reach it with my
wrists bound to my thighs. I just stood there soaking under the
water until he joined me. We stood together under the stream of
water for a while; he went and got the key to my wrists and the
leather straps fell to the floor of the shower. I think the
water and conditioner had stretched them anyway. They had
stained my wrists yellow-brown.
When we started towelling off, I remembered my head. He had
bound my wrists and covered the mirrors to stop me from seeing or
even touching my scalp, so I asked for permission.
"If it pleases you, could I touch my head now?"
He thought about it and said yes, but I still couldn't look
at myself in the mirror.
I was almost afraid to touch myself there. I ran my hand
over the top of my scalp. I was (am) smooth as the proverbial
baby's bottom. I didn't have a mirror, but I looked into his
face as I felt my head. You may find it hard to believe (I did),
but after that one gesture, just touching my head, he wanted me
again. I could see him rising and neither of us really even
wanted sex again. It's almost like an aphrodisiac with him. I
knelt and took him in my mouth, and within seconds he was rock-
hard and ready for a third round. I would almost have preferred
to give him a third orgasm orally, I was so exhausted, but I'm
not sure I would have had the strength for that either.
Fortunately, before we really got started again he stopped me.
"Wait," he said, "lets give it a few more minutes..."
I stopped, but he was seriously horny again. I think his
psychology is stronger than his physiology. I sprinkled talcum
powder on both of us and spread it around. His erection didn't
subside. When I put talc on my naked scalp he went and got my
wig -- the long black one -- from his bedroom and told me to put
it on. I don't think he could take the sight of me like that any
more.
This is a new thing for me, and will take some getting used
to: the right kind of submission can bring a new kind of power.
By paying very close attention to his reactions and needs, I can
learn by experiment the kind of submissive behaviour that he
wants. It is clear that the control I can exert on him by
behaving in just the right way is subtle, but nonetheless nearly
as great as the control he exerts over me. Perhaps this is
something that I should not be writing, since he will read it,
but it is something I think will bring us closer if he
understands it.
[Note from the future: the next few paragraphs are edited
and expanded heavily from the original. My manipulation of
his reactions, had he understood them completely at the
time, would have interferred with our relationship. Now
that we are finished with Column 1 and I control this
document, I can make these changes.]
The next few moments taught me the value of not over-using
that control.
"If it would please you, I could put my makeup on now," I
said. I think he saw the interruption as a welcome distraction
from an impending (but premature and exhausting) third session of
lovemaking. That was what I wanted him to think. With
appropriately downcast eyes, I promised not to remove my wig or
try to look at myself in a mirror if he would allow me to bring
my makeup into his bathroom. I have to use a small mirror to put
on my makeup, I said, but he could watch me and make sure I
didn't sneak a peek at my head. Besides, I had my wig on.
There is a small table in his bathroom. I put my makeup box
on it and looked in it for my small hand mirror. He had removed
it. The mirrors in my bathroom had been covered, too. He is
thorough.
But he gave me a small mirror to use. My face looks just
plain weird without eyebrows. Well, not totally without, but you
have to look very closely to see that they are there. Without any
makeup I really looked like a blank canvas. I thought I would
look like I was on chemotherapy, but my face was flushed from the
shower, so I looked wholesome, healthy and pink. Except ....
While he put on some clothse in the next room, I put on a
foundation and a very pale coverup with the faintest touch of
blusher. Next, heavy eyeshadow and mascara (I know he likes
that). Then I put a shot across his bow, as they say in the
movies.
"There's more of me to cover with makeup now. I can continue
without the mirror if you will help me. If it would please you,"
I said, turning the mirror face down. I didn't look up -- I just
waited for him to react.
"Okay," he said.
"May I take off the wig now?"
"Okay."
"Tell me if I miss anywhere."
I put foundation over my entire scalp and followed it with
the same pale makeup while he watched. Just a touch of the same
blusher high up on my forehead. I could see his erection was
still going strong, straining against his pants. Maybe stronger,
it was hard to tell.
"Would you put some more blusher on? This is new to me and I
can't tell where it would look good. Maybe some on my temples or
the top of my head?" I said. "If it would please you," I
added. I knew it would. Another shot to take the wind out of his
tops'l, me hearties. Arrrrh.
When he had finished, I put the wig back on as if nothing had
happened, but something had: he had to adjust himself inside his
pants, and I knew I was touching some very sensitive nerves.
Perhaps not wisely, I pushed it even further.
Instead of my usual lip gloss, I put on a flesh-colored
blemish cover that comes in a twist-out tube like a lipstick. I
thought that was kind of in keeping with my new "featureless"
look, since it is almost the same color as my skin. He was
watching, and despite the unusual look it gave me, he didn't tell
me to change it. He seemed mesmerized. I was loving it.
So I gave my face the piece de resistance. My invisible
eyebrows gave me the liberty to put my eyebrows wherever I
wanted. I sketched in razor-thin eyebrows that had those high
arches like movie stars from the 1930's, but with an inspired
touch: where they neared the bridge of my nose, I turned them
upward slightly instead of down. This gave me a very interesting
look -- as though I were either very worried or possibly even in
pain. It's amazing how expressive eyebrows are. And pants, too.
I stood and walked into the bedroom with my eyes carefully
down, but with as much sensuality as I could squeeze into four or
five steps. He followed me. I gave him another broadside.
I knelt in front of him and, keeping my eyes down, asked in
an almost inaudible whisper, "Would it please ... my Master ...
if I wore my boots tonight?"
He cleared his throat and said, "Yes," also in a (rather
hoarse) whisper.
I put them on and walked over to the bedside table with my
back to him. I know that my behind looks great when I walk in
heels. He has told me so a hundred times. It has something to
do with those little creases under my cheeks and the way they
shift with each step. Of course I exaggerated that for his
benefit as I walked. His masts were shot away and he was ready
for boarding. As it were. Avast me hearties.
I'll never understand men. Back in Indiana a pair of well
filled short shorts would cause an entire room full of male eyes
to turn as one, and after she had passed there would be unanimous
hooting, foot stomping, and table pounding. The simplest and most
predictable things turn them on, but if you asked me what it is
about J that turns me on, I couldn't tell you. Well, I could,
but it's so complex and personal it wouldn't mean anything to
you. His eyes maybe. I can go all soft and squirmy sometimes
when he just looks at me with those icy blue nordic eyes. But
then I've seen more beautiful eyes on guys that did nothing for
me. I guess it's the whole package that attracts me. The point
being, it's too complex to reduce to a formula.
On the other hand, I would be willing to bet that almost
all men would be turned on by the way I walked then, not just the
Indiana Clampetts. I'm like most women, and I complain about how
hard it is to find a good man, how we have to wait for them to
come to us rather than going out and hog-tying the one we want,
so it's going to sound odd when I say this: Gals, in some ways
we have it easy when it comes to attracting men.
It is something you could learn from a three-page
instruction book even if you were from another planet. If they
only knew how predictable they are. High heels, tight short
skirts, dark eye makeup, all that kind of stuff. Sounds sleazy, I
know, but it comes with a 100% guarantee.
But, you say, that kind of look attracts the wrong kind of
man. You're half right: it attracts all kinds of men, right
kind or wrong. It's up to us to sort 'em out.
Their tastes are simple: they like either slinky black or
virginal white -- but virginal white with no underwear, at least
metaphorically. You see, the most important part is that the poor
dear has to KNOW it's just for him and him alone. Their little
egos need that most of all. And their capacity for believing that
is infinite.
Even better: they like to believe that most men would
overlook you because you are shy and that they alone were
discerning enough to have "discovered" you. The poor dears are so
pathetically eager to believe this that once they have got the
idea in their heads, no amount of evidence to the contrary will
dislodge it.
You're going to think I'm a cynic. I'm not. I love men.
They're easily the best aphrodisiac. And just because they're
easy to understand (some parts) doesn't mean you can't love 'em.
We might be initially attracted to them for all kinds of complex
reasons: because they are good looking, because they are
powerful, because they are mysterious, smart, talented, whatever.
All these are strengths, and we respect them because they are
strong, but we love them because they are weak, and love makes
the choice.
And when you get right down to it, their major weakness is
how easy they are to please. The old Sampson and Delilah routine.
Just push the right buttons. I could almost write a how-to
manual; it could be full of simple step-by-step instructions.
But what does your man have to do to please you? It's a lot
more complex, isn't it? And the poor things are completely
clueless. I can almost pity them. But then on the other hand
they don't have to put up with our monthly friend, do they? And
they run the world, by the way. Ah, but that way lies madness. I
like being a woman, but I can't think for too long about how
unfair it is. Being around doctors all day drives the point home
too often as it is: they have egos the size of small planets,
some of them. The modest ones. Large planets, the rest of them.
Most of the time, I can live my day-to-day existence and not
think about it at all, and then some subtle realization will hit
me. I was listening to a call-in talk-radio program featuring a
family psychologist and a thought occurred to me: have you ever
heard a MAN ask for advice on how to combine a career and
marriage? Ever? Even once? We women write books about it. Books!
What does that imply? Don't think about it.
It just isn't very healthy to step back and look at the
overall picture too often. Aldous Huxley once gave some advice
on that; I can't remember which of his novels it was in. He said
that if you are ever sitting at your desk, doing whatever it is
you do for a living, and you begin to wonder if this particular
activity is what nature or God had intended as the culmination of
three and a half billion years of biological evolution, then you
must be very careful, because you will sense a bottomless pit
opening beneath your desk and you will feel your chair tilting
forward and yourself sliding into it. The only cure is to
immediately put aside all such thoughts and concentrate on
alphabetizing the papers in front of you.
I feel that way if I think too long about the monumental
unfairness that being a woman imposes. And I feel that way
almost daily, now, as I slip deeper and deeper into this thing J
and I are doing. Not the unfairness, the panicky sliding
out-of-control sensation.
If I step back and look at what I have done to myself by
letting this happen, I feel a growing sense of panic. And an
urge to alphabetize my life; get it back in order, even though
it's simpler now than it has ever been. Let's say I actually put
on a wig and dye my eyebrows back and get a job at the hospital.
I have a good C.V.; it wouldn't be a problem to do that. But
every day at work, I would be masquerading as a normal person,
and every time I came home I would have this totally different
life. I am completely isolated from the world I used to know at
home, and from the "real" world here. And I know nobody other
than J that I can discuss this with, except the friendly folks
down at A.S.B., and that's not really an option since I am
determined to remain a "lurker".
Maybe Huxley was wrong, though. It may not be fair to look
back on your life and ask 'is this what it was all leading
toward?' Maybe a life can't be judged by the present moment any
more than a piece of music can be judged by the final note. He
was right about the cure, though: Don't think about it. Forget
the big picture; think moment to moment, since that's the way you
have to live it anyway. In any case, I feel more comfortable
alphabetizing than philosophizing, so I'll forget the big picture
and go back to writing about the bedroom. Sorry about the
soliloquy.
-*-
I was starting to feel pretty sexy again, especially since I
knew for an absolute undeniable fact that even though we had had
sex twice in the last hour, I knew exactly what to do to MAKE him
give me another orgasm if I wanted one (or two). Which I did.
And I had no inhibitions whatsoever about asking for exactly what
I wanted. All I had to do was ask in the right way.
From the bedside table I took the K/Y jelly and the vibrator
that he had used on my rear. Still keeping my eyes down, I
slinked over and knelt in front of him and said, "If it would
please my Master, we could make love with this inside me, and
you might feel the vibration and enjoy ... using ... me more."
(Good touch, that 'using' huh?) The best sex I had had yet was
when I was on top in the shower with the dildo inside my rear. I
wanted to try it with the vibrator.
Gosh, Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore. Or
Indiana, even. Shhh. Pay no attention to that woman behind the
screen. No, I'm not crazy, but everyone should know the complete
script for at least one movie.
Funny. I made the transition to being able to address him
as "Master" in the most ironic way. I was willing to do anything
(ANYTHING) to keep him from shaving my head. I called him
"Master" for the first time when he was beginning to shave me,
and once it was over, I was too proud to stop. He might have
thought I had only started calling him Master to stop the
shaving. And now I'm stuck with it. How's that for twisted?
Too proud to NOT humiliate myself?
[ NFTF: That's the end of my editorial changes. The rest of
Item 15 is as I first wrote it.]
I knelt on the bed with shoulders on the matress and my rear
up in the air toward him, ready to accept the vibrator. I was
feeling pretty horny myself at that moment. I was also being a
little daring, and I felt excited and exhilirated by it. Without
turning it on, he began inserting it. He insinuated it into me
with much more care and sensitivity than your average
gynecologist. Of course a vibrator has a little more erotic
content than a speculum. Carefully, I rolled over on my back
and settled myself in the appropriate position: spread eagled,
but this time voluntarily.
But as soon as he had entered me, he rolled us over so I was
on top. He held the vibrator in and moved it in time with our
lovemaking, but he didn't turn it on until my first orgasm
started. I was trying to hold back and play the ice-queen like I
had before, but my body just started kind of fluttering inside
all by itself. It's kind of special to have your body do
something all by itself without your help -- I don't know why.
Just as I finished, he started. I love to watch his face as he
climaxes. His eyes go all unfocused and he becomes completely
withdrawn, self absorbed, and vulnerable. Non-simultaneous
orgasms have their strong points: you get to watch.
Afterwards, with me still on top and the vibrator off (but
still in), we were just floating there on the bed. I was still
wearing my wig, and I was in a really mischievous mood. It's not
a slave's place to torture her master, but I don't get the chance
very often. I shifted to sit astride his hips; he had gone limp
and he almost slipped out at the motion. He likes looking up at
me --especially at my breasts -- in that position. I began
stroking myself. A little gentle persuasion and my nipples were
erect. I slipped my other hand down and began stroking between my
legs. I hammed it up a bit, biting my lip and moaning -- aided
I'm sure by the worried/pained/surprised expression of my
painted-on eyebrows (I look like I'm in pain if my face is
relaxed; pleasure/pain if I open my mouth and gasp a little;
pained surprise if I open my eyes all the way. I've been
practicing in front of the mirror; these are expressions that
don't come naturally to me, yet they better reflect my actual
feelings than my natural facial expressions would. Is that really
so deceitful?) I could feel him stirring weakly inside me, but
not enough. In a "moment of ecstacy" I brushed my hand back over
my face and accidentally-on-purpose knocked off the wig.
"I'm sorry, Master, it was an accident." I said, and
scrabbled to reach it and put it back on. After I had replaced
it he reached up and took it off again. I felt him growing
quickly inside me. What a feeling of power. He tells me that
four times in one day is a record that he hasn't equaled since he
was a little boy just learning about sex.
On the whole, though, I don't think four times in as many
hours -- or even four times in one day (or three, even) -- is
enjoyable for either of us. He was enthusiastic, but even with
the vibrator it was more an exercise in total exhaustion than
eroticism. I discovered that my new ability to force arousal in
him should not be squandered on private ego trips unless there is
some physical return -- otherwise it is just overkill for both of
us. Maybe we're getting old. I'm twenty-eight. But I read at
the thirty-two year old level.
Still, the feeling of utter depletion was delicious that
evening. I'll definitely keep the wig on whenever he's home,
though, unless he tells me to take it off.
"It's those pesky hormones...." Thanks, Ma.
I still haven't seen myself in the mirror. That night he
had me sleep with him so I didn't try to steal a peek at myself.
I slept without the wig, though: I took it off after he turned
the lights out, and snuggled into the crook of his arm, putting
my bald head on his shoulder. As I drifted off to sleep, he had
another erection.... ( ;-)
-*-
The List
Column 1
Item 16
He must have felt that I needed a bit more controlling after
that episode. I kind of overdid it and took advantage, sort of,
even though I remained submissive. Not that I actually liked
having my head shaved. He had me shave myself the next morning
without a mirror. I had to feel for the stubble with my hand and
go over my head until I felt totally smooth. It is kind of an
erotic feeling. My nipples were erect when I was through. Hmmm.
At this point, he started doing something new to me:
putting an artificial tanning lotion all over my body. It's on
the List, but I won't be able to leave the house until it wears
of. Actually, he doesn't put it on me any more: he has ME do it
every morning and every evening while he watches, and I'm under
orders to do it once at mid-day as well, even when he's not at
home.
But that morning, after I had shaved myself, he started this
tanning routine without telling me what he was doing. The first
thing he did was to put another one of his handyman specials on
me: stocks. Simple, but well-crafted (varnished, sanded smooth,
etc.) and functional. Two boards, hinged at one end, locked
together at the other, held my hands and my neck. This he clipped
to an overhead chain so I had to just stand there and wait.
He began by smearing this lotion all over my body: scalp to
toes. He didn't tell me what it was; I assumed at first it was
another skin conditioner. After I was completely covered, he
brought out gauze bandages and dipped them in the stuff and began
wrapping my body like a mummy. He really wants it to have a
strong effect, because I was positively marinated in the stuff.
He started at my ankles and worked his way up each leg
independently, dipping the bandages, wringing out the excess
lotion, and wrapping it tightly around me. God only knows what he
spent on lotion and bandages, but he had emptied enough bottles
of lotion to fill a largish casserole dish. I kept asking him
what he was doing, and he just kept ignoring me, not even
threatening a gag.
It took him a while to work out how to bandage my crotch and
hips, but he managed. The bandages around my waist were tight
enough to be a corset. He criscrossed my chest, covering my
breasts and finished off with only my hands, head, and feet
uncovered. These, he just slathered in another dose of lotion.
Up to this point I just stood there docile and patient
because I didn't know what he was doing to me. I began to get
nervous, though, when he covered me with saran wrap.
This time, he wrapped me in true "mummy" style, with my legs
held tightly together. When he released me from the stocks, I
struggled weakly against him, but I was really quite helpless
without the use of my legs, and gave in after only token
resistance. He wrapped my arms and hands tightly against my
sides. I had always thought of saran wrapping as rather flimsy
stuff, but it is amazing how strong a couple of layers can be. I
was cocooned and completely immobilized from the neck down. I
could wriggle a little, but after he put me on my back on the bed
I would have had real trouble even rolling myself over. He
carried me into the living room and laid me out on a folding
lounger that he brought in from the yard. A little duct tape,
and I was there for the duration.
Only at this point did he tell me what he had done, by just
showing me a bottle of the lotion. When it dawned on me that
this wasn't just a new kind of skin conditioner, I began to
struggle inside the wrappings.
"That's not fair," I whined. "The month is almost over and
I will be stained b this stuff for weeks after!" I felt like
when the month was over, everything should somehow magically go
back to the way it was before. Silly of me, I know. My hair will
be months growing back. But then, I wasn't really sure I wanted
the month to be over quite yet. He explained the List to me once
again. There is no fine print, no special clauses, no
exceptions. Nothing about what I will look like after the term of
the contract has expired. Just a list of what he can do during
the month.
He took some more lotion and rubbed it into my face, neck,
and scalp. Trussed up the way I was, I couldn't even wipe it off
against the lounger: my shoulders were above the level of the
back. I wiped a little off on my shoulder, but he just put more
on.
He turned on the TV and left me there for hours. I tried to
convince him that I had to pee, to no avail. He didn't believe
me and told me to go right ahead. I didn't. After a while I began
to feel pretty icky inside the wrappings. When I started to feel
hot he just turned up the air conditioning.
I really really can't stand Phil Donoghue. He's so icky.
There was nothing else on.
When he finally decided to release me, he first made me take
some tanning pills. Knowing him, it was the maximum dosage. I've
seen them advertised in Cosmopolitan, (Oops. Are feminists
supposed to admit they read Cosmo? Or just claim we only read it
for the articles? Hardly.... Okay: I only read it for the
pictures.) I don't like taking pills, even though they are
probably harmless (I think they are just carotene). I don't mind
smoking a little grass now and then, but I don't like pills, for
some reason. Even these. You would think a nurse would have more
confidence in medical technology. I've see a few doctors get in
trouble over them, though.
Anyway, I have to keep up the pills until the last day. He
has threatened me with a sunlamp in addition if he's not
satisfied with the depth of my "tan", so he'll have me brown one
way or another. I'm not going to fight it. On the last day, I
intend asking if we can keep going with Column One. At least I
feel that way right now.
At this writing, I'm a "nice deep" rich mahogany yellow-
brown. It does NOT look natural, despite what they say about the
new artificial tanning lotions. The second it starts to wear
off, I just know I'll look blotchy and jaundiced. It's better
for my skin than the sun, though. I think.
I learned something about myself, though. I don't know how
to say this without sounding weird.
I like being "changed."
That summarizes it, but it's an oversimplified
trivialization of my feelings. When I look in the mirror and see
something, someone, different than what I expected something
happens. The shock of seeing myself, I don't know, distorted, has
an erotic (?) impact on me. I like being frightened in this way,
sort of. Frightened is the wrong word. Horrified maybe? That's
too strong a word.
I have been ... distorted ... by J in a number of ways since
this month started. The most shocking transformation was when he
shaved my head, but even seeing my face distorted by the ball gag
gave me a secret thrill. The artificial tan, as I saw it
gradually creeping toward darker and darker colors, made me
realize what is going on in my head. Even my fanatical attitude
toward makeup is symptomatic of this weirdness.
If I could experience more extreme changes -- as long as
they weren't irrevocable -- I would do so. I'll let my mind
wander through that psychological garden for a minute:
I'd like to try having oriental eyes. I think the epicanthic fold
is sexy.
I'd like to be able to change my weight and height. I don't mean
to "improve" myself, either. I'd like to turn myself into a
Junoesque near-freak. How about measurements of 45-28-45 on my
five foot two and a half frame?
I'd like to try an allover body tatoo. Face and all. A pierced
nostril is a must, someday, I think.
If only cosmetic breast enhancement could be safe and reversable
without surgery. I'd like to see what I could do to blow J's
mind. There was a girl in my high school gym class with, well,
very pointy breasts, prominent, swollen looking nipples. I
thought they were attractive (she didn't). I wonder how big they
could be and still look like breasts? Or how I'd look with none?
I'd like to try being taller. Over six feet.
I'd like to try being shorter. In a SF fantasy called "Something
Wicked" by Ray Bradbury, a beautiful woman, transformed into a
circus dwarf by the evil ringmaster, was "rescued" from her
plight by the young hero of the story. I would like to be rescued
like that. Over and over.
I would like to try being a man, of course. Who wouldn't. I think
I might be Frank Langella.... Who wouldn't.
I'd like to try and seduce J with the body of a pubescent 12-
year old girl, but with him knowing I had the mind of a woman.
Sort of like the hundred year old young-girl-vampire in the Anne
Rice story "Interview with a Vampire."
I'd like to be covered with short soft catlike fur. And have a
tail? Or snake scales. Or pupils with vertical slits like a cat.
Imagine the look on the bank teller's face when I took off my
sunglasses.
There was a circle in Dante's Inferno in which the punishment was
having your head put on backwards. I'd like to have my upper
torso put on backwards. Imagine having frontal anal sex. I would
be horrified to look in the mirror, but it would be a delicious
horror -- if I knew it could be undone.
Am I wierd, or what?
What would it be like to have a switch that J could use to turn
off all my voluntary motor functions? The ultimate bondage. What
would sex be like? Total absolute submission....
Sometimes I feel like I would like to scream during sex, it feels
so good, but I am too midwestern to actually do it. What if I
could be a mute, so it didn't matter if I tried my utmost to
scream? I once read a Fu Manchu style mystery in which a young
Chinese woman was made into a mute: the nerves to her vocal
cords were severed to keep her from giving testimony. That would
be erotic bondage if it could be temporary.
Are you getting the idea? Being CHANGED, voluntarily or
involuntarily, is an erotically charged experience for me, and
not necessarily changed for the better, either. I discussed this
insight into my psyche with J at about this point. I think it
might have influenced his subsequent behaviour. He did things to
me, erotically charged things.
-*-
At that point in time, though, the effects of this tanning
regimen were still minimal. I still hadn't even seen what I
looked like completely shaved, except for a weak and fleeting
reflection in still water in my sink. He made sure I didn't try
to use even a makeshift mirror (like the side of the toaster
oven; I tried that).
After the first dose of tanning lotion I spent the afternoon
in the black thong (with a wig on) and wearing chains locked
around my wrists and ankles (no leather cuffs, just chains looped
around and the links locked together with the little locks). I
just lounged around reading. And clinking.
That afternoon as the sun was going down I went for a walk
around the yard with him. We strolled and did a little weeding
together, me in my thong and chains.
That evening he had me shave a second time to be sure I was
smooth. He told me I was finally going to see what I looked
like. Despite the fact that I was curious, I perversely told him
I didn't want to see myself. Even now, days later, I feel
alternately very sexy and more than a little wierd about all
this.
-*-
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