Archive-name: Bondage/njlist03.txt

Archive-author: Nurse Jones

Archive-title: The List -  3 of 20





The List

     Column 1

       Item 3



     It's Monday. I'm sitting at the computer wearing the second

outfit he had me make. Actually, I didn't make it from scratch, I

modified it from a spandex exercise leotard. Black, naturally. Why is

it men like black so much? It's one of those french cut "thong"

designs with just the thinnest behind in the cleft between my cheeks.

He had me modify it to show more of me on either side of my sex in

front. I guess even then he was planning on me being hairless down

there. This is going to take some getting used to, I guess.

     Anyway, the thing is made a little more comfortable by wearing

pantyhose underneath. Of course they just have to be charcoal gray

sheer-to-the-waist. More instructions. It unsnaps under the crotch,

too, for easy removal--and access, too, I guess. I had to lower the

scoop neckline, front and back, and enlarge the armholes so that my

breasts are all-but-completely exposed. A half-inch either way and a

nipple would peek out. Men really go for the obvious, don't they?

     I was wearing this Friday evening when he came home from work,

although without the pantyhose, because they looked funny over the

leather ankle cuffs. I actually could have cut the cuffs off, since I

now have the run of the house and could get at the scissors. But why

bother: I don't want to escape from anything now anyway. That sounds

suspiciously like the old joke about not needing to fix the roof when

it's not raining.

     Idle thought: I think he likes my makeup the way it is despite

what he says. (I described it in my first entry about a century ago.)

He hasn't told me to change it, and when he kisses me hello, he is

careful not to mess it up. That comes later (messing it up, I mean).

     By the way, he has a business trip to San Francisco scheduled for

later this week. He's taking me along! He told me on Saturday when he

took me shopping for some new clothes.

     But I haven't told you about Friday night, yet. It was a warm

night, warm enough to leave the windows open, but we had the sinful

luxury of a fire in the fireplace anyway. Early Spring breezes and a

fireplace in February... I could get to like the South.

     Just now, as I was typing, my mother called from Indiana to find

out if I survived the move from Chicago. Her only exposure to the Deep

South was watching the movie Deliverance, so she was worried. It felt

weird sitting at the kitchen table chatting on the phone with my

mother while wearing this outfit. If she could have seen me, I don't

know which one of us would have been more embarassed. 'Dueling prudes'

would have been the theme song if Deliverance had been made in Indi-

ana. She wants me to get married. I guess all mothers nag about that.

Mine seems to have plans about how my entire life should be, and what

I should be like. She lays me out on this pattern--like a dress

pattern, but of herself--and worries and snips and prods away at any

bits don't fit the pattern. Her strategy is to wear you out. We're too

embarrassed to actually come right out and argue in Indiana. We shut

oven doors a little more noisily than is absolutely necessary. Or I

read a book and turn the pages pointedly. A New Yorker could be in the

middle of a war in Indiana and not even realize it.

     Anyway, I was going to tell you about Friday. It wasn't nearly as

traumatic as Thursday night had been. No gag, or anything like that.

We made love on a big fuzzy rug in front of the fireplace. No, not a

bear rug, some kind of Greek thing, made of white wool, with about an

eight (yes, 8) inch pile. It's like a cloud. When it gets dirty, you

just wash it in a washing machine and let it shrink.

     Anyway, we made love on the rug there by the fireplace. I can see

it now over the top of the monitor. Remember that I had not seen him

naked yet? At least not for six months. He still hasn't let me. Not

that he has anything to be ashamed of: he has a terrific body. One of

the world's great asses. No, he's not hiding his body: he wants to

prolong my embarrassment and discomfort at the inequality of the

situation. There's nothing more unequal than being naked when your

partner is fully dressed, especially the way I am naked and exposed

Down There.

     First, from my bathroom, he had me bring the blindfold and some

unscented talcum powder--why is it that men don't like pretty smells?

Then I had to strip again for him. I tried to make it more seductive

this time. I'm determined to learn to do it like a pro, but privately.

But I think he likes embarrassment more than a smooth act. He got

both: I was doing my clumsy best to do a seductive strip. I felt like

a total ass, trying to pretend I wasn't blushing furiously. It may

never feel natural to be so naked when he's so dressed, but then maybe

a true pro is one that knows how to keep her amateur status.

     When I was through, I knelt in front of him. He had me put on my

own blindfold again. No hassle this time. I was a good girl. At his

direction, while still kneeling and blindfolded, I began undressing

him. I was getting excited. This was more like my good old soft-core

fantasies. When I had him naked, I took him in my mouth, still kneel-

ing. As deep as I could take him without gagging. That is something

else I wish I could do. I think. If it's not bad for me. I bet there

aren't many who can do the Linda Lovelace routine. Unfortunately I'm

not one of them. Oral sex is something that I am trying to like.

     So I tried, and gagged a bit; he noticed and gently tangled his

hand in the hair at the back of my head and pulled me away from his

erection. Still holding my head back, he knelt in front of me and bent

to kiss my exposed throat. I shivered as his hands traversed my

flanks. If it bothers me he doesn't want me to do it. Sometimes.

     Gently, he laid me on my back and began to massage my body with

the talcum powder. From my neck to my toes he spread and rubbed,

relaxing and kneading me. I went totally limp, turning into jelly in

his hands. Powdered jelly. My legs, which I had been holding together

instinctively in the approved midwestern fashion, drifted apart a bit.

He put the talcum powder everywhere. Over my breasts, between my legs,

over my already-satiny and hairless mons. Then he rolled me over like

a sack of flour and began on my back. After covering and deeply

kneading my back, arms, and legs, he finished with my backside.

     Gently he caressed the soft powder into my rear crevice. Deeper

and deeper. His fingers did everything but penetrate me there. My body

was completely covered in talcum powder from the neck down. In my

mind's eye I looked like a blindfolded marble statue. His hands still

worked on my crevice, relaxing me, probing without penetrating. I

wasn't ready for that, and I think he knew, because he didn't try to

force me. At first I was nervous that he would, and contracted invol-

untarily at his touch, but as he continued to massage with the talcum

powder, my trust grew and I relaxed completely. I deliberately concen-

trated on relaxing my rear opening. That's pretty daring for someone

like me. I'm not even sure it's LEGAL to relax those muscles in

Indiana.

     Still he continued to tease and stroke. Preparing me physically;

I was completely ready. My buttocks rose to meet his hand, clenching

to grasp and draw him in (more daring still), but he told me to relax.

I tried. The anticipation and nervous excitement I felt were mixed

with more than a little apprehension; I had never tried this before.

It is one of those things that fascinate and repel me simultaneously.

But still he teased, and did not attempt to penetrate me. My heart

beat faster but he kept telling me to relax. It is a funny feeling,

concentrating on letting your body become mush while your heart won't

stop thumping. Finally I settled down. I had no muscles whatever, just

a tiny core of expectancy. I was jello. Melted passive jello. He could

have done anything with me. I wanted him to.

     "Get up on your hands and knees," he said. I did. I was disori-

ented, coming back to reality blindfolded from such a physically

relaxed state, but I managed to wobble to all fours, and knelt there

swaying. His hands continued to work on me, both sides, under and

above simultaneously. I began to moan and thrust my buttocks against

his hand again, trying to grasp his fingers to signal my readiness.

And I was ready. Even eager to try it. IT. That is further than I had

ever dreamt I would actually go. And I wanted to go further!

     But it was not to be. He just wanted to show me how far I could

be persuaded to go. I was dripping with anticipation. Literally and

figuratively.

     "Straddle me," he said. He was on his back beside me. He helped

me, half lifted me, onto him. I could feel his erection between my

thighs. I was on all fours again, but he was guiding himself inside

me. I was really ready now. I slid onto him slowly, carefully (I am

small there), gradually accepting all of him inside my now-quivering

body. He held me still, preventing me from rubbing against him. My

vaginal and stomach muscles were twitching and contracting involun-

tarily, and it took several moments for me to regain control of

myself. Eventually, I was able to sit there with him inside me without

going completely crazy, although my breath was not at all steady. What

now, I wondered.

     "Take this," he said, "give me a rubdown." I reached out and

fumbled in front of me. My hands found the talcum powder container.

What a time to pick for a rubdown. My mind was on just one thing, and

it wasn't talcum powder rubdowns. I sprinkled some on his chest and

began massaging it in, spreading it over his upper body and arms. As I

rocked back and forth, rubbing his chest muscles, I felt a warm glow

begin to spread from my center.

     I spread powder over myself, too, massaging my own breasts,

something I wouldn't have done if I hadn't been blindfolded. However

natural it might be, it seems so narcissistic--almost masturbatory--to

stroke one's self, especially if someone else is watching. I wouldn't

do it on my first night, but this time the blindfold somehow freed me

from that inhibition. Since I couldn't see his reaction, I wasn't

responsible for responding to him; I could do what I liked.

     I imagined him watching, and I was aroused by my own exhibition-

ism. I didn't have to guess how he felt about what I was doing: I

could feel him huge inside me, and I deliberately made my little show

more provocative, until I was stroking the entire front of my body,

crotch to blindfold, and panting theatrically.

     While I was busy showing off, my first orgasm caught me by

complete surprise. With a sharp intake of breath, I dropped the talcum

and steadied myself with my hands on his shoulders while I convulsed

on his hips; I started rocking wildly back and forth, trying to reach

for another orgasm. But as great as it was, an orgasm in that position

still isn't as satisfying as one with full frontal body contact. He

pulled me down onto his chest and our fronts were suddenly one long

satin interface. The talcum powder gave our bodies the feel of living

velvet melding together, each sliding luxuriously against the other. I

felt so silky and smooth! All over. It was like the satin-smooth,

sensitive surface of my hairless sex extended over the entire surface

of my body, enveloping him. Us. I enclosed and enfolded his body in

mine and we came--slowly--to the first simultaneous orgasm that we had

ever had.

     This is not something I can write about. I have deleted several

inadequate attempts, and have decided that an orgasm is hard enough to

describe. Simultaneous is perfection, and I am not a writer capable of

perfection. Still, you may applaud at this point if you wish.



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