Archive-name: Bondage/njlist09.txt

Archive-author: Nurse Jones

Archive-title: The List -  9 of 20





The List

     Column 1

       Item 15



     He mixed some of my cream bleach--the kind for bleaching facial

hair-- and put it on my eyebrows. I had forgotten about them.

     They were plucked thin enough as it was. They will be invisible

now, I thought. I was right. They are invisible. Which, of course, is

what he wanted. At least he didn't shave them off: I could dye them

back later. He left me sitting there while the bleach did its work.

When he came back and wiped off the bleach it was near dusk. He

cleaned away some runny mascara and dried tears too. I had stopped

crying and had time to think about what he had done to me. Somehow, it

wasn't as traumatic as the first time.

     I will have to wear a wig. So big deal, I had to wear a wig

before. I can dye my eyebrows back or even just darken them with

mascara. Otherwise no-one need know that my body is completely hair-

less. I am really no worse off than when he had shaved just my fore-

head: I had to wear a wig then, I still have to wear a wig. Shaving my

forehead was really the big step. Everything after that was inconse-

quential--just finishing an unfinished item on the List. I guess what

really bothers me now is not that I have to wear a wig to go out in

public. It is that I am now completely bald. I felt (still feel) so

NAKED without a wig or anything to cover me. I think that really was

the last shred of my dignity. While he left me sitting on the horse I

just stared into space as I thought these thoughts. No, that's not

true. I wasn't even thinking, just staring.

     He used a wrench to loosen the bolts that clamped the dildos in

place. I continued to sit and stare, and he gently slipped out the two

devices that had held me to the horse. When he helped me stand I

instinctively wouldn't look up at him--not because I was still playing

the slave role, but because I was ashamed of the way I knew I looked.

Remember, I didn't even have any eyebrows anymore. You don't get any

more naked than that.

     He took me by the elbow and led me through his bedroom to the

bathroom. On the way through I glanced at the full-length mirror, but

he had covered it with a sheet. The bathroom mirror was covered too.

He started a shower and we stepped in.

     He was gentle with me--although he didn't unlock the cuffs that

held my wrists to my thighs. I wanted so much to cover myself; I tried

to turn my face to the side as though I could hide. He washed all the

makeup off my face and soaped me from head to toe. When I rinsed off,

the sensation of the shower on my bald scalp was a surprise. Tingly;

it's a nice sensation, but I was in no mood to enjoy nice sensations.

I still couldn't make myself look at him, nor could I imagine he could

enjoy looking at me, but he was obviously--prominently--interested. He

covered me with handfuls of conditioner, again from head to toe, and

told me to do the same to him. I couldn't understand what he meant,

since he knew my hands were cuffed to my thighs.

     "How?" I asked. Long pause. "I mean, would it please you to

unlock my hands?" I had almost forgotten. Shaving my head had kind of

shocked me out of my role.

     "Your body is completely covered with conditioner. Use your

body."

     So I did, rubbing myself against his front, sliding my legs

between his, sliding my backside against him, and asking him several

times, "Would it please you to put more conditioner on me?" As I

rubbed my breasts against his back and then his erection I could tell

he was extremely ... ready. I know you probably think this was dis-

gustingly servile groveling, rubbing myself all over him, especially

after what he had just done to me. At this point I felt I had crossed

the line between dignified slavery and genuine degradation. I didn't

care.

     Suddenly he spun me around and held me to him and kissed me. He

was really turned on and poured a lot of barely-controlled emotion

into those kisses. He guided me out of the shower, and instead of

drying us off, he led me straight into the bedroom and literally threw

me onto the bed, soaking wet and still dripping with body conditioner.

Without preamble he was on top of me and inside. No foreplay, no

nothing. He ravished me. It sounds old-fashioned, I know, but there's

no other way to describe it. It's not that he was out of control, but

my appearance was driving him wild. At one moment I sensed that he

tried to slow down and exert his usually excellent control over the

timing of our orgasms, but he failed utterly. We slithered and slipped

against each other, and it felt like the smooth sensitive skin around

my depilated mons extended over my whole body to form one big eroge-

nous zone. In just a couple of minutes--long before I was ready--he

came uncontrollably in huge thrusting shuddering gasps. He collapsed

onto me, his face slithering into the hollow between my neck and

shoulder.

     To tell the truth, despite the embarrassment at my appearance,

even despite not having an orgasm, I derived a genuine sense of warmth

(power?) from the fact that I could make him lose control that way,

and I knew that it was my totally hairless appearance that did it to

him. I had to imagine how I looked: practically featureless. He had

made me into a doll, an undressed department store mannequin, with no

hair anywhere. Except that mannequins at least have makeup painted on.

     Perhaps rather than a mannequin, I looked like an unfinished

prototype for a female android (gynoid?). I flashed an image of myself

as a kind of sex object/appliance. A sort of real-live plastic inflat-

able love-doll, designed for only one function: to satisfy my owner.

     I dreaded looking in a mirror, but was nonetheless curious. I was

just beginning to get turned on by this sense of power and the really

sexy feeling of our slippery bodies against each other when I realized

his breathing had returned to normal and he was shrinking inside me. I

remember thinking that two thousand years ago, real slaves probably

got used like appliances too.

     He lifted up his head and looked me in the eyes. "What are you

feeling?" he asked.

     "If it pleases you, I was thinking I would like you to hold me

and touch me and tell me that I'm not ugly."

     [Note from the future: I couldn't write this at the time because

J would have read it and known he was being manipulated, but: getting

him to touch my bald head was a deliberate exertion of the power I

knew my appearance gave me over him.]

     "But I'm touching you all over right now--as much as it's possi-

ble to touch," he said.

     "I meant ... my head. I'm so ashamed of the way I look ... I'm

scared by all this."

     He touched my head while I kept my eyes carefully lowered. He

didn't have to tell me he thought I was beautiful: I felt him stirring

within me almost immediately. Within a minute I was on my way to a

terrific orgasm, made all the more terrific by this sudden vision of

myself as a kind of sex-machine that felt nothing, but drove him wild.

I kept my face immobile and hid all outward expression of emotion

while I squeezed him tightly and ground my hips against him the way I

imagined such an appliance/being would. All the while, though, I was

secretly building to one humdinger of a climax. I really tried to

suppress the first one, and I think I was successful: I kept up the

rhythm in my hips right through it without making a sound.

     I lost control on the second one, though. It was as though he

made me have an orgasm despite myself. Although I am almost never

noisy during sex, my breathing grew hoarse and merged with involuntary

moans that got louder and louder until there was this other person in

the room panting and crying out in near hysteria and it was me. I

rolled my head back and forth and spread myself extra wide to pull him

deeply inside me. He lifted my legs up onto his shoulders and plunged

into me, filling me up.

     Right in the middle of his orgasm, I reached the peak of mine and

for some daft reason I threw my legs apart, my feet in the air. I

don't know why, because it didn't feel any better, just different. I

just kept going and going, and so did he. I was moaning and babbling

incoherently, nearly having convulsions. I planted my feet on the bed

and pushed up, lifting him with my hips and opening myself as fully as

I could for him. Finally the exertion drove the breath out of me and I

could no longer make any sound beyond faint squeaks every time he

thrust. I went passive and limp, no longer capable of any action at

all. Finally, he came to a shuddering halt and collapsed onto me a

second time.

     It wasn't the very best sex I had ever had, but it was in the top

ten and it certainly was the most exhausting. I was absolutely de-

stroyed. It seems it is always different. This time, I simply couldn't

move. I felt I had been used. And used up. "Rode hard and put up wet"

as the Indiana farm boys say. Somehow, being used by J didn't bother

me. He isn't insensitive, and he doesn't "use" me like that as a

habit. In fact, I got kind of a thrill out of being used without

regard to my own needs. That's not the way I would want it all the

time, but now and then it can ... do things to me.

     Anyway, it was a long time before either of us could do anything

other than breathe like steam engines. After he rolled off of me we

both drifted off to a near-sleep. I roused myself first and took

another shower. The shower knob is chest-high for me. Fortunately, it

is started with a lever you have to push up on--otherwise I wouldn't

have been able to reach it with my wrists bound to my thighs. I just

stood there soaking under the water until he joined me. We stood

together under the stream of water for a while; he went and got the

key to my wrists and the leather straps fell to the floor of the

shower. I think the water and conditioner had stretched them anyway.

They had stained my wrists yellow-brown.

     When we started toweling off, I remembered my head. He had bound

my wrists and covered the mirrors to stop me from seeing or even

touching my scalp, so I asked for permission.

     "If it pleases you, could I touch my head now?"

     He thought about it and said yes, but I still couldn't look at

myself in the mirror.

     I was almost afraid to touch myself there. I ran my hand over the

top of my scalp. I was (am) smooth as the proverbial baby's bottom. I

didn't have a mirror, but I looked into his face as I felt my head.

You may find it hard to believe (I did), but after that one gesture,

just touching my head, he wanted me again. I could see him rising and

neither of us really even wanted sex again. It's almost like an

aphrodisiac with him. I knelt and took him in my mouth, and within

seconds he was rock- hard and ready for a third round. I would almost

have preferred to give him a third orgasm orally, I was so exhausted,

but I'm not sure I would have had the strength for that either.

Fortunately, before we really got started again he stopped me.

     "Wait," he said, "lets give it a few more minutes..."

     I stopped, but he was seriously horny again. I think his psychol-

ogy is stronger than his physiology. I sprinkled talcum powder on both

of us and spread it around. His erection didn't subside. When I put

talc on my naked scalp he went and got my wig--the long black one--

from his bedroom and told me to put it on. I don't think he could take

the sight of me like that any more.

     This is a new thing for me, and will take some getting used to:

the right kind of submission can bring a new kind of power. By paying

very close attention to his reactions and needs, I can learn by

experiment the kind of submissive behavior that he wants. It is clear

that the control I can exert on him by behaving in just the right way

is subtle, but nonetheless nearly as great as the control he exerts

over me. Perhaps this is something that I should not be writing, since

he will read it, but it is something I think will bring us closer if

he understands it.

     [Note from the future: the next few paragraphs are edited and

expanded heavily from the original. My manipulation of his reactions,

had he understood them completely at the time, would have interfered

with our relationship. Now that we are finished with Column 1 and I

control this document, I can make these changes.]

     The next few moments taught me the value of not over-using that

control.

     "If it would please you, I could put my makeup on now," I said. I

think he saw the interruption as a welcome distraction from an impend-

ing (but premature and exhausting) third session of lovemaking. That

was what I wanted him to think. With appropriately downcast eyes, I

promised not to remove my wig or try to look at myself in a mirror if

he would allow me to bring my makeup into his bathroom. I have to use

a small mirror to put on my makeup, I said, but he could watch me and

make sure I didn't sneak a peek at my head. Besides, I had my wig on.

     There is a small table in his bathroom. I put my makeup box on it

and looked in it for my small hand mirror. He had removed it. The

mirrors in my bathroom had been covered, too. He is thorough.

     But he gave me a small mirror to use. My face looks just plain

weird without eyebrows. Well, not totally without, but you have to

look very closely to see that they are there. Without any makeup I

really looked like a blank canvas. I thought I would look like I was

on chemotherapy, but my face was flushed from the shower, so I looked

wholesome, healthy and pink. Except ....

     While he put on some clothes in the next room, I put on a founda-

tion and a very pale coverup with the faintest touch of blush. Next,

heavy eyeshadow and mascara (I know he likes that). Then I put a shot

across his bow, as they say in the movies.

     "There's more of me to cover with makeup now. I can continue

without the mirror if you will help me. If it would please you," I

said, turning the mirror face down. I didn't look up--I just waited

for him to react.

     "Okay," he said.

     "May I take the wig off now?"

     "Okay."

     "Tell me if I miss anywhere."

     I put foundation over my entire scalp and followed it with the

same pale makeup while he watched. Just a touch of the same blusher

high up on my forehead. I could see his erection was still going

strong, straining against his pants. Maybe stronger, it was hard to

tell.

     "Would you put some more blusher on? This is new to me and I

can't tell where it would look good. Maybe some on my temples or the

top of my head?" I said. "If it would please you," I added. I knew it

would. Another shot to take the wind out of his tops'l, me hearties.

Arrrrh.

     When he had finished, I put the wig back on as if nothing had

happened, but something had: he had to adjust himself inside his

pants, and I knew I was touching some very sensitive nerves. Perhaps

not wisely, I pushed it even further.

     Instead of my usual lip gloss, I put on a flesh-colored blemish

cover that comes in a twist-out tube like a lipstick. I thought that

was kind of in keeping with my new "featureless" look, since it is

almost the same color as my skin. He was watching, and despite the

unusual look it gave me, he didn't tell me to change it. He seemed

mesmerized. I was loving it.

     So I gave my face the piece de resistance. My invisible eyebrows

gave me the liberty to put my eyebrows wherever I wanted. I sketched

in razor-thin eyebrows that had those high arches like movie stars

from the 1930's, but with an inspired touch: where they neared the

bridge of my nose, I turned them upward slightly instead of down. This

gave me a very interesting look--as though I were either very worried

or possibly even in pain. It's amazing how expressive eyebrows are.

And pants, too.

     I stood and walked into the bedroom with my eyes carefully down,

but with as much sensuality as I could squeeze into four or five

steps. He followed me. I gave him another broadside.

     I knelt in front of him and, keeping my eyes down, asked in an

almost inaudible whisper, "Would it please ... my Master ... if I wore

my boots tonight?"

     He cleared his throat and said, "Yes," also in a (rather hoarse)

whisper.

     I put them on and walked over to the bedside table with my back

to him. I know that my behind looks great when I walk in heels. He has

told me so a hundred times. It has something to do with those little

creases under my cheeks and the way they shift with each step. Of

course I exaggerated that for his benefit as I walked. His masts were

shot away and he was ready for boarding. As it were. Avast me heart-

ies.

     I'll never understand men. Back in Indiana a pair of well filled

short shorts would cause an entire room full of male eyes to turn as

one, and after she had passed there would be unanimous hooting, foot

stomping, and table pounding. The simplest and most predictable things

turn them on, but if you asked me what it is about J that turns me on,

I couldn't tell you. Well, I could, but it's so complex and personal

it wouldn't mean anything to you. His eyes maybe. I can go all soft

and squirmy sometimes when he just looks at me with those icy blue

nordic eyes. But then I've seen more beautiful eyes on guys that did

nothing for me. I guess it's the whole package that attracts me. The

point being, it's too complex to reduce to a formula.

     On the other hand, I would be willing to bet that almost all men

would be turned on by the way I walked then, not just the Indiana

Clampetts. I'm like most women, and I complain about how hard it is to

find a good man, how we have to wait for them to come to us rather

than going out and hog-tying the one we want, so it's going to sound

odd when I say this: Gals, in some ways we have it easy when it comes

to attracting men.

     It is something you could learn from a three-page instruction

book even if you were from another planet. If they only knew how

predictable they are. High heels, tight short skirts, dark eye makeup,

all that kind of stuff. Sounds sleazy, I know, but it comes with a

100% guarantee.

     But, you say, that kind of look attracts the wrong kind of man.

You're half right: it attracts all kinds of men, right kind or wrong.

It's up to us to sort 'em out.

     Their tastes are simple: they like either slinky black or virgin-

al white--but virginal white with no underwear, at least metaphorical-

ly. You see, the most important part is that the poor dear has to KNOW

it's just for him and him alone. Their little egos need that most of

all. And their capacity for believing that is infinite.

     Even better: they like to believe that most men would overlook

you because you are shy and that they alone were discerning enough to

have "discovered" you. The poor dears are so pathetically eager to

believe this that once they have got the idea in their heads, no

amount of evidence to the contrary will dislodge it.

     You're going to think I'm a cynic. I'm not. I love men. They're

easily the best aphrodisiac. And just because they're easy to under-

stand (some parts) doesn't mean you can't love 'em. We might be

initially attracted to them for all kinds of complex reasons: because

they are good looking, because they are powerful, because they are

mysterious, smart, talented, whatever. All these are strengths, and we

respect them because they are strong, but we love them because they

are weak, and love makes the choice.

     And when you get right down to it, their major weakness is how

easy they are to please. The old Sampson and Delilah routine. Just

push the right buttons. I could almost write a how-to manual; it could

be full of simple step-by-step instructions.

     But what does your man have to do to please you? It's a lot more

complex, isn't it? And the poor things are without a clue. I almost

pity them. But then on the other hand they don't have to put up with

our monthly friend, do they? And they run the world, by the way. Ah,

but that way lies madness. I like being a woman, but I can't think for

too long about how unfair it is. Being around doctors all day drives

the point home too often as it is: they have egos the size of small

planets, some of them. The modest ones. Large planets, the rest of

them.

     Most of the time, I can live my day-to-day existence and not

think about it at all, and then some subtle realization will hit me. I

was listening to a call-in talk-radio program featuring a family

psychologist and a thought occurred to me: have you ever heard a MAN

ask for advice on how to combine a career and marriage? Ever? Even

once? We women write books about it. Books! What does that imply?

Don't think about it.

     It just isn't very healthy to step back and look at the overall

picture too often. Aldous Huxley once gave some advice on that; I

can't remember which of his novels it was in. He said that if you are

ever sitting at your desk, doing whatever it is you do for a living,

and you begin to wonder if this particular activity is what nature or

God had intended as the culmination of three and a half billion years

of biological evolution, then you must be very careful, because you

will sense a bottomless pit opening beneath your desk and you will

feel your chair tilting forward and yourself sliding into it. The only

cure is to immediately put aside all such thoughts and concentrate on

alphabetizing the papers in front of you.

     I feel that way if I think too long about the monumental unfair-

ness that being a woman imposes. And I feel that way almost daily,

now, as I slip deeper and deeper into this thing J and I are doing.

Not the unfairness, the panicky sliding out-of-control sensation.

     If I step back and look at what I have done to myself by letting

this happen, I feel a growing sense of panic. And an urge to alphabet-

ize my life; get it back in order, even though it's simpler now than

it has ever been. Let's say I actually put on a wig and dye my eye-

brows back and get a job at the hospital. I have a good C.V.; it

wouldn't be a problem to do that. But every day at work, I would be

masquerading as a normal person, and every time I came home I would

have this totally different life. I am completely isolated from the

world I used to know at home, and from the "real" world here. And I

know nobody other than J that I can discuss this with, except the

friendly folks down at A.S.B., and that's not really an option since I

am determined to remain a "lurker".

     Maybe Huxley was wrong, though. It may not be fair to look back

on your life and ask 'is this what it was all leading toward?' Maybe a

life can't be judged by the present moment any more than a piece of

music can be judged by the final note. He was right about the cure,

though: Don't think about it. Forget the big picture; think moment to

moment, since that's the way you have to live it anyway. In any case,

I feel more comfortable alphabetizing than philosophizing, so I'll

forget the big picture and go back to writing about the bedroom. Sorry

about the soliloquy.

     -*-

     I was starting to feel pretty sexy again, especially since I knew

for an absolute undeniable fact that even though we'd had sex twice in

the last hour, I knew exactly what to do to MAKE him give me another

orgasm if I wanted one (or two). Which I did. And I had no inhibitions

whatsoever about asking for exactly what I wanted. All I had to do was

ask in the right way.

     From the bedside table I took the K/Y jelly and the vibrator that

he had used on my rear. Still keeping my eyes down, I slunk over and

knelt in front of him and said, "If it would please my Master, we

could make love with this inside me, and you might feel the vibration

and enjoy... using me more." (Good touch, that `using' huh?) The best

sex yet was when I was on top in the shower with the dildo in my rear.

I wanted to try it with the vibrator.

     Gosh, Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore. Or Indiana,

even. Shhh. Pay no attention to that woman behind the screen. No, I'm

not crazy, but everyone should know the complete script for at least

one movie.

     Funny. I made the transition to being able to address him as

"Master" in the most ironic way. I was willing to do anything (ANY-

THING) to keep him from shaving my head. I called him "Master" for the

first time when he was beginning to shave me, and once it was over, I

was too proud to stop. He might have thought I had only started

calling him Master to stop the shaving. And now I'm stuck with it.

How's that for twisted? Too proud to NOT humiliate myself?

     [ NFTF: That's the end of my editorial changes. The rest of Item

15 is as I first wrote it.]

     I knelt on the bed with shoulders on the mattress and my rear up

in the air toward him, ready to accept the vibrator. I was feeling

pretty horny myself at that moment. I was also being a little daring,

and I felt excited and exhilarated by it. Without turning it on, he

began inserting it. He insinuated it into me with much more care and

sensitivity than your average gynecologist. Of course a vibrator has a

little more erotic content than a speculum. Carefully, I rolled over

on my back and settled myself in the appropriate position: spread-

eagled, but this time voluntarily.

     But as soon as he had entered me, he rolled us over so I was on

top. He held the vibrator in and moved it in time with our lovemaking,

but he didn't turn it on until my first orgasm started. I was trying

to hold back and play the ice-queen like I had before, but my body

just started kind of fluttering inside all by itself. It's kind of

special to have your body do something all by itself without your

help--I don't know why. Just as I finished, he started. I love to

watch his face as he climaxes. His eyes go all unfocused and he

becomes completely withdrawn, self absorbed, and vulnerable. Non-

simultaneous orgasms have their strong points: you get to watch.

     Afterwards, with me still on top and the vibrator off (but still

in), we were just floating there on the bed. I was still wearing my

wig, and I was in a really mischievous mood. It's not a slave's place

to torture her master, but I don't get the chance very often. I

shifted to sit astride his hips; he had gone limp and he almost

slipped out at the motion. He likes looking up at me --especially at

my breasts--in that position. I began stroking myself. A little gentle

persuasion and my nipples were erect. I slipped my other hand down and

began stroking between my legs. I hammed it up a bit, biting my lip

and moaning--aided I'm sure by the worried/pained/surprised expression

of my painted-on eyebrows (I look like I'm in pain if my face is

relaxed; pleasure/pain if I open my mouth and gasp a little; pained

surprise if I open my eyes all the way. I've been practicing in front

of the mirror; these are expressions that don't come naturally to me,

yet they better reflect my actual feelings than my natural facial

expressions would. Is that really so deceitful?) I could feel him

stirring weakly inside me, but not enough. In a "moment of ecstacy" I

brushed my hand back over my face and accidentally-on-purpose knocked

off the wig.

     "I'm sorry, Master, it was an accident." I said, and scrabbled to

reach it and put it back on. After I had replaced it he reached up and

took it off again. I felt him growing quickly inside me. What a

feeling of power. He tells me that four times in one day is a record

that he hasn't equaled since he was a little boy just learning about

sex.

     On the whole, though, I don't think four times in as many

hours--or even four times in one day (or three, even)--is enjoyable

for either of us. He was enthusiastic, but even with the vibrator it

was more an exercise in total exhaustion than eroticism. I discovered

that my new ability to force arousal in him should not be squandered

on private ego trips unless there is some physical return--otherwise

it is just overkill for both of us. Maybe we're getting old. I'm

twenty-eight. But I read at the thirty-two year old level.

     Still, the feeling of utter depletion was delicious that evening.

I'll definitely keep the wig on whenever he's home, though, unless he

tells me to take it off.

     "It's those pesky hormones...." Thanks, Ma.

     I still haven't seen myself in the mirror. That night he had me

sleep with him so I didn't try to steal a peek at myself. I slept

without the wig, though: I took it off after he turned the lights out,

and snuggled into the crook of his arm, putting my bald head on his

shoulder. As I drifted off to sleep, he had another erection.... ( ;-)





The List

     Column 1

       Item 16



     He must have felt that I needed a bit more controlling after that

episode. I kind of overdid it and took advantage, sort of, even though

I remained submissive. Not that I actually liked having my head

shaved. He had me shave myself the next morning without a mirror. I

had to feel for the stubble with my hand and go over my head until I

felt totally smooth. It is kind of an erotic feeling. My nipples were

erect when I was through. Hmmm.

     At this point, he started doing something new to me: putting an

artificial tanning lotion all over my body. It's on the List, but I

won't be able to leave the house until it wears off. Actually, he

doesn't put it on me any more: he has ME do it every morning and every

evening while he watches, and I'm under orders to do it once at mid-

day as well, even when he's not at home.

     But that morning, after I had shaved myself, he started this

tanning routine without telling me what he was doing. The first thing

he did was to put another one of his handyman specials on me: stocks.

Simple, but well-crafted (varnished, sanded smooth, etc.) and func-

tional. Two boards, hinged at one end, locked together at the other,

held my hands and my neck. This he clipped to an overhead chain so I

had to just stand there and wait.

     He began by smearing this lotion all over my body: scalp to toes.

He didn't tell me what it was; I assumed at first it was another skin

conditioner. After I was completely covered, he brought out gauze

bandages and dipped them in the stuff and began wrapping my body like

a mummy. He really wants it to have a strong effect, because I was

positively marinated in the stuff. He started at my ankles and worked

his way up each leg independently, dipping the bandages, wringing out

the excess lotion, and wrapping it tightly around me. God only knows

what he spent on lotion and bandages, but he had emptied enough

bottles of lotion to fill a largish casserole dish. I kept asking him

what he was doing, and he just kept ignoring me, not even threatening

a gag.

     It took him a while to work out how to bandage my crotch and

hips, but he managed. The bandages around my waist were tight enough

to be a corset. He crisscrossed my chest, covering my breasts and

finished off with only my hands, head, and feet uncovered. These, he

just slathered in another dose of lotion.

     Up to this point I just stood there docile and patient because I

didn't know what he was doing to me. I began to get nervous, though,

when he covered me with saran wrap.

     This time, he wrapped me in true "mummy" style, with my legs held

tightly together. When he released me from the stocks, I struggled

weakly against him, but I was really quite helpless without the use of

my legs, and gave in after only token resistance. He wrapped my arms

and hands tightly against my sides. I had always thought of saran

wrapping as rather flimsy stuff, but it is amazing how strong a couple

of layers can be. I was cocooned and completely immobilized from the

neck down. I could wriggle a little, but after he put me on my back on

the bed I would have had real trouble even rolling myself over. He

carried me into the living room and laid me out on a folding lounger

that he brought in from the yard. A little duct tape, and I was there

for the duration.

     Only at this point did he tell me what he had done, by just

showing me a bottle of the lotion. When it dawned on me that this

wasn't just a new kind of skin conditioner, I began to struggle inside

the wrappings.

     "That's not fair," I whined. "The month is almost over and I will

be stained by this stuff for weeks after!" I felt like when the month

was over, everything should somehow magically go back to the way it

was before. Silly of me, I know. My hair will be months growing back.

But then, I wasn't really sure I wanted the month to be over quite

yet. He explained the List to me once again. There is no fine print,

no special clauses, no exceptions. Nothing about what I will look like

after the term of the contract has expired. Just a list of what he can

do during the month.

     He took some more lotion and rubbed it into my face, neck, and

scalp. Trussed up the way I was, I couldn't even wipe it off against

the lounger: my shoulders were above the level of the back. I wiped a

little off on my shoulder, but he just put more on.

     He turned on the TV and left me there for hours. I tried to

convince him that I had to pee, to no avail. He didn't believe me and

told me to go right ahead. I didn't. After a while I began to feel

pretty icky inside the wrappings. When I started to feel hot he just

turned up the air conditioning.

     I really can't stand Phil Donoghue. He's so icky. There was

nothing else on.

     When he finally decided to release me, he first made me take some

tanning pills. Knowing him, it was the maximum dosage. I've seen them

advertised in Cosmopolitan, (Oops. Are feminists supposed to admit

they read Cosmo? Or just claim we only read it for the articles?

Hardly.... Okay: I only read it for the pictures.) I don't like taking

pills, even though they are probably harmless (I think they are just

carotene). I don't mind smoking a little grass now and then, but I

don't like pills, for some reason. Even these. You would think a nurse

would have more confidence in medical technology. I've see a few

doctors get in trouble over them, though.

     Anyway, I have to keep up the pills until the last day. He has

threatened me with a sunlamp in addition if he's not satisfied with

the depth of my "tan", so he'll have me brown one way or another. I'm

not going to fight it. On the last day, I intend asking if we can keep

going with Column One. At least I feel that way right now.

     At this writing, I'm a "nice deep" rich mahogany yellow-brown. It

does NOT look natural, despite what they say about the new artificial

tanning lotions. The second it starts to wear off, I just know I'll

look blotchy and jaundiced. It's better for my skin than the sun,

though. I think.

     I learned something about myself, though. I don't know how to say

this without sounding weird.

     I like being "changed."

     That summarizes it, but it's an oversimplified trivialization of

my feelings. When I look in the mirror and see something, someone,

different than what I expected something happens. The shock of seeing

myself, I don't know, distorted, has an erotic (?) impact on me. I

like being frightened in this way, sort of. Frightened is the wrong

word. Horrified maybe? That's too strong a word.

     I have been ... distorted ... by J in a number of ways since this

month started. The most shocking transformation was when he shaved my

head, but even seeing my face distorted by the ball gag gave me a

secret thrill. The artificial tan, as I saw it gradually creeping

toward darker and darker colors, made me realize what is going on in

my head. Even my fanatical attitude toward makeup is symptomatic of

this weirdness.

     If I could experience more extreme changes--as long as they

weren't irrevocable--I would do so. I'll let my mind wander through

that psychological garden for a minute:

      I'd like to try having oriental eyes. I think the epicanthic

fold is sexy.

      I'd like to be able to change my weight and height. I don't

mean to "improve" myself, either. I'd like to turn myself into a

Junoesque near-freak. How about measurements of 45-28-45 on my five

foot two and a half frame?

      I'd like to try an all over body tatoo. Face and all. A pierced

nostril is a must, someday, I think.

      If only cosmetic breast enhancement could be safe and

reversible without surgery. I'd like to see what I could do to blow

J's mind. There was a girl in my high school gym class with, well,

very pointy breasts, prominent, swollen looking nipples. I thought

they were attractive (she didn't). I wonder how big they could be and

still look like breasts? Or how I'd look with none?

      I'd like to try being taller. Over six feet.

      I'd like to try being shorter. In a SF fantasy called "Some-

thing Wicked" by Ray Bradbury, a beautiful woman, transformed into a

circus dwarf by the evil ringmaster, was "rescued" from her plight by

the young hero of the story. I would like to be rescued like that.

Over and over.

      I would like to try being a man, of course. Who wouldn't. I

think I might be Frank Langella.... Who wouldn't.

      I'd like to try and seduce J with the body of a pubescent 12-

year old girl, but with him knowing I had the mind of a woman. Sort of

like the hundred year old young-girl-vampire in the Anne Rice story

"Interview with a Vampire."

      I'd like to be covered with short soft catlike fur. And have a

tail? Or snake scales. Or pupils with vertical slits like a cat.

Imagine the look on the bank teller's face when I took off my sun-

glasses.

     There was a circle in Dante's Inferno in which the punishment was

having your head put on backwards. I'd like to have my upper torso put

on backwards. Imagine having frontal anal sex. I would be horrified to

look in the mirror, but it would be a delicious horror. If I knew it

could be undone.

     Am I weird, or what?

      What would it be like to have a switch that J could use to turn

off all my voluntary motor functions? The ultimate bondage. What would

sex be like? Total absolute submission....

      Sometimes I feel like I would like to scream during sex, it

feels so good, but I am too midwestern to actually do it. What if I

could be a mute, so it didn't matter if I tried my utmost to scream? I

once read a Fu Manchu style mystery in which a young Chinese woman was

made into a mute: the nerves to her vocal cords were severed to keep

her from giving testimony. That would be erotic bondage if it could be

temporary.

     Are you getting the idea? Being CHANGED, voluntarily or involun-

tarily, is an erotically charged experience for me, and not necessari-

ly changed for the better, either. I discussed this insight into my

psyche with J at about this point. I think it might have influenced

his subsequent behavior. He did things to me, erotically charged

things.

     -*-

     At that point in time, though, the effects of this tanning

regimen were still minimal. I still hadn't even seen what I looked

like completely shaved, except for a weak and fleeting reflection in

still water in my sink. He made sure I didn't try to use even a

makeshift mirror (like the side of the toaster oven; I tried that).

     After the first dose of tanning lotion I spent the afternoon in

the black thong (with a wig on) and wearing chains locked around my

wrists and ankles (no leather cuffs, just chains looped around and the

links locked together with the little locks). I just lounged around

reading. And clinking.

     That afternoon as the sun was going down I went for a walk around

the yard with him. We strolled and did a little weeding together, me

in my thong and chains.

     That evening he had me shave a second time to be sure I was

smooth. He told me I was finally going to see what I looked like.

Despite the fact that I was curious, I perversely told him I didn't

want to see myself. Even now, days later, I feel alternately very sexy

and more than a little weird about all this.



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