Archive-name: Bondage/njlist01.txt

Archive-author: Nurse Jones

Archive-title: The List -  1 of 20





The List

Prologue



Dear Michael Who Has Great Puns,



     Thanks again for offering to post this for me. Nobody else even

offered. In fact, all I got was a flood of E-wannafucks from people

with nurse fetishes. Some of them were pretty icky. It was nice to get

a letter from someone that seems normal. So you get the dubious honor

of handling my tale ;-) Of being IN it even :) because this is the

beginning of it.

     Yours gratefully,

     Nurse Jones





Dear Everybody Else On ASB,



     I imagine that most prologues are the last part written. This one

was. I wrote it at the last minute before sending this to Michael. If

I can make this thing work, the next 12 files will contain a nearly

true account of what happened to me during the Spring of 1991. I say

"nearly true" because I have changed details that might identify us.

I'll just be "M". Our physical descriptions are accurate. And I am

really a nurse from Indiana, but everything else that might identify

us is false. Please, as a favor to me, don't take it as a challenge to

try and trace it back to me. I'm not ready to come out of the closet

yet. I don't think J (I'll call him that) is either.

     Feel free to copy it (except for profit), but hey: give credit

where it's due. Besides, I made a notarized copy last April. Then I

sent it (on diskette by anonymoUS mail) to some ASB regulars that give

real names in their sigs. I asked that they post it for me. It never

appeared. Then came wizvax. I reread and rewrote it just for the hell

of it and here it is. I don't have a spelling checker. J tells me I

misspelled "embarrassment" all the way through.

     At the end of the diary, it appears that I left J to get my head

back together. I'm back, and we're married now, so it has a happy

ending even if it doesn't look that way.

     It is called "The List" and it is in two columns. This is Column

One. We started Column Two before we got married. If you like column

one I'll post column two. Sorry if this doesn't make sense. You'll

have to read it to have any idea at all what I'm talking about.

     I tried to make it as readable as possible, recreating dialogue

and putting in my own thoughts as I went along. You're probably tired

of the undiluted screwing you read on rec.arts.erotica and

alt.sex.bondage anyway. And since what follows really happened, maybe

you'll forgive me for writing about what went on inside my head as

well as inside the rest of my anatomy. Also, mistakenly believing that

hindsight improved the clarity of my vision, I couldn't resist going

back and screwing up the spontaneity of the first writing.

     If I tell you it's a true story, you'll think, "Yeah, sure,

right. Where have I heard that before." But it is. So there. If I tell

you my top "made" me write it, you'll say, "that's how they all

start," but he did. It was kind of a bargain that we made, J and I,

before I even knew the news net existed.

     Before I knew a lot of things.







The List

     Column One

       Item 1



     He's at work now, but he told me to start writing this while he

is gone. So here I sit, not knowing where to begin. So I made the big

"H" at the beginning just for something to do. I want you to under-

stand that I am doing this because J told me to, not because I think

anyone should know what happened last night. He says I am to write it

in the first person, just like I were telling it to a stranger, rather

than to him. It is, ultimately, part of the bargain we made.

     Okay, I said that. What next? I just don't know where to start.

Earnest Hemingway said always start with the first true thing. I guess

I'll begin at the beginning, and when I come to the end, I'll stop.

Hey, it worked for Alice in Wonderland, someone I have a lot in common

with at the moment.

     Six months ago, we were living together in Chicago where I was

working as a nurse. He got a terrific job offer and had to move. I

didn't want to give up the security of my job, so we split up. We said

it would somehow only be temporary, and I stayed behind in the windy

city.

     Neither of us was particularly happy with the separation, and we

wrote to each other almost daily. The letters got pretty steamy, and

we began trading fantasies--fantasies we had never discussed when we

lived together. We started with pretty tame stuff like being on a

tropical island together, or in a snowbound cabin, but gradually we

escalated to fantasies of being each other's slaves, B&D, and so

forth.

     Every letter I wrote included comments on his last letter and a

new fantasy of my own. He did the same. We became a two-person liter-

ary critics circle. I think it was easier to write about these things

than to talk about them face to face, maybe because broaching a

subject like this for the first time requires such delicacy. You have

to be absolutely sure you get the words right before you say them. You

can't go back and edit a conversation the way you can a letter.

     The months wore on; he became assured of success at his new job

and bought a house, while I began to feel more and more isolated and

left behind. I was working three 12-hour night shifts a week, sleeping

days, exercising less and less, reading his letters, and doing little

else. I saw no-one, didn't even go to the movies. Our fantasy life--in

letters--grew until, as I became more and more lonely, it occupied

most of my waking thoughts and I came to want to act out those fanta-

sies. I wanted desperately to get back together with him. Move in with

him and live with him again. I could quit my job--I would be able to

get a nursing job anywhere. But he didn't ask me to, and I couldn't

bring myself to ask him. Midwestern pride, I guess.

     After we had explored our fantasy life pretty thoroughly he wrote

a fantasy in which he came to visit me and we arranged to get back

together and live out the fantasies we had written about. In my next

letter I commented that I thought that was the one I liked best, and

we began to write seriously about actually doing it, planning explic-

itly to get back together. The character of our letters changed: we

wrote more practical fantasies, things that we could actually do, and

how we would do them. And we planned for the future. I was to quit my

job and get a job where he lived. Nurses are in demand everywhere,

although salaries are lower in the South. I was getting pretty tired

of Winter in Chicago anyway. You could freeze to death on the way to

stand in line to sort out the phone bill the company screwed up if it

wasn't for the muggers being so tightly crowded onto the streets that

you didn't have room to freeze in the first place.

     Besides, I was tired of being lonely. Once I had made the deci-

sion, my mood changed dramatically. Suddenly, instead of being lonely,

sexually frustrated, and obsessive about getting and writing letters,

I was optimistic, lonely, sexually frustrated, and obsessive.

     We got together briefly before I left Chicago. J had written a

letter telling me he would visit. Our last few letters had carried a

long list of fantasies back and forth between us. We added to the list

every time it changed hands. Ultimately it contained nearly everything

we had written about and some new things we hadn't. In his final

letter he told me he had a chance to come back to Chicago on a job-

related trip and wanted to see me. About that list.

     Below is a part of the letter, copied verbatim (so I keep let-

ters.):



       "I want you to understand something clearly before I arrive. We

     have been very close, but the last four months have put a dis-

     tance between us that our letters have only partly bridged. When

     you come [down here] we will be trying something neither of us

     has done before. The newness will perhaps be the best and most

     exciting part of it. We may be starting something new for us in a

     larger sense, too. When you come, I want you to feel that you are

     coming to something new, and I want to feel anticipation--maybe

     even a little apprehension?

       "For this reason, even though I will be visiting you in a few

     days, I don't want to just start up where we left off. I don't

     know if I can adequately explain this, but I don't want my visit

     to act as a transition from our old relationship to the new.

     Instead it should be a break. A point of demarcation. I don't

     want my visit to be 'business as usual' for us.

       "The fantasies we have written about are part of what is

     pulling us back together. I don't know if an active fantasy life

     is a sound basis for a relationship, but if we are going to do

     this, I want to do it right. Fantasies are killed by reality;

     fortunately the time we have spent apart has removed some of the

     reality from our relationship. Fundamentally, I know you are the

     person I love and trust. That is still the most important reali-

     ty. But almost as important: we have learned new things about

     each other through our letters, things that make each of us, to a

     certain extent, strangers. I want to meet you for the first time

     again, now that I realize you're not exactly the person I thought

     I knew. Can you understand that? And if I believe there is a

     large and mysterious territory to be explored inside your

     head--which I am beginning to suspect is the case--so much the

     better. Fantasies take root in the unknown, not the commonplace.

       "So I'm not going to throw you across the bed the minute I walk

     in the door, though we have both waited a long time and I will

     want to. We will take care of our plans, sleep apart, and I will

     come back here to wait for you. Can you stand that? Can you stand

     me being a stranger?"



     There was more, but that is the relevant part. When he arrived I

forgot completely, of course, and went to kiss him. He pulled away

from me. It was an interesting evening. We both knew we were horny as

hell, and we covered some of the sexiest topics of conversation I have

ever heard, but we didn't have sex. We barely touched. I was not happy

about it.

     Instead, we got out paper and went over the list of fantasies and

scenarios that we had accumulated. We cut the items out with scissors

so each was on a separate slip of paper. It became a kind of game. We

added to the list. Anything we had written about or read about--

anything. From feathers and g-strings to piercing, tatoos and bondage.

Even hypnosis, although neither of us knew any more about it than we

had read in a popular book on self-hypnosis. Things we wanted to do to

each other, things we wanted done.

     Then there followed an hour of negotiation during which we paired

up our slips of paper. If you wanted to do that to me, then I would

get to do this to you; if I do that for you, then you do have to do

this for me. The price of column 1 is column 2. The result was a two-

column list of equal and opposite (re)actions.

     The deal was this: if one of us does something on the List, that

automatically gives the other the right to do the corresponding thing

from the other column. Fair is fair. His list ended up longer than

mine: I wasn't able to come up with as many ideas as he did, so some

things got left off. Still, it was a long list. There were things I

really didn't want to do and things I really didn't want him to do on

the List, but they were paired with fair retaliations and things I

wanted bad enough that I would agree to his wants. Eventually it

became clear that some things had no single equivalent, and that

sometimes several scenarios had to be added together to achieve a

balance. Any later changes were to be agreed on by both parties and

balanced just the way the list was. Is.



       [Note from the Future: Writing and posting this on electronic

     mail was one of the things on the List, by the way. In my column,

     that is. At the time I had only a hazy idea what E-mail was.]



     We both got excited making up the List, but still he wouldn't

make love. He took me out to dinner instead, and we talked. We had a

booth, fortunately, because that conversation was a very intimate one.

I told him in very general terms what turned me on, and he did the

same; we kind of danced around, getting more and more honest with each

other. We traded admissions that neither of us had ever thought we

would voice aloud. It was by far the most open verbal discussion I had

ever had about my inner desires. We told each other of fantasies that

were so unrealistic they could never be made reality, but they did

give us insights into each other's motivations. Things like experienc-

ing what it would be like to be the opposite sex, or stupid little

fantasies like mine about being an alien that is able to change the

shape of my body and his in interesting ways and that comes to earth

and has sex with him, captivating him with my alien biology. Our

conversation got steamier and steamier, but still we acted, on the

surface, like we had just met. We didn't even touch. It was actually

very erotic, especially with all those people around us that didn't

know what we were talking about.

     Imagine the excitement of a mysterious, sexy stranger abouth

whose safety you don't have to worry (i.e. not a pervert or HIV

positive) and whom you know you will eventually bed. Yet he is still

mysterious. Safe danger.

     We made plans for the future. It would take me a while to quit my

job and find a sublet for the apartment. Our part of Chicago is full

of student rental property and the demand for apartments is seasonal.

In the end, there were two more months of letters and frustration

while I tried to sublet.

     But our plans, at least, were finalized that night. On a flip of

a coin, while we were waiting for desert, he won first choice on the

List, and he chose that I would be his slave for a month, to start the

day I arrived at his place in [deleted].

     Over desert, I asked what he wanted to get out of that month; I

got some very interesting answers. So interesting that we sat there

until the restaurant closed, talking about it. Actually I was trying

to get him so turned on he would change his mind about waiting until I

came south. Anyway, it was an education to learn what he wanted. I am

tempted to say that there were layers upon layers of psychology to

peel away, but it was really just very complex and convoluted.

     He wanted to control me--at least for a while, the month's

duration of the List. But he doesn't want simple submission. I am

supposed to resist, but it must be more than resistance against him;

he seems to want me to resist something in myself as well. If possi-

ble, I should discover that part of me that likes to be controlled and

I should fight against that as well as against the more superficial

physical control permitted by the list. As I say, it is convoluted.

     He wants me to search my own mind to look for these tendencies

and see if I can bring them out, almost the way an actress looks

within her own experience to find something to make a performance more

convincing. It was clear from the turn our letters had taken that

there is something there to find; he was sure of it. So am I, but I

don't know what, exactly.

     (I have an inkling after last night.)

     But he didn't want acting; if what he was looking for just wasn't

there, he didn't want me to pretend it was.

     Another convolution: Knowing that I was willing to do this for

him became a kind of a second layer, a hidden backdrop to the more

superficial physical aspects.

     Letting him know that I was doing this willingly--despite my

superficial (but real) resistance (I told you it was convoluted)--

became another undercurrent. More than a second kind of submission, it

was something akin to a gift that proved my love and trust, because it

would necessarily be something voluntary that he could neither force

nor control.

     Remember: all these psychological undercurrents are not reality;

this is what he wants reality to be. I have no idea what it actually

is. Maybe they are the same. Sort of.

     And of course, it has to be for him alone. He wants to know that.

This is an ironic twist. My mother--and all my friends, too--always

told me that the best way to keep a man is to make him think he might

lose you: let him know that you can get another man any time you want.

But I have learned something from J that he didn't mean to teach me.

What he wants in our relationship can't be very easy to find; I mean,

even bringing up the subject of bondage was an almost insurmountable

obstacle in itself. It would be almost impossible for him to find

anyone else that could be the kind of person he wants. If I can be

that person, I will be irreplaceable. He'd never find another one like

me, never. If, somewhere inside, I'm really like that, I'll have him

trapped, tied (bound?) to me by the fact that I'm the only one that he

will ever find that can give him what he needs.

     Maybe I am that kind of person. I certainly feel that way right

now, after the first day. If I could feel this excited about our

relationship forever, I guess I'd become that kind of person.

     So anyway, there we were in the restaurant. After all that

talking, I felt like a little applied theory, so I asked him what he

would do first when we started. I looked him straight in the eye and

gave him my most brazenly innocent look across the table. I can wear

my innocence at such a rakish angle it makes me seem positively

debauched. He got the message.

     He told me he would wait until we were in a public place, like a

restaurant (thrill), and would reach into his jacket pocket and take

out a manila envelope. He paused significantly and looked me straight

in the eye right back again.

     Then he reached into his jacket pocket (chills, excitement) and

took out a manila envelope. My heart started thudding and my breath

became short. He was going to do something right then, I realized. I

don't know if he improvised this or not. Now that I think about it, he

must have, because he took some papers out of the envelope before he

gave it to me.

     "Go into the ladies room and put all your underwear in this," he

said.

     I did. Bra, panties, pantyhose. I gave him the envelope.

     As I sat there, feeling increasingly sexy, he gave me detailed

instructions for several outfits I was to make during the next few

weeks while I was waiting to come to him. I know it's not a very good

career move to be good with a sewing machine, but I am. And I am NOT a

housewife type, as will become clear after you read about last night.

First I have to fill you in on the rest.

     By the way, he kept his promise: he never touched me that night;

the bit with the underwear was just him being him.



     It is a comfortable two-day drive from Chicago to his new house,

though I could have made it in one. I arrived about four in the

afternoon. Actually, it is not a new house: it is old. I can't tell

you exactly where it is, but it is a really luscious house. [He also

won't let me use the clinical names for parts of the body that nurses

know so well, so if I seem a little victorian in my language, now you

know the reason why. In fact, he gives a lot of instructions about

everything, not just how to write this.]

     I can say we live in a very warm climate--almost Mediterranean.

The house has high ceilings (twelve feet in the living room), tile

floors, a red tile roof, and lots of stucco arches. And a fireplace

with a magnificent mantle. It's one of those pseudo-Spanish houses

that were so popular in the 1930's. It's still nearly unfurnished,

even though he's been living here six months. Men are hopeless.

     There is a rather cavernous living/dining room, with two sofas

(one large, one small) and an armchair clustered around the fire

place, and a big oak table with two chairs in the middle of the room.

There is a deep fluffy white rug in front of the hearth. No curtains,

almost no other rugs, no pictures on the walls except in the (ahem)

master bedroom.

     He carried my suitcases into the house; our footsteps on the tile

floors echoed in the near-empty rooms. Half the light switches don't

work and the place needed (still needs) sweeping: sand had been

tracked into the house and made a scratching noise underfoot against

the tile floors. In fact, with the exception of my bedroom, the whole

place is only superficially clean. There are quite a few cobwebs and

the windows are dusty. Dead roaches the size of small mammals.

     He put my luggage in the spare bedroom. My bedroom. It is spot-

lessly clean and furnished completely in white. The bed is an old-

fashioned single, iron, in a sort of early-hospital style, painted in

white enamel. Walls: white, chest of drawers: white; simple chair and

bedside table: both white. No rug, no curtains, no pictures on the

wall, and nothing in the closet. A bright overhead light and a small

nondescript reading light on the bedside table. That is the total

contents of the room. I could feel like a nun if it weren't for last

night.

     Somehow, it bothers me a little that he went to all that trouble

to prepare my room for me. All in white, I mean. It's just a little

odd.

     Normally, separate bedrooms would be something you would associ-

ate with elderly conservative couples or people on the verge of

divorce, but we weren't even married. We were SUPPOSED to be living

together, so this was verging on weird and I wanted an explanation.

Which I got. It was nothing more than an enforced continuation of the

newly distant relationship he had written about and that we had

formally started during his visit to Chicago. We had grown apart

somewhat, he said, and he wanted to keep it that way for a while

longer. Somehow it was nicer in theory than in practice. I guess the

bedroom had made me feel a little alienated.

     "Besides," he said, "you are my slave now, and not supposed to

ask questions." I had almost forgotten. Well, not forgotten, but I

wasn't in the habit of thinking that way. It definitely made him feel

a bit like a stranger. He said it like I was one.

     [Note from the Future: Near the end I was spending most nights in

his bedroom, but we kept separate bedrooms to the very end. Somehow

this made our relationship more exciting rather than less intimate. It

had a special significance when one of us went to the other's room.]

     As I said, he had won first choice on the List. I am to be his

slave for the first month. During this month he will do many of the

other items on the List. By agreeing to the List two months earlier, I

suppose I had already agreed to this, even though at the time I hadn't

considered that the choice of one month of slavery would allow him to

work through quite a few of the other items on the List before I even

got my first turn. But it is enough that my turn would come.

     He must have wanted to put me off balance from the beginning.

When my car was unloaded, he told me to change from my jeans and

sweatshirt to a blouse and skirt with heels, nothing underneath. The

act of changing my clothing, even in the privacy of my room, was

somehow charged with erotic anticipation. I felt small and defense-

less--almost like I was a prisoner in Dracula's castle. I know it

sounds melodramatic, but the house seems so big after the studio

apartment in Chicago. Even as I sit typing this in broad daylight the

echoes make it seem a bit empty and spooky. And chilly. There is a

desiccated bird corpse on the floor of one of the screened porches. At

least I swept up the dust and roaches.

     Yesterday evening, when I came out of my bedroom it was getting

darker; there was a shaft of late-afternoon sunlight slanting through

the cavernous living room. He was waiting on the armchair; he told me

to pour myself a glass of wine and sit on the sofa. There were even

little sandwiches. He had never made little sandwiches before. Little

formal ones. I was famished, but puzzled over the sandwiches. They

were so uncharacteristic.

     "How do you feel?" he asked.

     "Okay," I said, "maybe a little chilly." A little attempted

underwear-less humor there. Very little. He sipped his wine and

watched me eat without expression.

     Between mouthfuls, I couldn't seem to stop talking. "So, when do

we start?" I asked, in a cheerful, businesslike voice, as though we

were going to paint the living room or something.

     "Now," he said in a neutral tone, still expressionless.

     I suddenly became aware that he was looking at me. I mean really

looking at me. Most men are surreptitious when looking at women. They

pretend they aren't looking and then sneak a peek when they think you

aren't going to notice. This was different. His gaze was travelling

over my body without regard to what I might think, as though he didn't

care. I was abruptly aware of my lack of underwear; I crossed my legs

and tugged at my skirt as though such adjustments could make my

discomfort go away. He let his eyes rest on my chest and I crossed my

arm in front of myself.

     "Don't," he said.

     "Sorry," I blathered unnecessarily. I unfolded myself and tried

to appear casual. My damned nipples were erect, though. "So, what'll

we do first?" I said brightly, now a summer camp counsellor. I just

couldn't stop my mouth. He didn't answer right away. I don't know if

he was considering what he would do or just letting the suspense

build, but he waited until the silence stretched to its (my) limit. I

stuffed another sandwich in my mouth to give it something else to do.

     Finally, he told me which item on the List would be first. He

just told me the number, though. I hadn't memorized the List and

didn't know what he was referring to; obviously, I hadn't done my

homework.

     "You have your copy of the list, don't you?" he said.

     "Yeah, somewhere in my luggage."

     Then he gave me instructions on what to wear, and told me that I

would find everything I needed in my bathroom, but he kept me in

suspense as to what the list actually said I was to do.

     "Take your wine with you, he said. Suddenly I realized he meant

"Now." Right now. I went to my room and tore through my luggage to

find my copy of the List. The numbers on the List were only for

reference; the order didn't mean anything. The item he chose, there-

fore, by default, became Item One in this account. So here it is, Item

One.

     As I said, he really did intend to put me off balance. Sort of

like pushing me in at the deep end. After all the time we had spent

apart I felt we were nearly strangers and needed to get reacquainted.

Perhaps that's why he did subtle little things that put me off bal-

ance, like make little finger sandwiches. Perhaps that is why he

wanted me to come to him feeling exposed and near naked, but naked in

a new way. A way that would make me feel naked, as though in front of

a stranger.

     He wanted me to remove my pubic hair.

     I know many men think this is sexy, but I've never understood

why. As a nurse I had seen nearly everything, but I never thought

there was anything particularly erotic about shaving there, especially

with the itchy stubble I knew would come later. Maybe I associate it

with pre-op, too. Did I tell you I was a R.N.? But there was no razor

in the bathroom. Just a tube of depilatory and scissors.

     At this point he has begun exercising editorial control over what

I write. I wrote--and twice had to rewrite and expand--the next

paragraphs until he was satisfied. I wouldn't otherwise have put in

such detail.

     I had to be extremely careful, as the directions have all kinds

of warnings about burning delicate membranes. I sat in the bathroom

for a few minutes just looking at myself in the mirror, thinking: what

am I getting myself into? But it was too late to change my mind, and

anyway I didn't want to. So here goes, I thought. I pinched a curl of

hair between my fingers and snipped it off close. Starting at the top,

I worked my way down, not thinking about it, just snipping away until

I ended up with one foot up on the edge of the bathtub and my head

between my legs. When I finished and came up for air, the remaining

stubble was almost invisible; I looked quite naked. I stood for a

moment and looked in the mirror, wondering if this was really what J

was expecting--hairless nakedness.

     The depilatory comes in a tube like toothpaste and is pink. It

smells slightly reminiscent of the chemicals they put in a home

permanent. I put the stuff on very carefully, using the round end of

my nail file like a butter knife. I followed the directions and waited

the requisite time with my legs held apart to avoid burning myself.

Then I scraped it off with the nail file; if you are patient enough to

wait for it to work, it really does the job. For some reason there

were a few hairs that just wouldn't dissolve, so I plucked them with

tweezers. At last I was done. I'm glad he didn't watch, because I had

to get into some pretty embarrassing positions to do all this without

being burned by the stuff.

     I went straight into the shower without looking at myself again.

The faint but icky depilatory smell definitely required a shower and

soap to get rid of, followed by a body conditioner all over (Even

though he didn't tell me what the List item actually said, he was very

detailed in his instructions as to how I should prepare myself for

him). Unscented "Unicure" hair and body conditioner was already there

in the shower. I was me not to rinse it off--just rub it in and towel

dry. As I rubbed the creme over my skin, I began to see that maybe

there was a point to this preoccupation with hairlessness. It felt

like a whole new erogenous zone down there, so slick and silky and,

well ...

     After I towelled myself dry, I felt really smooth and soft all

over, especially Down There. When I finally pulled on the outfit I had

made (on his instructions weeks before), I felt like a velvet hand

slipping into a velvet glove.

     It was of a soft, sheer, muslin-like white cotton from India. It

fit very tightly and it took a lot of tailoring to get it to fit

right, since the material has no stretch. The bust is tailored to fit

my breasts exactly, and "underwired" with elastic. I stick out. Long

sleeves are just barely loose enough to squeeze my hands through and

get my arms in; the front zips from the waist to a high lace collar

that would look very demure on a top that wasn't skin-tight and

practically transparent. The pants are also skin-tight, except below

the knee, where they flare to bell-bottoms. Very 60's. The legs are so

long that I have to wear heels--high ones--to keep from tripping over

the cuffs. White open-toed high-heeled sandals go with it nicely.

Nicely? Somehow "nice" doesn't seem to apply after last night.

     Last night, the crotch was the really embarrassing part. There's

not even a seam in front to help conceal my sex. It's just tight,

sheer and thin. A very tight g-string-like elastic in back holds the

muslin close over my newly hairless sex and pulls the back of the

pants tight against my cheeks and deeply into the cleavage of my

buttocks. When I made the outfit I thought there'd at least be pubic

hair to cover me, but last night I was so... visible.

     Still following instructions, I brushed my hair out and put on

makeup. I was procrastinating: taking unnecessary care with my face

and adjusting the outfit; examining myself in the mirror--anything to

avoid going out into the living room where he was waiting. I really

didn't want him to see me like this. We hadn't seen each other naked

for six months, and he would see a lot more of me than I'd ever shown

anyone before.

     Again, I have to add something here. He told me to. I wouldn't

have written this at all, because I have always been a little ashamed

of this, but as I said, he makes me put in details-- details I would

rather omit, in this case. But here goes. Real soon now. (If you

haven't noticed, I am procrastinating again.) There's another reason I

didn't want to go out there and let him see me dressed like that. It's

irrational, I know, because he had seen me completely naked before,

but there it is. I have unusual nipples. They have always been a

source of acute embarrassment to me.

     They are inverted.

     You have no idea how long it took me to type those three words;

every time I have to deal with this I look for all kinds of ways to

say it without actually saying it, but in the end I just had to type

it and the hell with it. They're inverted. This is silly, because I'm

used to them. It's not a big deal, really. The tips of my nipples are

turned inward so that all that is visible externally is the areola,

with just a little horizontal slit across the middle where the nipple

should be. It's not all that uncommon; I have seen girls in P.E.

classes that have the same condition on one or the other of her tits.

It's just that both of mine are that way.

     It's not like they're repulsive or anything, and they would be

perfectly functional if I had children. They even look normal when

erect, it's just that when they aren't, I don't have nipples, just

areolas. I haven't known very many men, partly because of shyness over

this problem, and all of them have been surprised, and I think slight-

ly repelled, by my breasts. All, that is, except J. Other men have

made me feel like a freak, with questions like "What's wrong with

them?"

     One even asked me, "Is there anything else you haven't told me

about?" Asshole. Assholeassholeasshole.

     Sorry, I don't normally use language like that, but he was an

asshole. Like maybe my day job is in a sideshow, or something? A real

Mr. Sensitivity, huh? Before I walked out on that evening's entertain-

ment, I told him to be fruitful and multiply, only not in exactly

those words. He was a jerk anyway. In high school I was young and

stupid enough to be impressed that he (at 20) owned (well, had a

mortgage on) his own house (well, double-wide trailer).

     Imagine, at that age boasting he was a self-made man. He was an

example of what can happen when you don't follow the directions.

     Sorry, I went off on a tangent.

     Anyway, J has never commented on my nipples except to say that I

have the most beautiful breasts he has ever seen, all the more so

because they are special that way.

     Special like the special olympics, but never mind.

     Still, I was reluctant to enter the living room, embarrassed for

no good reason, trying to cover myself, one hand casually fiddling

with my lace collar (and incidentally covering my breasts with my

arm), while the other draped casually (I hoped) over my southern

overexposure. The room was nearly dark, and his armchair was in

shadow. I could tell he was fully dressed, but couldn't see his face

or judge his reaction. I was feeling awfully exposed, and really

needed some reassuring words right then. I didn't get any.

     There was a small sofa sitting under a recessed light in the

ceiling. He didn't get up; he just told me to stand in front of the

little sofa, under this very bright light. Like a spotlight.

     I couldn't see much of anything outside that little pool of

light, and I felt awkward, as though my legs were different lengths.

He told me to put my arms at my sides and stand up straight. Hesitant-

ly, I did as he told me, uncovering myself. I was nearly shaking with

nervousness. That afternoon I had been cruising along the Interstate,

and now I was in a totally different world.

     "Hold your shoulders back and stop slouching," he said. I took a

deep breath and tried to relax and regain some composure, some digni-

ty.

     "Turn around. Bend over and lean on the seat with your elbows.

Legs apart." I tried to lean on my hands.

     "Your elbows," he repeated. So much for dignity. My rear was up

in the air for all to see.

     "Straighten up. Pull your waistband up so your pants are tighter

in the crotch; smooth the front so I can see all of you better. Good.

Now tell me how you feel right now."

     "Embarrassed," I whispered. My voice wasn't working. I cleared my

throat and tried again.

     "Embarrassed," too loudly. I couldn't look up from the floor; I

was not handling this well. It seemed a long time before he answered.

     "Tell me why."

     "Its these clothes," I answered.

     "I've seen you with less than that on before."

     "I know, but-  not like this. I mean, not having any hair-

there." I stammered, all the while thinking: dammit I should have more

composure than this--nurses aren't supposed to be ashamed of the human

body. Nurses are supposed to be cool and professional--in charge. I

straightened my shoulders again.

     "No, the hair isn't it either, but never mind. Come over here."

     I walked over to him and stood by his chair. I tried to keep from

slouching to show that I had kept my dignity, and I ended up feeling

(and looking) like an army recruit trying to look military on her

first day at boot camp.

     He ran his hand up the inside of my thigh. I couldn't help

shivering. He slipped his hand lightly back and forth over the thin

cloth that was held so tightly against my nether lips. His fingers

became more insistent, and I could feel myself and the cloth of my

pants becoming wet. I was still shivering with nervousness. I was,

throughout the evening, acutely aware that I had no pubic hair. For

some reason, whatever else I was feeling, that was on my mind. I just

hadn't gotten used to it, I guess. I still haven't.

     I felt shaky and nervous. Not afraid, exactly, but terribly aware

of my nakedness and uncertain of what was coming next. I knew he

wouldn't depart from the List, but there was an awful lot on that

list, and after all, I hadn't even kissed him for six months--had only

seen him once in all that time--and he was practically bringing me to

a climax in a strange house under very weird circumstances. I think he

meant it to be that way, but I was not comfortable.

     He stood and kissed me. Finally. He must have sensed that I

needed some reassurance. I could feel his stiffness as he pressed

against me. This is what I wanted, I thought, feeling myself on surer

ground. I ground my hips against him, suddenly getting more deeply

into the scene. His kiss became more passionate, our tongues probing.

     Abruptly, holding my shoulders in his hands, he separated himself

from me. Although he is slender, he is at least eight or nine inches

taller than I and quite strong; I could sense a shudder of suppressed

emotion despite the firmness of his grip on my upper arms. I stood

there breathing unsteadily, my eyes shut. God, I was horny. He told me

to go back and stand under the light. I could feel the wetness between

my legs; I was sure it showed as a patch on my front. Again, I tried

to cover myself with my hand.

     "No," he said. "Dont. You have nothing to be ashamed of with me,

and you know it." He paused. "You do know that, don't you?"

     "Yes, I know," I whispered, looking down, determinedly ashamed.

     "Then why are you?"

     "It's the spotlight."

     "No, its not. Try again. I've seen you nude in full daylight

before, and I've seen more of your body than I can see now, even

without hair. And from closer up. Think about what's bothering you,

and tell me."

     He waited silently while I thought; I finally came out with what

it was I didn't want to tell him. "I don't just feel nude. I feel

naked. I- I think it's because I haven't seen you for so long. It's a

little like being in front of a stranger." He waited. And waited. "And

because you're dressed and I'm not," I rushed ahead, "its not fair and

its humiliating and I feel vulnerable and it's not like I imagined it

would be." I covered myself with my hands again as if to say `so Yet I

remained under the light, trying not to appear awkward, looking out at

where I thought him to be, still unable to see him.

     Again the silence. Finally from the darkness he said, "Good. Sit

down." My ears told me he had moved from the armchair to stand by the

unlit fireplace, but I still couldn't see his face.

     I sat, relieved. At least I could hold my legs together while

sitting and hide myself a little that way. With my prim little lace

collar, my legs held tightly together, and my hands folded neatly in

my lap, I must have looked like a caricature of the proper victorian

virgin. Except that I was blushing through transparent clothing and my

nipples were erect and positively aching. Sounds like material for a

romance novel, I know, but they were.

     "I don't want you to feel humiliated. Believe that. But your

embarrassment is something else. That I do want. As a kind of gift to

me," he said. "Can you understand that? As a gift?" I'm not sure how,

but I seemed to sense him in the darkness, staring at me, very intent

on my answer. Maybe it was something in his voice.

     I hadn't considered the fine line between embarrassment and

humiliation. Somehow, though, I could understand the idea of embar-

rassment as a gift. Don't ask me how or why.

     "Alright," I said, and suddenly it really was alright. My embar-

rassment surfaced; I stopped trying to suppress it, it all came out,

but it was okay: I could show it. He wanted--even valued it. I lowered

my eyes to the floor, blushing furiously, making no effort to hide my

discomfiture. I took my hands out of my lap and let my legs part a

fraction of an inch, deliberately letting myself feel more embar-

rassed, really acting the part--only not acting, because I really was

feeling exactly what I was acting out. Or at least acting out what I

was feeling. Well, it was more honest than whatever I had been doing,

anyway.

     "Now," he said, "what are you feeling? Do you like this?"

     "No. I don't," I said, truthfully, I think. I'm not sure.

     "Do you feel... excited?"

     "Yes." I realized that was definitely true, whether I liked it or

not.

     "Do you want it to stop?"

     Another pause. "No," I said, "... no."

     "Remember, you're my slave. I'm going to tell you to do something

now that you might find funny, but I don't want you to laugh. Take it

seriously. While sitting there, I want you to do something--anything

--that you think I will find sexy." As he said this he turned to the

fireplace and lit the fire that was laid there. His back was to me.

     Act sexy? He made it sound so much like a homework assignment, I

almost did laugh. I had no idea what to do. Pretend to be a porn star?

Blow kisses? Pout and squirm seductively like they do in bad x-rated

movies?

     I raised tentative hands to my breasts and fingered my nipples.

They were already erect from the coolness of the evening and the

excitement. I didn't know where to go from there, so I kept rubbing,

even though the tips of my breasts were already sensitive, even though

the areolae were puckered and hard, aching. I was still aroused, but

didn't know what to do next. Then I had an idea. I would take off my

top: do a strip tease. Yeah, that's it. My hands went to the zipper at

my throat and pulled it halfway it down.

     "Stop." I froze. "Lean back against the arm of the sofa and close

your eyes." I did. "Stroke yourself again." I did. I found it was a

lot easier to follow instructions than to make it up on my own. I

really wouldn't make a good stripper anyway. I don't know the moves.

     "Put your hand lower." What did he want me to do? My hand crept

down to my waistband. "Lower." Did he want me to masturbate? I wasn't

ready for that. I wouldn't. Not with him watching me. It was just too

kinky. "Lower," he repeated, more insistently.

     I put my hand down, more to cover my nakedness than to do what I

thought he wanted. I could feel the wetness from when he had caressed

me, and for some reason was acutely aware of the hand resting on my

sex. But I wouldn't masturbate, I just couldn't, not in front of him.

And as I sat there, neither of us saying anything, I began to think

maybe he wouldn't ask me to. He had pushed me right to the edge of

what I would do, and seemed to know it. He let me sit there, covering

myself, extremely aware of how insecure and exposed I was, wishing I

hadn't gone as far as I had, wishing I hadn't removed my pubic hair,

feeling, not exactly frightened, but very uncertain that this was

something I wanted. And just a moment before, when he kissed and

caressed me, I was at the edge of a climax. It was a real roller

coaster ride.

     "I know this has been hard for you," he began, "but I have a

reason. You remember the evening we made the List. We also discussed

our motivations. I told you things about myself that I have never told

anyone. And will never. And you told me some things too. Do you

remember?" I nodded, uncertain where he was headed, but I said noth-

ing. He flipped a wall switch and the spotlight went off. His face was

lit from below by the firelight. I didn't move. My hand stayed where

it was, my attention split between what he was saying and the focal

point of my hand.

     "You said that one of the things that you sometimes wanted was to

have someone else take charge. That sometimes you got tired of con-

stantly having to deal with everything. I'm sure it was partly the

daily pressure of your job that made you feel that way. You sometimes

wanted to be the one who was cared for and protected. You wanted to

belong to someone, to have someone you could depend on, someone you

could be sure of. At this moment, you don't feel that way, I know. But

I want you to. I want to make you mine. Completely. This is my way of

doing that. I know you well enough to be sure you would be far too

embarrassed to let anyone else see you with no pubic hair. When you

removed it for me you took a step toward becoming mine."

     I was concentrating on my hand. You talk too much, I thought. He

went on.

     "That's why your embarrassment is a special gift to me. It's

something I know you wouldn't give anyone else. I don't want you to

even be able to give to anyone else. I want you totally for myself, 

completely committed to me. Everything I do over the next few weeks

will help make you into that person. I want to possess you totally."

     Something like that. I wasn't concentrating fully, but I got the

gist. He seems to adopt a formal mode of speech when he talks about

the psychology of our relationship. Almost as though he had rehearsed

what he said.

     Still, I was beginning to see. It did give me a warm feeling to

know that he wanted for me to belong to him. Belong with a capital

`B'. Like a slave. I was beginning to realize that there were layers

beneath the surface of this game--things he had thought about more

than I. As he continued to talk, I began to understand exactly where

we were going, what was happening. At least I began to relax a little

and feel comfortable. Everything started to fall into place. When he

said he wanted me to be his slave he didn't mean as a servant; he

meant someone with unreserved and absolute commitment. I dismissed the

thought that this had been in his mind from the beginning, six months

ago, even before we started writing those steamy letters. As he droned

on in the same vein (he does tend to over-explain things sometimes) my

mind wandered off on a tangent.

     Ironically, what he wanted would give me a kind of power over

him: it would be hard for him to find anyone else that would be

willing to commit so deeply to him: the List contained some pretty

personal stuff; not many women would go that far. And whatever he did

to me, it was a measure of his commitment, because the List gave me

license to respond in kind. However much he made me open up to him, he

made himself just as vulnerable if I choose to exercise my rights.

Vulnerable to me. My last coherent thought of the evening was:

     The List is my safety net. He would not go beyond its limits. It

is also a direct and tangible gauge of our commitment to each other.

     I wasn't thinking with the clarity those words imply, but the

ideas were there, and I gained comfort from the thought.

     I became abruptly aware of my hand, still resting There, where he

had told me to put it, and I stopped thinking altogether. I couldn't

concentrate on anything else he was saying. I could only feel the

weight and warmth of my hand resting on my smooth, hairless mons,

through the damp, sheer cloth. I could feel every thread of the

material. I became aware of the tightness of the elastic between my

buttocks, the tautness of my breasts.... The temptation was irresist-

ible to press down slightly with my hand. My eyes drifted shut and my

hips moved, seemingly on their own.

     Suddenly I was jerked to my feet. I found myself facing the

fireplace; he was behind me holding my wrists tightly by my sides. I

struggled feebly against him, to cover myself, but I couldn't move.

     "We could stop now if you say the word. Once again: do you want

to go on?" he said. "Total commitment?"

     I understood what he was asking, but still I couldn't think. I

didn't even understand why he was asking. It seemed so unnecessary to

say anything. I know one should avoid cliches (like the plague?), but

time really did seem to stand still. The fire crackled and flickered.

I could feel the warmth on my front through the filmy cloth, his

breath on my neck. I stared down into the fire, not moving, not

breathing, suddenly at peace, serene, and, oddly, more in control of

myself than he was.

     It's funny how such an important decision can be made with so

little effort. I felt as if I had been fighting a war all my life and

in the middle I simply decided to give up and wander off the battle-

field. I wanted so much to give up. So, idly, almost carelessly, with

a single word, I abandoned the fortress I had unknowingly defended for

a lifetime.

     "Yes."



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