Archive-name: Bondage/njlist07.txt

Archive-author: Nurse Jones

Archive-title: The List -  7 of 20





The List

     Column 1

       Item 13



     Exactly in the middle of my orgasm he took a handful the hair on

my forehead and snipped it off. I screamed against the gag. He was

cutting my hair off!

     I strained against everything that was holding me. I heaved

against the chair, trying to tip it, the vibrators forgotten in my

fear, but I could barely move. I twisted frantically inside the torso,

my movements made uncoordinated and spasmodic by the ongoing orgasm. I

couldn't even stretch the tape. I could turn my head a few inches to

the side, but that was all. I tried to jerk my head away from his

hands, but he easily took another snip, again from my forehead. And

another. In my panic, I actually forgot about the gag and continued

futilely to scream at him to stop, even though I could hear I was just

making squealing noises. My heart was racing. How could he do this to

me? My orgasm wound down rapidly, leaving behind a near-hysteria. I

hadn't really meant this to happen. At all.

     He worked across my forehead, from my ears forward. I stopped

fighting it for a few breaths to try and catch his eye. If he could

just see the expression on my face, I thought, he would have to stop.

I looked at my forehead in the mirror and went back to futile hysteri-

cal struggling when I realized it was too late to stop him. My scalp

was showing through; for a distance of three or four inches back from

my hairline, my hair was less than a half-inch long. Over my entire

forehead, in a line from the fronts of my ears to the top of my head

in front, I had a crewcut.

     He stopped snipping and I tore my eyes from what he was doing

long enough to look at the rest of me in the mirror. I was crying.

Mascara streaks ran to my chin. Air was hissing through my nostrils

like a steam engine, cheeks puffing out, nostrils dilating; my nose

was running down to my lips and over the gag, mouth leaking saliva

that dripped on the black plastic neck and breasts of the torso. My

breath was ragged, my eyes red-rimmed and round. I was making little

whining noises through the corners of my mouth around the gag.

     He smeared shaving cream on my forehead --my new forehead-- and

began shaving me with a disposable razor. Funny, the scraping noise of

the razor was the only sound I could hear--even my labored breathing

faded into the background of my awareness.

     In shock, I thought, stupidly: "At least it isn't all of my

hair," as if it mattered. I can't go out in public the way I am now.

It will be months and months growing back. As the razor scraped over

my forehead, I became aware again of the vibrators inside me. It had

been less than ten minutes since he had put them in, but it seemed so

long ago I had nearly forgotten them. I shuddered involuntarily. They

didn't feel sexy any more. I just wanted them out. I didn't want

another orgasm. I just wanted it to stop, to be undone.

     He was through. He damp-wiped my forehead and face and fluffed

out what was left of my hair. Through a film of tears I could see a

totally different person. My forehead was incredibly, impossibly high.

Like those old portraits of Elizabeth I of England. My head was

completely bare in front of my ears.

     He removed my gag. I said nothing. There was nothing to say. It

was too late. I just stared at myself in the mirror, horrified and

quaking, a jumble of conflicting emotions and sensations. He must have

cut away the tape, but I just stared at myself, seeing nothing but my

forehead. He helped me to my feet and half-carried me to the bed,

where he tenderly took off the torso, unzipped the bodysuit, and

gently removed the vibrators. They were still going strong. I was in a

daze. I didn't even help him when he rolled me over to remove the

second vibrator. I don't think I even blinked.

     I felt ruined. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. The only thing I

could think about was my hair. Without the vibrators in me I continued

to experience a kind of visceral nervous tremor, like when you get off

a lawnmower or a tractor you have been riding all day. My body was

thrumming with the sudden absence of vibration. But that didn't

matter. Nothing did.

     "Look at me," he said. I couldn't. I just stared dully at the

ceiling, the bodysuit open, my feet in the boots hanging over the foot

of the bed. He sat on the bed beside me and turned my chin with his

hand. My eyes met his.

     "I love you," he said. Suddenly my emotions all boiled to the

surface.

     "My God!!! How could you do this to me!!?" I wailed, rolling over

and burying my face in the pillows. While I was face-down sobbing

hysterically, I felt his hand on my shoulder. "Don't!" I said, jerking

away as if I had been shocked. I rolled away from him to the side of

the bed and got up, unsteady on the hooker-heels with my legs still

strapped together.

     "Look at what you've done to me!!" I cried, dissolving into tears

again as I hobbled to the mirror and turned to face him, fists

clenched at my sides. He looked so dismayed at the vehemence of my

reaction, I realized he was expecting something completely different

from me.

     "You're beautiful to me. And I'm not going to apologize. I did it

because I love you and I am going to make you mine."

     Strange way of showing it, I thought.

     "I don't believe this is happening!"

     "I want to own you. Now I do, more than before. Try to understand

that I care more about you than anything else in the world. You are a

treasure to me." Right, I thought. Sure. His voice told me he was

beginning to worry that he had gone too far. Or too fast.

     "Yeah, well you just disfigured your treasure," I said bitterly,

turning away and looking in the mirror again. I was quite a sight:

with the unitard flopping open, I was a slash of white nakedness from

the crown of my head to my hairless sex.

     "No," he said quietly but forcefully. I have never heard him so

intense and adamant. "No..." he said again, gently, turning my face to

him and looking me in the eyes. "I stripped away more of your digni-

ty." Oh great, I thought. Now I get pop philosophy to make it all

better. As I said, I was feeling a little bitter.

     "Doing this makes it easier for you," he went on.

     "What the hell are you talking about?!"

     "Dignity and pride obscure our relationship and our sexuality the

way a fire is obscured by its own smoke. I didn't disfigure you. I

took away some dignity. To me you are more beautiful than ever,

because you are almost completely mine. If you want public dignity you

can go out in public with a wig. I even have one for you, but you will

wear it when I allow it. You will have no private dignity.

     "You are not disfigured. You are changed. It is important that

you understand .... "

     "I don't believe this," I interrupted. But he went on and on.

There was more, but he wasn't connecting with me. It sounded

rehearsed. I didn't even listen to most of it, and I wasn't buying it,

but on the other hand, now, I can see what he had intended, what he

wanted to happen.

     J has always preferred subtlety as a way of getting what he

wants. I know that shaving me doesn't sound subtle, but he would

prefer to give me the superficial appearance of freedom if there were

hidden chains holding me. Best would be no restraints other than my

own fear of embarrassment. Up to now I've had complete freedom to walk

around the house and yard, but total inability to go out in public,

whether it was chains, weights, lack of clothing, or the plastic torso

that kept me home. Now it is my appearance that chains me. In public,

my wig chains me, since he can always take it from me.

     While we lived in Chicago he studied martial arts. He drove an

extra hour every Tuesday night to study judo rather than take karate

within walking distance. He explained he prefers the "soft way" to

force. Somehow it is more satisfying, he says. He is strong enough to

overpower me easily, but he would prefer not to use strength and

chains except as a temporary technical means to an unfettered but

rigidly confined end. Invisible chains may or may not be the stron-

gest, but J thinks they are the best, for some reason.

     Even as I write this down, the words sound unconvincing, and at

the time I thought it was a line of bull. I'm still not sure. It was

definitely hard to take at face value. I thought he was merely justi-

fying what he had done, and that he had in fact done it simply in

order to exert control over me. A power trip.

     But in this regard he has always been something of a mystery to

me. He has been in a position to control other people a number of

times, [partial professional record deleted] but even then, whenever

possible without shirking his responsibilities, he refused to use the

authority inherent in his position. He is genuinely more interested in

personal self-understanding than in the public trappings of success.

His desire for control has always been directed toward himself. So his

desire to exert control over me has been a mystery. Unless he regards

me as so much a part of him that I fall into a different category than

the public. No, that's not it. I don't know.

     Anyway, his "will to power" (if you read your Nietzsche) is

inwardly directed. So calling this a "power trip" for him may be a

little unfair. Maybe.

     And of course it IS on the List. Still, this was one thing I just

didn't think he would do. When he suggested it I just laughed and

said, "Sure, if I can do the same to you." I was simply thinking of

this in a different way than he was. He actually intended to DO this

to me; but I, instead of thinking of something I really wanted (enough

to trade my hair for), I just thought of a fair retaliation for such a

terrible thing. I thought: He wouldn't do that to me because he

wouldn't want me to do it to him. The key point I had missed was this:

I didn't want to do this to him. But he did want to do it to me. Why?

Who knows?

     In the end I came to the conclusion that he might just mean what

he says. He always has in the past. And I like having him in control.

It makes me feel safe. But God. My hair! Even just this morning, a

week later, I don't know how many times I have thought to myself:

"What in God's name have I gotten myself into?!"

     I've been round and round with myself trying to figure out why he

would want to do such a thing, and I have no answer. The only thing I

am sure of is that there's a lot more psychology than philosophy

behind what he did. I just hope there's no pathology. I sometimes

think the inside of his mind must look like a painting by Heironymus

Bosch (for that matter, mine does, too). Why he did it wasn't upper-

most in my mind at the time, though. My hair was.

     In fact, at that particular moment I wasn't thinking about

anything, just feeling pretty goddamn miserable. Listlessly, I stared

at myself in the full length mirror. He stepped in front of me, still

holding the damp washcloth. Tenderly, he wiped a smudge of mascara

from below an eye and even kissed me.

     "You are beautiful," he said, "Half a century ago you would have

been a great beauty exactly as you are, so don't dismiss your appear-

ance just because it is different. If you can't see your beauty, then

see this as a new kind of nakedness: a new source of that embarrass-

ment that I value so much as a gift." I wanted so much to believe in

him, to believe he wasn't crazy. I just wasn't sure. How could he want

me like this? The only thing that really touched a part of me was the

idea that he wanted to make me his completely. He stepped aside and

let me look in the mirror.

     It was hard to look without bursting into tears again. I looked

at my feet in the boots, still chained. The chained wrists rested on

my thighs, hands trembling. He reached behind me and rezipped the

bodysuit, down my back and between my legs, up my front almost to the

top. There was a wet patch between my legs. My eyes followed the

zipper to my chin. I looked at my face again. It was genuinely shock-

ing to see myself that way. I couldn't help it. Tears flowed and ran

down my face again, and my lower lip began to quiver. A pathetic

specimen. I turned and looked up at his face. I saw admiration, love,

and concern there. I looked back at my shaved forehead. Back at his

face.

     "You can't.... I look so...." I said in a tiny voice. I wanted to

believe him so much, but when I looked in the mirror it was so awful.

He took me by the shoulders and turned me to face him.

     "Really," he said, looking straight into my eyes. "To me you are

beautiful, and not just because you are mine, but also because you are

just plain beautiful."

     I stood there, still in a daze, my eyes unfocused, my thoughts

turned inward. I just wanted reassurance. I wanted to be sure he

wasn't weird. At least not pathologically weird. I wanted to know he

loved me. I reached up and zipped the front of the bodysuit back down

to my waist. It took both hands with my thumbs inside the gloves.

     "Show me....?" I said, resentful and uncertain.

     He looked into my eyes and nodded.

     He picked me up, carried me back to the bed, and sat, holding me

in his lap. He took the key from around his neck and unlocked my

wrists and kissed each one. He stood me on my feet and knelt to unlock

the leg straps and the chains that held on the boots. When he stood

and kissed me again, I could feel a tremor of suppressed emotion in

his arms. He held me by the shoulders at arm's length and stepped

back, just looking at me. I was still ashamed and resentful and

wouldn't look up at him. It was approaching sunset and we hadn't

turned on any lights yet. The late afternoon sun slanted through the

windows, casting shifting leaf-shadows on the wall in the dim light.

It was very quiet.

     He held out the hood.

     I took it and put it on, bending to tuck the remainder of my hair

inside. At least the hood covers my forehead, I thought, and with it

on he couldn't cut off any more hair. But I still felt sick inside. A

wave of near-nausea swept over me whenever I thought about what he had

done to me.

     He zipped the bodysuit the rest of the way up, and zipped the

neck of the bodysuit to the neckline of the bodysuit. He knelt and

undid my boots; while I steadied myself on his shoulder he helped me

out of them. He stood and did something under my chin to the three

zippers where they came together. I could feel with my gloved finger-

tips that something joined the zipper of the bodysuit with the neck-

line zipper and the one that closed the hood under my chin. (That, I

realized, was why he had me get zippers with holes in them, so he

could join them somehow). I was enclosed completely except for my

nostrils, and I could do nothing to release myself without scissors.

The gloves were too clumsy to figure out what held the zippers togeth-

er (it wasn't a lock), and I didn't have to be a rocket scientist to

figure out that in the game of "find the scissors first", having to

use the thumbless braille method would not give me a very big advan-

tage. I didn't even try. I heard him sit on the bed and felt my way to

him.

     He kissed me through the bodysuit and said "I can give you what

you ask, but that doesn't mean I will relinquish control of you."

     He kissed me again, lingering over the mask between our lips. I

held my face blindly out toward his kisses. There were still tears

leaking out inside the hood. He stroked my body in a way that wasn't

exactly nonsexual, but wasn't foreplay either. We leaned on pillows

propped against the headboard, his arms around me. I felt safe,

protected. As we cuddled in the darkening room, I could tell his

attention was completely focused on me, and I felt as though I was

enfolded in the center of a private little world, like I was a little

kid again, sharing secrets under a blanket. Or an embryo in the womb.

But every time I began to relax I would think of my hair. It kept

coming back. He made me feel secure and safe, but it was always there

at the back of my mind that something was wrong, and back it would

come and I would feel sick all over again. I would think: "Why did it

have to be my hair?" And then I would start crying again under the

hood.

     "I think I'll keep you like this for a few hours. As a pet," he

whispered into my ear. As he stroked me through the lycra, his caress-

es became more overtly sexual. There is something especially sexy

about the way his fingernails slide over the fabric; when he strokes

my sex that way, sliding down my stomach to between my legs, I can't

help catching my breath. It's like the good part of being tickled

without the bad part that makes me laugh uncontrollably. It drives my

breath out and my stomach muscles contract involuntarily. But he

stopped.

     I couldn't read or watch T.V., it was too early to sleep, I

couldn't cook, eat, or even walk around very easily. There was nothing

I could do in that getup but try and seduce him into taking it off. So

what the hell, I tried. I could feel him getting hard as I rubbed my

body against him, and I was getting pretty steamy too. But I still

hadn't forgiven him. This was the only thing he had ever done to me

for which I felt resentment that lasted more than a few minutes. Up to

then, anyway.

     He pushed me back, and said, "I think I'll take a shower." He got

up and left me on the bed, and I heard the shower start running. I was

still turned on, and I knew he was, too. I felt my way into the

bathroom and sat on the closed seat of the john while he took his

shower. I had a plan: get the suit wet and he'll let me take it off to

dry it. I went and stood at the entrance to the shower.

     "Hi." he said.

     "The bodysuit needs washing here," I said, indicating my sex.

"And when I cried my nose ran inside this hood. Can I come in?"

     "Sure."

     He gave me the soap and I began washing, getting the bodysuit

thoroughly soaped and soaked. Thumbless, I had to hold it with both

hands. I switched to the shampoo. The hot water made the bodysuit

relax and stretch; it felt as though it were melting and loosening on

my body. In seconds it wasn't tight at all. Wet, it was a perfect and

comfortable fit. I must be a very sensual person, but despite my

abysmal mood I got a kind of erotic pleasure out of the feeling of the

wet bodysuit moving and relaxing against my skin as I stood soaking

under the shower. When I was through, I asked if I could still be his

"pet" without the bodysuit. He said no, and gave me a towel. I dried

myself as best I could, and he turned on the hair dryer for me to

finish after he left. It took forever to get dry. I had to hold it

with both hands again, and my hair was still wet under the hood when I

finished, but the bodysuit had become a perfect fit, exactly snug and

even all over.

     He had left me there alone in the bathroom, so I felt my way

through the bedroom and hall to the living room where I could hear him

moving about. Still unused to my hair, I wanted to get the bodysuit

off to look at myself again. I was fascinated and shocked by my

appearance, the same way I would have been had I seen an Elizabethan

hairstyle on someone else. Even more shocked, because it was on me. I

wanted to look and I didn't want to look. Fools and angels rushing in

and fearing to tread again.

     I wasn't in pain, though; the bodysuit isn't at all like the gag.

It's just disconcerting not to know anything that's going on. And

frankly, after a while, the enforced inactivity gets boring. I asked

if I could put on something else instead. He said no, but he'd think

about it.

     I didn't really feel desperate enough to beg; besides, I was

still resentful enough over what he had done to me that I wasn't going

to humiliate myself willingly. On the other hand, the only two things

I could do were listen to the headphones and snuggle with J, and I

couldn't find the headphones blindfolded. I must have been quite a

sight, creeping slowly around the house, holding onto furniture to

keep my balance and trying not to break anything while I felt for the

headphones. Finally, I tried stretching the hood until I could see

through a nostril hole. That was a mistake. He saw me.

     "I can see the hood isn't tight enough," he said. He went out to

the garage. When he came back he took me by the arm and led me into

the bedroom. He said "You are going to get what you asked for. The

body suit comes off."





The List

     Column 1

       Item 14



     He did something at my throat and unzipped the collar, separating

the hood from the bodysuit. He unzipped the bodysuit from my throat to

the center of my back and pulled it down to my ankles in one motion. I

was naked except for the hood. I felt him buckle something around my

upper thighs one at a time. Then my wrists; he locked my wrists to the

sides of my thighs. I know the sound those little locks make by now. I

would be able to walk, but I couldn't see and I couldn't reach any-

thing with my hands.

     I was already worse off than before--but he wasn't through. He

buckled a collar around my neck. He didn't bother to lock it: I

couldn't reach it. Another strap around each leg just above the knee,

those connected so I could take only tiny steps--another strap around

each ankle--still another at each elbow--yet another around my waist

with a wide strap between my legs, forcing my buttocks apart. I

remembered that one: he had put it on me once before. This time,

though, my elbows were locked to the waistband.

     A strap across my back, under each arm and over each shoulder,

holding my shoulders back and making my breasts jut out unnatural-

ly--more than they ever would have even if I were deliberately trying

to make them seem big. He snapped still another strap to the back of

my collar and buckled it to the back of my waistband, pulling it tight

and forcing me to arch my back even more.

     Strap after strap after strap, and I was constrained more and

more. The last clipped to my collar in front, passed between my

breasts and through a ring on my waistband, was pulled tight and

buckled, pressing the crotch cruelly against my labia, forcing them

apart. I almost couldn't move: I couldn't bend over; I couldn't move

my arms at all, even my elbows; I couldn't see. But I wasn't in pain.

Well, not exactly.

     I could walk slowly, talk, and sit. Carefully. I didn't even feel

safe walking. What if I had lost my balance? I asked just that ques-

tion and instantly he put a gag in my mouth, a simple cloth band tied

tightly right over the hood, forcing my mouth open. I had never felt

so trapped and constrained before. Even begging for a little relief

was impossible. But still, I was not in pain.

     Being locked up and helpless that way was actually extremely

erotic for me. It would have been more so if the image of my shaved

forehead hadn't continued to wash through my consciousness. Erotic

feelings in these circumstances are not something your average mid-

westerner will admit, I know. I remember thinking that if only he had

bound me this way instead of what he had done to my hair. Always my

thoughts returned to my hair. Whenever I thought directly about it my

mind shied away, but at the same time my thoughts were drawn toward my

forehead like a bird hypnotized by a snake (I know that is an old

wife's tale, but it describes what I felt). I still can't think

directly about the idea but neither can I ignore it. I am drawn

inexorably toward something I try desperately to avoid confronting. It

helps to write about it, I guess.

     Mostly, though, I concentrated on not losing my balance. If I had

fallen with my arms locked at my sides ....

     But J was watching over me. He guided me to the foot of the bed

and clipped the front of my collar to something hanging from the

ceiling--I couldn't tell what. If I bent my knees, my weight rested on

the crotch of my leather "g-string" rather than my neck. Even if I

fainted, I would not fall, could not hurt myself.

     All I could do was stand there.

     "When I come back, I will remove one restraint. Think about what

you will do to get me to remove the next," he said. He left me stand-

ing there in the bedroom for what seemed like hours; it may have been

only fifteen minutes. I heard him moving around in the kitchen, and I

thought. About basics. Is this weird? Yes. Did I still love him? Yes.

Did I care if he loved me? Yes. Did I want to end the List? Depends on

how bad it was going to get. On the cost of ending it. It couldn't get

any worse. There was nothing else he could do that mattered. I knew

what was on the List, and was sure none of it was worse than what he

had already done to my hair. As long as he stuck to the List.

     He had forced me to take this latest step, this hair thing. I was

gagged and couldn't speak to protest. I would have stopped the List

then if I could have. I really would have, even though I had agreed to

it. (I actually got an erotic charge out of the act of agreeing to it.

I was being daring and sexy when I should have been thinking with

something other than my glands.) After, it was too late. It isn't

completely my fault; there is some solace to be found in that. And how

was he to know that my written fantasies about him shaving me were

just fantasies? After all, I agreed to the List. But I was wrong in

one thing: it did get worse.

     The only conclusion I came to was that in the short term I

wouldn't think about it. I would go along with what he wanted, and

then I would take it from there. That meant the first step was to

please him, or at least make him believe I wanted to please him. Hell,

I didn't want to please him, I wanted him to own me. Double hell. I

don't know what I wanted.

     When he came back the first thing he did was not to remove a

restraint, but to kiss me right through the gag. Gently, he tugged on

the pendants dangling from my jutting breasts. I knew from personal

experimentation that my nipples readily everted, even though I could-

n't see what was going on. He tugged a little more. The feeling was

exquisite: intense pleasure coupled with a sensation of not-quite-

pain. They were still tender, but fully healed, I think. Before, I

would have said that pulling, even the gentlest pulling (he is gentle

when it's important) on my nipple rings would have been absolutely

verboten. Now, I'm not so sure.

     He increased the tension on my nipples until my breath quickened:

each sharp exhalation/inhalation was separated by a momentary pause, a

holding of my breath, a waiting, suspended with no thought except of

the tips of my nipples.

     For some reason, it is important to me that you understand that

last paragraph. Exhale. Inhale. Pause with lungs full. Concentrate on

nipples. It was a very intense sensation. Try it. Exhale inhale. It

hurt more to exhale, so I tried to keep my lungs full. But I had to

breathe. Use your imagination. It was intense.

     Inhaling eased some of the tension on my nipples. The sensation

seems somehow to extend deep inside my breasts and to tug directly at

my womb. I know there's no physiological basis for this sensation, but

it is real. I am sorry J isn't sensitive that way and will never

experience that sensation.

     No, I'm not sorry. Well, yes, I am.

     I could feel myself getting wet beneath the leather crotch.

     He took off the gag and kissed me through the hood again. I

returned the kiss, pressing my immobilized body against him as best I

could. My nipples remained erect and hard.

     He unhooked my neck from the hanging chain. I fell against him,

pressing my body against him deliberately. He caught and held me. I

held my face blindly toward his; again he kissed me through the mask.

I told myself I was only doing this to get free, but I knew it wasn't

true even at the time. I was loving it. I even like writing about it.

     He eased me back onto the bed where he kissed me again and

tugged--a little less gently--on the pendants on my hard, erect

nipples. You can't imagine the excruciatingly exquisite feeling of a

tug on the very tip your already pebble-hard nipples, a tug that seems

to reach into the center of you and send a kind of a lazy electric

jolt through your body, stopping your breath and causing an instant

flood of warmth and moisture inside you. Or maybe you can imagine.

Until then I never had felt it that intensely. Nipple rings are great.

     He unhooked the strap connecting the back of my collar to the

waistband, making the unnatural back-arching posture no longer neces-

sary. My shoulders remained strapped together, though and my breasts

were still thrust outward. My nipples ached with excitement; they were

so stiff the pendants were held out at the very tips: they no longer

dangled against my breasts; didn't even touch them when I was stand-

ing. My breath became ragged.

     He lifted me into the center of the bed and laid me on my back.

He removed the strap between my knees. He strapped my ankles to the

bedposts, my legs held quite far apart, although not to the point of

actual discomfort. Then he attached something to my knee-straps that

pulled my knees even further toward the edges of the bed. I had never

been spread so wide before. I could feel the muscles between my thighs

straining under the tension.

     He knelt between my knees, unbuckled the waistband buckles in

front and opened the leather belt, exposing my already-wet sex. He

unhooked my elbows from the waistband and unbuckled the strap that ran

from the front of my collar to the front of the waistband. Lifting my

buttocks, he slid the waistband from underneath me. I was as exposed

to him as it is possible to be, my legs spread wide, my breasts

jutting, my wrists still locked to my thighs.

     Carefully, he let his weight settle gently on top of me; he felt

like a warm, heavy snowfall blanketing me. I was panting, partly from

the near-pain caused by the position of my legs, partly from excite-

ment. He unzipped the bottom of the hood and peeled it back to the

bridge of my nose, uncovering my mouth. I felt his breath on my face,

near-kisses teasing my blind, searching lips.

     With excruciating slowness, he penetrated me simultaneously, my

mouth with his tongue and my sex with his maleness. I was already

spasming toward an orgasm. It was hard to reach up to pull him in

while in that position, but still I tried to the limits of the strain

on my poor suffering inner thighs.

     He thrust into me, teasing. Deeply into me and out. Long pause.

In-out. Pause. Every time he penetrated me my breath rushed out in a

sharp exhalation and rushed back as he withdrew. When he paused, my

breath held suspended, waiting expectantly for the next penetration.

He increased the tempo until my breath was coming in uncontrollable

pants that he nonetheless kept timed with his thrusts. My pants merged

with ragged moans, the moans with soft cries, the cries becoming

louder and louder until our dams burst, together. Timing is all. I

subsided into a quivering exhaustion. Gradually, he became limp inside

me.

     It was after a few moments that the most wonderful thing hap-

pened. The thing that convinced me that I actually was still attrac-

tive--maybe more attractive--to him with my hair that way. He reached

up and slipped the hood the rest of the way off, exposing my naked

forehead. All thought evaporated from my head. All that was left was

the humiliation. I was totally, utterly embarrassed. Even though the

evening light was very dim and he couldn't really see me, I turned my

head to the side, trying to hide myself.

     I struggled impotently against the straps holding my wrists to my

thighs. But he held my head between his hands and turned me to face

him. Tenderly, he kissed my shaved forehead. As he did, I felt him

begin to grow again inside me. The feeling was wonderful. To have him

already in me, and growing bigger and bigger, until he was stiff and

hard again, filling me completely. In those moments I realized that

the sight of my shaved forehead was the cause of his wonderful resur-

rection. I realized he really did, at an involuntary level and in a

way that can't be faked, like the way I now looked. Which was good. At

least some small part of this whole scene was good.

     So I had my third orgasm of the day after all, and all the while,

in the back of my mind, was the thought that my new appearance, even

though I hated (still hate) it, gave me power. Power over him.



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