Archive-name: Bondage/njlist15.txt

Archive-author: Nurse Jones

Archive-title: The List - 15 of 20





From Nurse Jones,



     Aside from making me wish Jay had shaved me "down there" (instead

of making me do it myself), Averti's wonderful story (about tying

Joker to that barber chair and shaving her) reminded me that I haven't

told you about my very first attempts at topping Jay, just after I got

back. OR how we got married, even, come to think of it. OR how we met.

     If you haven't noticed yet, I've decided to take excerpts from

The List parts 13-14 and just incorporate them into my other

rumblings. So from now on, things won't be chronological. I'll be

jumping from the present (hypnotism experiments) back a few months.

This is fun. And therapeutic.

     I guess there were a few posting in the middle there that will

fall through the cracks in somebody's archive because they didn't have

a "Subject:" line with "The List" in it. So be it. At least the ASB

regulars will know the whole story. From here on, Life is Art. I write

it as we do it, I post it as I write it. If you like it, keep it. It

only goes by once folks: I won't be saving it. If it has anything to

do with The List, I'll put it in the "Subject:" line if I remember.

And I've already forgotten a few times.



     After I settled in, having gotten back from SF, I decided to try

topping. I take that back: I didn't decide exactly. I knew I would

have to, so I did. I am not well suited to this at all, especially

with Jay. I could bluff and play the tough broad with anyone else, but

it's harder with Jay. I don't know how to say this in such a way that

the rest of you will be able to understand: you talk so much about

switching roles you make it sound easy. His role is as my protector. I

don't want to dominate him. I want to care for and cherish him. Love,

honor and obey. All that stuff. Which I vowed to do ceremoniously,

intentionally, deliberately, at our wedding. The judge was surprised I

wanted that obey part in there. But that's another story.

     Anyway, I'm not going to go through Column Two in a hurry, like J

did Column One. "Slave for a month" is on my List, but I'm just going

to browse through the other Items one scene at a time, when I feel

like it. Maybe I'll use my month a weekend at a time. Not knowing

where to start, I thought about the overall problem of showing him

what it's like to be a woman and decided I would do stuff that would

head in that direction.

     I try to keep him chained, locked up, etc., while doing this

stuff to him, not because I can't control him--although I couldn't, if

he were even half trying--but because I assuming he's like me. I kept

my dignity largely by believing I had no control, so I was absolved of

responsibility for anything that we did. "He made me do it." Maybe his

mind doesn't work the same way. Whatever.

     So here's what I did first. Remember, this was back when I was

still lurking. I had him shower; then I put ankle and wrist straps on

him and locked them together. Wrists together, ankles together, naked

on the bed. Candles all around, on the bedposts, on the bedside table,

on the shelf, the floor even. I stretched him across the bed, hands

chained loosely at the headboard, feet at the foot. I didn't think

ahead: if I had I would have covered the bed with towels to avoid

ruining the sheets. As it was, I had to kind of push a towel against

him as I worked over him.

     Then I put the ball gag in. This was the scariest (and the

sweetest) part. And the part that, for some reason, it disturbs me the

most to tell.

     I wore just my black bimbo-boots with the four inch heels for

this. Thought I'd give him a treat. I look pretty good in them. Well,

I could tell he thought so, anyway.

     I was very tender with him. Motherly, almost. As though he were a

patient. I scooted up beside him on the bed and cradled his head in my

arms and held him close, supporting him against my breast.

     I placed the gag gently against his mouth, and flashed a brief

image of myself at work feeding James, an 18 year old with cerebral

palsy. He ate mostly through a straw. This was years ago, in Chicago.

He was a regular, in and out for years because he didn't get adequate

care at home. I think he sometimes made himself sick just to get into

the hospital for TLC. It's odd to feel motherly toward someone who's

nearly as old as you are. James was special. Eighteen years is a long

time for someone with his problems. Pneumonia, finally.

     It makes me mad when I think of this old guy I've got now,

complaining about everything under the sun. He should have spent a few

weeks with James. They operated on this joker late last week and took

out his tumor and he complained that they had performed unnecessary

surgery because it turned out to be nonmalignant. This is the kind

who, if he were EXXON, would sue Alaska for getting duck feathers in

his oil.

     It's typical of modern medicine to find the only part of him that

wasn't malignant and remove it.



     Sorry to digress. So Jay looks up at me with this puppy-dog

expression that says "Anything you want to do. Anything." Total trust.

Suddenly I don't feel like a nurse anymore. I realize this is play: I

can be what I want as long as I don't hurt him. I feel like a goddess

dispensing a sacrament. Holding the gag against his lips, I might as

well have said, "Take this and eat, in remembrance of me." That's the

embarrassing part.

     It was an ego thing. I was suddenly benevolent and forgiving,

caring for a fragile mortal that worshiped me, looking down at him,

holding him, controlling his destiny if I wanted. He was mine, all

mine. I felt an unbecoming and certainly unladylike sense of power,

maybe like those Hollywood socialites that kept a panther on a leash

years ago. They controlled a powerful, dangerous animal, with gentle-

ness and subtlety, and probably felt compassion for the animal that

they had taken freedom from.

     I tightened the chains so he was stretched out full length.

     And then, and then .... Oh No! Could this be a cliffhanger?



Tune in next week, for

     Nurse Jones,

       in nothing but four inch heels,

       for whom brevity is the soul of lingerie.

          and lingerie the soul of wit.

     But wait ... (!)

       Is there more?

     Yes!

     Just kidding. I couldn't really do that to my knights in shining

       armor.



     Then I shaved him.

     Lovingly.

     Intentionally, carefully, I avoided any hint of the sense of

humiliation and embarrassment that I felt when he had shaved me months

earlier. (Don't get me wrong. It was erotic humiliation when he shaved

me. And later, well ... in retrospect, if there wasn't such a long

recovery period, and if I didn't want to keep my job, I'd do it for

him again. Or let him do it to me. Whatever. But I'd have to think

about it.)

     I held myself against him while I did it, stroking his body with

mine. I dangled my nipple pendants against him. I caressed him with

the razor, using skin conditioner as shaving cream and working in

little patches rather than covering him all at once. And I kissed

every inch of him, testing with my lips for stubble as I worked him

over. Over him. Whatever.

     I sat astride his chest, my boots against his ribs and, pressing

my--nether self?--against his abdomen, I shaved his face. He had just

shaved in the shower anyway, but I did it again, just for the chance

to be near his face, to work (and kiss) around the gag, and look into

his eyes, searching for reassurance, giving it to him, showing my

concern. Looking for the slightest hint of uncertainty. And I dis-

pensed a little goddess-like compassion and tenderness as well.

Stroking his cheeks with the backs of my hands .... I wanted to show

him how I would like to be treated. The next time. But I was still a

goddess, in complete control and not about to relinquish it, no matter

how sad and sympathetic I felt, no matter how sorry I was for what I

was going to do to him.

     It became an ego thing for me. That's the first shameful admis-

sion. I let myself go; I felt this sense of power so strongly and with

such confidence that I could afford to be benevolent, compassionate, a

benign goddess. But a hypocrite, because compassion should have made

me release him, and I didn't. My eyes filled, I wanted to take care of

him so much. And he saw my expression and looked at me like he was

concerned for what I was feeling. He wanted the gag out to reassure

me. He didn't know why I got teary and thought it might be something

bad. I felt fine. I stroked his forehead and brushed his hair back and

told him No, no, hush, it's alright, and kissed him some more. But I

didn't take the gag out, didn't release him.

     I shaved his chest, his underarms, the tops of his feet, the

backs of his arms, even the backs of his hands--fingers too-- and his

legs. I nicked one of his knuckles, just a tiny nick, and sucked on

his finger until it stopped bleeding. I turned him over and shaved

everything I had missed, his bum (Oh, his bum. Like an adorable ripe

little apple...) and finally, (of course) I turned him back over to do

his naughty bits. I (reluctantly, but firmly) had to pull his knees

apart by tying them to the sides of the bed. Well, I didn't HAVE to,

but I did. I don't know if he felt as embarrassed as I did, first time

in that position, but I blindfolded him first, the way I would have

wanted to be.

     Tch, tch. The way my mind works. _I_ blindfolded HIM so HE

wouldn't be embarrassed by what _I_ was seeing. I don't blame you.

Trust me on the ostrich principle. If you think your midwestern bottom

will be embarrassed right out of the mood, blindfold, blindfold,

blindfold.

     For me, though, by candle light, it was nice; I stood with hands

on hips, considering him for a moment. In my imagination I was an

ancient goddess (Jesus, this is embarrassing to admit) for whom a

sacrificial victim had been ceremonially left, and I was ritually

preparing him for my own pleasure. They seldom survived an evening

with me, the poor things. Even though I knew I was role playing, I

really felt that sense of power, just letting go.

     Long before I started shaving his naughty bits he had an erection

that looked ready to explode if I touched it. I went over him so

slowly and carefully that there wasn't a single additional nick on his

body, and I especially didn't want one Down There. I did him twice

There, feeling carefully and thoroughly through the conditioner for

stubble, not wanting any to scratch me. Maybe I felt a little too

thoroughly for stubble. I teased him a little, I'm afraid. After all,

he was mine.

     Not one to waste such occasions, as soon as I finished shaving

and damp-wiping him, I jumped on and had my way with him--still as

lovingly as I could (with the tenderness that one should show toward a

woman). I left my boots on, though.

     And I whispered in his ear that he was under orders not to come

until I did, or else, and he didn't. Or else what? I have no idea; he

did what I wanted for some reason other than fear, obviously. What was

I going to do? Strike him with lightening?

     I used him to masturbate, slowly, as I like it. When I was

through, I didn't tell him it was his turn. I never gave him permis-

sion. This was cruel of me (heh), but I tried to make him come even

though he was trying not to. It didn't take long. I wish I could write

this from his perspective, the way Column One was written from mine,

but I can only really tell you how I felt. And I prefer to imagine how

he felt anyway, because it makes it more erotic for me, and I'm the

one that gets to be selfish in Column Two. This was good though, very

good. Better than I thought it would be. And I started out shaving him

because I really just didn't know what else to do. I started out

nervous, hoping I could pull it off without ruining it, and ended up

playing the part of a goddess and really getting shamefully immersed

in it.

     That is my shameful thing.

     I try to be kind when I deal with people, but indulgent, benign,

forgiving benevolence is different. It has always infuriated me in

others. It assumes superiority. It presumes inferiority. It seems to

say: "I Know I'm better than you. I Know I'm Right, and you, you poor

dear thing, haven't a hope. I pity you, and I forgive you for being

pitiful. And forgiveness is such a respectable sentiment you don't

have the moral right to resent me."

     In a word: smug. And complacent. Smug and complacent. That

describes it. In a word. Or two. My supervisor, the hyperbaptist is

like that. On a good day. She's always forgiving us for things that

need no forgiveness. Somebody once told her that "to forgive is

divine" and she doesn't realize that to forgive unnecessarily is

offensive.

     And there I was, Our Lady of Extreme Discomfort, riding high on a

wave of that same feeling. You'll understand if I'm embarrassed.

Embarrassed. Embarassed? I've been meaning to look it up. Jesus, by

now you'd think I'd have learned how to spell it, wouldn't you?

     The compassion, the teary eyes, the extreme godlike tenderness,

it was all acting. The working out on myself of sentiments I didn't

really have. I can't fake tears, and I didn't then: I really felt

those emotions, but it was because I wanted to, not because they came

spontaneously. The indulgent mother- superior benevolence was what was

genuine. The compassionate sympathy wasn't. The feeling of power and

control was genuine. So powerful I could afford to be kind and sweet

and gentle as a throwaway emotion.

     Anyway, by the time I was through, the only hair on him was on

his head and eyebrows. He didn't even think of flinching when I went

for his genetic future with a razor. If he had I would have stopped

the whole scene. The whole column. That was one of my litmus tests of

his trust.

     We showered together afterwards. Before I go on, I should tell

you, this evening's festivities were intended as an experiment as well

as entertainment for me. As part of my overall strategy, I wanted to

determine what his absolute limits were. How many orgasms could I

force him to have? The reason is that if I eventually get it all

together and create a female persona for him, I don't want her (HA! I

got one of those in. IloveitIloveit!) getting an un-feminine erection

part way through the process and ruining everything from his psyche to

his panty line. So the plan was to sexually deplete him thoroughly,

totally, and completely. By whatever means I could manage, bar none.

Electrical stimulation by cattle prod if necessary. Kipling, even.

     (AHA! Now you understand my fascination with electricity, phone

sex, etc. Just to reassure you, we have given up on it after getting

frantic E-mail from a number of electrical engineers. However, the Van

de Graff generator is still on order...)

     When we were in the shower I decided I wanted sex with him with

us both shaved, so I whisked off the three or four hairs on my pus-

sy--not that they were noticeable anyway--which turned him on immedi-

ately and we had another go right there on the shower floor, both of

us covered in skin conditioner. It was divine. I recommend it highly.

Incredible, the slippery feeling, when it's both of you. Us.

     I hope my *%&**@!* pubic hair grows back. More hair has been

appearing, but still, I'm pretty bare. Shaving makes almost no differ-

ence. Take it from Nurse Jones: don't use depilatory repeatedly. At

least not until the final word is in on my little problem.

     AND! Before I forget! In one of my past posting I said we used

Nutrogena hair/skin conditioner. Wrong! (Buzzer sounds). It's Unicure.

I have so damn many bottles and jars I forget which is which. I just

recognize them by the color. Unicure. Great stuff. Any K-mart has it.

Seriously, I recommend it.

     Hey, did you notice that? My language has loosened up a bit. I

called my pussy a pussy. I don't know why, but it sounds much nicer

than "cunt." I kinda like "nether self," though....

     So anyway, total sexual exhaustion was the goal. I just KNEW he

had more than two orgasms in him. Time it right, push the right

buttons, and four in one day was the standing record.

     Why shave him? Women don't have a lot of body hair. And I will be

taping his naughty bits tightly out of the way some day soon. Wouldn't

want to pull hair out with the tape would I.

     Would I?

     FLASH!

     Wax! I have hair wax somewhere. You know the stuff. Melts at a

low temperature in a double boiler, sticky, and hardens HARD. Used to

pull unwanted hair off at beauty salons. Heat it, spread small dollops

on (maybe I'll drip it on?), yank it off. And I was having him keep

himself shaved because it gets boring. I'll tell him to let it grow

for a while in strategic areas, and ....

     Gotta go. I guess this is going to be a cliff hanger after all.

I'll tell you about the other half of this scene later, promise.





Nurse Jones,

     interrupting the creative process to do more research, so that

     when they ask J how long he's been married, he'll smile a secret

     smile and say, "Every minute of the day and night."



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