Archive-name: Bondage/njlist02.txt

Archive-author: Nurse Jones

Archive-title: The List -  2 of 20





The List

     Column 1

       Item 2



     J told me to write this so that people will want to read it. For

dramatic effect I should have stopped at the word "Yes", but that

wasn't the end of last night. Besides, I have time to tell the rest:

he won't be home from work for a while, and I don't have to get ready

for him yet.

     He took my car keys and suitcases with all my clothing when he

left this morning. All I have to wear is the sheer cotton outfit (you

know about that one already--I wore it last night) and a lycra one

that he also had me make while I was in Chicago. Neither one is

practical or warm, or even very comfortable, and it's late February.

It's warm here (compared to Chicago) but not that warm. He also left

me all my shoes and boots, my fleece-lined knee-length overcoat (thank

God--I'm wearing it now, and nothing else, as I write this), toilet-

ries, and some books I had brought. The television is near-useless:

the house is so rural that cable isn't even available. I can't start

my car, even if I had clothing, so I guess I will read, and write.

Maybe I will do a little gardening once I get my feet on the ground.

There are ten acres of partly wooded land to grow stuff on, and I've

wanted to try a garden of my own ever since I moved into Chicago. My

mother kept one back home in Indiana.

     This is quite a change for me. A few days ago I was spending my

last night in the old apartment, sleeping on a mattress on the floor

after the yard sale; now here I am nude in an overcoat sitting at a PC

wondering when planting time for vegetables is. Life's a funny ol'

thing, that way. Best not to dwell on the incongruities. I laughed

about it last night, and learned my first lesson the hard way.

     Last night, when I agreed to try this (by this, I mean This Whole

Thing, not just the writing), I felt a weird combination of relief at

having made a decision, apprehension about what would come later,

sexual excitement, of course (why do I say of course?), and at the

same time a kind of serenity: a sense of freedom that comes from not

having to care what comes next. You wouldn't think apprehension and

serenity would go together, would you? It was like I was outside

myself, watching myself worry about the future and at the same time

thinking: the apprehension is okay, I can "get into" the experience;

it somehow doesn't bother me that I am apprehensive: I am floating

above it all. Does that make sense? Reading back over it, I can see

how you might think it nonsensical to achieve a completely relaxed

state of nervous apprehension, but it was a very real sense of ...

release, I guess. As the feeling fades, I wish I knew how to recapture

it; last night I really had it going strong.

     Sorry about all the introspection. You probably want me to get to

the "good stuff" but if I'm going to have to write this, I'm going to

"do it my way." Ma own se'f. Besides, I know that if I just "tell it

like it was" without any explanation, there's no way you could possi-

bly understand why a previously conservative (in my social attitudes,

not my politics) midwesterner would agree to do these sorts of things.

     My growing attitude of 'what the hell, why not' got me into all

this that night when he visited me in Chicago and I agreed to leave

and to go with the List. It led me to take the next steps last night,

when I said to myself 'what the hell, what will it hurt to give him

what he wants and remove my pubic hair,' and later, 'what the hell,

I'll follow through with the whole bargain and live the part, what

difference will a month make?' Besides, I really wanted so much to

belong to him, and for him to want me to belong to him. So anyway, I

said 'Yes.' Okay?

     At that word, I felt him relax behind me, and I knew he had been

relieved to hear the answer. I relaxed too, not because I was re-

lieved, but because I liked leaning back into him, letting him enclose

me in his arms.

     Still standing behind me, he ran his hands over my body, up over

my breasts, lightly caressing my nipples through the filmy cotton,

down my front and between my legs. I moaned and pushed against his

hand, trying to send him the message: I am ready. He caressed more

firmly: I was getting wet again. He put one hand on my front between

my legs and one behind, exploring both halves of me through the flimsy

cloth. Again my breath was becoming ragged. I turned in his arms and

asked, "Now can we...?" I had been in various states of arousal all

through the evening. So had he, but he was in control and he wasn't

going to let it end yet.

     "Not yet," he whispered, and that was okay, too. I was still

floating, you see. I just went with the flow. But I remember feeling a

secret glow of anticipation when I realized that at least he had used

the word 'yet.' He caressed me again, this time slipping his hands

inside the waistband of my pants, over the satin smooth heavily-

conditioned skin, down to explore and excite me more.

     When I was once again on the razor's edge, he pulled away and

said, "Strip." He sat down in the armchair again and just watched me.

I stayed by the fire where it was warm; when I had collected myself, I

unzipped my top. It's hard to take off without tearing because it's so

tight and at the same time so delicate. I had to wiggle and shake to

get it off my arms behind me without ripping it. That made my breasts

bounce, and I felt embarrassment returning. I checked to see if he was

watching, but he was looking into my eyes rather than at my body. He

kept his eyes on mine as I kicked off my shoes and slid my pants down

over my hips. They are so tight around the thighs that they don't just

fall down by themselves, I have to pull them down, so I had to bend

over (I don't believe I'm writing this!).

     I tilted my head up, all the while looking directly at his face.

My eyes never left his. I could feel my breasts hanging down between

my arms as I pulled the pants down to my ankles and then off. Funny

the everyday things you can suddenly become acutely aware of. The tile

floor was freezing on my bare feet. When I stood upright I was chilled

despite the fire. I began shivering; I think it was mostly (but not

totally) the cold. I held the clothes to the front of my lower body

with one hand, trying to cover and warm myself. I hugged my breasts

with my other arm. My nipples were erect again, and I was shivering

with cold and, once again, embarrassment. He was still fully dressed,

remember.

     "Drop the clothes," he said. This time, voluntarily, I put my

arms at my sides, leaving myself uncovered. Suddenly the cold was

real. I was shivering violently, but forced myself to stand erect and

face him squarely, keeping my eyes on his. I had lost the sense of

benign detachment. There is nothing like physical discomfort to do

that for you. I was no longer a third party in the room, floating and

watching two strangers act out a scene in a play.

     I was totally focused on keeping control of my shivering body. It

was stupid. I should have given in and told him I was too cold, but I

could see that he knew. I could have asked; he was probably waiting

for me to, but I wanted to prove something to him--I don't know what,

but something, and it meant standing there as long as I could. Silly.

Silly and stubborn. He smiled a little; his eyes left mine and trav-

elled slowly down my twitching body. My jaw was clenched to stop my

teeth from chattering, because they would have. My hands were fists at

my sides, arms and legs stiff, stomach muscles tense with effort. His

eyes lingered on my hairless sex, which by now was covered in goose

bumps: I'm sure I looked like a plucked chicken. His gaze travelled

back up my body to my face. I was on the edge of losing control.

     Suddenly he stood, stepped over to me, and picked me up, cradling

me in his arms. He carried me down a hall and into his bedroom.

     Blessed warmth! The room was such a relief! It seemed almost hot

after the living room. He put me on the bed and told me to get under

the covers. I got up on my knees on the bed and crouched to pull back

the comforter; I was shivering so violently it took me two tries to

grasp the covers and pull them back. There was a toasty electric

blanket somewhere under me. God that felt great.

     While I was thawing out, I looked around the room--remember, at

this point all I had seen was the living room and my bedroom, with a

few glimpses of other rooms we had walked by. I could see an adjoining

bathroom; the bed was in an alcove with mosquito netting hanging from

an arch over the alcove. There is a sink right out in the bedroom, as

though the bedroom had once been used for something else. He lit a

candle and put it on a small shelf in the alcove. I could see some

paintings on the wall that I didn't recognize, landscapes. I knew he

hadn't had them in Chicago. We had slept on a heated waterbed in

Chicago, but this was a futon. Quite a change. We'll be sleeping on

grass mats next. There were speaker grilles in the ceiling, but no

music was coming out.

     There were four metal eye-rings set in the ceiling, too, over the

bed. New additions, I thought. There were crumbs of ceiling plaster on

the floor. He pushed the heavy, old-fashioned oak door shut with an

unnecessarily loud bang. He had my attention. I watched him from a

warm, cozy nest; I was floating again, detached, but watching. He

moved a chair to the foot of the bed, a heavy oak armchair; it looked

like a piece of old office furniture. Then he came over and sat on the

edge of the bed and stroked my forehead with his hand.

     "How are you? Warmed up?"

     I nodded.

     "Good." He leaned down and kissed me. His hand felt good through

the covers. "I have a kind of test for you. But not if you're still

cold."

     "I'm okay," I said, a little apprehensive. "What test?"

     "You have to sit in the chair. The room is warm, though. I think

you'll be okay."

     "Okay," I said, looking at the chair. When I didn't move he

slowly pulled the covers down to my waist. I sat up. The chair was

facing me at the foot of the bed. It seemed ordinary enough. I really

wanted to ask what he was going to do, what this test business was.

     He took my hand gently and stood up, waiting for me. He held my

hand by my fingertips as though he were going to be gallant and kiss

it, and when I got to my feet he held it as though I were Cinderella

stepping down from her coach.

     The chair was ordinary, but seemed enormous when I sat in it. My

toes barely reached the floor. It occurred to me that it looked a bit

like one of those old-fashioned Hollywood electric chairs--the kind

they executed James Cagney in so many times.

     He sat on the foot of the bed in front of me and showed me a roll

of black tape. The kind electricians use. He peeled off about a foot

and held it across my wrist.

     I could see he was going to tape my wrists to the arms of the

chair. He didn't wrap it around, though, he just held it there and

looked at me for a reaction. I was scared. I couldn't help it. Even

though I trust him completely, we had never done anything like this

before. I guess I was seeing a side of him that was completely new,

and I immediately thought of hidden psychoses and serial killers and

ritual murders with candles and Charles Manson and I was a million

miles from home and nobody knew where I was and I was so far out in

the country nobody would even hear me scream, and they would probably

never even find the body parts.

     I stiffened.

     I didn't say anything, but I must have looked as scared as I was,

because he stopped and asked me if I was still okay. I nodded, looking

into his eyes for some sign of what he was really thinking. Up to this

point he had been unreadable, but something in my expression must have

touched him because he kind of melted.

     "Are you sure you're okay?"

     Something about his expression brought me back to reality.

Concern for my feelings was clearly uppermost in his mind.

     "Yeah. Really," I nodded, still looking at him like a trapped

rabbit. My heart was pounding. I had a lot of confidence in his

character, but the consequences of misjudgment were unthinkably

horrible. The very worst thing that can happen is when someone you

love turns out to be a different person. That's what makes Invasion of

the Body Snatchers and The Exorcist the two most horrifying movies

ever made.

     I was scared, I admit it.

     He wrapped the tape around my wrist and the arm of the chair

three times and cut it with his Swiss army knife. Both wrists. He

walked around in back of me and bent over my shoulder to kiss me

behind the ear. He taped my elbow to the back of the chair arm, and my

upper arm near the shoulder to the vertical part of the back.

     He knelt at my feet and gently separated my legs. He paused

again.

     "You okay?"

     Hesitant nod.

     He taped my ankles and knees to the legs and corners of the

chair, opening and exposing me. Then he ran a band of tape across my

breasts and around the back of the chair. It went right across my

nipples and squeezed my breasts flat.

     Standing beside me, he bent to kiss me and put his hand between

my legs. He didn't try to stimulate me, just rested his hand there. My

nipples had been erect since I sat down. They were trying to be erect

under the tape. He slid his hand up to my breast. I pulled with my

wrists against the tape.

     He stopped and turned the chair to face the full length mirror. I

could see myself, legs apart, exposed. I was grateful that the candle

light was dim. He stood behind me and leaned over my shoulder. One

hand went back to my sex, and he began gently to stroke and probe

while kissing the side of my neck and nibbling on my ears. That really

gets me going, the ears. It always does. I was still nervous, watching

him, but I also responded to his hands and became wet.

     He continued, and I realized that this was his idea of torture.

In retrospect I know it's illogical, but somehow my mind concluded

that this meant he wasn't Charles Manson. I got more and more turned

on, and finally I was fighting the tape out of horny frustration

rather than fear. He kept me going, teasing me, until I was right on

the edge again and stopped. I just couldn't seem to come, but I was

extremely turned on.

     He cut the tape behind my back and released my breasts. He began

peeling it off slowly from both sides while standing in front of me;

he was watching my face closely, and as he pulled he made the two

tugging, almost-painful points of detachment move symmetrically toward

my nipples. My breath quickened as they zeroed in. I moaned and closed

my eyes so that I wouldn't be embarrassed by him watching me. Funny

how the mind works sometimes.

     He kissed me again. He's a great kisser. The average guy seems to

have a theory that putting his tongue down your throat proves he's a

passionate lover. Not that I have anything against tongues, it's just

that they don't automatically impress me. J does, though. Impress me,

I mean.

     "I guess you passed the test," he said. I don't know what test,

but I suspect he wanted to know if I trusted him, and he wanted me to

know I could trust him. At least I haven't been afraid since; if he

were going to do something perverted to me he would have done it then,

I figured.

     Anyway, he cut me free of the chair. I was still pretty hot.

Relieved and aroused. Excitement, apprehension and foreplay are a

deadly combination. I will admit I was afraid, even though I trust him

more than anyone else--afraid to be taped to the chair that way. He

could have done anything to me. I would like to be able to say that my

trust was stronger than my fear, but I don't know. My panic was held

in check partly by my reluctance to offend him with mistrust. A

midwesterner is the only animal that will allow a sense of etiquette

to overcome the instinct for self preservation.

     He told me to get into bed. I did, still turned extremely on.

     He released the mosquito netting over the bed-alcove; I thought

idly: no mosquitos in February. The netting formed a curtain so that

the alcove became a warm, candle-lit, intimate, private and secure

little world. But those eye-rings. I noticed four more on the corners

of the bed, but it just didn't matter. Floating again. He took some-

thing from the bedside table, tossed it to me, and told me to put it

on. I examined it. A blindfold.

     Suddenly visions of a man wearing a Nazi SS uniform hat, with a

leather jockstrap and black socks held up by garters flashed through

my mind, and I laughed. Snorted, actually. J looked at me impassively,

pausing with his shirt half unbuttoned. His mouth smiled a very small

smile. His eyes didn't join in the fun.

     I hadn't thought about it at the time we made up the List, but I

was going to be one of Those People. It was just too, too ridiculous.

True, as I had told J, I fantasize about being tied down and forced to

have fantastic orgasms until I was too exhausted to cry for mercy, but

somehow I didn't connect my fantasies with that ludicrous leather-

scene reality.

     He asked me what was going on in my head, and I explained, still

suppressing giggles and snorts. He nodded thoughtfully, paused, and

flipped the comforter off my nakedness. Instinctively, my hands

flashed to cover myself again, but I couldn't stop laughing.

     He took something out of the bedside table. Suddenly he rolled me

over on my stomach and straddled my back. One at a time he pulled my

arms to my sides and pinned them there with his legs. Still laughing,

I twisted left and right to try and see what he was doing. I couldn't.

Gently, he twined my hair in his hand and pulled my head back. He

didn't try to hurt me, but I had to arch my neck back and lift my

upper torso off the bed to relieve the pulling on my hair.

     "Hey, come on..." I tried to say. Something was forced against my

half-open mouth. He held it with one hand and pulled gently but

insistently on my hair with the other.

     "Open your mouth," he said, "all the way."

     I tried to say `It is open,' but it just came out a garbled

burble and the thing slipped in a little more. I couldn't shake him

loose or force it out with my tongue, and he couldn't get it in any

further unless I opened my mouth more. We remained at this impasse for

a moment more, until I foolishly tried to say something else around

the object and he forced it in a little more. Finally, still smiling

to myself, I capitulated and relaxed my jaw as much as I could. I

decided to go along with it and make the effort not to laugh. He

compressed the object with his fingers and pushed--gently, but enough.

It went in. It felt huge. Suddenly it wasn't such an effort to stop

laughing. I couldn't even smile. Or even move my lips enough to make

it look like I would have smiled if I could have. I had never seen--or

even heard of--a ball-gag.

     He took his hand away and it stayed in my mouth. I couldn't open

my mouth wide enough to push it out with my tongue, and my hands were

still held at my sides. It tasted slightly of rubber. Hey, I thought,

beginning to wake up to what was going on. I felt him pull a strap

behind my head; he buckled it in place. A click, and he got off me.

     The moment my hands were free, I reached up to pull the thing out

of my mouth, but the strap held it securely. Beginning to panic, I

reached around in back of my head to undo the buckle and my scrabbling

fingers found a miniature padlock. The strap wouldn't slide off over

my head. Again my hands went to the thing in my mouth. It wouldn't

budge. It felt like a rubber ball about the size of a racquet ball.

The strap went through the middle of it. It didn't matter that my

hands were free, I couldn't budge it. Pointlessly, I tried to say

something, I don't remember what. He turned his back on me, threw the

mosquito curtain aside, and walked out into the bedroom. I got up and

ran after him and grabbed him by the arm. I ran around in front of him

so I could make eye contact, and tried to say "I won't laugh," but I

just made a muffled "Ah, Ah, Ah." Looking up at him, I tried to make

my eyes talk since my mouth couldn't. Hey, come on, I was thinking.

You didn't really mean to do this to me, did you? This is a mistake,

right? Right?

     "The answer is `no,'" he said. "This is lesson time." He walked

out of the room, leaving the door open. I stood there bewildered for a

moment, not knowing what to do next. Then I ran into the bathroom to

look for scissors or a razor to cut the strap. When I turned the light

on I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My face was grotesque. My

mouth was held open--wide open--lips stretched around this thing and

lipstick smeared. My eyes were round and frantic above it. My hair was

wild, tangled around the strap. My shaking hands fluttered uselessly

around the gag, feeling at the corners of my poor mouth and around the

back of the strap. I banged medicine cabinet doors open and rummaged

through the dressing table drawers, but there was nothing I could use

to cut it. He knew there was nothing. That's why he'd left me alone.

     I ran back out through the bedroom to the living room. He was

sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, looking into the fire. He

even didn't look up. I ran toward my bedroom where my toiletries

were--I knew there were scissors there. The hall door was locked. So

was the kitchen door. I just stood there not knowing what to do next.

I walked back to the living room and stood in the doorway. Obviously,

I wasn't going to get around this without his help. I needed to get

control of myself. I went to the desk and scribbled on an envelope:

'PLEASE TAKE IT OUT!' and handed it to him. Without looking at it he

said, "Sit down." I sat.

     "Are you in serious pain?"

     I thought a moment, took a long shaky breath (in through my nose:

I could only exhale, mumble, and drool around that thing in my mouth).

"Ah," I said, shaking my head 'no'.

     "Is it on the List?"

     "Ah," I nodded, wiping saliva from the side of my mouth with my

hand and wiping it on my naked hip. Bound and gagged, it was there on

the List.

     "Then think about it until you know what to do," he said. "You

don't have to be a rocket scientist." I sat on the sofa, knees togeth-

er, hands folded in my lap, again the prim victorian except for...

well, just about everything.

     I was helpless. He already had complete control, so he couldn't

want that. I knew it all started because of my laughing over the

blindfold. Really, it was as much nervous laughter as humorous. I

often react to unfamiliar situations with a nervous laugh. I have

embarrassed myself several times by laughing at absolutely the exact

wrong moment, like when someone said his dog was dead and I thought

for some reason that he was kidding, and he really liked the dog. I

could have died. I've never gotten over having said that. Sometimes I

twitch with the sudden embarrassment when I remember it.

     But it's not fair to punish someone for a nervous laugh. That's

like punishing someone for a hiccough. Of course, I couldn't explain

that to J. I couldn't explain anything.

     I looked at him again. He was still looking at the fire. He

wanted me to do something, not say something. That was obvious, even

to a non-rocket scientist. I wiped more saliva from the side of my

mouth. I was getting cold again, so I got up to go into the bedroom

for the comforter. I looked at him to see if he objected. He didn't

even look up. I was at liberty to do anything I wanted. Sort of.

     While I was getting the comforter, I noticed the bedside table

was open; it was where he had gotten the blindfold. The drawer had a

heap of chains and leather and padlocks in it. I wrapped the comforter

around myself and after another mournful glance in the mirror, went

back out. God, I looked awful. He glanced up, but said nothing.

     I sat down again. My jaw was starting to ache a little, and I

needed to wipe my face. He wasn't going to let me back out of this

gracefully. I had to apologize? Anything to get it off. I picked up

the envelope from the floor where he dropped it and wrote: I'M SORRY.

He didn't even look at it. I moaned in frustration. Obviously action

was what he wanted. I had agreed to be his slave, so I had better

start acting like one. So I got down on my knees by his chair and

waited. He looked at me.

     "Ah?" He had to know it was "Please?" He reached out and stroked

my hair. He was remarkably tender for someone who had just done this

to me. The bastard. For a moment I thought he was going to take it

off, but he just stroked my hair again, and then stopped. I waited.

That wasn't it, but I was getting warm.

     Then I had a bright idea: the blindfold. Duh. I wish I could tell

you my real name. It's derived from an old Sioux indian word meaning

"not-rocket-scientist."

     I got up and went into the bedroom. The blindfold was on the

pillow. I looked at the open drawer again, and lifted out some of the

stuff in there. A jumble of light-weight chains and four short leather

straps with buckles and rings. They looked like extra-small dog

collars with those buckle tongues that have a hole for a dog tag. Or a

lock. There were lots of little tiny padlocks, just like the one that

I was sure was on the back of my neck. They were all open, but no keys

were in the drawer. The chains didn't look particularly heavy duty,

but I knew they would be stronger than most people. Stronger than me.

There was one large strap like the others. A collar. Well, I was

supposed to be a slave. It seemed like a good time to start acting

like one.

     I took the whole drawer out of the table and carried it into the

living room. I got down on my knees again and laid the drawer on the

floor in front of him. At least he was looking at me instead of the

fire. One by one I took things out of the drawer and put them on the

floor between us. He rewarded me with a faint smile, but didn't move.

     I picked up the small straps, and put one on each wrist. Then one

on each ankle, hurrying against the growing discomfort of the gag. I

kept looking up at him and fumbling with the straps, looking to see if

I was doing the right thing. I had to wipe my mouth again. Then I put

on the collar and buckled it. My jaw was really beginning to ache. I

looked up at him again. At that stage I would have begged sincerely if

I could have spoken. He glanced down at the drawer. The locks. I

snapped them through the tongues of the strap buckles. I had trouble

with the collar. I couldn't see it and my hands were trembling. He

helped me.

     I sat back on my heels and waited. He motioned me to come closer.

I moved over next to him, still kneeling on the comforter. He reached

down again and stroked my hair, but didn't do anything about the gag.

I was getting desperate. The ache had turned to real pain. I was

starting to cry, which just made my jaw hurt more. I put my arms

around his legs and through my tears tried once more to say "Please?"

but I was crying and shaking from the cold and my nose was running,

and my begging just came out as a kind of high-pitched whine. He

reached down, picked up the blindfold, and handed it to me. With

shaking hands, I put it on, at my absolute limit.

     "Pick up the chains," he said. Kneeling there, I felt blindly for

the drawer and gathered the chains into my hands, still squeaking,

whining, and sniffing. It really hurt. I was feeling what cynical

doctors call 'minor discomfort.' He picked me up and carried me into

the bedroom and put me on the bed. The chains rattled and I felt him

pull my legs apart and lock my ankle straps to the chains. I could

think of nothing but my poor mouth. Then he chained my right wrist.

     At last I felt him working the lock at the back of my neck. Then

the buckle. The strap was loose. I reached to remove the gag, but he

held my left wrist and forced it back, and locked it to the last

chain. I still couldn't push the gag out of my mouth. I moaned, and

remember thinking I probably sound--and look--just like those leather

and bondage people. But I didn't feel like laughing this time. I was

completely beaten. I would have given anything just to get that thing

out of my mouth.

     Anything.

     "I'm going to take it out now. Don't say anything for the rest of

the night."

     Gently, he took it out and let my mouth close. It hurt to close

it after having it held open so far for so long. I had probably had

that thing in my mouth for only ten or fifteen minutes, as I think

back on it now, but it had seemed an eternity. The ache starts in your

jaw and spreads to pain in your ears and throat. It hurts to swallow,

like I were spraining something. My ears were ringing when he finally

took it out.

     I heard water running in the bathroom, then felt him wipe my nose

and face with a warm, damp washcloth; he spread the comforter over me,

and pulled it up to just below my breasts. Then he kissed me gently,

taking care with my mouth, which despite the extremity of earlier

pain, had almost stopped hurting. Certainly kissing didn't hurt. He

kissed me again, through the blindfold, near the corners of my eyes.

He can be so tender. When he wants to be.

     I felt him sit on the bed beside me. He stroked my face gently

with the backs of his knuckles. Chained the way I was, I should have

felt exposed, helpless, and naked, especially with the blindfold and

not being able to see what he was going to do next, but somehow I

didn't feel the nakedness as acutely; oddly, that was because I was

blindfolded. I wonder if ostriches really hide their heads in the sand

to feel safe. Of course not. Silly. My first and middle names together

translate roughly as "Not-rocket-scientist-who-is-stupider-than-

ostrich."

     Safe is different from helpless, though, and I was helpless. Safe

and helpless. His kisses and caresses were nonsexual at first, and

comforting. I was warm and toasty, and realized that nothing was

required of me but that I keep my big fat mouth shut. Anyway, I

couldn't do anything in this position but passively accept whatever he

chose to do. I was not responsible for anything.

     His kisses became warmer and I became more and more detached. Let

him kiss me, I thought. Let him do anything he wants. After what just

happened I don't have to do anything but lie here. My lips won't

respond to his. And they didn't. It was like I was there in the room

watching this happen to someone else, someone numb. He got under the

covers with me and his hands began to move over my body, his caresses

more sexual. He had undressed sometime after I was blindfolded. His

hand slid down my stomach to just below my navel. And ever so lightly,

lower still, to where my skin becomes silk. My breath caught and the

stomach muscles betrayed me by tightening involuntarily, as though I

had been tickled.

     His hand slid lower still and cupped my hairless sex, stroking

gently. I was determined not to respond, and again my detachment

returned. He continued to stroke. My skin felt so smooth down there; I

could see the point of the hairlessness, I thought for the second

time. But I was determined not to respond. Not to move. I could have

an orgasm and he would never know, I thought. I was becoming more and

more detached; floating, almost dreaming. His caresses became more

insistent; his fingers entered me. Still I didn't respond. I deliber-

ately relaxed.

     This is hard to explain. As he continued to stroke and kiss me, I

remained detached, but my body began to move without effort on my

part. Sounds like I'm making this up, I know. It was as though I were

watching from outside, still completely relaxed, and my body was

acting on its own. I watched my body's hips move first, ever so

slightly, pushing against his expert hand. He stroked more gently,

searching and probing, finding exactly the right spot. My hips began

to move rhythmically. His hand left my sex and moved up to my body's

breasts. A gentle stroke and their nipples wakened. They were erect,

hardened. I felt his lips on my nipples, sucking and nibbling gently.

He continued, becoming stronger, more insistent, until they began to

ache. Suddenly his hand was at my sex again. My body gasped and

arched, pulling against the chains. My knees lifted up, my legs bent

as far as the chains allowed.

     I stopped, frozen and heard my body's breathing grow ragged. I

watched him position himself over me and slowly--very slowly--enter

me. My body was already shuddering on its own. He supported his weight

with his arms so that he was almost suspended above me. My spread-

eagled body floated weightless, penetrated and quivering with excite-

ment. He began moving ever so slowly and gently with what felt like

enormous but controlled strength--strength held in reserve.

     My body was gasping and panting involuntarily, drawing in great

gulps of air and making the same incoherent whining noises I had

earlier when I was crying, gagged. Then my back arched off the bed, my

limbs pulled all the chains suddenly taut, and my body held itself

rock still, almost vibrating, not breathing. My throat made a little

squeak, and he made one more powerful, expertly timed thrust, the

slowest of all. I don't think I was even climaxing yet, but it was as

good as any orgasm.

     He stroked me again, slowing the pace until it was almost imper-

ceptible. I was on the very edge. My body had to start breathing

again: suddenly I started panting frantically and spasming uncontrol-

lably against the chains. His weight descended on my body, pinning me

to the bed. Spasm after spasm wracked my body, but he held me immo-

bile. The chains tightened rhythmically as I pulled at them, and my

head tossed back and forth. He slipped his arms under my shoulders and

held my head immobile between his two hands. His mouth came down on

mine, hungry. His hips moved rhythmically now, no longer gentle.

Finally the dam broke. My orgasm seemed to last forever and ever and

ever and ever.



     As I lay there exhausted, almost getting my breath back, I felt

him inside me, still hard. As soon as he felt I was ready, he began

again, this time for himself alone. Slowly at first, then, keeping

himself on the edge, slowly, ever so slowly, with pauses to prolong

his pleasure. I built to a second orgasm, and a third, while he had

his way (Listen to me! I'm even sounding like a victorian midwestern-

er. Had his way.... Sheesh!) with me, but he didn't notice. He used me

until he was shudderingly, gaspingly, done with me. I wish I hadn't

been blindfolded. I would have liked watching his face. But on the

other hand, all things considered.... Well, why fix it if it works? as

granddad used to say. Not in exactly this context, though.

     I drifted off and vaguely remember him cleaning me up, unlocking

the chains, and carrying me back to my bedroom.



     When I woke up this morning, I was in my own bed, and the leather

cuffs, anklets, and collar were still on. It was just barely sunrise,

and I ached deliciously almost everywhere. I went to the bathroom. I

was a mess: my eyes were two big smudges where my mascara had run

under the blindfold last night. After a quick pee and a wash, I dashed

back to a warm bed just in time for him to come into my room with

coffee and hot english muffins. He was fully dressed already, and

after a quick kiss and a few instructions, he was on his way to work.

     The instructions were to start writing this. After a good lie-in,

I got up and poked around the house. His bedroom was locked, but the

rest of the house was open to me. It wasn't until I noticed that my

suitcases were gone (cute trick) that I realized I hadn't considered

leaving him--even during the worst part of last night. He didn't need

to take my clothes to keep me here, but still, it gives me a kind of

warm feeling that he did. He should know better, after last night.

I'll stay.

     Well, that's enough for now. I have to get ready for him and I'm

tired of typing anyway. Wordstar says I did 27 pages. Stream of

consciousness writing and Mrs. Cooke's typing class, I guess. He'll be

home in another hour, and tomorrow is Saturday.



     He seemed satisfied with what I wrote Friday. It's Sunday now; I

don't have time to tell you about Friday night and Saturday now.

Later, though. It looks like this is going to turn into a diary. In

fact, he said he was surprised I wrote so much. Still, he had me go

back and add in some stuff, like the part about my nipples. I hated

that. And some other stuff, too. I had to change the names, places,

etc., "to protect the innocent" (the guilty, actually) so it couldn't

be traced to us. So if anyone ends up reading this, it has been

edited. But not bowdlerized, so don't feel cheated. He makes me put in

stuff, not take it out.

     I'm supposed to tell you more about myself, what I look like, why

I'm doing this, what motivates me. I only have an hour, so today's

entry will be short and factual. I am five feet two and one half

inches, one hundred and eight pounds. So for my adult life I have had

a choice between "short" and "petite"; I don't like either.

Altitudinally challenged? I wear a lot of high heels. Old fashioned, I

know, but I'm a midget without them. When I wear running shoes, people

say "Wow, I didn't know you were so short." Wow. Thanksalot.

     Light brown hair, longish, but to be honest the quality of my

hair leaves something to be desired. It is kind of coarse and kinky

with lots of little tight curls. It looks like I've had a bad perma-

nent and need another, but I haven't and I don't. My hair will never

be smooth and shiny like in the TV adds. Every time I wash it, it

bushes out like an afro and gets unruly. It was down to the middle of

my back in high school, but since then I have been shortening it until

it is a little longer than shoulder length. It's really inconvenient

to keep it pinned under a nurses hat, but J doesn't want me to cut it,

and I haven't since we met. I would like to try it short, though.

     My complexion is clear, my eyes are blue-grey, and together I

think they are my best features. My eyes are large, and I enhance them

a lot with makeup. I am not beautiful, but I'm certainly not unattrac-

tive. I think somewhere between pretty and "handsome" (definitely not

butch, though) might fit me. Despite my size, 'pert' has never been

said of me, thank God. I'm also definitely not the cheerleader type.

My friends all say I am unconventionally attractive. Back home in

Indiana, I never had trouble attracting men, even men who like conven-

tional movie star-type beauty, but then, most of the boys in my home

town were such jerks I didn't bother much. And all the conventional

movie star type beauties left as soon as they could. So did everyone

else. So did I. Even an ostrich would have left.

     In my home town three bowling shirts is considered a complete

wardrobe. The guys were more interested in cars and beer. It was

unmanly for these types to actually talk to a woman; getting the

attention of one of these specimens just wasn't worth it, believe me.

Sort of like saddling a cow: it can be done, but it's a lot of work

and what's the point? These bucolic wags would stand around the back

of a pickup and belch witticisms like "No man should plant more garden

than his woman can hoe," and then guffaw. Then some buffoon so dim he

hadn't heard that one before would laugh and spray beer out through

his nose. That would be the evening's high point. Do I sound bitter?

     So through most of my high-school years I kept that wholesome

"don't-touch-me-there farm girl look" and didn't wear much makeup

until my last year. Then I met an older guy I thought I liked and

started wearing makeup to be more "mature". That lasted two weeks

until at a critical moment I discovered he had a mirror over his bed.

Talk about tacky. It should have had a sign: Objects Appear Larger

Than They Are. Besides, he didn't like my nipples. So when that didn't

work out I decided to go to college. So I was a virgin until I was

nineteen, and then again until I was twenty-two (so I'm a little

slow). That was when I met J.

     I read a lot, exercise a lot, and keep fit, but I haven't yet

achieved that lean, hard, sinewy look that many of the women at the

exercise spa "up north" had. I still have smooth rounded curves, but

I'm working on a "hardbody". I'll have to join a spa here. Okay, okay,

my measurements are 34-23-34, and I wear a B cup. Happy now? (Thank-

you-so-much for reminding me, J.) My shoulders are narrow, and my

upper body strength needs a lot more development.

     I have good legs; in heels, great, in fact. Long for my size. My

hips are rather wide, but that is because my legs are set further

apart than one finds in most women; actually my thighs are slim. There

is just a wider space between my legs than most women have. I don't

know why I have to tell you this--I never even thought about it until

J had me add the last few sentences. J says it makes me look great in

jeans. I guess he's thought about it. The space between my legs, I

mean. I hadn't until now.

     I tan easily, but don't go in for it, it's so hard on the skin;

also, where I come from, a tan means you are a farm hand. I suppose

some would describe me as pale. Others might describe me as very pale.

But I have good skin, so I'm not pasty and pale, just pale. I try to

keep my skin as perfect as possible (no junk food). It is very fine

(small pores), and I am proud of my complexion. I do wear makeup,

though, maybe a little more than I need to. I just like putting it on,

okay? Still a little girl playing with mom's makeup, I guess.

     I'm nearsighted enough that I definitely need glasses when I

drive, but I wear contact lenses instead most of the time. I have a

pair that makes my eyes look very blue, but they looked so artificial

I got another colorless pair. Too flamboyant for a midwesterner.

Someone might think I was trying to be different, God forbid.

     So I'm just a midwestern farm girl--except for the makeup. You've

seen women that have absolutely perfect makeup? You know the ones:

lips crisply and perfectly outlined, the corners of their mouths

painted sharp, eyeliner neat with sharp corners, eyeshadow a perfect

blend of shades, mascara unclumped, eyebrows neatly lined, skin

smooth, uniform, and powdered. They look like they spend too much time

on their faces. Well, they do: I'm one of them. On the other hand,

there are a lot of women out there who could take a little more care

with their appearance.

     J thinks I spend so much time on my makeup because I like to keep

everything under perfect control. He thinks I use makeup to compensate

for what I perceive to be other out-of-control imperfections. I

suppose he means my hair. Or my nipples. They have been an

embarrassment, but I don't think they have shaped my life. Maybe he's

right. I just haven't been able to convince myself that he is telling

the truth when he says he actually prefers them the way they are.

Hell, he says he likes me without makeup, too. He just thinks he does.

Or likes to think that he would. Men.

     My friends tell me I'm a typical midwesterner in my attitudes.

It's true. My family never ever discussed sex. I was never told the

"facts of life." In the midwest, embarrassment has been promoted from

an emotion to a way of life. We just don't discuss these things. Thank

God for sex ed. in school.

     Hey--I'm multiorgasmic. I wish that meant something important,

but it really just means J is a sensitive lover. I never thought much

about it before, probably because I wasn't that way with any other

guys. My orgasms are almost predictable (not boring, though). With J I

nearly always start with a small fluttery frissant near the beginning

and then have a major one in the middle. He works to make that one

enjoyable and always waits for me before he has his. About half the

time I have a third one, but the second is almost always the best.

Sounds predictable and boring, I know, but I know (knew) so many girls

that don't have them at all, I feel lucky. Things might change now,

though. We are definitely exploring new territory.

     I have to add something else here. I don't even believe it, but

he says put it in anyway. He says I have an aloof and almost cruel

looking face. Something about the shape of my nostrils, for God's

sake. Cruel aloof nostrils? Come on. He says it's one of the things

that attracted him to me initially. I'm neither. Really.

     Motivations. We've talked about this a lot. Being in charge of

the nurses on an entire floor usually means I have to organize and

direct the people around me. I'm really not cut out for that: it's a

part of my life that's genuinely not under my control, and yet my job

demands that I be able to exert control and I get caught in the

middle. My personality just doesn't carry the necessary weight. I

guess we all have aspects of our lives and jobs that require we be

forceful. I fake it well, but still I am faking it. Maybe that's why I

have this dual urge to give up and get out from under responsibility

on the one hand, and to exert complete and unquestioned control on the

other. Hence the two- column List(?) It seems to express the same

duality. J feels the same pressures in his job, and in many ways the

two columns reflect these two sides of our personalities.

     Here's my theory: It seems certain that the differences between

male/female (dominant/passive, whatever) roles and behavioral patterns

are the result of social--maybe even biological--evolution. If so, it

follows that they are a socio-biological adaptation imposed on a pre-

existing background psychology that is almost certainly more gender-

intermediate than either of those two stereotypic extremes. It then

follows that there is an unexpressed "more feminine" side to males and

an unexpressed "more masculine" side of the female psychology. Both of

these sides are perfectly "natural." Perhaps much of what is regarded

as deviant sexual behavior (that is, deviant from the acceptable

stereotypic extremes of the male-female spectrum) is the unguarded

expression of those natural but sexually intermediate feelings.

     On the other hand, I had a younger nurse working on my floor once

that was 6'1" tall and would have been gorgeous but she wanted to be

petite. She slouched, and was shy, and managed to look unattractive

just because she wasn't comfortable with herself. I would have killed

to be six feet tall, so I was always trying to seem taller: I adopted

good posture as a way of life and tried to project confidence rather

than diffidence. Odd that our lives can be more affected by what we

want to be than by what we actually are.

     Anyway, I'm required to be more dominant in my job than comes

naturally to me. I hate that, and would often prefer to be passive and

not have the responsibility. At the same time, because I am sometimes

(being female and short) unable to exert a strong dominant influence,

I would like for just once to control someone or something without

being challenged. I want both, I guess. I've only felt that sense of

control when downhill skiing. I'm a pretty good skier, and really feel

an exhilarating sense of domination over the mountain. I wonder if it

could be that good to dominate a man....

     Or maybe I'm just justifying my fascination with the List by

inventing complex pseudo-psychological excuses. Publicly, I have

always claimed to be repelled by such things, but privately I'm drawn

to "the dark side" of my own nature. If I see erotic literature on a

bookshelf, I am embarrassed in case anyone I know should see me

looking at it, but simultaneously I want to find out what is in it.

Repelled and attracted. What a mixed up prude from Indiana.

     After reading this manifesto of a hyper-prude, if you could see

the outfit I'm wearing right now, you'd wonder if I was the same

person. But I vas only followink ordersz, mein Fuhrer. I'm wearing

what he told me to.

     Oops. J is driving up the driveway. Time to go. I'll fill you in

on the weekend while he's at work tomorrow. O.K., I've admitted all.

No more pop-psych. And that's it for today anyway. Fun and games

time....



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