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Archive-name: Bondage/njlist06.txt

Archive-author: Nurse Jones

Archive-title: The List -  6 of 20





The List

     Column 1

       Item 11



     It has been a long time since my last entry. I hope I can remem-

ber it all. I'm not even sure what day it is. I'm way behind in

keeping this up to date, but I was busy during the week that J had

off. Really busy. I don't believe what he's done to me. All in good

time.

     When J came home last Friday, he wanted to talk. It would have

looked to anyone like a typical casual evening at home for an average

couple, except that I was wearing nothing but chains and had to take

short little steps to keep up with him. And of course I was a platinum

blonde with no pubic hair. He told me to fix drinks for us and to

follow him into the yard. He was sitting on a low brick retaining wall

by the garden; I joined him and we chatted. I crossed my legs and

sipped my drink as though I were at a cocktail party. The air was

still warm, even though it was near sunset in March; Spring smells and

gentle breezes. I could really love the South. For some reason I felt

perfectly safe being nude outdoors; I guess it is the feeling of

isolation, being surrounded by the woods. It also helps to have J

there. All this notwithstanding, feeling safe isn't the same as

feeling relaxed: I was not completely at ease having a relaxed conver-

sation under these circumstances. Besides, the bricks were cold and

gritty. And an ant bit me.

     The conversation opened with inconsequential remarks like "How

was your day?" and "The breezes are beautiful after winter," and "Have

you finished the harem outfit?" My God, I thought, we're talking about

the weather and I have to lift both hands to sip my vodka and orange

juice because they are chained together.

     "You are beautiful, you know," he says out of the blue. He

doesn't talk much at all, and as a rule he says even less about my

appearance. "Really beautiful. Have you looked at yourself in the

mirror lately?"

     Of course I had, continuously. I had changed my makeup twice that

day. I look like a different person, and I'm still getting used to it.

I do like my eyebrows thin, though. I shaped them into high arches

like the show girls of the 1920's. They look kind of artificial, I

know, but still I like them. And my nipples. I have really become

proud of them. I want to show them off, at least in private and for J.

That sounds like an oxymoron, I know, like "locally famous", but

showing off in private is all I could handle comfortably. I am nearly

convinced, though, that J really does like my body. All of it, even my

nipples. Maybe especially my nipples. Actually, I have a pretty good

body. It's just the nipples. Of course my hair is a trip: a fluffy

platinum blonde near-afro. The color looks intensely artificial, too,

but for some reason the artificiality is a turn-on for me, like badge

that I wear that says to J, "See what I will do for you." And to

others, "See what I will do for him. I'm his. Nyah, nyah, nyah."

Although only a few strangers saw me that way. More on that later.

     My entire appearance is a constant symbolic reminder of the fact

that he has done something to me, put his stamp of ownership on me,

and that I like--want--to be owned this way. I would call it a kind of

inverted (reverse? involuted?) "pride of ownership", but it is not a

pride that I can yet show comfortably in public. I would be embar-

rassed; but even that potential public embarrassment is a gift, a

symbolic measure of what I will do for him. I guess that is what he

meant when he asked for my embarrassment as a gift.

     I think too much about this stuff. I can barely go into public as

it is, and not at all in these chains. Again, why should you be

embarrassed, you say? I think it's because I know what's going on, why

I look the way I do, even though people on the outside wouldn't know.

     Or it could be because I'm from Indiana, where they secretly

don't even approve of natural blondes. And I nearly look like an

albino.

     Why should I even care if someone else knew? The idea of other

people--people I don't know--reacting to the revelation that I am J's

willing slave is somehow exciting; I'll admit that much. But if anyone

I actually knew found out it would be awful. If a stranger knew, I

would be embarrassed too, but I could get into that kind of embarrass-

ment. Maybe.

     Anyway, he took special pains to tell me how beautiful he thought

I was--especially in chains. I go all squirmy sometimes. And I like

being constrained if it is by him; I'm not just writing that because

he'll read this either. There was genuine admiration and warmth in his

eyes when he spoke; I believed him, and, well, sometimes he just makes

me go all squirmy, that's all. The things he says. He told me he

wanted me to belong to him--even more than I already did. But he also

told me I hadn't paid for the hacksaw blades yet, and there was a

sudden remoteness in him then, a remoteness that made him hard to

read. A bit like a parent that I had disappointed but that still loved

me. There was something he wasn't telling me, though. I also think he

was a bit pleased I had broken the rules, too. I didn't know what to

expect as punishment.

     I wish to God I had known, but at the time I just felt a flush of

warmth and nervous anticipation at the implications of what he said.

Okay, so I'm a traitor to the midwest.... But if I had known. Jesus. I

still can't believe what he did to me.

     When he asked if my sewing was finished, I explained that I

needed a few things from the fabric store for the exotic dancer outfit

and a few hours work, but that I knew he would like it when I finished

it. The other, the bodysuit, was done and I would be glad to model it

for him. I was being as careful as I could to not remind him of the

hacksaw blades, but he was still holding himself distant. The warmth

left his eyes when he lapsed into his formal 'master mode' and said

"Stand up. This discussion is over. Step back, I want to look at you."

     And look at me he did. I stood in front of him, my chained wrists

hanging in front of my thighs. I have gotten used to these sudden

changes during our conversations, and have learned to change my

attitude and react instantly. His eyes travelled over my body, linger-

ing on my pierced nipples. I was wearing the tiny garnet pendants. My

nipples became erect as he looked; I embarrass so easily, even now.

But then embarrassment has become a sexual thing for me; somehow I

enjoy it. Perhaps enjoy is the wrong word, but if you don't understand

by now you might as well stop reading. I can't explain it any better

than I have.

     -*-

     Saturday morning we went to the fabric store. I literally haven't

left the house since (nearly a week, I think). Nor have I since had a

single moment when I wasn't hopelessly trapped by chains, those damned

little locks, etc. Not a single moment. Except for once, briefly.

     Since he gave me my car keys (did I tell you that? He has since

taken them away again. It's so hard to keep you consistently filled in

on the relevant stuff), I wore my exercise leotards nearly everywhere,

and I wore them that Saturday to the fabric store, except that he put

that ...device... inside me again, held in with the chain under my

shorts.

     He drove me to the store, and we went in together. I was so

embarrassed by the way I looked that I wore sunglasses as a disguise.

Stupid, I know, but I felt protected by them, somehow. I had to walk

slowly, like an invalid, and it was almost impossible for me to

concentrate on buying the elastic and stuff that I needed. I had to

pretend I was dawdling along, looking at everything on display so that

no-one would notice how slowly I had to walk. I stupidly asked the

shop assistant to help me find what I needed, and she went dashing off

to some far corner to find it. When she came back she must have been

wondering why I was tottering after her like an old woman.

     "Where did you go?" she says, "I thought you were right behind

me."

     "Uh," I quipped. We hoosiers are widely known for our rapier

wits.

     It was bad enough having platinum blonde hair. I felt like

everyone was looking at me. Of course they weren't, but I still don't

know if they were just being polite. Especially the shop assistant. I

think she suspected that maybe I had forgotten to take my medication

or something. Finally, I had what I needed, and we left.

     I thought we would go home then, but he made me sit through lunch

at a yuppie health food brass-and-fern-bar. Sit is the operative word.

Over lunch he told me my chain was coming off soon, for good. My

feelings were mixed. At that particular moment I would have been glad

to get it off for even a few minutes, but permanently? Did that mean J

was ending our relationship? Over the hacksaw blades? I asked him. He

didn't answer, he just smiled in a way that said "Of course not,

silly."

     When we got home, he cuffed my hands in front of me and had me

lie down on the bed while he cut the chain from my waist. Slowly, he

removed the device that was inside me. He told me to run a shower.

     In the shower, he washed me all over, my hair, everywhere. His

fingers probed everywhere, slithering into every crevice. I got

extremely turned on within minutes, and pressed against him, sending

body-language signals at every opportunity. He rinsed me and went over

me again with the conditioner. I don't think I'll ever be able to

smell that conditioner (even unscented, it has a smell) without

getting a little turned on. If you'll forgive the pun, I guess I was

being conditioned. Sorry. Does the name Pavlov ring a bell? Sorry,

sorry.

     He deliberately excited me as much as is possible short of

orgasm. He inserted his fingers into both my openings at once, stimu-

lating until my legs gave out and I sank to my knees. He supported me

and sank to the floor with me. When I say I was gasping, it sounds

like cheap pornography, but I was--and rather theatrically, too. Still

he continued, and I collapsed back, sitting on my heels, my pelvis

squirming against his probing hands. I wanted him inside me so much.

     "Do you want me to beg?" I said, "I will if you want...." No

answer. "Please stop. I can't stand any more!" No answer. He contin-

ued. Soon I was making animal noises as I pushed against his hands,

grasping with both orifices at once. I began to shudder into my first

orgasm and suddenly he stopped. My hands went to my front to finish

the job, but he caught the chain between the cuffs and held them away.

I was squirming and twisting, rubbing my legs together to no avail. He

stood, holding the chain at my wrists, and pulled me to my feet. He

led me into the bedroom, leaving the shower running, and locked my

handcuffs to a chain attached to one of those overhead rings. My hands

hung loosely just above my head.

     He turned off the shower and began to dry me with a hair dryer,

pausing to kiss, caress, and otherwise tease me with his fingers.

Under the hair dryer, my hair frizzed into an total mess, while I

continued to squirm, trying to masturbate myself with my thighs. It

doesn't work, no matter how motivated you are. I was motivated.

     He reached into the trunk and pulled out the boots I had tried on

in San Francisco. They came up to my knees, and were the tight black

leather ones with zippers on the sides and four inch stiletto heels. I

remember they were enormously expensive, but then we're not starving

graduate students anymore, so why not indulge? He put them on me,

pausing between boots to caress me again, keeping me at the edge.

After he zipped the boots, under each instep he passed a small chrome

chain, crossing it over the top of my foot and pulling it behind my

ankle, where he yanked it snug and padlocked it. Those boots weren't

coming off without the key.

     He freed my wrists from the overhead chain, leaving the cuffs on,

and put my hands behind my head. With my arms in this position, elbows

bent as much as they would, he passed electrician's black plastic tape

around and around my bent arms, binding my wrists to my upper arms so

I couldn't straighten my elbows at all. He took off the cuffs then,

but I could touch only the lower part of my face and head and my

breasts. He pushed me back onto the bed and, one at a time, he did the

same thing to my ankles, bundling them against my upper thighs so my

heels were held tight against my buttocks. I couldn't straighten my

legs or my arms. I suppose I could have crawled with difficulty on my

elbows and knees, but I would have had problems even getting off the

bed without falling.

     He continued to stimulate me. I was frantic, panting and begging

for release. He rolled me over and lifted me to my knees, letting me

sit back on my heels, legs spread, while he continued to stimulate me.

I would have had difficulty coming with my legs bound like that, even

if he had been trying to bring me to a full orgasm, which he wasn't.

He was just teasing. He went to the garage, leaving me kneeling on the

bed and panting with need again but unable to satisfy myself. I

actually tried masturbating with my elbow. Almost got off, too.

     When he came back he was carrying what looked like a full-size

model of my torso. It was (is) made of polished black fiberglass. He

has done body work on his own cars (he even built his own kayak), and

had used the same techniques to make a mold from the plaster cast he

had of my body. It is actually quite beautifully made. Almost a work

of art. It is shaped a bit like a thong-bottomed turtle-necked sleeve-

less leotard except it is smooth and polished (inside and out) with

steel rings hanging from it in various places and lockable latches all

around the edges, under the crotch, everywhere, holding together the

two halves, front and back.

     I was still practically vibrating from the earlier stimulation

and wondered if this contraption was somehow designed to give me

release since I couldn't.

     He leaned the body suit(?)--I don't really know what to call

it--against the mirror in front of me at the foot of the bed. It isn't

an exact model of me: the stomach muscles have more of a washboard

appearance than my own. The nipples aren't inverted--quite spectacu-

larly the opposite: they are sculpted to look erect and tumescent. It

is an idealized torso, like the ancient Roman armor you see in the

movies, but female. The inside is shaped exactly like me.

     He unlatched it and fitted the front half against me, moving it

about until my breasts slipped into the cavities in the front. I had

to straighten my posture, spread my legs, and lift my chin over the

high collar. It was especially tight in the waist and crotch. Although

my thighs are naturally wide-set, the piece that goes between my legs

is too wide to fit comfortably; and when he fitted the back on, it was

far too tight between my buttocks. I had to squirm and draw in my

stomach and wiggle to avoid being pinched in several places and he

even had to use conditioner as a lubricant in spots to slip it shut. I

almost didn't fit into it; he barely got the latches to shut without

pinching me. After my upper body was encased in this hard black

plastic shell, he snapped those tiny padlocks at every latch.

     He cut the black tape and freed my arms and legs. It actually

hurt to straighten my legs after having them cramped in that position

for so long. Electrician's tape doesn't hurt to pull off, though. He

threw my wrist cuffs on the bed with two padlocks and told me to put

them on. He left the room without checking to see whether I obeyed.

     Jesus. It took me a minute just to figure out how to sit up. You

have no idea how awkward it is to try to do simple things like get out

of a bed and walk when you can't bend your back or even turn your head

much. The collar of this thing (he wanted me to be wearing it while I

typed this part, so I am) is so high that I can't look up or down, I

can only turn a little to the side. I'm looking down my nose now, just

to see the monitor.

     I teetered to the mirror on the four inch heels. I have small

feet, and four inches puts me very nearly on tiptoes. Strangely enough

I thought I was beautiful. In a campy Barbarellaesque sort of way. The

sleek black plastic is highly polished, and shaped to flatter my every

curve. My face was flushed with the stimulation and excitement of a

near-orgasm. I was still extremely aroused, and seeing myself in the

mirror made me more so. The high, almost orthopedic collar held my

chin tilted into the air in a kind of regal but unnatural posture. My

hair was a huge white curly cloud around my head and behind the black

collar. It held me in tightly at the hipline, pressing against me just

above my hips and compressing my waist, a bit like a corset. It

pinched a bit until I had moved and wriggled about a bit and settled

into it. It never actually got comfortable, though.

     As I have already said, my legs are wide-set, so there is a space

between them as I stand naturally, unless I squeeze them together. The

plastic between my legs widens and accentuates that space unnaturally,

almost grotesquely; a small padlock dangles in the gap.

     I felt round the rim of the torso. I could (can) just barely get

my fingers under it at the crotch, but not enough to touch myself

there. With my hands, I felt my buttocks bulging on either side of the

crotch piece in back. Heels clicking on the tile, I teetered to the

bathroom and got the hand mirror to look over my shoulder. My buttocks

were separated and pushed far apart by the black plastic. In fact,

they are made to positively bulge out, even though I don't have a

large behind, I am squeezed so tightly by it. I haven't decided if

that is attractive or not. The crotch strap is wide and it presses

very deeply into my rear cleft. J likes it, though. He tells me I am

thoroughly stunning all over, and getting more so at every step. He

says this even after what he did to me later in the week. Jesus. Just

thinking about it makes me feel ... oh hell. I feel like I should just

cut to the chase and tell you what he did to me. Later. First things

first. I'm not sure I can even write about it yet. On with the show. I

want to finish this part so I can take off the torso thing.

     Before going out to him, I put on my makeup. I can sit at the

vanity, but sitting is not comfortable in this thing. In fact nothing

is comfortable in this thing. It pinches now and then, and constrains

always. The worst part, other than being unable to touch my own body,

and having to wait to pee, is not being able to turn my head or bend

my back. It's not easy to keep my balance. I have posture worthy of a

queen, though.

     He was seated in his armchair by the empty fireplace as I came

out of the bedroom; he looked at me appreciatively, and nodded slowly

to himself as though he were satisfied with what he saw. I didn't say

anything, just stood at the end of the hallway and tried to sense what

he wanted. I sometimes feel like a small and vulnerable nocturnal

animal that relies on subtle smells and tiny night noises for surviv-

al. At that moment, all my antennae were out and testing the air.

     Hoping my instincts were right, I turned slowly, holding my arms

away from my sides so he could see all of me. The scrape of shoes on

the tile floor echoed in the near-empty room. I paused when I had my

back turned, and after a moment ran my hands over the exposed parts of

my buttocks where they bulged, compressed by the fiberglass carapace.

I was feeling extremely sexy, and hoped I looked as seductive as I

felt (I still wasn't sure about the back view). Goose flesh rose where

I touched myself.

     I sensed him close behind me. He took my hands and held them by

my sides, leaning over my shoulder to whisper in my ear, "Touching

like that is my prerogative. Remember you are my property." He didn't

want me to touch myself, although I could tell by the suppressed

emotion in his voice that he was turned on by what I had done.

     I let him unlock the leather cuffs on my wrists. He relocked them

to a ring set in the center of my back between my shoulder blades. He

turned me around and kissed me deeply and tenderly, hands exploring my

buttocks, the only exposed part of me that even remotely resembled an

erogenous zone. I trembled; it had been only minutes since he'd had me

on the edge of an orgasm. It takes me a long time to cool down when I

am that close. I felt shaky, swollen, engorged, oversensitive, and

tender--almost bruised--and frustrated.

     He sat back down. Still trying to sense his mood, I walked over

to him and, with serious difficulty, tried to kneel on one knee in

front of him. I ended up doing a clumsy curtsey and he had to catch me

when I fell against him. He asked what it was I wanted, as if he

didn't know. I thought to myself that the one thing I wanted was to

have him inside of me. But he obviously knew that.

     "Would you like me to try on the black lycra bodysuit for you?

It's finished, hood and all," I said, thinking that the first step to

orgasm would be to get out of this torso. No matter how sexy it looks,

it is ultimately erotic only for the observer, not for the wearer.

Thinking objectively, almost everything else he has done to me is more

erotic than wearing this damn thing. But it does look sexy. And for

short periods it feels sexy. Sometimes. Like now. A moment ago I was

just miserable, and I will be again. It comes and goes.

     But then I had to go to the bathroom. Not a sexy motive for

getting the thing off, but there it is. He made me wait, though. Not

that he was torturing me or anything, I just didn't tell him I had to

go. I think he just wanted to keep me on the edge a little longer. He

helped me teeter out to the garage, gently holding my upper arm and

guiding me as though he were politely ushering me into a posh restau-

rant (that image flashed through my mind for some reason)--except that

my wrists were pinioned in the center of my back and my posture was

unnaturally perfect. And of course I wasn't exactly dressed for formal

dining. I had to roll my eyes and turn my entire torso to the side

just to watch him as we walked side by side.

     Standing on the workbench in the garage was a white plaster model

of my body. He told me how he made the fiberglass torso. I think he

enjoyed explaining the technical details. He had waxed the interior of

the two halves of the mold he made of my body, reassembled them, and

filled them with plaster, leaving a core of styrofoam to save weight

and plaster. After it hardened, he broke away the outer mold and

discarded it (I had thought those discarded pieces meant the project

was a failure).

     The remaining torso was an exact copy of my body. He sculpted

away parts of the plaster to shape the interior (that's why it is

smaller in the waist and crotch than an exact cast would have been)

judging how much he could remove by the fit of the tight leather g-

string (g-strap?) when he put it on and pulled it so tight in back.

Remember that? He just sculpted the lower part of the plaster torso

until the leather fit it. Later, he knew the torso would compress me

the same way.

     I really had to pee.

     He went on and on explaining how he had sanded it smooth and

sealed the pores in the plaster so he could build up something called

a gel coat, blah, blah, blah. Whoopie, I thought. Three layers of

epoxy-impregnated fiberglass with the latches and d-rings and steel

reinforcing imbedded, and he could cut it off and shape the edges by

adding an interlocking flange. Swell. I still had to pee. Several

additional finish coats on the outside with sanding between, polish-

ing, and I still had to pee.

     Frankly, I think it was too much work for what you get. I may

have missed some steps: my mind was on my bladder, and my attention

had wandered to the other object in the room, still covered with a

sheet.

     "You'll learn about that some other time," he said. He led me

back to the house. "Besides, it's time to finish you off," he said.

"This is really for later," he said, tapping one plastic-coated

breast, "think of this as the first fitting." As we went back to the

house, he commented that he was going to save the plaster cast of me.

He had more ideas for it. Hmmm.

     So anyway, he led me into the bedroom again, unlocked my arms and

taped them the same as before. I finally had to tell him before he

taped my legs that I HAD to pee. He unlatched the torso, telling me

that he's not into that particular form of torture, and that I should

have told him sooner. But he left my arms taped, and I couldn't wipe

myself. He knew that, and when I was through he came in and did it for

me. Slowly. It was demeaning and I looked away while he did it, but I

think it put my attention back where he wanted it.

     He led me to the bed and taped my legs. Once again, I was help-

less: I could straighten neither arms nor legs. He stripped off his

clothes as I watched, and got into bed beside me. Stroking and teas-

ing, he brought me to a near climax again, but again my inability to

straighten my legs held me back. I was groaning and pleading for him

to cut my legs free, but he wouldn't. Finally, kneeling between my

legs, he spread my upraised knees and slowly, with maddeningly great

control, penetrated me. Within moments I was flapping my pathetic,

folded up limbs and crying in frustration. He began thrusting quickly

and powerfully. At that rate it would normally have been a quickie for

him and left me twisting in the wind, but I was so close to climaxing

that he drove me over the edge. My dam burst, releasing a full day's

worth of pent-up sexual frustration. I made pitiful efforts to grasp

and hold him with my bound arms and legs, but it was hopeless. My

pelvis contract and spasmed of its own accord. I was ready for more:

at least two more orgasms were waiting in there somewhere, and he knew

it. But he didn't let me have them. Just almost.

     He left me there, twitching and moaning, and got a damp towel to

clean me with. Tenderly (he is so gentle afterward) he lifted me to my

knees and damp-towelled my still-vibrating body, soothing me into a

marginally relaxed state as you might an excited horse. But my frus-

tration wasn't at an end.

     He slathered my torso, neck to crotch, with conditioner. I

thought he was going to make love to me again--I was sure (knowing

what I know now, I'm absolutely sure) he would have been able to--but

just as I was getting excited he put the plastic carapace back on me.

I whimpered in frustration when I saw what he was going to do, and

begged him not to put it on, but he didn't listen.

     I had to cook dinner that way, marinating in gooey body condi-

tioner inside this damned plastic torso and feeling extremely...

ready.

     All during the romantic candle lit dinner that followed, he

ignored my rather eloquent body language--body language that, if it

were braille, a one-armed blind man in a dark room could have read

through a concrete wall. I was reduced to squirming in my seat, (the

padlock between my legs gouged the wood--the torso sits directly on

it) stroking my encased body sensuously (but pointlessly: as though I

could feel it through the plastic) and casting what I hoped were

smoldering, lust-filled looks his way. I could see I was having some

kind of effect, and I hammed it up a bit. I know he was aware that I

was excruciatingly horny, (I was only half kidding when I was hamming

it up) but he just ate his dinner as though we were in a formal

restaurant. He kept up a cheery but subdued banter, refilling my wine

glass, deflecting my heavy-handed innuendos and turning them into

jokes. He seems to delight in the incongruity of putting me in an

outrageous predicament under the most ordinary of circumstances.

     He kept me "conditioning" in the torso all that evening, finally

releasing me just before bed. He watched me dry off with a towel and,

after I had one last pee, cuffed my hands together and chained them to

my neck up under my chin so I couldn't reach my sex to masturbate.

Just to make sure, he made me sleep next to him in his bed for the

first time since I had arrived.



     The next morning I woke still horny. No relief, though. I usually

wake up feeling sexy anyway. I guess I've conditioned myself to feel

sexy in the morning: I like to fantasize when I'm half-awake. J often

wakes up horny, too, but I think that's more common in men. He thinks

it is caused by a full bladder pushing against his prostate. He also

tells me he can't urinate with an erection, which makes a lot of sense

biologically. I've never worked for a urologist, but I'd be interested

to know: When a man wakes up with a full bladder and an erection, how

the hell does he solve this problem? Can't piss until the erection

goes away, erection won't go away until the bladder is empty.... J

says the erection just goes away if he doesn't use it for anything.

Which of course he does, now and then.

     Anyway, he kept strict control over me until breakfast was over.

Then, after admonishing me not to touch myself below the waist at all,

he went out to the garage. By then I was out of the mood anyway. I

went back to finishing the harem/slave girl outfit while he fiddled

around in the garage.

     Are all men hobbyists? Jeez. Couldn't he have worked on me a

little? Even in the garage?

     Of course, I was chained, wrists and ankles connected as before,

like those convicts you see being led out of courtrooms on the news

but with a little more freedom of movement. I actually hurried the

costume in the hope that I would have time to impress him with my

dance routine before he decided to punish me for the hacksaw incident.

No such luck. After lunch he told me my punishment would begin that

day.

     I'm still not over the shock. No kidding. Look: I'm not a racon-

teur; I'm not a writer; this isn't literature. So far I've tried to

make this more than a "What I Did on my Summer Vacation". Call it

"attempted literature"; I'll be the first to admit my success has been

limited. Partly because I was constrained to tell it as it happened,

and it didn't happen in a way convenient for fiction. I've romanti-

cized. I've glossed over the boring parts. Sometimes my inept attempts

to be a writer have gotten in the way of even basic communication.

     BUT. I have NOT gotten over what comes next. It may come out a

bit muddled. I still feel bitter about it. I alternate between anger,

frustration, horniness, and a feeling of "What in God's name have I

gotten myself into?" Several times I have stopped typing just to go

and look in the mirror and I don't believe it. But it is right there

on the List. I don't know how I could have been so God. Damned.

Stupid.

     Okay, here goes.





The List

     Column 1

       Item 12



     Late that afternoon he took off all the chains. He told me to put

on the black bodysuit and bring the hood to his bedroom. I had looked

at myself many times in the mirror while making the suit. It shows off

my figure well, especially my breasts, although it changes their shape

by making them unnaturally pointy. And it is TIGHT. So tight there

isn't a wrinkle or fold anywhere in the material. It pulls up into my

crotch quite uncomfortably. Exactly what he wanted.

     He had me take out my contact lenses, too, and put on the stilet-

to boots again, with the chains that hold them on. And my wrist cuffs.

He had me bend over and hang my hair down into the hood while he

pulled it on over my head and zipped it from my chin to the base of my

throat. He zipped the hood to the collar, too. I was completely

enclosed in the suit. I could breathe and speak, but I couldn't see a

thing. Of course I know what it looks like, since I had tried it on

before sewing up the eye holes. I will leave it to your imagination.

     He had me stand. I was disoriented, on four inch heels and unable

to see, but he rectified my inability to balance by chaining my wrists

overhead at the foot of the bed and my ankles apart at the ends of a

three-foot pole, a spreader bar, if my understanding of ASBese is

accurate.

     Although spread-eagled, I could stand fairly easily, even on four

inch heels. I wasn't hanging by my wrists or anything drastic like

that; in fact, I might have fallen if my wrists hadn't been chained

above my head. He left me standing there for a moment while he left

the room. I didn't know it at that particular moment, but shortly I

would learn that he had gotten his heavy oak armchair and put it in

the bathroom.

     God, I still can't BELIEVE what he's done to me, even now, a week

later. And that morning was only the beginning. But one thing at a

time. I have to tell it as it happened.

     He unzipped the front of the bodysuit then, from neck to crotch

and up to my lower back. His hands were inside the suit, stroking me,

arousing me. I couldn't see what he would do next, but I was listening

intently for any clue. I was still on edge from the previous night's

unresolved teasing. He stood beside me. I felt chilly and exposed

where the zipper was undone, and I felt the lubricated fingers of one

hand working into my rear portal while his other hand stimulated my

front. First one finger, then two went in, loosening me for three. I

tried to relax and help him. Usually, being nervous is a hindrance,

but this time it made me wet in seconds, very ready, and very horny.

     Of course, I didn't know what was coming; so far it was just

another exciting and mysterious bit of bondage. I grasped and squeezed

with both openings, my thighs quivering with the tension and my hips

grinding in both directions at once. I guess gyrating is the word. A

few more minutes and he had me on the edge of an orgasm again, and he

stopped.

     I heard a buzzing noise. Then two buzzing noises. I could feel

vibration against both sides of me and knew instantly he had two

vibrators. I squirmed halfheartedly, and tried to clench both open-

ings, but I knew I couldn't have stopped him.

     [...and I didn't want to stop him, either, but was ashamed to

admit it ... Note from the Future]

     He continued to penetrate me from both sides at once, until both

vibrators were buried deep inside me. Each of them had some kind of

stop or flange on the end to prevent them from disappearing completely

inside, but he pushed until they were pressed tight against me. I

thought he was going to use them to bring me to orgasm, but instead,

he held them in me with one hand while he zipped the body suit back up

my front to my chin.

     He put the plastic torso over the bodysuit. I had to wiggle and

squirm again to keep from being pinched. He latched it into place, and

I heard the familiar rattle of tiny locks. I was getting frantic. The

bodysuit gave me something to thrust against, but the critical vibra-

tor, the front one, wouldn't touch the right spot no matter how I

squirmed. I was being stimulated constantly, but the vibrators could-

n't make me climax. Sometimes, I could make it touch my nasty bits,

but the vibrators buzzed against the fiberglass like a sounding board.

I know he could hear what I was doing.

     Dimly I became aware that he was unlocking my legs. I could bring

them together as much as the torso would allow, but it really didn't

help. Then he freed my arms. I nearly fell, but he was ready and

caught me and half-carried me into the bathroom where he sat me on the

armchair. I helped ease myself down onto the seat, supporting myself

by my arms while I tried to settle onto that rear vibrator, not

knowing what was going on.

     By the time I was able to sit I was distantly, through the haze

of the building stimulation, aware of him working at my wrists with

tape (more electrician's tape), wrapping around and around both my

wrists and the chair arms. The same with my elbows, my upper arms,

everything. My ankles and my shins were taped to the legs of the

chair, a chain locked to both sides of the chair and to the rings on

the torso. Something--a belt I think--went around my thighs and the

seat of the chair. I was frantic over the vibrators, and almost

unaware of what he was doing. I had to partly lift myself with my arms

to keep the rear vibrator from becoming uncomfortable, but at the same

time I was squirming against the front of the carapace with my sex. He

must have worked very quickly. I was completely immobilized in what

must have been less than two minutes. The torso kept me from even

turning my head. But I was rubbing myself harder and harder against

the inside of the torso.

     Off came the hood. I was strapped into the chair, sitting looking

at my out-of focus reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of

the bathroom door. He stepped in front of me. He was holding the gag.

THAT gag. It barely registered, I was so disoriented. I rolled my eyes

up at him, tilting my head as much as I could. I was panting, my

breath coming in short gasps, my face flushed.

     "Wha- What are you doing to me?" I asked, trying to gather my

wits. I was becoming more disoriented as the sensations continued to

build inside me; without my contact lenses the room looked fuzzy and I

felt like I was under water, everything moving in slow motion, but

still out of control. He held the gag against my mouth, saying noth-

ing. I couldn't think. I just opened up and he put it in. He didn't

even bother to buckle it in back. He stepped to the side, revealing my

reflection: eyes wild and wide over a mouth held open by the gag in a

soundless scream, face framed by a white mane-cloud of platinum hair.

     The rest of me was a study in textures and shades of black:

polished black plastic, black lycra, black leather boots, my upper

arms compressed by bands of black electrician's tape. Even my mascara

and eyeliner were black against my pale skin. Only my lips were red.

My chin was held high in that rigid, regal pose, my neck unnaturally

long. Black tape was around my plastic-encased neck, too, holding me

immobile against the top of the armchair's back.

     I was an absolute total knockout.

     A slight pulsating movement of my thighs and a slight straining

of my neck against the high collar and the occasional squeezing shut

or fluttering of my eyelids were the only outward signs of the tempest

raging inside the torso. And the puffing noises escaping around the

gag and through my nostrils.

     I rolled my eyes to follow his motions. I blinked and tried to

focus my myopic attention on him despite what the vibrators were doing

to me. I was starting to slide into an orgasm. He stepped behind me; I

could see him in the mirror. He smiled in a way that I can only

describe as compassionate, and fluffed my hair out with his hands like

a hairdresser might have, but he was looking straight into my eyes,

gauging how close to orgasm I was. He didn't say anything. He just

nodded to himself as though he had made a personal decision when he

saw I was ready. He should have said something. I had a right to some

explanation, some words, something. My orgasm started even as he was

making his decision.

     There was a pair of scissors in his hand.



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