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Archive-name: Series/thelist.txt

Archive-author: Nurse Jones

Archive-title: The List

[This version varies from the version in the Bondage directory.

 It was gathered from different sources.  Both have been included

 for your enjoyment, although they are substantially similar!]



Dear Michael Who Has Great Puns,

    Thanks again  for offering  to post this for me.  Nobody else

even offered. In fact, all I got was a flood of E-wannafucks from

people with nurse fetishes. Some of them were pretty icky. It was

nice to get a letter  rom someone that seems  normal.  So you get

the dubious  honor of handling my tale ;-) Of being IN it even :)

because this is the beginning of it.

Yours gratefully,

Nurse Jones

Dear Everybody Else On ASB,

     I  imagine  that most prologues are the last  part  written.

This  one was.  I wrote it at the last minute before sending this

to Michael.   If I can make this thing work,  the next 12   files

will contain a nearly true account of what happened to me  during

the  Spring of 1991.   I say "nearly true" because I have changed

details that might identify us.   I'll just be "M".  Our physical

descriptions are accurate.  And I am really a nurse from Indiana,

but everything else that might identify us is false.   Please, as

a favor to me,  don't take it as a challenge to try and trace  it

back  to  me.   I'm not ready to come out of the closet  yet.   I

don't think J (I'll call him that) is either.

     Feel  free to copy it (except for  profit),  but  hey:  give

credit  where  it's due.  Besides,  I made a notarized copy  last

April.   Then  I sent it (on diskette by anonymoUS mail) to  some

ASB  regulars that give real names in their sigs.  I  asked  that

they  post  it for me.  It never appeared.  Then came  wizvax.  I

reread and rewrote it just for the hell of it and here it  is.  I

don't  have  a  spelling  checker.    J  tells  me  I  misspelled

"embarrasment" all the way through.

     At the end of the diary,  it appears that I left J to get my

head back together.  I'm back, and we're married now, so it has a

happy ending even if it doesn't look that way.

     It  is called "The List" and it is in two columns.  This  is

Column One.  We started Column Two before we got married.  If you

like column one I'll post column two.  Sorry if this doesn't make

sense.  You'll  have to read it to have any idea at all what  I'm

talking about.

     I  tried  to  make it as readable  as  possible,  recreating

dialogue  and putting in my own thoughts as I went along.  You're

probably   tired   of  the  undiluted  screwing   you   read   on

rec.arts.erotica  and anyway.   And  since  what

follows  really  happened,  maybe you'll forgive me  for  writing

about  what went on inside  my head as well as inside the rest of

my anatomy.  Also,  mistakenly believing that  hindsight improved

the  clarity  of  my vision,  I couldn't resist  going  back  and

screwing up the sponteneity of the first writing.

     If I tell you it's a true story,  you'll think, "Yeah, sure,

right.  Where have I heard that before."  But it is. So there. If

I  tell you my top "made" me write it,  you'll say,  "that's  how

they  all  start," but he did.  It was kind of a bargain that  we

made, J and I, before I even knew the news net existed.

     Before I knew a lot of things.

                           The List

                           Column One

                           Item 1

    He's at work now,  but he told me to start writing this while

he is gone.   So here I sit,  not knowing where to begin.    So I

made the big "H" at the beginning just for something to do. I want

you to understand that I am doing this because J told me to,  not

because I think anyone should know what happened last night.   He

says  I  am to write it  in the first person,  just like  I  were

telling it to a stranger, rather than to him.  It is, ultimately,

part of the bargain we made.

     Okay,  I  said that.  What next?  I just don't know where to

start.   Earnest Hemmingway said always start with the first true

thing.   I guess I'll begin at the beginning,  and when I come to

the  end,  I'll stop.   Hey,  it worked for Alice in  Wonderland,

someone I have a lot in common with at the moment.

     Six  months ago,  we were living together in Chicago where I

was working as a nurse.   He got a terrific job offer and had  to

move.  I  didn't  want to give up the security of my job,  so  we

split up.   We said it would somehow only be be temporary,  and I

stayed behind in the windy city.

     Neither  of us was particularly happy with  the  separation,

and we wrote to each other almost daily.   The letters got pretty

steamy,  and we began trading fantasies -- fantasies we had never

discussed  when we lived together.   We started with pretty  tame

stuff like being on a tropical island together, or in a snowbound

cabin,  but  gradually  we escalated to fantasies of  being  each

other's slaves, B&D, and so forth.

     Every  letter  I wrote included comments on his last  letter

and  a new fantasy of my own.  He did the same.  We became a two-

person  literary critics circle.  I think it was easier to  write

about these things than to talk about them face to face,    maybe

because broaching a subject like this for the first time requires

such delicacy.   You have to be absolutely sure you get the words

right  before  you  say  them.  You  can't go  back  and  edit  a

conversation the way you can a letter.

     The months wore on;  he became assured of success at his new

job  and  bought  a house,  while I began to feel more  and  more

isolated  and  left behind.   I was working three  12-hour  night

shifts a week,  sleeping days,  exercising less and less, reading

his letters, and doing little else.  I saw no-one, didn't even go

to the movies.   Our fantasy life -- in letters -- grew until, as

I  became  more and more lonely,  it occupied most of  my  waking

thoughts and I came to want to act out those fantasies.  I wanted

desperately to get back together with him.   Move in with him and

live with him again.   I could quit my job -- I would be able  to

get  a  nursing job anywhere.  But he didn't ask me  to,   and  I

couldn't bring myself to ask him.  Midwestern pride, I guess.

     After  we  had explored our fantasy life  pretty  thoroughly

he  wrote a fantasy in which he came to visit me and we  arranged

to  get  back together and live out the fantasies we had  written

about.  In my next letter I commented that I thought that was the

one I liked best,  and we began to write seriously about actually

doing it, planning explicitly to get back together. The character

of  our  letters changed:  we wrote more practical  fantasies  --

things that we could actually do,  and how we would do them.  And

we  planned  for the future.  I was to quit my job and get a  job

where  he  lived.   Nurses are  in  demand  everywhere,  although

salaries  are lower in the South.   I was getting pretty tired of

Winter in Chicago anyway.   You could freeze to death on the  way

to  stand in line to sort out the phone bill the company  screwed

up if it wasn't for the muggers being so tightly crowded onto the

streets  that you didn't have room to freeze in the first  place.

     Besides,  I was tired of being lonely.  Once I had made  the

decision,  my  mood changed dramatically.  Suddenly,  instead  of

being  lonely,  sexually frustrated,  and obsessive about getting

and  writing  letters,   I  was  OPTIMISTIC,   lonely,   sexually

frustrated, and obsessive.

     We  got  together  briefly before I  left  Chicago.   J  had

written a letter telling me he would visit.  Our last few letters

had  carried a long list of fantasies back and forth between  us.

We added to the list every time it changed hands.  Ultimately  it

contained  nearly  everything we had written about and  some  new

things we hadn't.  In his final letter he told me he had a chance

to  come back to Chicago on a job-related trip and wanted to  see

me. About that list.

    Below  is a part of the letter,  copied verbatim (so  I  keep


    "I want you to understand something clearly before I  arrive.

    We have been very close,  but the last four months have put a

    distance  between  us  that  our  letters  have  only  partly

    bridged.   When  you  come  [down here]  we  will  be  trying

    something  neither of us has done before.  The  newness  will

    perhaps be the best and most exciting  part of it.  We may be

    starting  something new for us in a larger sense,  too.  When

    you come, I want you to feel that you are coming to something

    new,  and I want to feel anticipation -- maybe even a  little


      "For  this reason,  even though I will be visiting you in a

    few days, I don't want to just start up where we left off.  I

    don't know if I can adequately explain this, but I don't want

    my  visit to act as a transition from our old relationship to

    the  new.    Instead  it  should  be  a  break.  A  point  of

    demarcation.    I  don't  want my visit to  be  'business  as

    usual' for us.

      "The  fantasies  we have written about are part of what  is

    pulling us back together.   I don't know if an active fantasy

    life is a sound basis for a relationship, but if we are going

    to do this,  I want to do it right.  Fantasies are killed  by

    reality; fortunately the time we have spent apart has removed

    some of the reality from our relationship.   Fundamentally, I

    know you are the person I love and trust.   That is still the

    most  important reality.   But almost as important:   we have

    learned  new  things about each other  through  our  letters,

    things that make each of us,  to a certain extent, strangers.

    I  want  to meet you for the first time  again,  now  that  I

    realize you're not exactly the person I thought I knew.   Can

    you  understand that?   And if I believe there is a large and

    mysterious territory to be explored inside your head -- which

    I am beginning to realize is the case -- so much the  better.

    Fantasies  take  root in the unknown,  not  the  commonplace.

         "So I'm not going to throw you across the bed the minute

    I  walk in the door,  though we have both waited a long  time

    and  I will want to.  We will take care of our  plans,  sleep

    apart,  and  I will come back here to wait for you.   Can you

    stand that?  Can you stand me being a stranger?"

     There  was more,  but that is the relevant  part.   When  he

arrived I forgot completely,   of course,  and went to kiss  him.

He pulled away from me.   It was an interesting evening.  We both

knew  we were horny as hell,  and we covered some of the  sexiest

topics of conversation I have ever heard, but we didn't have sex.

We barely touched. I was not happy about it.

     Instead,  we  got  out  paper  and went  over  the  list  of

fantasies  and  scenarios that we had accumulated.   We  cut  the

items out with scissors so each  was on a separate slip of paper.

It became a kind of game.   We added to the list. Anything we had

written  about or read about -- anything.   From feathers and  g-

strings  to  piercings  to  tatoos  to  bondage.  Even  hypnosis,

although neither of us knew any more about it than we had read in

a popular book on self-hypnosis.  Things we wanted to do to  each

other, things we wanted done.

     Then  there followed an hour of negotiation during which  we

paired  up our slips of paper.   If you wanted to do that to  me,

then  I would get to do this to you;   if I do that for you, then

you  do have to do this for me.   The price of column 1 is column

2.   The  result  was  a two-column list of  equal  and  opposite


     The deal was this:  if one of us does something on the List,

that   automatically  gives  the  other  the  right  to  do   the

corresponding  thing from the other column.   Fair is fair.   His

list ended up longer than mine:  I wasn't able to come up with as

many ideas as he did,  so some things got left off. Still, it was

a  long list.   There were things I really didn't want to do  and

things I really didn't want him to do on the List,  but they were

paired  with  fair retaliations and things I  wanted  bad  enough

that I would agree to his wants.  Eventually it became clear that

some things had no single equivalent,  and that sometimes several

scenarios  had to be added together to achieve  a  balance.   Any

later  changes were to be agreed on by both parties and  balanced

just the way the list was. Is.

    [Note from the Future: Writing and posting this on electronic

    mail  was one of the things on the List,  by the way.   In my

    column, that is.  At the time I had only a hazy idea  what e-

    mail was.]

     We  both got excited just making up the List,  but still  he

wouldn't  make love.   He took me out to dinner instead,  and  we

talked.   We had a booth,  fortunately, because that conversation

was a very intimate one.   I told him in very  general terms what

turned  me on,  and he did the same;  we kind of  danced  around,

getting  more  and  more  honest  with  each  other.   We  traded

admissions  that  neither of us had ever thought we  would  voice

aloud.   It was by far the most open verbal discussion I had ever

had about my inner desires.  We told each other of fantasies that

were  so unrealistic they could never be made reality,  but  they

did give us insights into each other's motivations.   Things like

experiencing  what it would be like to be the  opposite  sex,  or

stupid  little  fantasies like mine about being an alien that  is

able  to change the shape of my body and his in interesting  ways

and  that  comes to earth and has sex with him,  captivating  him

with  my  alien  biology.   Our  conversation  got  steamier  and

steamier,  but still we acted,  on the surface,  like we had just

met.   We  didn't  even  touch.   It was  actually  very  erotic,

especially with all those people around us that didn't know  what

we were talking about.

      Imagine  the  excitement of a mysterious and sexy  stranger

that you don't have to worry about whether he is safe (i.e. not a

pervert  or HIV positive) and that you KNOW you will  be  bedding

eventually.  Yet he is still mysterious. Safe danger.

     We  made plans for the future.  It would take me a while  to

quit  my job and find a sublet for the appartment.   Our part  of

Chicago  is  full of student rental property and the  demand  for

appartments is seasonal.   In the end, there were two more months

of letters and frustration while I tried to sublet.

       But our plans,  at least, were finalized that night.  On a

flip of a coin,  while we were waiting for desert,  he won  first

choice on the List,  and he chose that I would be his slave for a

month,  to start the day I arrived at his place in [deleted].

     Over  desert,  I asked him what he wanted to get out of that

month; I got some very interesting answers. So interesting we sat

there until the restaraunt closed and talked about it.   Actually

I  was  trying to get him so turned on he would change  his  mind

about waiting until I came south.  Anyway, it was an education to

learn what he wanted.  I am tempted to say that there were layers

upon  layers of psychology to peel away,  but it was really  just

very complex and convoluted.

     He wanted to control me -- at least for a while, the month's

duration of the List.  But he doesn't want simple submission -- I

am  supposed to resist ...  but it has to be more than resistance

against him; he seems to want me to resist something in myself as

well.  If possible,  I should discover that part of me that likes

to  be  controlled  and I should fight against that  as  well  as

against  the  more superficial physical control permitted by  the

list. As I say, it is covoluted.

     He  wants  me  to  search my own  mind  to  look  for  these

tendencies  and  see if I can bring them out,  almost the way  an

actress looks within her own experience to find something to make

a  performance more convincing.  It was clear from the  turn  our

letters  had taken that there is something there to find;  he was

sure of it.   So am I,  but I don't know what, exactly.

     (I have an inkling after last night.)

     But he didn't want acting;  if what he was looking for  just

wasn't there,  he didn't want me to pretend it was.

     Another  convolution:  Knowing that I was willing to do this

for him became a kind of a second layer, a hidden backdrop to the

more superficial physical aspects.

     So  letting  him  know that I was doing  this  willingly  --

despite  my superficial (but real) resistance (I told you it  was

convoluted)  -- became another undercurrent.   More than a second

kind of submission,  it was something akin to a gift that  proved

my  love  and trust,  because it would necessarily  be  something

voluntary that he could neither force nor control.

     Remember:  all  these  psychological undercurrents  are  not

reality; this is what he WANTS reality to be. I have no idea what

it actually is. Maybe they are the same. Sort of.

     And of course, it has to be for him alone.  He wants to know

that.  This is an ironic twist.  My mother -- and all my friends,

too  -- always told me that the best way to keep a man is to make

him  think  he  might lose you:  let him know that  you  can  get

another man any time you want.  But I have learned something from

J  that  he  didn't  mean to teach me.   What  he  wants  in  our

relationship can't be very easy to find; I mean, even bringing up

the  subject of bondage was an almost insurmountable obstacle  in

itself.   It  would be almost impossible for him to  find  anyone

else that could be the kind of person he wants.  If I can be that

person, I will be irreplacable.  He'd never find another one like

me,  never. If, somewhere inside, I'm really like that, I'll have

him  trapped,  tied (bound?) to me by the fact that I'm the  only

one that he will ever find that can give him what he needs.

    Maybe  I am that kind of person.   I certainly feel that  way

right  now,  after the first day.   If I could feel this  excited

about  our relationship forever,  I guess I WOULD be that kind of


     So anyway,  there we were in the restaraunt.  After all that

talking, I felt like a little applied theory, so I asked him what

he would do first when we started.   I looked him straight in the

eye and gave him my most brazenly innocent look across the table.

I  can wear my innocence at such a rakish angle it makes me  seem

positively debauched.  He got the message.

     He  told me he would wait until we were in a  public  place,

like  a  restaraunt (thrill) and he would reach into  his  jacket

pocket  and take out a manila envelope.  He paused  significantly

and looked me straight in the eye right back again.

     Then he reached into his jacket pocket (chills,  excitement)

and took out a manila envelope.  My heart started thudding and my

breath became short.   He was going to do something right then, I

realized.   I don't know if he improvised this or not. Now that I

think about it,  he must have, because he took some papers out of

the envelope before he gave it to me.

     "Go  into  the ladies room,  and put all your  underwear  in

this," he said.

     I did. Bra, panties, pantyhose.  I gave him the envelope.

     As  I  sat  there,  feeling increasingly sexy,  he  gave  me

detailed  instructions  for several outfits I was to make  during

the  next few weeks while I was waiting to come to him.   I  know

it's  not  a  very  good career move to be  good  with  a  sewing

machine, but I am.  And I am NOT a housewife type, as will become

clear after you read about last night.   First I have to fill you

in on the rest.

     By the way,  he kept his promise:  he never touched me  that

night; the bit with the underwear was just him being him.


     It  is  a  comfortable two-day drive to his new  house  from

Chicago,  although  I could have made it in one.   I  arrived  at

about four in the afternoon.  Actually, it is not a new house: it

is old.  I can't tell you exactly where it is, but it is a really

luscious house.  [He also won't let me use the clinical names for

parts  of  the body that nurses know so well,   so if  I  seem  a

little victorian in my language, now you know the reason why.  In

fact,  he gives a LOT of instructions about everything,  not just

how to write this.]

     I  can  say  we  live  in  a  very  warm  climate  -- almost

Mediterranean.   The  house has high ceilings (twelve feet in the

living room),  tile floors,  a red tile roof,  and lots of stucco

arches.  And a fireplace with a magnificent mantle.   It's one of

those  pseudo-Spanish houses that were so popular in the  1930's.

It's still nearly unfurnished,  even though he's been living here

six months. Men are hopeless.

    There  is  a rather cavernous living/dining  room,  with  two

sofas (one large, one small) and an armchair clustered around the

fire place,  and a big oak table with two chairs in the middle of

the  room.   There  is a deep fluffy white rug in  front  of  the

hearth.  No  curtains,  almost no other rugs,  no pictures on the

walls except in the (ahem) master bedroom.

     He carried my suitcases into the house; our footsteps on the

tile  floors  echoed  in the near-empty  rooms.  Half  the  light

switches don't work and the place needed (still needs)  sweeping:

sand had been tracked into the house and made a scritching  noise

underfoot against the tile floors.   In fact,  with the exception

of  my  bedroom,  the  whole place is only  superficially  clean.

There  are quite a few cobwebs and the windows are  dusty.   Dead

roaches the size of small mammals.

     He put my luggage in the spare bedroom.   My bedroom.  It is

spotlessly clean and furnished completely in white.   The bed  is

an old-fashioned single, iron, in a sort of early-hospital style,

painted in white enamel.  Walls:  white, chest of drawers: white;

simple chair and bedside table: both white.  No rug, no curtains,

no  pictures on the wall,  and nothing in the closet.   A  bright

overhead  light  and  a small nondescript reading  light  on  the

bedside table.   That is the total contents of the room.  I could

feel like a nun if it weren't for last night.

    Somehow,  it  bothers  me a little that he went to  all  that

trouble  to prepare my room for me.  All in white,  I mean.  It's

just a little odd.

    Normally,  separate  bedrooms would be  something  you  would

associate  with  elderly  conservative couples or people  on  the

verge of divorce,  but we weren't even married.  We were SUPPOSED

to be living together,  so this was verging on weird and I wanted

an  explanation.   Which  I  got.   It was nothing more  than  an

enforced  continuation of the newly distant relationship  he  had

written  about and that we had formally started during his  visit

to Chicago.  We had grown apart somewhat,  he said, and he wanted

to keep it that way for a while longer.   Somehow it was nicer in

theory  than in practice.  I guess the bedroom had made me feel a

little alienated.

       "Besides,"  he  said,   "you are my  slave  now,  and  not

supposed to ask questions."  I had almost forgotten.   Well,  not

forgotten,  but  I wasn't in the habit of thinking that way.   It

definitely  made him feel a bit like a stranger.  He said it like

I was one.

     [Note  from  the Future:  Near the end I was  spending  most

     nights in his bedroom,  but we kept separate bedrooms to the

     very end.   Somehow this made our relationship more exciting

     rather  than less intimate.   It had a special  significance

     when one of us went to the other's room.]

     As I said, he had won first choice on the List.  I am to be

his slave for the first month.  During this month he will do many

of  the  other items on the List.  By agreeing to  the  List  two

months  earlier,  I  suppose I had already agreed to  this,  even

though  at  the time I hadn't considered that the choice  of  one

month  of slavery would allow him to work through quite a few  of

the other items on the List before I even got my first turn.  But

it is enough that my turn would come.

     He  must  have  wanted  to  put  me  off  balance  from  the

beginning.   When my car was unloaded,  he told me to change from

my jeans and sweatshirt to a blouse and skirt with heels, nothing

underneath.  The act of changing my clothing, even in the privacy

of my room,  was somehow charged with erotic anticipation. I felt

small  and  defenseless  -- almost  like  I  was  a  prisoner  in

Dracula's castle.  I know it sounds melodramatic,  but the  house

seems  so big after the studio appartment in Chicago.   Even as I

sit  typing this in broad daylight the echos make it seem  a  bit

empty and spooky.   And chilly. There is a dessicated bird corpse

on the floor of one of the screened porches.  At least I swept up

the dust and roaches.

     Yesterday  evening,  when  I came out of my bedroom  it  was

getting  darker;  there  was a shaft of  late-afternoon  sunlight

slanting  through the cavernous living room.   He was waiting  on

the armchair;  he told me to pour myself a glass of wine and  sit

on  the sofa.   There were even little sandwiches.  He had  never

made  little  sandwiches  before.   Little  formal  ones.  I  was

famished,   but  puzzled  over  the  sandwiches.   They  were  so


      "How do you feel?" he asked.

      "Okay,"  I  said,   "maybe  a  little  chilly."   A  little

attempted  underwear-less  humor there.  Very  little.   He  just

sipped his wine and watched me eat without expression.

      Between mouthfulls,  I couldn't seem to stop talking.  "So,

when do we start?" I asked, in a cheerful, businesslike voice, as

though we were going to paint the livingroom or something.

     "Now,"   he said in a neutral  tone,  still  expressionless.

     I suddenly became aware that he was looking at me.   I  mean

really  LOOKING at me.   Most men are surreptitious about looking

at women.  They pretend they aren't looking and then sneak a peek

when they think you aren't going to notice.   This was different.

His  gaze  was travelling over my body without regard to  what  I

might think,  as though he didn't care.   I was abruptly aware of

my lack of underwear; I crossed my legs and tugged at my skirt as

though such adjustments could make my discomfort go away.  He let

his  eyes  rest  on  my chest and I crossed my arm  in  front  of


     "Don't,"  he said.

     "Sorry,"  I blathered unnecessarily.  I unfolded myself  and

tried  to appear casual.   My damned nipples were erect,  though.

"So,  what'll  we do first?" I said brightly,  now a summer  camp

counsellor.  I  just couldn't stop my mouth.   He  didn't  answer

right away.   I don't know if he was considering what he would do

or  just  letting  the suspense build,  but he waited  until  the

silence  stretched to its (my) limit.  I stuffed another sandwich

in my mouth just to give it something else to do.

     Finally,  he  told me which item on the List would be first.

He just told me the number,  though.  I hadn't memorized the List

and  didn't know what he was referring to;  obviously,  I  hadn't

done my homework.

     "You have your copy of the list, don't you?" he said.

     "Yeah, somewhere in my luggage ..."

     Then  he gave me instructions on what to wear,  and told  me

that  I would find everything I needed in my  bathroom,   but  he

kept  me  in suspense as to what the list actually said I was  to


     "Take your wine with you,  he said.  Suddenly I realized  he

meant  "now." Right now.   I went to my room and tore through  my

luggage  to  find my copy of the List.   The numbers on the  List

were  only for reference;  the order didn't mean  anything.   The

item he chose,  therefore,  by default,  became Item One in  this

account.  So here it is, Item One.

     As I said,  he really did intend to put me off balance. Sort

of like pushing me in at the deep end.  After all the time we had

spent  apart  I felt we were nearly strangers and needed  to  get

reacquainted. Perhaps that's why he did subtle little things that

put me off balance,  like make little finger sandwiches.  Perhaps

that is why he wanted me to come to him feeling exposed and  near

naked,  but  naked  in a new way.  A way that would make me  FEEL

naked, the way you would in front of a stranger.

     He wanted me to remove my pubic hair.

     I  know  many  men  think this is sexy,  but  I  have  never

understood why.   As a nurse I had seen nearly everything,  but I

never  thought  there  was  anything  particularly  erotic  about

shaving  there,  especially with the itchy stubble I  knew  would

come later.   Maybe I associate it with pre-op,  too.  Did I tell

you I was a R.N.? But there was no razor in the bathroom.  Just a

tube of depilatory and scissors.

     At this point he has begun exercising his editorial  control

over  what  I  write.   I wrote -- and twice had to  rewrite  and

expand --the next paragraphs until he was satisfied with them.  I

wouldn't otherwise have put in such detail.

     I  had to be extremely careful,  as the directions have  all

kinds of warnings about burning delicate membranes.  I sat in the

bathroom  for a few minutes just looking at myself in the mirror,

thinking:  what am I getting myself into?  But it was too late to

change  my mind,  and anyway I didn't want to.  So here  goes,  I

thought.  I pinched a curl of hair between my fingers and snipped

it  off close.  Starting at the top,  I worked my way  down,  not

thinking  about it,  just snipping away until I ended up with one

foot  up on the edge of the bathtub and my head between my  legs.

When  I finished and came up for air,  the remaining stubble  was

almost invisible;  I looked quite naked. I stood for a moment and

looked  in  the mirror,  wondering if this was really what J  was

expecting -- hairless nakedness.

     The depilatory comes in a tube like toothpaste and is  pink.

It  smells slightly reminiscent of the chemicals they put in home

permanents.   I put the stuff on very carefully,  using the round

end  of  my  nail  file like  a  butter  knife.  I  followed  the

directions and waited the requisite time with my legs held  apart

to  avoid  burning myself.  Then I scraped it off with  the  nail

file; if you are patient enough to wait for it to work, it really

does  the job.  For some reason there were a few hairs that  just

wouldn't  dissolve,  so I plucked them with tweezers.   At last I

was done.   I'm glad he didn't watch,  because I had to get  into

some  pretty  embarrasing positions to do all this without  being

burned by the stuff.

     I  went  straight into the shower without looking at  myself

again.  The faint but icky depilatory smell definitely required a

shower  and soap to get rid of,   followed by a body  conditioner

all  over  (Even  though he didn't tell me  what  the  List  item

actually said, he was very detailed in his instructions as to how

I  should  prepare myself for him).   The conditioner had  to  be

unscented  "Unicure" hair/body conditioner,  already there in the

shower; he told me not to rinse it off: just rub it in and towell

off. As I rubbed the conditioner over my skin I began to see that

maybe  ther was a point to this preoccupation with  hairlessness.

It  felt  like I had a whole new erogenous zone  down  there,  so

slick and silky and, ... well ...

    After  I towelled myself dry,  I felt really smooth and  soft

all over,  especially Down There,  so that when I finally put  on

the outfit I had made (on his instructions weeks before),  I felt

like a velvet hand slipping into a velvet glove.

     I had made it out of a soft,  very sheer,  muslin-like white

cotton  from  India.   It  is very tight and it  took  a  lot  of

tailoring  to  get  it  to fit right,  since it is  not  made  of

stretchy  material.   The  bust  is tailored to  fit  my  breasts

exactly, and "underwired" with elastic.  I stick out. The top has

long sleeves that are just barely loose enough for me to  squeeze

my  hands  through  to get my arms in;  the front zips  from  the

waist to a high lacy collar that would look very demure on a  top

that  wasn't skin-tight and practically transparent.   The  pants

are also skin-tight,  except below the knee,  where they flare to

become bell-bottoms.  Very 60's. The legs are so long that I have

to  wear  heels  -- high ones -- to keep from tripping  over  the

cuffs.  I  have some white open-toed high-heeled sandals that  go

with it nicely.  Nicely?   Somehow,  "nice" doesn't seem to apply

after last night.

       Last  night,  the crotch was the really embarrasing  part.

There  isn't even a seam in front to help conceal  my  sex.  It's

just tight,  sheer,  and thin.  In fact, there is a very tight g-

string-like  elastic in back that holds the muslin close over  my

newly hairless sex and pulls the back of the pants tight  against

my cheeks and deeply into the cleavage of my bottom.  When I made

the  outfit  I thought I would have pubic hair to cover  me,  but

last night I was so ... visible.

     Still following his instructions,  I brushed my hair out and

put on my makeup.  I was procrastinating, taking unnecessary care

with my makeup and adjusting my outfit,   examining myself in the

mirror:   anything to avoid going out into the living room  where

he  was waiting.   I really didn't want him to see me like  this.

After all, we hadn't seen each other naked for six months, and he

would see a lot more of me than I had ever shown anyone before.

     Again,  I  have  to add something here.  He told me  to.   I

wouldn't  have written this at all,  because I have always been a

little ashamed of this,  but as I said, he makes me put in stuff,

details I would rather leave out,  in this case.  But here  goes.

Real  soon  now.  (If you haven't noticed,  I am  procrastinating

again.) There's another reason I didn't want to go out there  and

let  him  see  me dressed like that.  It's  irrational,  I  know,

because he had seen be completely naked before,  but there it is.

I have unusual nipples.   They have always been a source of acute

embarrasment to me.

     They are inverted.

     You  have  no idea how long it took me to type  those  three

words;  every time I have to deal with this I look for all  kinds

of  ways to say it without actually saying it,  but in the end  I

just  had  to type it and the hell with  it.   They're  inverted.

This  is silly,  because I'm used to them.  It's not a big  deal,

really. The tips of my nipples are turned inward so that all that

is  visible  externally  is  the  areola,   with  just  a  little

horizontal  slit  across the middle where the nipple  should  be.

It's  not all that uncommon;  I have seen girls in  P.E.  classes

that  have  the same condition on one or the other of  her  tits.

It's just that both of mine are that way.

     It's not like they're repulsive or anything,  and they would

be perfectly functional if I had children.  They even look normal

when  erect,  it's  just  that when they  aren't,  I  don't  have

nipples,  just  areolas.  I haven't known very many  men,  partly

because  of shyness over this problem,  and all of them have been

surprised,  and I think slightly repelled,  by my breasts.   All,

that is, except J. Other men have made me feel like a freak, with

questions like "What's wrong with them?"

    One  even asked me,  "Is there anything else you haven't told

me about?"  Asshole.  Assholeassholeasshole.

     Sorry,  I don't normally use language like that,  but he was

an asshole. Like maybe my day job is in a sideshow, or something?

A  real  Mr.  Sensitivity,  huh?   Before  I walked out  on  that

evening's entertainment,  I told him to be fruitful and multiply,

only not in exactly those words.  He was a jerk anyway.  In high-

school I was young and stupid enough to be impressed that he  (at

20)  owned  (well,  had  a  mortgage on)  his  own  house  (well,

double-wide trailer).

     Imagine,  at  that age boasting he was a self-made man.   He

was  an  example  of what can happen when you  don't  follow  the


     Sorry, I went off on a tangent.

     Anyway,  J  has never commented on my nipples except to  say

that I have the most beautiful breasts he has ever seen,  all the

more so because they are special that way.

     Special like the special olympics, but nevermind.

     Still,  I  was  hesitant coming out into  the  living  room,

embarrased for no good reason,  trying to cover myself,  one hand

casually  fiddling with my lace collar (and incidentally covering

my breasts with my arm), while the other hand was draped casually

(I  hoped) over my southern overexposure.   The room  was  nearly

dark,  and he was sitting in an armchair in the shadows.  I could

tell he was fully dressed, but couldn't see his face to judge his

reaction.   I was feeling awfully exposed, and really needed some

reassuring  words right then.   I didn't get any.

     There  was  a small sofa  sitting under a recessed light  in

the ceiling. He didn't get up;  he just told me to stand in front

of  the  little  sofa,  under this very  bright  light.   Like  a


     I couldn't see much of anything outside that little pool  of

light,  and  I  felt awkward,  as though my legs  were  different

lengths.   He  told  me to put my arms at my sides and  stand  up

straight.  Hesitantly, I did as he told me, uncovering myself.  I

was  nearly shaking with nervousness.   That afternoon I had been

cruising  along  the  Interstate,  and now I  was  in  a  totally

different world.

     "Hold  your shoulders back and stop slouching," he  said.  I

took  a deep breath and tried to relax and regain some composure,

some dignity.

     "Turn  around.   Bend  over and lean on the seat  with  your

elbows.  Legs apart."   I tried to lean on my hands.

     "Your elbows," he repeated.  So much for dignity.   My  rear

was up in the air for all to see.

     "Straighten  up.   Pull your waistband up so your pants  are

tighter in the crotch;  smooth the front so I can see all of  you

better.  Good. Now tell me how you feel right now."

     "Embarrased,"  I whispered.   My voice  wasn't  working.   I

cleared  my  throat and tried again.

     "Embarrased,"  too  loudly.   I  couldn't look up  from  the

floor;  I  was not handling this well.    It seemed a  long  time

before he answered.

     "Tell me why."

     "Its these clothse," I answered.

     "I've seen you with less than that on before."

     "I know,  but ...  not like this.   I mean,  not having  any

hair ... there ..." I stammered, all the while thinking: dammit I

should have more composure than this -- nurses aren't supposed to

be ashamed of the human body.  Nurses are supposed to be cool and

professional -- in charge.... I straightened my shoulders again.

     "No,  the  hair isn't it either,  but nevermind.   Come over


     I walked over to him and stood by his chair. I tried to keep

from slouching to show that I had kept my dignity, and I ended up

feeling  (and  looking)  like  an army  recruit  trying  to  look

military on her first day at boot camp.

    He  ran his hand up the inside of my thigh.   I couldn't help

shivering.   He slipped his hand lightly back and forth over  the

thin cloth that was held so tightly against my nether lips.   His

fingers  became more insistent,  and I could feel myself and  the

cloth  of  my  pants becoming wet.  I was  still  shivering  with

nervousness.  I was, throughout the evening, acutely aware that I

had no pubic hair.  For some reason, whatever I was feeling, that

was  on my mind.   I just hadn't gotten used to it,  I  guess.  I

still haven't.

     I felt shaky and nervous.  I was  I wasn't afraid,  exactly,

just  aware of my nakedness and uncertain about what  was  coming

next.   I knew he wouldn't depart from the List, but there was an

awful lot on that list,  and after all,  I hadn't even kissed him

for  six months -- had only seen him once in all that time -- and

he  was  practically bringing me to a climax in a  strange  house

under  very weird circumstances.  I think he meant it to be  that

way, but I was NOT comfortable.

     He stood and kissed me.   Finally.  He must have sensed that

I  need  some  reassurance.   I could feel his  stiffness  as  he

pressed against me.   This is what I wanted,  I thought,  feeling

myself  to  be on surer ground.   I ground my hips  against  him,

suddenly  getting  more  deeply into the whole  scene.  His  kiss

became more passionate, our tongues probing.

     Abruptly,  holding  my shoulders in his hands,  he separated

himself from me.   Although he is slender,  he is at least  eight

or nine inches taller than I and quite strong;   I could sense  a

shudder of suppressed emotion despite the firmness of his grip on

my upper arms.  I stood there breathing unsteadily, my eyes shut.

God,  I  was  horny.   He told me to go back and stand under  the

light.   I could feel the wetness between my legs;  I was sure it

showed as a patch on my front.   Again,  I tried to cover  myself

with my hand.

     "No,"  he said.  "Dont.   You have nothing to be ashamed  of

with me,  and you know it."  He paused.  "Don't you?"

     "Yes,  I  know," I  whispered,  looking  down,  determinedly


     "Then why are you?"

     "It's the spotlight."

     "No,  its  not.   Try  again.   I've seen you nude  in  full

daylight  before,  and I've seen more of your body than I can see

now,  even without hair.  And from closer up.  Think about what's

bothering you, and tell me."

     He waited silently while I thought;  I finally came out with

what it was I didn't want to tell him.   "I don't just feel nude.

I feel naked.  I...I think it's because I haven't seen you for so

long.   It's  a  little like being in front of a  stranger."   He

waited.  And  waited.   "And it's because you're dressed and  I'm

not,"  I rushed ahead,  "its not fair and its humiliating  and  I

feel  vulnerable  and  it's not like I imagined it would  be."  I

covered myself with my hands again as if to say 'so there', but I

stayed under the light,  trying not to look awkward,  looking out

at where I thought him to be, still unable to see him.

     Again the silence. Finally from the darkness he said, "Good.

Sit  down."   My ears told me he had moved from the  armchair  to

stand by the unlit fireplace, but I still couldn't see his face.

     I  sat,  relieved.   At least I could hold my legs  together

while  sitting and hide myself a little that way.  With  my  prim

little lace collar,  my legs held tightly together,  and my hands

folded neatly in my lap,  I must have looked like a caricature of

the proper victorian virgin.   Except that I was blushing through

transparent  clothing  and my nipples were erect  and  positively

aching.  Sounds like material for a romance novel,  I  know,  but

they were.

   "I don't want you to feel humiliated.  Believe that.  But your

embarrasment is something else.   I want that.  As a kind of gift

to me," he said.   "Can you understand that?  As a gift...?"  I'm

not sure how,  but I seemed to sense him in the darkness, staring

at me,  very intent on my answer.  Maybe it was something in  his


    I   hadn't   thought  much  about  the  fine   line   between

embarrasment   and  humiliation.    Somehow,   though,   I  could

understand the idea of embarrasment as a gift.   Don't ask me how

or why.  "Allright," I said, and suddenly it really was allright.

My embarrasment surfaced;  I stopped trying to suppress it,   and

it all came out,  but it was okay: I could show it.  He wanted --

even  valued  it.   I  lowered my eyes  to  the  floor,  blushing

furiously,  making no effort to hide my discomfiture.   I took my

hands  out of my lap and let my legs part a fraction of an  inch,

deliberately letting myself feel more embarrased,  really  acting

the part -- only not acting, because I really was feeling exactly

what  I  was  acting  out.   Or at least acting out  what  I  was

feeling. Well, it was more honest than whatever I had been doing,


    "Now," he said,  "what are you feeling?   Do you like this?"

    "No.  I don't," I said, truthfully, I think. I'm not sure.

    "Do you feel ... excited?"

    "Yes."  I realized that that was definitely true,  whether  I

liked it or not.

    "Do you want it to stop?"

    Another pause. "No," I said, "... no."

    "Remember,  you're  my slave.   I'm going to tell you  to  do

something now that you might find funny,  but I don't want you to

laugh. Take it seriously.  While sitting there,  I want you to do

something  -- anything -- that you think I will find sexy." As he

said  this he turned to the fireplace and lit the fire  that  was

laid there. His back was to me.

     Act  sexy?   He  made  it  sound so  much  like  a  homework

assignment,  I  almost  did laugh.   I had no idea  what  to  do.

Pretend  to  be  a porn star?   Blow  kisses?   Pout  and  squirm

seductively  like they do in bad x-rated movies?

     I  tentatively put my hands up to my breasts and  rubbed  my

nipples lightly with my fingertips.  They were already erect from

the  coolness of the evening and the excitement.   I didn't  know

where to go from there, so I kept rubbing, even though the entire

tips  of my breasts  were already very sensitive,  even though my

areolas were puckered up and hard,  aching.  I was still excited.

But I didn't know what to do next.  Then I had an idea.   I would

take off my top:  do a strip tease.   Yeah,  that's it.  My hands

went to the zipper at my throat and pulled it halfway it down.

     "Stop." I froze.  "Lean back against the arm of the sofa and

close your eyes." I did.  "Stroke yourself again." I did. I found

it  was a lot easier to follow instructions than to make it up on

my own.   I really wouldn't make a good stripper anyway.  I don't

know the moves.

     "Put your hand lower."  What did he want me to do?  My  hand

crept  down  to  my  waistband.   "Lower."  Did  he  want  me  to

masturbate?   I wasn't ready for that.  I wouldn't.  Not with him

watching me.   It was just too kinky.  "Lower," he repeated, more

insistently.   I  put my hand down,   more to cover my  nakedness

than  to do what I thought he wanted.   I could feel the  wetness

from when he had carressed me,  and for some reason I was acutely

aware of my hand resting on my sex. But I wouldn't masturbate,  I

just couldn't,  not in front of him.  And as I sat there, neither

of us saying anything,  I began to think maybe he wouldn't ask me

to.   He had pushed me right to the edge of what I would do,  and

he seemed to know it.  He let me just sit there, covering myself,

extremely  aware  of how insecure and exposed I  was,  wishing  I

hadn't  gone as far as I had,  wishing I hadn't removed my  pubic

hair,  feeling,  not exactly frightened,  but very uncertain that

this was something I wanted.   And just a moment before,  when he

kissed  and  caressed  me,  I had been brought to the edge  of  a

climax.  It was a real roller coaster ride.

     "I know this has been hard for you," he began, "but I have a

reason.   You  remember the evening we made the  List.   We  also

discussed our motivations.  I told you things about myself that I

have  never  told anyone. And will never.  And you told  me  some

things  too.  Do you remember?" I nodded, uncertain where he  was

headed,  but  I said nothing.   He flipped a wall switch and  the

spotlight  went  off.   His  face  was  lit  from  below  by  the

firelight.   I  didn't move.   My hand stayed where  it  was,  my

attention split between what he was saying and the focal point of

my hand.

     "You  said that one of the things that you sometimes  wanted

was  to have someone else take charge.   That sometimes  you  got

tired of constantly having to deal with everything.   I'm sure it

was partly the daily pressure of your job that made you feel that

way.   You  wanted sometimes to be the one that was cared for and

protected;  you  wanted to belong to someone and to have  someone

that you could depend on,   someone you could be sure of.  And at

this moment, you don't feel that way, I know.  But I want you to.

I want to make you mine.   Completely.   This is my way of  doing

that.   I  know  you well enough to be sure you would be far  too

embarrased to let anyone else see you with no pubic  hair.   When

you removed it for me you took a step toward becoming mine."

     I  was  concentrating  on my hand.  You  talk  too  much,  I

thought. He went on.

     "That's  why your embarrasment is like a special gift to me.

It's  something I know you wouldn't give anyone  else.   I  don't

want  you  to even be ABLE to give to anyone else.   I  want  you

totally  for myself;  I want you completely committed to me,  and

everything I do over the next few weeks will be to make you  into

that person.  I want to possess you totally."

     Well,  it  was something like that.  I wasn't  concentrating

fully,  but  I got the gist.  He seems to adopt a formal mode  of

speech  when  he talks about the psychology of our  relationship.

Almost as though he had rehearsed what he said.

     Still,  I  was  beginning  to see.   It DID give me  a  warm

feeling to know that he wanted for me to belong to  him.   Belong

with a capital 'B'.   Like a slave.  I was beginning to see there

were  layers  beneath the surface of this 'game'-- things he  had

thought about more than I had.  As he continued to talk,  I began

to understand exactly where we were going,   what was  happening.

At  least  I  began  to  relax a  little  and  feel  comfortable.

Everything started to fall into place.  When he said he wanted me

to  be his slave he didn't mean as a servant;  he  meant  someone

with unreserved and absolute commitment.  I dismissed the thought

that  this had been in his mind from the  beginning,  six  months

ago,  even before we started writing those steamy letters.  As he

droned  on in the same vein (he does tend to over-explain  things

sometimes) my mind wandered off on a tangent.

     Ironically,  what  he wanted would give me a kind  of  power

over  him:   it  would be hard for him to find anyone  else  that

would  be willing to commit so deeply to him:  the List contained

some  pretty personal stuff;  not many women would go  that  far.

And  whatever he did to me,  it was a measure of his  commitment,

because the List gave me license to respond in kind. However much

he made me open up to him,  he made himself just as vulnerable if

I  choose  to exercise my rights.   Vulnerable to  me.   My  last

coherent  thought  of the evening was:

     The List is my safety net.  He would not go beyond its

     limits.  It is also a direct and tangible gauge of our

     commitment to each other.

     I  wasn't thinking with the clarity those words  imply,  but

the ideas were there, and I gained comfort from the thought.

     I  became abruptly aware of my hand,  still resting  There,

where  he  had  told  me  to  put  it,  and  I  stopped  thinking

altogether.   I  couldn't  concentrate on anything  else  he  was

saying.   I  could  only  feel the weight and warmth of  my  hand

resting  on my smooth,  hairless mons,  through the  damp,  sheer

cloth. I could feel every thread of the material.  I became aware

of the tightness of the elastic between my buttocks, the tautness

of  my breasts....  The temptation was irresistable to press down

slightly with my hand.   My eyes drifted shut and my hips  moved,

seemingly on their own.

     Suddenly I was jerked to my feet.  I found myself facing the

fireplace;  he  was  behind me holding my wrists  tightly  by  my

sides.  I  struggled feebly against him,  to cover myself,  but I

couldn't move.

     "We could stop now if you say the word.  Once again:  do you

want to go on?" he said. "Total commitment?" I understood what he

was asking,  but still I couldn't think. I didn't even understand

why  he was asking.  It seemed so unnecessary to say anything.  I

know one should avoid cliches (like the plague?), but time really

did  seem to stand still.   The fire crackled  and  flickered.  I

could  feel the warmth on my front through the filmy  cloth,  his

breath on my neck.   I stared down into the fire, not moving, not

breathing, suddenly at peace, serene, and, oddly, more in control

of myself than he was.

     It's  funny how such an important decision can be made  with

so little effort.   I felt as if I had been fighting a war all my

life and in the middle I simply decided to give up and wander off

the battlefield.   I wanted so much to give up.  So, idly, almost

carelessly,  with  a single word,  I abandoned the fortress I had

unknowingly defended for a lifetime.



                           Column 1

                            Item 2

J  told me to write this such that people will want to  read  it.

So  for dramatic effect I should have stopped at the word  "Yes",

but  that wasn't the end of last night.  Besides,  I have time to

tell  the rest:   he won't be home from work for a while,  and  I

don't have to get ready for him yet.

     He  took my car keys and suitcases with all my clothing when

he  left this morning.   All I have to wear is the  sheer  cotton

outfit  (you know about that one already -- I wore it last night)

and  a lycra one that he also had me make while I was in Chicago.

Neither one is practical or warm,  or even very comfortable,  and

it's  late February.   It's warm here  (compared to Chicago)  but

not  that  warm.   He also left  me all my shoes  and  boots,  my

fleece-lined  knee-length overcoat (thank God -- I'm  wearing  it

now,  and nothing else,  as I write this),  toiletries,  and some

books I had brought.   The television is near-useless:  the house

is  so rural that cable isn't even available.   I can't start  my

car,  even if I had clothing,  so I guess I will read, and write.

Maybe  I  will do a little gardening once I get my  feet  on  the

ground.   There are ten acres of partly wooded land to grow stuff

on,  and I've wanted to try a garden of my own ever since I moved

into Chicago. My mother kept one back home in Indiana.

     This  is  quite  a change for me.   A few  days  ago  I  was

spending  my  last  night in the old appartment,  sleeping  on  a

mattress on the floor after the yard sale;  now here I am nude in

an  overcoat  sitting  at a PC wondering when planting  time  for

vegetables is.   Life's a funny ol' thing, that way.  Best not to

dwell on the incongruities.   I laughed about it last night,  and

learned my first lesson the hard way.

     Last night,  when I agreed to try this (by this, I mean This

Whole Thing, not just the writing), I felt a wierd combination of

relief at having made a decision,  apprehension about what  would

come  later,  sexual  excitement,  of  course (why do  I  say  of

course?),  and  at the same time a kind of serenity:  a sense  of

freedom that comes from not having to care what comes next.   You

wouldn't think apprehension and serenity would go together, would

you?   It  was like I was outside myself,  watching myself  worry

about the future and at the same time thinking:  the apprehension

is  okay,   I can "get into" the experience;  it somehow  doesn't

bother  me  that I am apprehensive:  I am floating above it  all.

Does that make sense?   Reading back over it,  I can see how  you

might  think it nonsensical to achieve a completely relaxed state

of  nervous  apprehension,  but it was a very real sense  of  ...

release,  I guess.   As the feeling fades,  I wish I knew how  to

recapture it; last night I really had it going strong.

     Sorry about all the introspection.   You probably want me to

get  to the "good stuff" but if I'm going to have to write  this,

I'm going to "do it my way."  Mah own se'f.  Besides, I know that

if I just "tell it like it was" without any explanation,  there's

no   way   you  could  possibly  understand  why   a   previously

conservative   (in   my  social  attitudes,   not  my   politics)

midwesterner would agree to do these sorts of things.

     My growing attitude of 'what the hell,  why not' got me into

all this that night when he visited me in Chicago and I agreed to

leave and to go with the List.   It led me to take the next steps

last  night,  when I said to myself 'what the hell,  what will it

hurt  to  give him what he wants and remove my pubic  hair,'  and

later, 'what the hell, I'll follow through with the whole bargain

and live the part,  what difference will a month make?'  Besides,

I really wanted so much to belong to him,  and for him to want me

to belong to him. So anyway, I said 'Yes.' Okay?

     At that word, I felt him relax behind me, and I knew he  had

been relieved to hear the answer.   I relaxed too,  not because I

was relieved,  but because I liked leaning back into him, letting

him enclose me in his arms.

     Still standing behind me,  he ran his hands over my body, up

over my breasts,  lightly caressing my nipples through the  filmy

cotton,  down my front and between my legs.   I moaned and pushed

against his hand, trying to send him the message: I am ready.  He

caressed  me more firmly:  I was getting wet again.   He put  one

hand  on my front between my legs and one behind,  exploring both

halves  of  me through the flimsy cloth.   Again  my  breath  was

becoming  ragged.   I  turned  in his arms and  asked,  "Now  can

we...?"  I had been in various states of arousal all through  the

evening.  So had he, but he was in control and he wasn't going to

let it end yet;  he whispered "Not yet,"  and that was okay, too.

I was still floating, you see.  I just went with the flow.  But I

remember  feeling a secret glow of anticipation when  I  realized

that  at least he had used the word 'yet.' He caressed me  again,

this  time  slipping his hands inside the waistband of my  pants,

over  my  satiny smooth heavily-conditioned  skin,  and  down  to

explore and excite me more.

     When  I was once again on the razor's edge, he  pulled  away

and  said,  "Strip."  He sat down in the armchair again and  just

watched me.   I stayed by the fire where it was warm;  when I had

collected  myself,  I  unzipped my top.   It's hard to  take  off

without  tearing  because it's so tight and at the same  time  so

delicate. I kind of had to wiggle and shake to get it off my arms

behind  me  without ripping it.   That made my  breasts  kind  of

bounce, and I felt the embarrasment coming back; I checked to see

if  he was watching,  but he was looking into my eyes rather than

at my body. He kept his eyes on mine as I kicked off my shoes and

slid  my pants down over my hips.   They are so tight around  the

thighs  that they don't just fall down by themselves,  I have  to

pull  them  down,  so  I had to bend over (I  don't  BELIEVE  I'm

writing this!).

     I  tilted my head up,  all the while looking directly at his

face.   My eyes never left his.  I could feel my breasts  hanging

down  between my arms as I pulled the pants down to my ankles and

then  off.  Funny  the everyday things you  can  suddenly  become

acutely  aware of.   The tile floor was freezing on my bare feet.

When  I stood upright I I was chilled despite the fire.  I  began

shivering;  I think it was mostly (but not totally) the cold.   I

held  the  clothse to the front of my lower body with  one  hand,

trying  to cover and warm myself.  I  hugged my breasts  with  my

other arm.  My nipples were erect again, and I was shivering with

cold and,  once again, embarrasment.  He was still fully dressed,


     "Drop the clothse," he said.  This time, voluntarily, I  put

my arms at my sides, leaving myself uncovered. Suddenly I  really

was cold. I was shivering violently, but I forced myself to stand

erect and face him squarely,  keeping my eyes directly on his.  I

had  lost my sense of benign detachment.   There is nothing  like

physical discomfort to do that for you.  I was no longer a  third

party in the room,  floating and watching two strangers act out a

scene in a play.

     I  was  totally focused on keeping control of  my  shivering

body.  It was stupid.   I should have given in and told him I was

too cold,   but I could see that he knew.  I could have asked; he

was  probably waiting for me to,  but I wanted to prove something

to him -- I don't know what, but something, and it meant standing

there as long as I could.  Silly.  Silly and stubborn.  He smiled

a  little;  his  eyes  left mine and  travelled  slowly  down  my

twitching  body.   My  jaw  was clenched to stop  my  teeth  from

chattering,  because  they would have.  My hands were fists at my

sides,  arms and legs stiff,   stomach muscles tense with effort.

His eyes lingered on my hairless sex, which by now was covered in

goose bumps:  I'm sure I looked like a plucked chicken.  His gaze

travelled back up my body to my face. I was on the edge of losing


     Suddenly  he  stood, stepped over to me, and picked  me  up,

cradling me in his arms.   He carried me down a hall and into his


     Blessed warmth! The room was such a relief! It seemed almost

hot  after the living room.  He put me on the bed and told me  to

get  under  the  covers.  I  got up on my knees on  the  bed  and

crouched to pull back the comforter; I was shivering so violently

it took me two tries to even grasp the covers to pull them  back.

There was a toasty electric blanket somewhere under me.  God that

felt great.

     While  I  was  thawing  out, I looked  around  the  room  --

remember, at this point all I had seen was the living room and my

bedroom, with a few glimpses of other rooms we had walked by.   I

could  see an adjoining bathroom;  the bed was in an alcove  with

mosquito netting hanging from an arch over the alcove.   There is

a  sink right out in the bedroom,  as though the bedroom had once

been  used for something else.   He lit a candle and put it on  a

small  shelf in the alcove.   I could see some paintings  on  the

wall  that I didn't recognize,  landscapes.  I knew he hadn't had

them  in Chicago.  We had slept on a heated waterbed in  Chicago,

but this was a futon.  Quite a change. We'll be sleeping on grass

mats  next.  There were speaker grilles overhead in the  ceiling,

but no music was coming out.

       There were four  metal eye-rings set in the ceiling,  too,

over the bed.  They are new additions, I think. There were crumbs

of ceiling plaster on the floor. He  pushed  the  heavy,  old-

fashioned  oak door shut with an unnecessarily loud bang.  He had

my  attention.  I  watched him from a  warm,  cosy  nest;  I  was

floating again,  detached,  but watching. He moved a chair to the

foot of the bed,  a heavy oak armchair; it looked like a piece of

old  office furniture.   Then he came over and sat on the edge of

the bed and stroked my forehead with his hand.

     "How are you? Warmed up?"

     I nodded.

     "Good."  He  leaned down and kissed me.  His hand felt  good

through the covers.  "I have a kind of test for you.  But not  if

you're still cold."

     "I'm okay," I said, a little apprehensive.  "What test?"

     "You have to sit in the chair.  The room is warm, though.  I

think you'll be okay."

     "Okay," I said,  looking at the chair. When I didn't move he

slowly pulled the covers down to my waist.   I sat up.  The chair

was facing me at the foot of the bed.  It seemed ordinary enough.

I  really wanted to ask what he was going to do,  what this  test

business was.

     He took my hand gently and stood up, waiting for me. He held

my  hand  by my fingertips as though he were going to be  gallant

and  kiss it,  and when I got to my feet he held it as  though  I

were Cinderella stepping down from her coach.

     The chair was quite ordinary,  but it seemed enormous when I

sat in it.  My toes barely reached the floor.   It occurred to me

that  it  looked a bit like one of those old-fashioned  Hollywood

electric chairs -- the kind they executed James Cagney in so many


     He sat on the foot of the bed in front of me and showed me a

roll  of black tape.  The kind electricians use.  He  peeled  off

about a foot and held it across my wrist.

     I  could  see he was going to tape my wrists to the arms  of

the chair.   He didn't wrap it around,  though,  he just held  it

there and looked at me for a reaction.  I was scared.  I couldn't

help it.   Even though I trust him completely,  we had never done

anything  like  this before.  I guess I was seeing a side of  him

that  was  completely new,  and I immediately thought  of  hidden

psychoses  and serial killers and ritual murders with candles and

Charles  Manson  and I was a million miles from home  and  nobody

knew where I was and I was so far out in the country nobody would

even hear me scream,  and they would probably never even find the

body parts.

     I  stiffened up a bit.

     I didn't say anything, but I must have looked as scared as I

was,  because  he  stopped and asked me if I was still  okay.   I

nodded, looking into his eyes for some sign of what he was really

thinking.  Up to this point he had been unreadable, but something

in my expression must have touched him because he kind of melted.

    "Are you sure you're okay?"

     Something  about his expression brought me back to  reality.

I  could see that concern for what I was feeling was uppermost in

his mind.

    "Yeah.   Really,"   I  nodded,  still looking at him  like  a

trapped  rabbit.   My  heart  was  pounding.   I  had  a  lot  of

confidence in his character, but the consequences of misjudgement

were unthinkably horrible.   The very worst thing that can happen

is  when  someone you love turns out to be  a  different  person.

That's what makes Invasion of the Body Snatchers and The Exorcist

the two most horrifying movies ever made.

     I was scared, I admit it.

     He  wrapped  the  tape around my wrist and the  arm  of  the

chair  three  times and cut it with his Swiss  army  knife.  Both

wrists.  He walked around in back of me and bent over my shoulder

to kiss me behind the ear.   He taped my elbow to the back of the

chair  arm,  and my upper arm near the shoulder to  the  vertical

part of the back.

     He knelt at my feet and gently separated my legs.  He paused


     "You okay?"

     Hesitant nod.

     He taped my ankles and knees to the legs and corners of  the

chair,  opening  and  exposing me.   Then he ran a band  of  tape

across  my  breasts and around the back of the  chair.   It  went

right across my nipples and squeezed my breasts flat.

     Standing  beside  me,  he bent to kiss me and put  his  hand

between my legs.   He didn't try to stimulate me, he just put his

hand  there.   My nipples had been erect since I sat down.   They

were trying to be erect under the tape. He slid his hand up to my

breast. I pulled with my wrists against the tape.

     He  stopped  and  turned the chair to face the  full  length

mirror.   I could see myself, legs apart, exposed. I was grateful

that the candle light was dim. He stood behind me and leaned over

my shoulder. One hand went back to my sex, and he began to gently

stroke  and probe while kissing the side of my neck and  nibbling

on my ears.  That really gets me going, the ears. It always does.

I  was still nervous,  watching him,  but I also responded to his

hands and became wet.

     He  continued,  and  I  realized that this was his  idea  of

torture.  In  retrospect,  I know it's illogical,  but somehow my

mind concluded that this meant he wasn't Charles Manson.   I  got

more and more turned on,  and finally I was fighting the tape out

of horny frustration rather than fear.  He kept me going, teasing

me,  until  I was right on the edge again  and stopped.   I  just

couldn't seem to come, but I was extremely turned on.

     He  cut the tape behind my back and released my breasts.  He

began  peeling  it off slowly from both sides while  standing  in

front of me; he was watching my face closely, and as he pulled he

made  the two tugging,  almost-painful points of detachment  move

symmetrically  toward  my nipples.  My breath quickened  as  they

zeroed  in.   I moaned and closed my eyes so that I  wouldn't  be

embarrased  by  him  watching  me.   Funny  how  the  mind  works


    He  kissed me again.  He's a great kisser.   The average  guy

seems  to have a theory that putting his tongue down your  throat

proves he's a passionate lover.  Not that I have anything against

tongues,  it's  just that they don't automatically impress me.  J

does, though. Impress me, I mean.

     "I  guess you passed the test," he said.  I don't know  what

test,  but I suspect he wanted to know if I trusted him,  and  he

wanted  me  to know I could trust him.   At least I haven't  been

afraid since; if he were going to do something perverted to me he

would have done it then,  I figured.

    Anyway,   he  cut me free of the chair.   I was still  pretty

hot. Relieved and hot.  I guess the excitement, apprehension, and

foreplay  are a pretty deadly combination.   I will admit  I  was

afraid,  even  though  I trust him much more than I would  anyone

else -- afraid to be taped to the chair that way.   He could have

done  anything  to me.   I would like to be able to say  that  my

trust was stronger than my fear,  but I don't know.  My panic was

held  in  check  partly  by my  reluctance  to  offend  him  with

mistrust.   A  midwesterner is the only animal that will allow  a

sense   of   etiquette   to  overcome  the  instinct   for   self


     He told me to get into bed.   I did,  still turned extremely


     He  released  the mosquito netting over the  bed-alcove;   I

thought  idly:  no mosquitos in February.   The netting formed  a

curtain  so that the alcove became a warm,  candle-lit  intimate,

private and secure little world.  But those eye-rings.  I noticed

four more on the corners of the bed,  but it just didn't  matter.

Floating again.  He took something from the bedside table, tossed

it to me,  and told me to put it on.  I examined it. A blindfold.

     Suddenly  visions  of a man wearing a Nazi SS  uniform  hat,

with  a  leather  jockstrap and black socks held  up  by  garters

flashed  through my mind,  and I laughed.  Snorted,  actually.  J

looked   at  me  impasssively,   pausing  with  his  shirt   half

unbuttoned.  His mouth smiled a very small smile. His eyes didn't

join in the fun.

     I  hadn't thought about it at the time we made up the  List,

but I was going to be one of Those People.  It was just too,  too

ridiculous.   True, as I had told J, I fantasize about being tied

down  and  forced  to  have fantastic orgasms  until  I  was  too

exhausted  to  cry for mercy,  but somehow I  didn't  connect  my

fantasies with that ludicrous leather-scene reality.

     He  asked me what was going on in my head,  and I explained,

still  suppressing giggles and snorts.   He nodded  thoughtfully,

paused,   and   flipped   the   comforter   off   my   nakedness.

Instinctively,  my  hands  flashed to cover myself again,  but  I

couldn't stop laughing.

    He  took  something out of the bedside  table.   Suddenly  he

rolled  me  over on my stomach and straddled my back.   One at  a

time he pulled my arms to my sides and pinned them there with his

legs.   Still laughing,  I twisted left and right to try and  see

what he was doing.  I couldn't.  Gently, he twined my hair in his

hand  and pulled my head back.   He didn't try to hurt me,  but I

had  to arch my neck back and lift my upper torso off the bed  to

relieve the pulling on my hair.

     "Hey,  come  on..." I tried to say.   Something  was  forced

against my half- open mouth.   He held it there with one hand and

continued  to  pull  gently but insistently on my hair  with  the


     "Open your mouth," he said, "all the way."

     I  tried to say 'It IS open,' but it just came out a garbled

burble  and the thing slipped in a little more.  I couldn't shake

him loose or force it out with my tongue,  and he couldn't get it

in  any further unless I opened my mouth more.   We  remained  at

this  impasse for a moment more,  until I foolishly tried to  say

something  else  around the object and he forced it in  a  little

more.   Finally,  still  smiling  to myself,   I capitulated  and

relaxed my jaw as much as I could.  I decided to go along with it

and make the effort not to laugh.  He compressed the object  with

his  fingers and pushed -- gently,  but enough.  It went in.   It

felt huge.  Suddenly it wasn't such an effort to stop laughing. I

couldn't even smile.  Or even move my lips enough to make it look

like I would have smiled if I could have.  I had never seen -- or

even heard of -- a "ball gag" before.

     He took his hand away and it stayed in my mouth.  I couldn't

open  my mouth wide enough to push it out with my tongue,  and my

hands were still held at my sides.  It tasted slightly of rubber.

Hey, I thought, beginning to wake up to what was going on.

     I  felt  him pull a strap behind my head;  he buckled it  in

place. Then I heard a click.  He got off me.  The second my hands

were free,  I reached up to pull the thing out of my  mouth,  but

the strap held it securely.  Beginning to panic, I reached around

in  back of my head to undo the buckle and my scrabbling  fingers

found a miniature paddlock.  The strap wouldn't slide off over my

head.  Again my hands went to the thing in my mouth.  It wouldn't

budge.   It  felt like a rubber ball about the size of a  racquet

ball.   The strap went through the middle of it. It didn't matter

that  my hands were free,  I couldn't budge  it.  Pointlessly,  I

tried  to say something,  I don't remember what.    He turned his

back on me, threw the mosquito curtain aside, and walked out into

the  bedroom.  I got up and ran after him and grabbed him by  the

arm.  I  ran around in front of him so I could make eye  contact,

and  tried  to  say "I won't laugh," but I just  made  a  muffled

"Aaaah  Ah Aaaah" noise.  Looking up at him,  I tried to make  my

eyes talk since my mouth couldn't.  Hey, come on, I was thinking.

You  didn't really mean to do this to me,  did you?   This  is  a

mistake, right?  Right?

     "The  answer  is  no," he said,  "this is lesson  time."  He

walked  out of the room,  leaving the door open.   I stood  there

bewildered for a moment, not knowing what to do next.  Then I ran

into  the  bathroom to look for scissors or a razor  to  cut  the

strap.   When  I turned the light on I caught sight of myself  in

the mirror. My face was grotesque. My mouth was held open -- wide

open -- my lips stretched around this THING, my lipstick smeared.

My  eyes  were round and frantic above it.   My  hair  was  wild,

tangled  around the strap.  My shaking hands fluttered  uselessly

around  the  gag,  feeling at the corners of my  poor  mouth  and

around  the back of the strap.   I banged medicine cabinet  doors

open  and rummaged through the dressing table drawers,  but there

was  nothing I could use to cut it.   He knew there was  nothing.

That's why he'd left me alone.

     I ran back out through the bedroom to the living  room.   He

was  sitting in the armchair by the fireplace,  looking into  the

fire.   He even didn't look up.  I ran toward my bedroom where my

toiletries  were -- I knew there were scissors  there.  The  hall

door was locked.  So was the kitchen door. I just stood there not

knowing  what to do next.   I walked back to the living room  and

stood  in the doorway.   Obviously,  I wasn't going to get around

this  without his help.   I needed to get control of  myself.   I

went  to the desk and scribbled on an envelope:  'PLEASE TAKE  IT

OUT!!!!!!' and handed it to him.   Without looking at it he said,

"Sit down."  I sat.

     "Are you in serious pain?"

     I thought a moment,  took a long shaky breath (in through my

nose: I could only exhale, mumble, and drool around that thing in

my mouth). "Aaahh," I said, shaking my head 'no'.

     "Is it on the List?"

     "Aaaaha," I nodded,  wiping saliva from the side of my mouth

with my hand and wiping it on my naked hip.  Bound and gagged, it

was there on the List.

     "Then  think about it until you know what to do,"  he  said.

"You don't have to be a rocket scientist."

     So I sat there on the sofa,  knees together, hands folded in

my lap,  again the prim victorian except for,  well,  just  about

everything.   I was helpless. He already had complete control, so

he  couldn't  want  that.  I knew it all started  because  of  my

laughing  over  the blindfold.   Really,  it was as much  nervous

laughter  as humorous.   I often react to  unfamiliar  situations

with a nervous laugh.   I have embarrased myself several times by

laughing at absolutely the exact wrong moment,  like when someone

said  his dog was dead and I thought for some reason that he  was

kidding,  and  he really liked the dog.  I could have died.  I've

never gotten over having said that.   Sometimes I twitch with the

sudden  embarrasment when I remember it.

     But  it's  not fair to punish someone for a  nervous  laugh.

That's  like  punishing someone for a hiccough.   Of  course,   I

couldn't explain that to J.   I couldn't explain anything.

     I  looked at him again.   He was still looking at the  fire.

He wanted me to DO something, not say something.  That was fairly

obvious,  even  to a non-rocket scientist.   I wiped more  saliva

from the side of my mouth.  I was getting cold again, so I got up

to go into the bedroom for the comforter.  I looked at him to see

if he objected.   He didn't even look up.  I was at liberty to do

anything I wanted. Sort of.

     While  I  was getting the comforter, I noticed  the  bedside

table  was open;  it was where he had gotten the blindfold.   The

drawer  had a heap of chains and leather and padlocks in  it.   I

wrapped  the comforter around myself and after  another  mournful

glance in the mirror,  went back out.   God,  I looked awful.  He

glanced up, but said nothing.

     I sat back down.   My jaw was starting to ache a little, and

I had to wipe my face again.  He wasn't going to let me just back

out of this gracefully.   I had to apologize?  Anything to get it

off.  I picked up the envelope from the floor where he dropped it

and  wrote:  I'M SORRY.  He didn't even look at it.  I moaned  in

frustration.  Obviously action was what he wanted.   I had agreed

to be his slave,  so I had better start acting like one. So I got

down on my knees by his chair and waited.   He looked at  me.   I

said  "Aaaaah?"  He had to know it was "Please?"  He reached  out

and  stroked my hair.   He was remarkably tender for someone  who

had just done this to me.  The bastard. For a moment I thought he

was going to take it off,  but he just stroked my hair again, and

then stopped.  I waited.  That wasn't it, but I was getting warm.

     Then  I had a bright idea:  the blindfold.   Duh.  I wish  I

could  tell  you my real name.   It's derived from an  old  Sioux

indian word meaning "not-rocket-scientist."

     I  got up and went into the bedroom.   The blindfold was  on

the  pillow.  I looked at the open drawer again,  and lifted  out

some  of the stuff in there.   There was a jumble of light-weight

chains and four short leather straps with buckles and rings. They

looked  like  extra-small dog collars with those  buckle  tongues

that  have a hole for a dog tag.   Or a lock.  There were lots of

little tiny paddlocks,  just like the one that I was sure was  on

the back of my neck.  They were all open, but no keys were in the

drawer.   The  chains didn't look particularly heavy duty,  but I

knew they would be stronger than most people.   Stronger than me.

There was one large strap like the others. A collar.  Well, I was

supposed  to  be a slave.  It seemed like a good  time  to  start

acting like one.

     I  took the whole drawer out of the table and carried it out

into the living room.   I got down on my knees again and put  the

drawer on the floor in front of him.   At least he was looking at

me instead of the fire.   One by one I took the things out of the

drawer and put them on the floor between us.  He rewarded me with

a faint smile, but didn't move.

     I  picked  up the small straps,  and put one on each  wrist.

Then  one on each ankle,  hurrying against the growing discomfort

of  the  gag.   I kept looking up at him and  fumbling  with  the

straps,  looking to see if I was doing the right thing.  I had to

wipe my mouth again. Then I put on the collar and buckled it.  My

jaw was really beginning to ache.   I looked up at him again.  At

that  stage I would have begged sincerely if I could have spoken.

He  glanced  down at the drawer.   The  locks.   I  snapped  them

through the tongues of the strap buckles.  I had trouble with the

collar. I couldn't see it and my hands were trembling.  He helped


     I  sat back on my heels and waited.  He motioned me to  come

closer.   I  moved  over  next  to him,  still  kneeling  on  the

comforter.  He reached down again and stroked my hair, but didn't

do anything about the gag. I was getting desperate.  The ache had

turned to real pain.   I was starting to cry,  which just made my

jaw  hurt  more.   I put my arms around his legs and  through  my

tears  tried  once  more to say "Please?" but I  was  crying  and

shaking  from the cold and my nose was running,  and  my  begging

just  came out as a kind of high-pitched whine.  He reached down,

picked  up  the blindfold,  and handed it to  me.   With  shaking

hands, I put it on, at my absolute limit.

     "Pick  up  the chains," he said.   Kneeling  there,  I  felt

blindly  for  the drawer and gathered the chains into  my  hands,

still squeaking,  whining,  and sniffing.  It really hurt.  I was

feeling  what cynical doctors call 'minor discomfort.' He  picked

me up and carried me into the bedroom and put me on the bed.  The

chains  rattled  and I felt him pull my legs apart  and  lock  my

ankle straps to the chains.  I could think of nothing but my poor

mouth. Then he chained my right wrist.

     At last I felt him working the lock at the back of my  neck.

Then the buckle.   The strap was loose.   I reached to remove the

gag,  but he held my left wrist and forced it back, and locked it

to  the  last  chain.   I still couldn't push the gag out  of  my

mouth.   I moaned,  and remember thinking I probably sound -- and

look -- just like those leather and bondage people.  But I didn't

feel like laughing this time.   I was completely beaten.  I would

have  given  anything  just to get that thing out  of  my  mouth.


     "I'm going to take it out now.   Don't say anything for  the

rest  of  the night."  Gently,  he took it out and let  my  mouth

close.   It hurt to close it after having it held open so far for

so  long.   I  had probably had that thing in my mouth  for  only

ten  or fifteen minutes,  as I think back on it now,  but it  had

seemed like an eternity.  The ache starts in your jaw and spreads

to pain in your ears and throat. It hurts to swallow, like I were

spraining something. My ears were ringing when he finally took it


     I heard water running in the bathroom, then felt him wipe my

nose  and  face  with a warm,  damp  washcloth;   he  spread  the

comforter  over me,  and pulled it up to just below  my  breasts.

Then  he  kissed  me gently,  taking care with  my  mouth,  which

despite  the  extremity of my earlier pain,  had  almost  stopped

hurting.  Certainly  kissing  didn't hurt.  He kissed  me  again,

through the blindfold, near the corners of my eyes.  He can be so

tender.  When he wants to be.

     I  felt  him sit on the bed beside me.   He stroked my  face

gently with the backs of his knuckles.  Chained the way I was,  I

should have felt exposed,  helpless,  and naked,  especially with

the  blindfold and not being able to see what he was going to  do

next,  but somehow I didn't feel the nakedness as acutely; oddly,

that was because I was blindfolded.  I wonder if ostriches really

hide  their  heads  in the sand to feel  safe.   Of  course  not.

Silly.  My  first and middle names together translate roughly  as


     Safe is different from helpless, though, and I was helpless.

Safe  and  helpless.  His kisses and caresses were  nonsexual  at

first,  and comforting.  I was warm and toasty, and realized that

nothing was required of me but that I keep my big fat mouth shut.

Anyway,  I  couldn't  do anything in this position but  passively

accept  whatever  he  chose to do.   I was  not  responsible  for


     His  kisses  became  warmer  and  I  became  more  and  more

detached.   Let him kiss me,  I thought.   Let him do anything he

wants.   After what just happened I don't have to do anything but

lie here.  My lips won't respond to his.  And they didn't. It was

like  I  was there in the room watching this  happen  to  someone

else,  someone  numb.   He  got under the covers with me and  his

hands  began to move over my body,  his caresses more  sexual.  I

realized he had undressed sometime after I was  blindfolded.  His

hand  slid  down my stomach to just below my navel.  And ever  so

lightly, lower, where my skin turns to silk. My breath caught and

stomach  muscles  betrayed me  by  tightening  involuntarily,  as

though I had been tickled.

     His  hand  slid  lower  still and cupped  my  hairless  sex,

stroking gently.   I was determined not to respond,  and again my

detachment  returned.  He continued to stroke.   My skin felt  so

smooth down there;  I could see the point of the hairlessness,  I

thought for the second time. But I was determined not to respond.

Not to move.   I could have an orgasm and he would never know,  I

thought.  I was becoming more and more detached; floating, almost

dreaming.   His  caresses  became  more  insistent;  his  fingers

entered me.  Still I didn't respond.  I deliberately relaxed.

     This  is going to be hard to explain.   As he  continued  to

stroke  and kiss me,  I remained detached,  but my body began  to

move through no effort on my part.   Sounds like I'm making  this

up,  I  know.   It was as if I was watching from  outside,  still

completely relaxed,  and my body was acting on its own. I watched

my body's hips move first,  ever so slightly, pushing against his

expert  hand.  He  stroked more gently,  searching  and  probing,

finding   exactly  the  right  spot.   My  hips  began  to   move

rythmically.  His  hand  left  my sex and moved up to  my  body's

breasts.  A gentle stroke and my nipples came awake.  I felt  his

lips  on  my nipples,  sucking and nibbling  gently.   They  were

erect, hardened. He continued, becoming stronger, more insistent,

until they began to ache.  Suddenly his hand was at my sex again.

My body gasped and arched,  pulling against the chains.  My knees

lifted up, my legs bent as far as the chains would let them.

     I stopped,  frozen and watched as my body's breathing become

ragged.   I  watched him position himself over me and  slowly  --

very  slowly -- enter me.  My body was already shuddering on  its

own.  He supported his weight with his arms so that he was almost

suspended   above   me.    My  spreadeagled  body  was   floating

weightless,  penetrated, and quivering with excitement.  He began

moving  ever  so slowly and gently with what felt  like  enormous

but controlled strength -- strength held in reserve.

     My  body was gasping and panting involuntarily,  drawing  in

great  gulps of air and making the same incoherent whining noises

I had earlier when I was crying,  gagged. Then my back arched off

the  bed,  my limbs pulled all the chains suddenly taut,  and  my

body held itself rock still,  almost vibrating, not breathing. My

throat  made  a little squeak,  and he made  one  more  powerful,

expertly timed thrust,  the slowest of all.   I don't think I was

even climaxing yet, but it was as good as any orgasm.

      He  stroked  me  again,  slowing  the  pace  until  it  was

almost imperceptibly slow.   I was on the very edge.  My body had

to start breathing again:  suddenly I started panting frantically

and  spasming  uncontrollably against  the  chains.   His  weight

descended on my body,  pinning me to the bed.   Spasm after spasm

wracked  my body,  but he held me immobile.   The chains tautened

rythmically  as  I pulled at them,  and my head tossed  back  and

forth.  He  slipped his arms under my shoulders and held my  head

immobile  between  his two hands.  His mouth came down  on  mine,

hungry.   His  hips  moved rhythmically now,  no  longer  gentle.

Finally the dam broke.  My orgasm seemed to last forever and ever

and ever and ever.


    As I lay there exhausted,  almost getting my breath  back,  I

felt him inside me,  still hard.  As soon as he felt I was ready,

he  began again,  this time for himself alone.  Slowly at  first,

then,  keeping himself on the edge,  slowly, ever so slowly, with

pauses to prolong his pleasure. I built to a second orgasm, and a

third, while he had his way (Listen to me! I'm even sounding like

a victorian midwesterner.  Had his way.... Sheesh!) but he didn't

notice.  He used me until he was shudderingly, gaspingly, through

with me.   I wish I hadn't been blindfolded.  I would have  liked

watching   his  face.    But  on  the  other  hand,   all  things

considered....  Well,  why fix it if it works, as grandad used to

say. Not in exactly this context, though.

     I  drifted  off  and vaguely remember him  cleaning  me  up,

unlocking the chains, and carrying me back to my bedroom.


When I woke up this morning, I was in my own bed, and the leather

cuffs,  anklets,  and collar were still on.   It was just  barely

sunrise,  and  I ached deliciously almost everywhere.   I went to

the bathroom.   I was a mess:  my eyes were two big smudges where

my mascara had run under the blindfold last night.  After a quick

pee and a wash,  I dashed back to a warm bed just in time for him

to come into my room with coffee and hot english muffins.  He was

fully  dressed  already,  and  after  a  quick  kiss  and  a  few

instructions,  he was on his way to work.

     The  instructions were to start writing this. After  a  good

lie  in,  I got up and poked around the house.  His  bedroom  was

locked,  but  the rest of the house was open to  me.   It  wasn't

until I noticed  that my suitcases were gone (cute trick) that  I

realized I hadn't considered leaving him -- even during the worst

part of last night.  He didn't need to take my clothse to keep me

here,  but still, it gives me a kind of warm feeling that he did.

He should know better, after last night. I'll stay.

     Well,  that's  enough for now.   I have to get ready for him

and  I'm tired of typing anyway.  Wordstar says I did  27  pages.

Stream of consciousness writing and Mrs.  Cooke's typing class, I

guess.  He'll be home in another hour, and tomorrow is Saturday.


Well,  he seemed satisfied with what I wrote Friday.  It's Sunday

now;  I  don't  have  time  to tell you about  Friday  night  and

Saturday now.   Later,  though.   It looks like this is going  to

turn into a diary.   In fact, he said he was surprised I wrote so

much.   Still,  he had me go back and add in some stuff, like the

part about my nipples.  I hated that.  And some other stuff, too.

I  had  to  change the  names,  places,  etc.,  "to  protect  the

innocent" (the guilty,  actually) so it couldn't be traced to us.

So  if anyone ends up reading this,  it has been edited.  But not

bowdlerized,  so don't feel cheated.   He makes me put in  stuff,

not take it out.

     I'm  supposed  to tell you more about myself,  what  I  look

like,  why  I'm doing this,  what motivates me.   I only have  an

hour, so today's entry will be short and factual.  I am five feet

two and one half inches, one hundred and eight pounds.  So for my

adult  life I have had a choice between "short" and  "petite";  I

don't like either. Altitudinally challenged? I wear a lot of high

heels.   Old  fashioned,  I know,  but I'm a midget without them.

When  I wear running shoes,  people say "Wow,  I didn't know  you

were so short."  Wow. Thanksalot. I say.

     Light brown hair,  longish,  but to be honest the quality of

my hair leaves something to be desired.  It is kind of coarse and

kinky  with lots of little tight curls.  It looks like I've had a

bad permanent and need another,  but I haven't and I don't.    My

hair  will never be smooth and shiny like in the TV adds.   Every

time I wash it,  it bushes out like an afro and gets unruly.   It

was down to the middle of my back in high school,  but since then

I  have  been  shortening it until it is  a  little  longer  than

shoulder  length.    It's  really inconvenient to keep it  pinned

under  a  nurses hat,  but J doesn't want me to  cut  it,  and  I

haven't since we met. I would like to try it short, though.

     My complexion is clear,  my eyes are blue-grey, and together

I  think  they are my best features.   My eyes are large,  and  I

enhance  them  a lot with makeup.   I am not beautiful,  but  I'm

certainly not unattractive.  I think somewhere between pretty and

"handsome" (definitely not butch,  though)  might fit me. Despite

my size,  'pert' has never been said of me,  thank God.  I'm also

definitely  not  the cheerleader type.   My friends all say I  am

unconventionally attractive.  Back home in Indiana,  I never  had

trouble  attracting  men,  even men who like  conventional  movie

star-type beauty, but then, most of the boys in my home town were

such jerks I didn't bother much.   And all the conventional movie

star  type beauties left as soon as they could.  So did  everyone

else. So did I.  Even an ostrich would have left.

      In  my  home  town three bowling  shirts  is  considered  a

complete  wardrobe.   The  guys were more interested in cars  and

beer.   It  was  unmanly for these types to actually  talk  to  a

woman;  getting  the  attention  of one of these  specimens  just

wasn't worth it,  believe me. Sort of like saddling a cow: it can

be  done,  but  it's a lot of work and what's  the  point?  These

bucolic  wags  would stand around the back of a pickup and  belch

witicisms  like "No man should plant more garden than  his  woman

can  hoe," and then guffaw.  Then some buffoon that was so dim he

hadn't  heard  that  one before would laugh and  spray  beer  out

through  his  nose  and   that would be the  high  point  of  the

evening.  Do I sound bitter?

     So  through  most  of  my  high-school  years  I  kept  that

wholesome  "don't-touch-me-there farm girl look" and didn't  wear

much  makeup  until  my last year.   Then I met an  older  guy  I

thought  I liked and started wearing makeup to be more  "mature".

That lasted two weeks until at a critical moment I discovered  he

had a mirror over his bed.  Talk about tacky.  It should have had

a sign:  Objects Appear Larger Than They Are.  Besides, he didn't

like my nipples.  So when that didn't work out I decided to go to

college.   So I was a virgin until I was nineteen, and then again

until  I was twenty-two (so I'm a little slow).  That was when  I

met J.

     I read a lot,  exercise a lot,  and keep fit,  but I haven't

yet achieved that lean,  hard, sinewy look that many of the women

at the exercise spa "up north" had.   I still have smooth rounded

curves, but I'm working on a "hardbody".  I'll have to join a spa

here.  Okay,  okay,  my measurements are 34-23-34, and I wear a B

cup.   Happy  now?  (Thankyousomuch  for  reminding  me,  J.)  My

shoulders are narrow, and my upper body strength needs a lot more


    I have good legs; in heels, great, in fact. Long for my size.

My  hips  are rather wide,  but that is because my legs  are  set

further  apart than one finds in most women;  actually my  thighs

are slim.   There is just a wider space between my legs than most

women have.   I don't know why I have to tell you this -- I never

even thought about it until J had me add the last few  sentences.

J  says  it makes me look great in jeans.   I guess he's  thought

about it. The space between my legs, I mean.  I hadn't until now.

     I  tan easily,  but don't go in for it,  it's so hard on the

skin; also, where I come from, a tan means you are a farm hand. I

suppose some would describe me as pale.  Others might describe me

as very pale.   But I have good skin,  so I'm not pasty and pale,

just pale.  I try to keep my skin as perfect as possible (no junk

food).   It  is  very fine (small pores),  and I am proud  of  my

complexion.  I do wear makeup, though, maybe a little more than I

need to.   I just like putting it on,  okay?  Still a little girl

playing with mom's makeup, I guess.

     I'm nearsighted enough that I definitely need glasses when I

drive,  but  I wear contact lenses instead most of the  time.   I

have a pair that makes my eyes look very blue, but they looked so

artificial  I got another colorless pair.   Too flambuoyant for a

midwesterner.  Someone might think I was trying to be  different,

God forbid.

     So I'm just a midwestern farmgirl -- except for the  makeup.

You've seen women that have absolutely perfect makeup?  You  know

the  ones:  lips crisply and perfectly outlined,  the corners  of

their  mouths painted sharp,   eyeliner neat with sharp  corners,

eyeshadow a perfect blend of shades,  mascara unclumped, eyebrows

neatly lined,  skin smooth,   uniform,  and powdered.   They look

like they spend too much time on their faces.  Well, they do: I'm

one  of  them.  On the other hand,  there are a lot of women  out

there who could take a little more care with their appearance.

     J  thinks I spend so much time on my makeup because  I  like

to keep everything under perfect control.  He thinks I use makeup

to  compensate  for  what I percieve to be  other  out-of-control

imperfections.  I suppose he means my hair.   Or my nipples. They

have been an embarrasment,  but I don't tihnk they have shaped my

life.   Maybe he's right.   I just haven't been able to  convince

myself  that  he  is telling the truth when he says  he  actually

prefers them the way they are.  Hell, he says he likes me without

makeup,  too.  He just thinks he does.  Or likes to think that he

he would.  Men.

     My  friends  tell  me  I'm  a  typical  midwesterner  in  my

attitudes.   It's true.   My family never ever discussed sex.   I

was never told the "facts of life."  In the midwest, embarassment

has been promoted from an emotion to a way of life. We just don't

discuss these things. Thank God for sex ed. in school.

     Hey  -- I'm  multiorgasmic.   I  wish that  meant  something

important,  but it really just means J is a sensitive  lover.   I

never  thought  much about it before,  probably because I  wasn't

that way with any other guys.   My orgasms are almost predictable

(not boring,  though).  With J I nearly always start with a small

fluttery frissant near the beginning and then have a major one in

the middle.  He works to make that one enjoyable and always waits

for me before he has his. About half the time I have a third one,

but the second is almost always the best.  Sounds predictable and

boring,  I know,  but I know (knew) so many girls that don't have

them at all,  I feel lucky.  Things might change now, though.  We

are definitely exploring new territory.

    I have to add something else here.  I don't even believe  it,

but he says put it in anyway.  He says I have an aloof and almost

cruel looking face. Something about the shape of my nostrils, for

God's sake.  Cruel aloof nostrils?  Come on.  He says it's one of

the  things  that attracted him to me  initially.   I'm  neither.


    Motivations.  We've talked about this a lot.  Being in charge

of the nurses on an entire floor usually means I have to organize

and  direct  the people around me.   I'm really not cut  out  for

that:  it's  a  part of my life that's  genuinely  not  under  my

control,  and  yet my job demands that I be able to exert control

and  I  get caught in the middle.   My personality  just  doesn't

carry  the necessary weight.  I guess we all have aspects of  our

lives and jobs that require we be forceful.   I fake it well, but

still I am faking it.  Maybe that's why I have this dual urge  to

give  up  and get out from under responsibility on the one  hand,

and  to  exert complete and unquestioned control  on  the  other.

Hence  the  two- column  List(?) It seems  to  express  the  same

duality.  J feels the same pressures in his job, and in many ways

the two columns reflect these two sides of our personalities.

     Here's  my  theory:  It seems certain that  the  differences

between   male/female  (dominant/passive,   whatever)  roles  and

behavioural  patterns  are  the result of  social  -- maybe  even

biological  -- evolution.   If  so,  it follows that they  are  a

socio/biological  adaptation imposed on a pre-existing background

psychology that is almost certainly more gender-intermediate than

either  of those two stereotypic extremes.   It then follows that

there  is  an unexpressed "more feminine" side to  males  and  an

unexpressed "more masculine" side of the female psychology.  Both

of these sides are perfectly "natural."  Perhaps much of what  is

regarded  as deviant sexual behaviour (that is,  deviant from the

acceptable  stereotypic extremes of the male-female spectrum)  is

the   unguarded   expression  of  those  natural   but   sexually

intermediate feelings.

     On the other hand, I had a younger nurse working on my floor

once  that  was 6'1" tall and would have been georgeous  but  she

wanted to be petite.   She slouched,  and was shy, and managed to

look  unattractive  just  because  she  wasn't  comfortable  with

herself.   I  would  have killed to be six feet tall,  so  I  was

always trying to seem taller:  I adopted good posture as a way of

life and tried to project confidence rather than diffidence.  Odd

that our lives can be more affected by what we want to be than by

what we actually are.

     Anyway,  I'm  required  to be more dominant in my  job  than

comes naturally to me.  I hate that, and would often prefer to be

passive  and  not  have the responsibility.   At the  same  time,

because I am sometimes (being female and short) unable to exert a

strong dominant influence,  I would like for just once to control

someone  or something without being challenged.  I want  both,  I

guess.   I've  only  felt  that sense of  control  when  downhill

skiing.    I'm  a  pretty  good  skiier,   and  really  feel   an

exhilarating  sense of domination over the mountain.  I wonder if

it could be that good to dominate a man....

    Or  maybe I'm just justifying my facination with the List  by

inventing complex pseudo-psychological  excuses.   Publically,  I

have always claimed to be repelled by such things,  but privately

I'm  drawn to "the dark side" of my own nature.   If I see erotic

literature on a bookshelf,  I am embarrased in case anyone I know

should  see me looking at it, but simultaneously I want  to  find

out what is in it. Repelled and attracted.  What a mixed up prude

from Indiana.

     After reading this manifesto of a hyper-prude,  if you could

see the outfit I'm wearing right now,  you'd wonder if I was  the

same person.  But I vas only followink ordersz, mein fuhrer.  I'm

wearing what he told me to.

     Oops.  J is driving up the driveway.  Time to go.  I'll fill

you  in on the weekend while he's at work  tomorrow.  O.K.,  I've

admitted all.  No more pop-psych. And that's it for today anyway.

Fun and games time....

                        The List

                        Column 1

                        Item 3

Well,  it's Monday.  I'm sitting here at the computer wearing the

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

scratch,  I modified it from a spandex exercise leotard.   Black,

naturally.  Why is it men like black so much?   It's one of those

french  cut "thong" designs with just the thinnest behind in  the

cleft between my cheeks.   He had me modify it to show more of me

on  either  side of my sex in front.   I guess even then  he  was

planning on me being hairless down there.   This is going to take

some getting used to, I guess.

     Anyway,  he  thing  is  made a little  more  comfortable  by

wearing  pantyhose  underneath.   Of course they just HAVE to  be

charcoal gray sheer-to-the-waist.  More instructions.  It unsnaps

under the crotch,  too,  for easy removal -- and access,  too,  I

guess.   I had to lower the scoop neckline,  front and back,  and

enlarge  the armholes so that my breasts  are  all-but-completely

exposed. A half-inch either way and a nipple would peek out.  Men

really go for the obvious, don't they?

     I  was wearing this on Friday evening when he came home from

work,  although without the pantyhose,  because they looked funny

over  the  leather ankle cuffs.   I actually could have  cut  the

cuffs off, since I now have the run of the house and could get at

the  scissors.   But  why  bother:  I don't want to  escape  from

anything now anyway.   That sounds suspiciously like the old joke

about not needing to fix the roof when it's not raining.

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

despite  what he says.  (I described it in my first entry about a

century ago.)  He hasn't told me to change it, and when he kisses

me  hello,  he  is careful not to mess it up.   That  comes later

(messing it up, I mean).

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

scheduled for later this week.   He's taking me along! He told me

on Saturday when he took me shopping for some new clothse.

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

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

sinful  luxury of a fire in the fireplace anyway.   Early  Spring

breezes  and a fireplace in February....  I could get to like the


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

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

to the Deep South was watching the movie Deliverance,  so she was

worried.   It felt weird sitting at the kitchen table chatting on

the phone with my mother while wearing this outfit.  If she could

have seen me,  I don't know which one of us would have been  more

embarassed.  'Dueling   prudes' would have been the theme song if

Deliverance  had  been  made in Indiana.  She  wants  me  to  get

married.  I guess all mothers nag about that.  Mine seems to have

plans  about how my entire life should be,  and what I should  be

like.   She lays me out on this pattern -- like a dress  pattern,

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

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

We're  too  embarrased  to actually come right out and  argue  in

Indiana.   We  shut  oven  doors a little more  noisily  than  is

absolutely  necessary.  Or  I  read a book  and  turn  the  pages

pointedly.  A  New  Yorker  could be in the middle of  a  war  in

Indiana and not even realize it.

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

nearly  as  traumatic as Thursday night had  been.   No  gag,  or

anything like that.   We made love on a big fuzzy rug in front of

the fireplace. No, not a bear rug, some kind of Greek thing, made

of white wool,  with about an eight (yes, 8) inch pile. It's like

a  cloud.  When  it gets dirty,  you just wash it  in  a  washing

machine and let it shrink.

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

can see it now over the top of the monitor.  Remember that  I had

not  seen him naked yet?  At least not for six months.   He still

hasn't let me.  Not that he has anything to be ashamed of: he has

a teriffic body.   One of the world's great asses.  No,  he's not

hiding  his  body:  he  wants  to  prolong  my  embarrasment  and

discomfort at the inequality of the situation.   There's  nothing

more unequal than being naked when your partner is fully dressed,

especially the way I am naked and exposed Down There.

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

some  unscented  talcum powder -- why is it that men  don't  like

pretty  smells?  Then I had to strip again for him.   I tried  to

make it more seductive this time.   I'm determined to learn to do

it like a pro,  but privately.  But I think he likes embarrasment

more than a smooth act.  He got both:  I was doing my clumsy best

to  do  a seductive strip.   I felt like a total ass,  trying  to

pretend I wasn't blushing furiously.   It may never feel  natural

to be so naked when he's so dressed, but then maybe a true pro is

one that knows how to keep her amateur status.

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

on  my own blindfold again.  No hassle this time.   I was a  good

girl.  At his direction, while still kneeling and blindfolded,  I

began undressing him.   I was getting excited. This was more like

my  good old soft-core fantasies.   When I had him naked,  I took

him  in my mouth,  still kneeling.   As deep as I could take  him

without  gagging.  That is something else I wish I could  do.   I

think.  If it's not bad for me.  I bet there aren't many that can

do the Linda Lovelace routine. Unfortunately I'm not one of them.

Oral sex is something that I am trying to like.

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

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

from his erection.  Still holding my head back, he knelt in front

of  me  and bent to kiss my exposed throat.   I shivered  as  his

hands traversed my flanks. If it bothers me he doesn't want me to

do it.  Sometimes.

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

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

rubbed,  relaxing and kneading me.  I went totally limp,  turning

into jelly in his hands.   Powdered jelly.  My legs,  which I had

been  holding together instinctively in the  approved  midwestern

fashion,   drifted  apart  a  bit.   He  put  the  talcum  powder

everywhere.   Over my breasts,  between my legs, over my already-

satiny and hairless mons.   Then he rolled me over like a sack of

flour and began on my back. After covering and deeply kneading my

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

     Gently  he  caressed the soft powder into my  rear  crevice.

Deeper and deeper.   His fingers did everything but penetrate  me

there.  My  body was completely covered in talcum powder from the

neck down.   In my mind's eye I looked like a blindfolded  marble

statue.   His  hands  still worked on my  crevice,  relaxing  me,

probing  without  penetrating.   I wasn't ready for that,  and  I

think he knew, because he didn't try to force me.  At first I was

nervous that he would, and contracted involuntarily at his touch,

but as he continued to massage with the talcum powder,  my  trust

grew  and I relaxed completely.   I deliberately concentrated  on

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

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


     Still  he  continued  to tease  and  stroke.   Preparing  me

physically;  I was completely ready. My buttocks rose to meet his

hand, clenching to grasp and draw him in (more daring still), but

he  told  me to relax.   I tried.   The anticipation and  nervous

excitement   I   felt  were  mixed  with  more  than   a   little

apprehension;  I had never tried this before.  It is one of those

things that facinate and repell me simultaneously.   But still he

teased,  and  did  not attempt to penetrate me.   My  heart  beat

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

concentrating  on letting your body become mush while your  heart

won't  stop thumping.   Finally I settled down.  I had no muscles

whatever,  just a tiny core of expectancy.  I was  jello.  Melted

passive jello. He could have done anything with me.  I wanted him


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

disoriented,  coming  back  to reality blindfolded  from  such  a

physically  relaxed state,  but I managed to wobble to all fours,

and knelt there swaying.  His hands continued to work on me, both

sides, under and above simultaneously. I began to moan and thrust

my  buttocks against his hand again,  trying to grasp his fingers

to signal my readyness.   And I was ready.  Even eager to try it.

IT.   That is further than I had ever dreamt I would actually go.

And I wanted to go further!

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

could  be  persuaded  to go.  I was dripping  with  anticipation.

Literally and figuratively.

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

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

between my thighs.  I was on all fours again,  but he was guiding

himself  inside  me.   I was really ready now.  I slid  onto  him

slowly,  carefully (I am small there), gradually accepting all of

him inside my now-quivering body.   He held me still,  preventing

me from rubbing against him.  My vaginal and stomach muscles were

twitching  and  contracting involuntarily,  and it  took  several

moments  for me to regain control of myself.   Eventually,  I was

able  to  sit there with him inside me without  going  completely

crazy,  although my breath was not at all steady.   What  now,  I


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

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

container. What a time to pick for a rubdown. My mind was on just

one thing, and it wasn't talcum powder rubdowns. I sprinkled some

on  his  chest and began massaging it in,  spreading it over  his

upper  body and arms.   As I rocked back and forth,  rubbing  his

chest muscles, I felt a warm glow begin to spread from my center.

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

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

However natural it might be,  it seems so narcissistic  -- almost

masturbatory -- to stroke one's self,  especially if someone else

is watching.  I wouldn't do it on my first night,  but this  time

the  blindfold  somehow freed me from that  inhibition.  Since  I

couldn't see his reaction, I wasn't responsible for responding to

him; I could do what I liked.

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

exhibitionism.   I didn't have to guess how he felt about what  I

was  doing:  I could feel him huge inside me,  and I deliberately

made  my little show more provocative,  until I was stroking  the

entire  front  of  my body,  crotch  to  blindfold,  and  panting


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

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

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

convulsed  on his hips;  I started rocking wildly back and forth,

trying to reach for another orgasm.   But as great as it was,  an

orgasm  in  that position still isn't as satisfying as  one  with

full frontal body contact.   He pulled me down onto his chest and

our  fronts were suddenly one long satin interface.   The  talcum

powder  gave  our  bodies  the  feel  of  living  velvet  melding

together,  each sliding luxuriously against the other.  I felt so

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

sensitive   surface of my hairless sex extended over  the  entire

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

his   body  in  mine  and  we  came  -- slowly  -- to  the  first

simultaneous orgasm that we had ever had.

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

several  inadequate attempts,  and have decided that an orgasm is

hard enough to describe. Simultaneous is perfection, and I am not

a writer capable of perfection.  Still,  you may applaud at  this

point if you wish.


                          The List

                          Column 1

                          Item 4

     The next day, Saturday, we went shopping at the Mall.  Sounds

mundane, right?  Well...

     Around  ten in the morning,  he took off my collar and wrist

and  ankle straps,  and told me to put on my makeup and the  same

white  high-heeled sandals I had worn the first night  -- nothing

else.  I did as he asked,  not knowing what was coming.   Then he

held  my  fleece-lined  coat out for  me.   I  slipped  into  it.

Standing behind me with his arms around me,  he hugged the fleece

lining against my bare skin and said over my shoulder,  "Time  to

go shopping."

     "Like  this!?" I said,  hoping he was kidding.   He  wasn't.

Jeezus,  I  think.  He's taking me out in public like  this!   It

wasn't cold,  but I didn't know if I could handle it.  It sounded

tittilating and exciting on paper, on the List, but now...

     "Don't button the coat," he said.  We walked side by side to

the  car,  my coat flapping,  exposing my extreme  nakedness.   I

looked down at my body.  It was too much. I balked at the car;  I

knew  that if I got in,  I wouldn't be able to stop this.  I just

stood there undecided,  looking at him as though he would tell me

what to do to solve this problem.

     "Are you refusing to go?" he asked.

     "We agreed to no public humiliation," I said, "it's not fair

to keep my coat open."

     "If you do as I say there will be no public humiliation," he

said,  emphasizing the word 'public.'  "You have to trust me. Are

you  trying to bargain with me?" he said with that same look that

he had just before he put the gag in my mouth last Thursday.

     "No,"  I said hurriedly.   "It's just that I...I..."  I  got

into the car,  hoping it wasn't too late to avoid whatever he had

in mind.   I could see it was something. It wasn't worth breaking

the bargain over, though.  I got in. You have to trust.

     He told me to pull my coat up around my hips so my bare skin

was on the cold seat. I did, and tried to pull the coat around me

as best I could to keep the rest of me warm.   We really drove to

a  shopping  mall,  and he got out of the car,  came  around  and

opened my door and told me to get out.   I did,  holding my  coat

closed.   Then he told me I could button it,  thank God. I looked

around the immense parking lot -- only a sea of cars,  no  people

in  sight -- and said,  "I can't believe I'm really doing  this."

     Then we really did it.

     We went into the mall.   I felt all eyes were upon me,  that

everyone knew.  He put my arm through his and led me into a dress

shop.   We  wandered  around looking at  dresses  (he  looked,  I

pretended to look while I worried about people unmasking me -- as

though,  even if someone did somehow know, they would whip off my

coat and have me arrested).  A a shop assistant came up and asked

me if she could help.   Somehow I was expecting him to answer for

me,  but  he  didn't.  He just looked at something on one of  the

racks.   I  stammered "Just looking,  thanks," and as she  walked

away  I realized with an idiotic thrill that she  didn't  suspect

anything.  Of course she didn't. Idiot. J had found a dress in my

size.   It  was  a long-sleeved mohair-like  knit  turtleneck  in

white,  not really a mini,  but well above the knee.   He knew my

size.   He  handed  it  to  me and told me to  try  it  on.   The

assistant came up to us again and showed me to a changing room.

     "Can I take your coat for you?"

     Oh God.  "No, thankyou," I said, praying. Fervently.

     "Let me know if I can help you." ThankyouGodOThankyou....  I

swear,  if she had asked me why I wanted to keep my coat, I would

have said 'Oh, for sentimental reasons.'  I couldn't think of any

other reason.  Total blank. Idiot.

    In  the changing room I slipped the coat off,  the dress  on,

smoothed  it  down and looked at myself in the  mirror.   It  was

obvious to me that I wasn't wearing anything underneath it, but I

didn't  know if it would be to anyone else.   The dress was  (is)

very  form-fitting.  At least I couldn't see through it.   Or  at

least I thought I couldn't. My nipples aren't dark enough to show

through,  and,  of  course,  no dark pubic hair.   If my  nipples

didn't  become  erect -- which of course they did immediately  --

no-one would notice a thing. I look okay without a bra.  I mean I

don't  sag  much.  J says I sag just exactly  the  right  amount,

whatever that means;  I always thought ANY sag was too much,  but

he  insists that's not true.  Something about the way they slope,

or something,  he says.  Men.   I waited and tried to concentrate

on other things until my nipples stopped performing.

      I came out and modeled the dress for J,  expecting the shop

assistant to show up any moment with a security  guard:   "That's

the  one,  Officer."  When she did show up,  I was afraid to even

look at her in case my guilty expression gave me away.   I really

don't think she could tell, though.  At least she kept a straight

face while she told me how nice it looked, trying to make a sale.

Of  course,   my  nipples  betrayed  me  immediately,  erect  and

screaming,  "Here we are!  Look!  Over here! No underwear at all!

Call the police!" She probably would have had me arrested if  she

hadn't  been on commission.   She rang it up and took J's  credit


     "Would you like me to box it for you?"

     "Um,"  I  said wittily.  We Hoosiers are known for our wit.

     "Why don't you wear it," said J. Then to the shop assistant,

"Would  you  get the lady's coat,  please?"

     My  eyes  bugged  out,  and when she had  gone  I  whispered

fiercely,  "She'll  see  I wasn't wearing anything!"   He  smiled

benignly.   "There's  no  other dress in the changing  room!"   I

explained,  thinking  he  didn't understand and that he  was  the

stupidest  person on the planet.   He just smiled.   I wanted  to

hide.  I hit him. He smiled some more. Somehow, without resorting

to any logical thought process,   my mind had concluded that this

must be a crime like shoplifting,  except that instead of leaving

with three dresses on under your coat ....  Well, there has to be

some rule about leaving with the right number,  right?  Anyway, I

was about to be apprehended. "I'm sorry, madam but you must leave

the  store  with a minimum of TWO dresses.  It's  the  law.   You

should know that, you're from Indiana."

     As  she came back out with the coat and a worried  look,  he

took it smoothly and thanked her,  took my arm,  and strolled out

the door.  She was about to say something, but instead she looked

back  at  the changing rooms with a puzzled expression.  I  don't

think she figured it out.  As they say about the South, "It ain't

the  heat,  it's the stupidity."  I think this one  actually  WAS

stupid.  Maybe she was from Indiana. Also-not-rocket-scientist.

     We'd  done it!  My nipples sprang up again.   I asked for my

coat.  "Are you sure you want it," he says.

     Sure?  Of course I was sure.  I whispered,  "I'm still naked

under  here,  remember?"    Talk about stupid.  He looked  at  me

without  saying anything.   I thought over what I had just  said,

and  realized  it sounded ridiculous.   Everyone is  naked  under

their  clothing.  For some reason that sign you see on restaraunt

doors comes to mind: "No Bare Feet."

     I have an okay body,  and I have gone without a bra  before.

Wot the hell,  why not?   I took his arm, leaned against him, and

we strolled slowly out of the mall.  And I mean strolled. I could

feel the soft fabric shifting against my skin,  and the thrill of

what I had just done made me feel on top of the world.  Floating.

A  man walking with his wife watched me go by,  and I knew he was

admiring  my body,   not gaping at a naked person under a  dress.

Well, maybe he was at that. His wife watched me too.  When we had

started out for the mall,  I couldn't believe he was really doing

this.   Then  we  really did it.  Then I couldn't believe we  had

really done it.  I still can't. But we really really did it.

     At the car J said, "Do you want to have lunch somewhere?"

     I looked him straight in the eye and said, "If you like, but

what  I  really want is to go home and change  into  my  everyday

clothes."   He smiled,  knowing what I had to wear at  home,  and

unlocked the door.   He opened it for me, and I got in, this time

pulling my dress up around my waist without being told.  The last

half of the drive home is on a two lane rural road.  When we were

out of the city traffic,  I pulled the dress off over my head and

said "I don't want to get my only dress wrinkled,  do I?" I  rode

the rest of the way nude in the car beside him.  Pure devilment.

    And when we got out of the car at the house (which is  safely

isolated in the middle of the ten wooded acres) I left him at the

car  and  strode ahead to the house in nothing but my  shoes.   I

waited by the door for him to open it.  I was so full of myself.

     Idiot.  I'm thinking of changing my name to  Definitely-not-



                        The List

                        Column 1

                        Item 5

     I don't know what had come over me.   I had suddenly  become

daring,  deliberately doing outrageous things on my own,  without

being made to.  It felt great.   Dangerous,  but safe at the same

time.   I felt I could handle anything on the List and maybe even

a few things that weren't on it.

     When we were back in the house,  he mentioned that he,  too,

had  noticed a change in me.   I just smiled and went to  get  my

collar and cuffs.   I call them cuffs, but they aren't handcuffs,

just  brown,  polished cowhide with little holes to lock  on  the

buckles.  He has done some leatherwork as a hobby.  In fact, he's

quite a handyman:  he can do electronics, cabinetwork, carpentry,

plumbing,  bodywork (on cars, on cars) and stuff like that.   The

garage is a regular workshop,  full of tools.  He says he's  been

waiting years to have a workshop.  It must be nice to have a real

salary  after  so  many years of school.  Nurses don't  get  real

salaries. It only sounds real to high-schoolers.

     I digress.   After I had gotten the cuffs he told me he  had

something special in mind for after lunch.   We ate,  I naked, he

fully clothed, then left the dishes on the breakfast nook table.

     "Do  you  think  that by 'strutting  your  stuff'  you  have

somehow made up for questioning me and hesitating at the car door

this  morning?"   he said.   "Now put on your  cuffs,"  he  said,

striding  toward  the  living  room.   He  seems  to  enter  this

artificial  'master mode' when he's about to do something to  me.

Like  he's reading from a script or something.  I ran along  side

him, fumbling with the cuffs, playing along.

     "I  thought  you would be pleased," I said,  "I did  it  for


     "And  I  sensed a little more than the desire to  please  in

your  actions.   There was pride and a touch  of  rebelliousness.

You  were playing today's game to win." He really talks that  way

when we're ... well ... doing this kind of stuff.

     "No,  really!" I protested, unconvincingly.  He took my head

between  his  hands and held my face so I had to look him in  the

eyes.   He said nothing,  just looked skeptical.

     Okay,  so  taking off my dress unasked and then leaving  him

standing by the car was,  maybe,  more than was strictly required

of me. "Well ... maybe ..." I hedged, not really admitting it, my

eyes sliding away from his.

     "Besides,"  he said,  releasing me,  "you were fully dressed

the  whole  time,  and nudity in a car with tinted windows  on  a

country  road  or  in an isolated woods  isn't  really  all  that

daring.  You know what they say about a tree falling in the woods

when  there  is no-one there to hear it..." He was right.  I  was

only brave when I was safe.   But still, it felt ... exciting.

     I was hopping on one foot trying to buckle a cuff around  my

ankle  and  convince him at the same time.   It didn't  work;  he

ignored me.

     He told me to take out my contact lenses and lie down on the

dining  room table and wait for him.   The table is a  heavy  oak

refectory  table.   The top is three inches thick and made from a

single  piece of wood from the trunk of a large tree.   Long  and

narrow, it weighs a ton, and is a beautiful antique.  It was also

cold on my back. I laid myself out on it, legs together,  fingers

intertwined on my stomach, and waited, like in a doctor's office,

staring  at the ceiling.   He came back with a tool box from  the

garage,  and a soft nylon rope.  He tied my wrist cuffs  together

under the table with my elbows hooked over the edge. My legs hung

over  either side of the table and were similarly tied,  my  feet

pulled  nearly  together under the table by a rope tied  to  each


   It  was  a  very awkward and ungraceful  position  to  be  in.

Despite  my  newfound inner 'coolness' (read  cockyness),  I  was

becoming  very embarrased again.  By lifting my head and  looking

down  the  length of my body,  I could see my badly  out-of-focus

reflection in the mirror over the fireplace.   The table was wide

enough to hold my legs well apart,  and with my knees hooked over

the edges of the table,  I really couldn't get into a position to

pull them together -- which I really wanted to do:  even though I

am  nearly  legally blind without glasses,  I knew the  view  was

grossly,  GROSSLY embarrasing,  and I was grossly  embarrased.  I

have  felt  far  less  exposed  and vulnerable  in  front  of  my


     He was standing behind my head, so I had to watch him in the

mirror  or try to lift my shoulders and twist to the side to  see

what  he was doing.  Rattling noises.   Metallic scraping  and  a

hissing noise.  In the mirror, I could see well enough to tell he

was lighting a blowtorch!!   [After he read this,  he told me  to

correct  it to propane torch,  as if such details would have made

any difference to the way I felt.]

      "What  are  you  going to do to me!?"  I  cried,  my  voice

cracking,  suddenly on the edge of hysteria.  I wasn't absolutely

sure  if I should actually BE hysterical or not,  but I  was  not

going to pretend to be cooler than I felt.

     He looked at me impassively, a look I had seen before.  "You

haven't learned yet,  have you?  You're going to have to learn to

trust me," he said, and left the room.

     I DO trust him,  but Jesus,  a BLOWTORCH!  That's REAL scary

stuff.   I  was entitled to some kind of reassurance,  wasn't  I?

Some explanation?   Well, I had already had all the explanation I

was  going to get:  "You have to trust me."  I clung to the  fact

that  he  seemed  to care whether I  trusted  him,  since  in  my

position  he could have done whatever he wanted regardless.

     He came back with the gag and stood beside me at the head of

the table.  He put his hand on my chin, holding my lower jaw.

     "Open  up," as though he were about to give me a  tablespoon

of castor oil.

     "Please don't... I won't talk ..."  I was scared.

     "Open up."

     "But I..."

     Gently,  he put the gag against my lips and waited,  patient

but implacable.  What did it matter? No-one could hear me anyway.

I  couldn't  get  loose,  so I could either go  along  with  this

gagged,  or  could  just go along.   I looked into his  eyes  for

a  long  moment,  trying to find reassurance,  feeling  a  little

scared again.   Imagine Bambi caught in your headlights:   that's

how I felt. I stretched my mouth open, keeping my eyes on his. My

lips would have quivered if the gag hadn't been pressing agaiinst

them. In it went. He didn't even bother with the strap this time.

I couldn't get it out without a free hand.

     A small, heavy bag plopped onto the table next to my head. I

twisted and rolled my eyes to get a look at it, loose ends of the

gag  strap flopping.   He folded a wet towel  and laid it on   my

abdomen  (Josef Mengele/operations/scalpels/Charles  Manson/body-

parts-found-in-the-woods-by-hysterical-campers flashed through my

head.  I  have an unfortunate imagination.),  and out of the  bag

poured a small heap of gold-colored chain.  (I asked later: It is

only  gold-plated  steel;  otherwise  I would be  worth  a  small

fortune  right now.)  The chain was "Y" shaped,  the three pieces

joined  in the middle to a ring about an inch  in  diameter.   He

lifted my lower back up and passed the chain under me,  adjusting

the ring under the center of my back.

     I wasn't thinking very clearly or I would have been relieved

at the sight of chains.   It could have been plastic garbage bags

and a meat cleaver. Well, knowing J it couldn't have been, but my

imagination was in overdrive.

     He  pulled the ends of the chain together.  They  overlapped

and  he adjusted them until there was no slack at all,  fastening

them with an open link of the same chain. With some large pliers,

he bent the open link back into shape,  and went back to lighting

the  torch.   I  twisted  my head this  way  and  that,  watching

everything, bug-eyed.

     The noise was what startled me.  I had never been that close

to a blowtorch before,  and loud noises scare me.   It popped and

made a kind of hissing roar.   Actually, it wasn't that loud, but

the  fact  that that roar was being made by a very hot flame  was

not  a reassuring thought,  believe me.  You can imagine  what  I

thought.  Oh,  he  doesn't need a meat cleaver,  he's got a  blow

torch.   I'm  such an idiot.  I can say that now....  Then I  was

hanging by a thread from the fact that he cared whether I trusted

him  even  though  I was totally helpless and he didn't  need  to

pretend  to  care.   Somehow,  that meant he wouldn't  betray  my


     He propped the torch up in his tool box and put a couple  of

blocks  of  wood between the chain and my  abdomen,  lifting  the

chain  away from me over the towel.   He brushed some gooey stuff

on the open link.   Up to this point, I was watching every detail

with  a  great  deal of  interest.   Believe  me,  I  was  paying

attention.   But when he bent over me with the torch,  I couldn't

make  myself look,  I was so afraid I would get burned.   I  just

sucked in my stomach and prayed.  I was also relieved that it was

the chain and not me.

    It  must  have  taken less than a minute for him  to  finish.

Suddenly the noise from the torch stopped.  For a moment the only

noise  was  my  own rapid breathing hissing noisily  in  and  out

through my nostrils.  But I couldn't even feel any warmth, not to

mention heat.   I looked down;  J was fanning away an acrid smoke

with a magazine.  He took a corner of the wet towel and dabbed at

the link.   Pssssst.  More swipes with the towel and the  hissing


     Soon he was able to gingerly touch,  and then hold the link.

I  was getting tired holding my head up to watch,  but I couldn't

control my horrified facination.   I tried to follow him with  my

eyes  as  he put away the blowtorch and came back into view  with

some enormous plier-like things.  He clipped away the spare links

of  the chain as easily as if he were pruning a plant.   I had  a

seamless belt with no buckle.


                         The List

                         Column 1

                         Item 6

     "Lift your backside," he said. I did.

     He  reached between my legs and pulled the third  length  of

chain  down from in back.   As he pulled on it,  I could feel  it

tugging against the belt at the center of the back.

     Again he left the room.   He came back with something in his

hand,  but  again  he was standing behind my head and I  couldn't

see what it was.

     Still  hiding  the object below the edge of  the  table,  he

walked  to the side of the table and stood there.   Straining  to

lift  my shoulders,  I could see him doing something  between  my

legs.   He was inserting something into my vagina!   Straining, I

glimpsed  white  plastic.   I  could feel it was  lubricated  and

smooth,  but he was definitely inserting something!   I tried  to

resist  by  clenching my muscles and squirming,  but it  was  too

slippery and my legs were too far apart and he was too insistent.

It was past my portals.  I made noises behind the gag. I couldn't

stop it from going in.  He continued, sliding it deeper, until it

was as far in as it would go.  It wasn't impossibly big, probably

smaller  than  he is,  but it was so hard and unyielding it  felt

like an enormous intrusion.

     He moved it out again,  a little, and back in.  And out.  Of

course,  it was a dildo. Something that my midwestern little mind

has  had some trouble adjusting to.   I had,  of course heard  of

them,  but  believe it or not I had never actually seen one until

that  Saturday.   Where  would I have seen one in my  home  town?

People drive to the next town to buy condoms.  People in the next

town  drive to ours for them,  too.   That's not a joke,  by  the

way.  It's an invitation to think about where I'm coming from.

        He  pushed it back in,  watching my face.   He could  see

that  I  wasn't  reacting  sexually.    I  wasn't.   It  was  too

artificial, too perverted for my midwestern mind.  Sorry, if that

isn't the sex-vixen reaction you had in mind,  but that's the way

it was.   He did something with the chain,  and locked the end of

it  to my waist with another miniature lock,  this one small  and

gold-colored.  But functional.  Where does he get this stuff?

     He went back to my  head,  lifted it gently,  and locked the

gag  in place.  As soon as he let go of the device,  I  squirmed,

trying to expell it.   No dice. Then he untied my legs.  I lifted

them  onto the table and gingerly brought them together.   I  had

more freedom of movement, but still couldn't get rid of it.  Then

he  freed  my  arms.   Instantly my hands were between  my  legs,

pulling. Again, no dice.  I went to jump down from the table, but

quickly realized I had to be very careful of how I moved.  It was

awful.   My  only thought was:  What has he done to  me?   But  I

already knew, really.  Gingerly,  I got down from the table,  and

with trembling fingers felt myself to see if there was anything I

could do to get it out.  The chain went through a ring in the end

of  the  ...  device.   Sorry,  but the word  'dildo'  sounds  so

perverted to me. Nazis in dirty socks and all that.

    Experimentally,  I took a step. I could walk, but not quickly

or  gracefully.  I  crept gingerly to the bedroom to get a  close

look  in the mirror.   Again the grotesque  face,  the  stretched

lips,  mascara  running.   I didn't know which end to worry about

most.   The thing was a g-string made of chain.  I turned my back

and  looked over my shoulder.   The waist band joined a  seamless

ring in the center of my lower back.  The crotch piece was joined

to the same ring.  The chain was tight in my rear cleft:  I could

feel it against my ...  orifice.  [He's really strict about this.

Asshole and anus are right out.   He makes me change this kind of

stuff every time].

     By  pulling down on the waistband,  I could loosen the chain

enough  to  push it aside for ...  bodily functions ...  but  not

nearly  enough to get the device out.   Pissing could  be  messy.

The chain itself is unassailable without the right tools.  And of

course ... they're locked in the garage ... do I have to explain?

     My  jaw was beginning to ache again,  so I went out to  look

for  J.   He was coming in the side door after putting  away  the

tools and said,  as though everything was completely normal, "Put

on your shoes and clear away the lunch dishes."

     Was he kidding?  Wash the dishes?  In the state I was in?  I

stared after him,  and started crying again,  which,  again, only

made  my jaw hurt more.  But I did as he said:  put on my  heels,

tottered  unsteadily into the kitchen,  and stood there over  the

sink,  sniffing,  with mascara running down my cheeks and  saliva

leaking  down my chin again.   There wasn't any way to argue.   I

finished  the dishes -- there weren't many anyway -- and  wobbled

back out to the living room.   He was standing,  looking out  the

picture window.  He turned to face me.

     I  stood there in front of him,  eyes down,  every inch  the

obedient slave, doing my very best to play the part as he wanted.

     "Are you beginning to understand?" he said.

     "Aahh,"   I  nodded  enthusiastically,   not  beginning   to


     "We'll  see," he said,  glancing at his watch.    He  turned

back to the window.

     I  went  to  put  on my collar,  thinking  that  might  help

convince him.  Of course it didn't.  I had to wait.  I just stood

there,  trying to focus my mind on not letting my jaw hurt.   The

other device in me wasn't really a bother if I didn't move around

much. I hadn't had to piss yet.  He went to the armchair and sat.

I  just  stood where I was in front of the  window,  legs  apart,

looking down at the floor, waiting.

     Despite  my best efforts,  the gag still got to me.   It  is

the  worst.   I  gave up trying to stop the saliva  from  leaking

around it,  and let it drip on me and the floor.  It's so hard to

swallow with that thing in;  I feel like I'll sprain something. I

controlled  myself  for  as long as I could,  but finally  a  sob

escaped me.   Well, it started as a sob, but came out as a squeak

and a sniff. I looked at him, imploring with my eyes. Gingerly, I

walked  over again and carefully knelt at his feet,  holding  the

sides of my jaw between my hands, and not just for effect.  Again

he stroked my hair.  Tenderly.

     "Turn around," he said.   Painfully,  still on my  knees,  I

did.   I felt him take the lock out.  My hands went to the buckle

at the back of my head and hesitated.  He didn't say anything.  I

put them back at my sides, making fists to help control the pain.

After  waiting a moment,  just long enough to acknowledge that  I

had  learned  another lesson,  he said,  "Take it  out."  I  did.


     "Stand up," he said.

     I  wobbled unsteadily to my feet,  my back still to  him.  I

thought  he was going to take out the other,  but he didn't  even

tell me to turn around.   Instead,  he went into the bedroom.   I

followed  silently,  not knowing what else to do.   I passed  the

full-length  mirror in the bedroom and stopped.   I was a  sight.

Mascara  and eyeliner mixed with saliva were smeared all over  my

face from my eyes to my chin,  even drops on my chest and thighs.

My lipstick was smeared;  on my stomach was a smear of that gooey

brown  stuff he used while putting the chain on,  and my hair was

an explosion of straw, partly matted with more miscellaneous goo.

I  stood with my legs apart in a most  unladylike  position.   My

hand strayed to the chain;  I gave it a desultory tug.  Hopeless.

My shoulders sagged.  As I say, a mess. And that thing in me.  In

the mirror,  over my own shoulder,  I caught sight of him looking

at me.  He had his shirt off.   With both hands, I covered my ...

self ... and the thing.

     "The  chain  is silver-soldered around your waist.  It's  as

strong  as a weld.   It won't come off."  As if I might think  it

would.  My hand dropped to my side again.  "Come and undress me,"

he said.


                         The List

                         Column 1

                         Item 7

     This  was something new.   Remember,  I hadn't even seen him

naked yet.   I hobbled over to him,  still holding both hands  in

front of myself (don't ask me why,  after what he had just seen).

He  had  a small gold key on a chain around his neck.   I  knelt,

undid  his  belt,  and unzipped his pants.  He  stroked  my  hair

gently, then left me kneeling there  and sat on the bed.  I knee-

walked to him and went to work on his his shoes while he lay back

on the bed.  When I was through, I sat back carefully on my heels

with my hands covering my lap. Without rising, he said "Start the


     Despite the age of the house, his bathroom is a large modern

one, I think added to the house recently.  It is much larger than

the  other (my) bathroom.  There are two windows and a third  one

inside  the walk-in shower.  The shower is huge,  tiled,  with  a

glass door.   The walls of the bathroom are tiled part way up and

stucco  the  rest;   there is an old cast-iron  clawfoot  tub,  a

modern  john and sink,  and a small table and chair.  I  ran  the

water  until it was warm,  and told him it was ready.   He walked

in, past me.  I waited. He said, "Take off your shoes and come in

here."  I did,  still covering my front.   Gently,  he washed  my

face,  chest,  and  stomach.   I didn't think anything would ever

make  me forgive him for putting that thing inside me,  no matter

how  gentle he was afterward.  Mostly I was befuddled,  but there

was a residual core of resentment.

     I kept myself covered until he gave me shampoo and I had  to

use  my  hands to wash my hair.   With the glass door  shut,  the

shower enclosure became like a steam bath:  it was almost hard to

breathe.   He  told  me to wash him,  but really we  washed  each

other.  Then  we put on the same all-purpose unscented  hair/body

conditioner I had used before.  You're going to think I own stock

in the company.   It's great stuff, though.  We kissed  under the

shower with the water,  soap, and conditioner running between us,

and  I  could feel him hard against me.  I began to  melt  a  bit

myself,  but that THING was still uppermost in my mind.  I wasn't

going to forgive him.  My eyes stayed on the key around his neck.

I wanted it out of me.

     He  edged  me away from the showerhead and  began  spreading

conditioner over the front of my body.  All over, even around the

device in me.   Having him feel me there when I was like that was

degrading.  Embarrasing.   And exciting.  My heart began to race,

partly  from the excitement,  partly from the stifling  steam.  I

felt  almost  faint.   He turned me around and I leaned  with  my

hands  against the tile wall with my legs spread as though I  was

being  searched by a policeman.  He covered my back and legs with

the conditioner. Then he went to work on me from both sides, like

he  had  before  with the talcum powder.  His  left  hand  on  my

hairless  and  still- violated front,  the other exploring  every

millimeter  of  my rear,  slipping under the  chain,  closer  and

closer,  teasing.  Every  time he pulled the chain or  moved  the

device,  I  felt a delicious shock that drove the breath from me,

and  I made a little "hunnh!" noise.   His right  hand  slithered

under  the  chain at my rear,  pulling against  the  device.   As

before,  I wanted him to penetrate me there.  Anywhere. I grasped

at his finger with my buttocks.

     He  pulled  me  upright  away from  the  wall  and  held  my

trembling body against his, his erection pressing against my rear

cleft. Over my shoulder, into my ear he said, "Do you like that?"

     "Mmmmmm." I said, not wanting to admit it, unable to say no.

     He  returned  me to my stance against the  wall.   While  he

slowly  manipulated the device with his left hand,  a finger from

his right caressed my my rear,  on the very edge of  penetration.

He asked again.

     "Oooooh,"  I  said,  squirming against his hand,  hoping  he

would get the message.  That in itself is a very risque thing for

a midwesterner to do.

     "Say  it,"  he said,  "tell me what you  want,"  penetrating

perhaps a half inch and continuing to manipulate me.

     "Can't you tell?"  I whined.

     "Say it," he repeated, withdrawing the half inch again.

     "Yes,"  I  whispered,  hanging  my  head  between  my  arms.

Looking  down,  I  could see his left hand caressing  between  my

legs, feel his right poised to enter my rear.

     "Louder," he said,  "Tell me what you want.   You'll have to

tell  me." He continued to tease,  stroke,  and  manipulate.   My

knees were near buckling.

     "I want you inside me," I cried. "I want you to fill me up."

My  voice  broke.   With  all  the  water,   steam,   sweat,  and

conditioner,  he couldn't see that I was crying.   I'm not sure I

actually was,  but I wanted to.   Or at least I was trying to.  I

felt like I should be.

     "Where?" he said, insistent.

     "Anywhere," I sobbed.  "Anywhere you want.  Please!"

     "Cover  me with the conditioner." Hands shaking,  I did.   I

covered his chest.   The key was gone.   In his hand?  When I got

to  his legs,  I got on my knees and caressed his  erect  member,

underneath,  even  in back where he had just (almost)  penetrated

me.  I'd  never done that before.  I covered him  everywhere.  He

guided my mouth to him. The conditioner tasted awful. I rinsed it

off  and  tried to take all of him in;  I began sliding back  and

forth.   I  had never done this for anyone else.  I never  really

wanted to do it even for J, although I did.  But I always thought

it was so ... well ... unhygenic.

     Somehow the cleanliness of the shower made it all right this

time.  I continued to caress him with one hand, but my other hand

slipped  down  to the device in me.   I began  to  masturbate  in

someone  else's presence for the first time in my life,  although

the  device in me was a bit of a hindrance.  I guess it's a  male

myth that penetration is somehow essential to the female  orgasm.

It's  not.  But  it's kind of nice to be penetrated while  having

one.  Anyway, he was too engrossed to notice what I was doing.  I

think  the  first  time  he knows will be  when  he  reads  this.

Unknowingly,  he stopped me before I brought myself to orgasm  by

telling me to get up.

     He turned down the water to a gentle fine spray,  as hot  as

was comfortable, and the steam abated enough for us both to catch

our breath.   He unlocked the chain at my waist,  and keeping the

tension on the free end with one hand, slowly pulled on the chain

from  the rear with the other hand until it was free of the  ring

on  the  device,  link  by jarring  link,  rubbing  against  both

openings  at  once.  It pinched me a few  times,  enough  that  I

gasped, but he was watching my face so closely and pulling on the

chain  so  slowly and carefully that he controlled  every  pinch,

every  nuance  of sensation I felt.   Every time it  pinched,  he

slowed and let the pain become almost-pleasure.

    By  the  time  the  chain was  out,  I  was  panting,  nearly

hyperventilating. He let the chain dangle from the waistband, but

held the device in me with his hand.  Slowly, he inched it out.

     "Hurry,"  I whined.   "Please!"  I wanted to reach down  and

take it out myself.

     But  he  continued  to  manipulate and  stroke  both  of  my

openings.   His other hand, lubricated by the conditioner, worked

at my rear,  penetrating slightly,  loosening, penetrating again,

more  each time,  while the device continued its work  in  front.

Finally  he took the device out altogether and went to work  with

his hand.   I was about to have an orgasm, and could not continue

to  stand.   I sagged a little;  he supported me by holding  both

sides  of  my  slippery and hairless crotch cradled  between  his

hands as I slid to my knees.

     Still leaning with my arms up against the wall,  I was on my

knees,  and his fingers resumed their work.   At last, one of his

fingers penetrated my rear fully.   I contracted against it,  but

it was insistent,  continuing to probe and stimulate.  I couldn't

stand  it any more,  and began contracting both openings  against

his  fingers.   I  couldn't come.   I got more and more  frantic,

squirming.  I was so close.  His rear finger left me. Then it was

back, but it wasn't his finger.

       It was warm;  I thought it was his erect member at  first,

and I tried to relax for him.   But it wasn't.   He was inserting

the  device,  still warm from my body heat,  into me,  this  time

searching gently for my rear opening,  and God help me, I relaxed

and  spread wider to help him even though I knew what it was.   I

am admitting this now,  but then I pretended -- half believed  --

that at first I thought it was he that was entering me instead of

that ...  thing.  Once it was started in, though, I rebelled.  It

was stretching me too much.  I tried to avoid it, tried expelling

it, anything to just get rid of it.  But I couldn't.  He held the

chain  around my waist as I tried to crawl away,  and  forced  me

face  down  onto  the shower floor.   I slithered forward  on  my

stomach,  trying  to squirm away,  but I came to the end  of  the

shower;  with  my  face turned to the  side and my cheek  pressed

against the tile, I could go no further.

      Slowly, gently, inexorably, he continued.

      It felt huge.  I don't know if you've ever had this done to

you,  but the first time was a bit of a shock for me.   I knew by

the way it had felt in my vagina that it was smaller than he was,

but it was so unyielding,  so hard. It stretched me terribly, and

it  felt so much bigger than it had before in my  other  opening.

The  conditioner continued to lubricate it,  but I had never done

anything  even  remotely  like this.

     It  was  forcing  me  open,

violating me, filling me even after I felt full. This was pushing

me  close to the edge.  I begged him to stop.  I don't know if he

would  have if I had been more sincere.   I felt pretty  sincere.

There was still a small part of me that was curious and  excited,

but it was a very small part.

    I  told him I would do anything if he would just please  take

it out,  but  eventually,  rather than continuing to fight it,  I

found it hurt less -- or felt better,  I'm not sure which -- if I

relaxed  and  helped  him.   Still  it  continued.  Suddenly,  by

relaxing,  the  feeling became one of simply being penetrated and

filled up.   I found I was able to accept it,  and,  I  realized,

able to almost get into the sensation -- if not exactly enjoy it.

He  was  so  gentle that it got  better,  though.   Much  better.

Ultimately,  I  was  rubbing my front against the  shower  floor,

trying desperately to climax.

     "Up  on your knees," he said.   I could barely do even that,

but once I did, the device continued its penetration until it was

complete.   My  hand  went  to  my  crotch  briefly,  perhaps  to

masturbate again, perhaps to feel what he had done to me, I'm not

sure which.  A little of both. He told me to keep my hands on the

floor. I felt him slip the chain through the ring in the end.

     "Straddle  me,"  he said,  lying on his back on  the  shower

floor  and  sliding  under me.   He held the  end  of  the  chain

underneath,  holding the device fully in me while I lifted my leg

over  his  hips  and sat astride him,  but without  his  erection

inside me.   Once again, slowly, he pulled the chain out, letting

the entire length of it slide between my swollen lips,  each link

tapping the ring in the device. At the same time, he was stroking

me in front, masturbating me. I was wild. When the chain was once

again  out,  I  could wait no longer,  and I slid  down  on  him,

enveloping  him,  thrusting  him  deeply into me  in  one  smooth


     I   laid  prone  on  top  of  him,   plunging  him  into  me

frantically,  grinding against him.  He was letting me do all the

work.   The  water from the shower head was falling on us from my

shoulders to my knees, and the end of my chain dangled between my

legs and rattled on the tiles.  He grasped the ring on the end of

the  protruding device,  and began to pump it gently in time with

my own movements.   He gradually picked up the  tempo,  thrusting

with his own hips.  I'm normally not very noisy, but my pants and

whimpers echoed in the shower,  and at first I was tempted to ham

it up a bit,  but by the time I approached my first orgasm, which

was  almost as soon as he started moving his hips,  I was  crying

out  genuinely.   The  tiles  in the shower made  my  cries  seem


     My second orgasm came almost immediately, a long, shuddering

continuation  of the first.   Being penetrated twice that way  is

indescribable.  When he had his orgasm, and I my third, I think I

had  one  in  each  opening.   Is it possible to  have  a  triple

simultaneous orgasm?  Sounds like one of those moves that  figure

skaters or olympic divers do. Well, I don't know what the doctors

say,  but  I  think we got all 10's,  even from the  East  German


      After  my  third  orgasm,  I laid there,  unable  to  move,

panting,  the  sound of hissing water in my ears.   He  began  to

remove  the  device.   Immediately  I gasped and reacted  with  a

fourth convulsive orgasm,  beyond my ability to control.  It kept

on  as  he continued to slide it out.   He was torturing  me.  He

would pull a little and twitch his hips a little,  and I couldn't

help  myself;  I just kept spasming and convulsing every time  he

moved.  I was utterly exhausted, unable even to flex my thighs as

I normally do during an orgasm.  Weakly, I tied to say "No more,"

but  I  was  too weak to even get that out in  the  face  of  the

continuing spasms. It just came out "Nhh."

     Finally,  thankfully, I felt the last of the thing slide out

of me.   I felt myself contract again  to normal size,  and,  too

weak even to twitch in response to this final stimulation, I came

to the end of the last orgasm.

     When I had recovered enough to stand being moved,  he helped

me to roll onto my side where, once more, he washed me. He turned

off the water and knelt by my side.  I was flat on my back as the

last  of the water gurgled down the drain beside me.   The shower

was  silent except for dripping water.   I swear I couldn't move.

I  lay like a puddle of pink pudding while he spread  still  more

conditioner  on my flushed skin.   Again he covered  me,  missing

nothing,  not the tiniest crevice, hairline to toes.  Finally, he

helped me into a sitting position.   The steam cleared a bit when

he  opened  the shower door;  cold air replaced the warm,  but  I

still  couldn't move.  I sat,  eyes shut,  head back and  leaning

against  the  shower  wall,  unable to  stand.   Hands  under  my

armpits,  he  lifted me to my feet.   I couldn't support  myself.

Well,  I probably could have, but I was really wobbly. He propped

me against the shower wall; my chain had slipped to the side, and

the  underneath part dangled on my hip.  Letting me collapse into

his arms,  he carried me into the bedroom and sat me on the  edge

of the bed.  I immediately flopped to my back.

     As I lay there on the bed, he dried me -- not with  a towel,

but with a hair dryer.   I remember vaguely thinking it odd,  but

said  nothing.   As  he  worked over me the noise of  hair  dryer

droned,  cutting off all other sound, and I drifted off to sleep.

The  last  thing I remember was being  gently  rolled  over,  and

feeling his fingers in my hair as he began drying it.

     When I awoke it was dark.  I really just drifted back awake:

I  can't sleep very deeply when I nap in the afternoon.   He  had

covered  me  with  a comforter,  and I was nude  under  the  soft

cotton.  My  skin  was unbelievably soft:  I felt like satin  all

over.  Drying  me with the hair dryer had left me coated  in  the

softening conditioner.  I can't describe the luxurious feeling of

awakening this way, completely squeaky clean all over, warm, dry,

satiny sleek-smooth, muscles a little sore, as though I had had a

good workout at the spa ... heaven.

      I  spent  more time than I needed  to  wake  up,  pampering

myself just soaking in the soft luxury of the bed and remembering

the  preceeding hours.  I began to feel a tingle of excitement as

my mind wandered sleepily over what he had done to  me.   No.   I

couldn't  again,   I  thought.    Not  tonight  anyway.  No  way.

Absolutely, positively ... probably ... not.

       I got up gradually, first stretching, then sitting on  the

edge  of the bed and focusing my thoughts.  I could hear  kitchen

noises.   He was fixing something to eat.

     He  had  reduced me to a mindless puddle  of  overstimulated

protoplasm,  degraded  me, embarrassed me, and made  me  admit  I

wanted  it.  And then he did an equally expert job of putting  me

back  together again afterwards.  The only thing he makes  better

than the wound is the bandage.

      I  got up and looked in the mirror.  I looked pretty  good.

A little pale,  maybe.  I looked (and felt) like one of Dracula's

victims:  pale,  weak,  used, kind of ethereal, but I didn't look

tired.   And  my  hair was a huge frizzy cloud  around  my  head;

drying  it  without  brushing  and  conditioning  it  creates  an

unmanageable  near-afro.  Still,  I looked great.   Even  without

makeup.   He  had relocked my chain,  this time without  anything

inside me.  That looked great too.

      My  form-fitting  white cotton outfit was laid out  on  the

bed.  I put it on over my chain, put on some sandals, and checked

myself in the mirror again.   I strolled,  almost dreamily, to my

bedroom to get my thin gold necklace,  and the feel of the clean,

soft  cotton against my satiny skin was distractingly  luxurious.

Seriously -- this body conditioner is great stuff if it is  over-

used properly.



                      A Note From the Future:

     Through the miracle of word processing,  you are now looking

forward in time to the end of this account;  it has been a month,

although it seems like a lifetime.   After reading this  over,  I

can  see  now  that  this was a  turning  point.   I  unknowingly

(maybe not so unknowingly) decided,  in the moments you have just

read about,  that I wanted ...well...  more.  We continued,  from

time  to  time,  to have sex in ways that I used to  describe  as

"normal".   But I do know now that those times of normal sex were

unsatisfying for me.   I had had two years of normal sex with him

before we left Chicago.  I thought I enjoyed it.  I did. I'm sure

I did.   He was a sensitive and thoughtful lover, and a wonderful

day-to-day companion.  Really, I had several orgasms almost every

time  we  made  love.  Not a record to sneer at  if  the  women's

magazines are to be believed.

     But  if I were to relive those days now,  it would  be  like

a diet of rice pudding  after acquiring a taste for raw steak.  J

had started me on a path that I now know is one-way,  although at

the  time  I  was  sure  I could -- would  --stop  and  go  back.

Gradually, and in carefully choreographed steps, he forced (led?)

me  to first acknowledge that  I was facinated and titilated like

a dirty-minded schoolgirl by the things he was doing to  me,  and

later to like it so that I had to justify myself by pretending it

was  just sophisticated sex.  But I ended up way beyond all that.

I acknowledge a need akin to addiction.  I fought it, to be sure,

but  I fought because resisting is participation in  the  process

rather  than an attempt to end it.   A few days ago I was willing

to  give  him my absolute and utter voluntary acceptance  of  his

control over me.  At least until further notice.

     That weekend a month ago was just the first tottering  steps

of a babe in the woods.  A babe with a long way to go.

     The word 'slave' sounds so theatrical and phony,   and  most

of the literature I have since read about B/D,  S/M etc., make it

sound so lurid and juvenile and,  well ...  pornographic,  and as

much  as  I  don't  want  to be  identified  with  that  kind  of

lifestyle,  I  have  to  tell you:   If I wasn't a slave  in  the

literal sense of the word (that is,  a servant, which I'm not), I

was at least a voluntary,  self-confessed,  incurable Addict.   I

want(ed) to dive in headfirst,  forget caution,  and be owned.  I

wanted  to  know what it would be like to give everything up  for

it. Isn't there a kind of freedom in giving everything up?

    And  yet  there  was  a worm slumbering at  the  root  of  my

addiction,  and  as  that addiction metamorphosed into a  way  of

life,  the  worm  began to waken,  and a duality developed in  my

personality.   I reacted to the events you have just been reading

(and  others  like them) in two  mutually  inconsistent  ways:  I

wanted  revenge,  and I wanted to submit.   I wanted more of  the

degrading treatment I had been getting;  I resented the fact that

it  wouldn't continue since J has -- and does -- steadfastly hold

to the one month time limit.  Since the List was a contract  that

entitled  me to eventual repayment in kind,  the more I got,  the

sweeter I thought my revenge would be. But I wanted the treatment

I was getting, too.  I actually ended up begging for more, and at

the last,  revenge was not necessarily uppermost in my  mind.  It

might never have been if J hadn't stopped Column One himself.   I

would have exceeded the List, and gone on exceeding it as long as

J did.   Ultimately I wanted to go further than he did.   I think

he found it unsettling, as if he had created a monster.

     And  he had.   I had told myself that my motive for  revenge

was repayment for what he had done to me.   I was kidding myself.

It ended up with me,  like a spoiled child, wanting to punish him

for  stopping,  in  effect,  for holding to the  contract.  If  I

actually  go  through with it (Column Two) I will punish  him  as

much for having stopped as for what he actually did to me  before

stopping Column One.

      As I write these words I have arrived at the moment when  I

must  decide whether to go on or not;  I've come back to read the

earlier  parts of this account to help me decide (also because it

turns me on to read over it),  but I'm taking the opportunity  to

fill  you  in a bit so you will understand some of what  follows,

insofar as I can understand it myself. Most of the justification,

excuses,  and  explanation you will read will be a load of  bull:

the  shallow  self justification of a silly prude  from  southern

Indiana with less understanding of her own motivations than a dog

in heat.  You ASB regulars (yes, I am a reader of ASB now, in tht

"future") will recognize the self deception. You've probably been

there before).  Oh,  the facts are accurate enough;  what you are

reading   is  not  fiction:   it  happened  as  it  is   written.

Embellished dramatically, to be sure, and the dialogue may not be

verbatim,   but  it  is  basically  true,  nonetheless.  But  the

psychological interpretations are, for the most part, nothing but

the  pathetic self-deception of a schoolgirl mentality that  felt

it far safer to keep a firm anchor in adolescent nonsense than to

put  out  on the troubled seas of growth  and  introspection.  As

though  I  was  entitled to stop growing when  I  graduated  from


     But then,  I have an advantage: I am a different person now,

looking  back from the end of this little tale,  so I know how it

comes  out,  or at least how Column One ends.  This duality  that

developed in me means there are two bottom lines:  They may  seem

inconsistent,  but believe:  I was, and am, his.  He possesses me

completely.   BUT. Since he insists on ending his turn, I want my

turn.  I'm  tempted.  I'm sure I would be good at 'topping' in  a

technical sense.  Maybe better than J.

     After all,  I'm a registered nurse.

     It's  quite  a dilemma:  I don't want to  change  either  my

status or his.   Switching roles might destroy my image of him as

the  dominant one -- I'm not sure I want to do that.   But I have

the option because of our agreement over the List.

     Anyway,  this  moment  in the narrative was the  fulcrum  on

which all subsequent events turned,  and the crossroads that  led

to  my present indecision.   After that point,  as near as I  can

estimate,  I didn't want to go back, I didn't want to undo my new

psyche.  Another cliche, but I guess I discovered myself.  I hate

it  when I can be reduced to a formula and the formula turns  out

to be a cliche.

          ---------- End of Note from the Future ------------

                          The List

                          Column 1

                          Item 8

     The next day,  Sunday, we went to the excersise spa.  He had

brought  my old leo's from my bags,  with my shorts to wear  over

them  to  hide  my chain which would otherwise have  made  lumps.

There's not much to relate,  and besides,  I don't have a lot  of

time since I have to get ready for San Francisco.   J is going to

let me go shopping on my own tomorrow, and the next day we leave.

Today,  I  have  to  depilate again.

     So,  a  short note on the spa.  I went as  his  guest.   The

exercise  machines  are arranged in two parallel rows.   We  went

down the two rows side by side, each of us doing our own weights,

and he absolutely wore me out.  I was sweating by the time I  got

to the end of my row, and he made me start the stair machine with

him.   When I thought I was all through,  we did another round on

the  weight  machines.   By then,  I was absolutely  drenched  in

sweat,  my hair sticking to my head,  my leos to my body.  He had

completely exhausted me on purpose.

     I need to get into a regular exercise routine.

     We drove home and showered together, but this time no hanky-

panky  -- well,  a  little  hanky  maybe.   I  wore  one  of  his

sleeveless  tank-top  t-shirts;  it  was  more  comfortable  than

anything of mine.   He wanted to talk,  and he wanted me relaxed.

After  lunch,  tired out and with a meal and two glasses of  wine

inside me,  I tend to get sleepy.   He sat me down on the sofa (I

have  to  sit gingerly these days,  settling around my  chain  to

avoid it pressing on my coccyx.   This is especially a problem on

the exercise machines.  The exercycle is out of the question.

     "I want you to understand something clearly," he  said.   "I

am  going to continue as I have been.   At the end of the month I

will  possess you like a piece of property.   Everything I do  to

you  is directed toward that goal.  I'm not going to ask  you  to

like  what I do,  but I'm asking -- correction -- ordering you to

tell  me:  do you want to be posessed in this way?   You  haven't

said so yet."

     I  didn't  know how to respond.  On one  level,  this  whole

routine  sounded like I had always imagined a grade z porn  movie

to  sound.   He sounded like he was reading from a script  again.

But the reality was so ...  Well, the reality was what went on in

my  mind  and that wasn't grade z.   Even _I_ have to admit  that

last  bit  of dialogue is grade z,  but that's what  he  actually

said,  more  or  less,  so that's what I wrote.  I wonder  if  he

rehearsed it.

      I  adopted an equally formal and artificial  conversational

tone.  I told him I liked the idea of belonging to  him,  that  I

wanted  that but the things he had done were too much for me.   I

needed  time to get used to this.   It was all  too  new.  Anyone

listening would have thought we were bad actors.

     "You understand that won't change what I do," he said.

     "What  are  you  going  to do  to  me?"  I  asked,  suddenly

suspicious. I had the feeling he was planning something.

     "You already know: I'm going to make you mine."

     "I mean what things are you going to do to me? Specifically."

     "You have the List. Beyond that you're going to have to live

with not knowing."


     That   first week had been a very intense week  for  me.   I

think  that  if I had encountered new sexual experiences at  that

rate for much longer,  I would have been unable to continue.  But

things slowed down during the next week,  and J didn't  introduce

anything new into my life,  just variations on the same themes he

had  already established.

      Once he tied me gagged and immobile in a wooden armchair so

I  could do nothing but turn my head;  he teased me  unmercifully

with  feathers  and fingers until I was exhausted.  At  the  end,

behind the gag,  he couldn't tell if I was laughing or crying.  I

couldn't either.

     And  once  he  had me hanging by my spread  ankles  with  my

wrists  tied by ropes to the same overhead rings so I was doubled

up and looking down at my own crotch (I'm pretty flexible -- yoga

and  all that)  My bottom was just resting on the bed  enough  to

take my weight off my arms and I had to watch helplessly while he

put ...things... in me. You know what things. I had no choice but

to watch.

     I'm  getting used to this more cosmopolitan and  liberalized

attitude  toward  sex.   It IS sex,  I think,  even when he  just

watches me walk around the house in my chain and nothing else.  I

know  it  doesn't  sound like it,  but I get  turned  on  by  the

restraints and control.

     One  new thing happened,  though.   He said he was  "totally

charmed" by my inept attempt to strip seductively, and asked if I

would,  to please him,   learn "the moves."  I said yes,  and  on

Monday evening, he came home with four video tapes: three x-rated

ones  that had professional strippers doing their thing,  and one

"how  to"  tape  with lessons on exotic  dancing.   I  have  been

practicing.   Not  the tassle-twirling kind of stuff that  people

with  names  like  "Boom-Boom" and "Treasure  Chest"  (Bang  Bang

LaDesh,  Marsha  Dimes,  Irma  the Body) do,  but more  seductive

stuff.   I  feel  silly  at home alone,  writhing  on  the  sofa,

grinding my hips, wiggling my chest and peeling my clothse off an

inch at a time,  but right now,  I would feel still sillier if he

were watching.   Soon,  maybe I'll be able to do it for him.  The

belly dancing is more challenging and fun to learn.   It takes  a

lot more coordination than I would have thought.

     That Sunday night,  though,  I was spread-eagled on the bed,

blindfolded and gagged -- not with that awful ball-shaped gag, he

just  uses  that for punishment -- while he teased me with  half-

melted  ice cubes.   While he was driving me crazy this  way,  he

whispered in my ear that the time would come,  before the end  of

the  List,  when  he would make me a proper slave,  and  I  would

voluntarily call him "master."  He knew I wasn't ready then,  but

he  told  me  to  think,  as an exercise,  once  a  day,  of  the

circumstances it would take.  He knew instinctively that I  would

associate  that  word  with the kind of B&D  scenarios  that  had

already made me (to my immediate regret) laugh.  He knew I hadn't

gotten  deeply  involved enough to use such a word and  mean  it,

even  within the limited context of the List.   But what he  said

registered.   I'm still thinking about it.  I fantasize about the

circumstances  in  which I could say it,  but would still not  be

able to SAY it without thinking it faintly ridiculous, like Nazis

in black socks with dust on the soles of the feet.

     I haven't talked about one aspect yet:  the limitations  set

by  the List.  Of course, he won't do anything that's not on  the

List,  but  there  is a lot of latitude in HOW he  does  what  IS

there.   (Witness  how  he put on my chain:  that  blowtorch  was

very scary.)  It is in this grey area that I have to trust him to

be  sensitive  enough  to approach and even  exceed  my  verbally

admitted   limits  without  exceeding  my  true  threshold.   I'm

beginning to learn that this takes enormous sensitivity.   And  I

thought  the primary requirement for the dominant figure in  this

kind of relationship was that he/she be INsensitive.

     The other limit for the List is a long-term time limit.   We

agreed to a strict limit of four weeks for each  column.   Sounds

like a couple of lawyers, I know, but we decided that it couldn't

be shorter and be still be meaningful: I wanted the feeling I was

really  plunging  in  to  something  serious.   Somehow,  in   my

fantasies  about this,  it was serious,  not play.   And a strict

time  limit  gives me something to cling to as an  "out"  without

letting  me frivolously interrupt the process.   There is comfort

in  knowing there is nothing on the List that can do me any  real

physiological damage,  but I know that the cumulative  discomfort

of that gag (it is by far the worst) adds up to actual pain,  and

I trust him not to overdo it.  At some point you have to trust, I


   We leave for San Francisco tomorrow.


   Well, we're back from San Francisco now, and do I have a story

to tell.  It's Saturday morning, and we got back late last night.

      He  had to take my chain off for the plane trip, and for  a

few  minutes  it  actually felt strange to be  without  it.   Not

naked,  exactly, but like something was missing.  He had me  wear

my tight knit dress with nothing underneath, and once we were  in

the  air, he took a collar and lock out of his hand  luggage  and

told  me to go into the restroom and put it on under the  turtle-

neck of my dress. I couldn't have worn my chain through the metal

detector, although he said he thought about making me do that and

letting the female guard search me to find out why I set it  off.

That  would have been crossing the line between embarrasment  and

public humiliation, I think. Still, what could they do? Arrest me

for chain smuggling?

     Once we were in our hotel room (it was pretty nice:  someone

else was paying for it), he put the chain on me again, this  time

locking  all  three loose ends with the little padlock.  I  could

have put the chain on while on the plane, I suppose, but it would

have showed through that knit dress,  even with a belt to conceal

it. Trust me, that dress is form-fitting everywhere.

     The  plane trip was uneventful.  We arrived at the  airport,

rented a car,  and he went to his meeting while I had a few hours

of almost-freedom to drive  around town,  buy lunch and pick  him

up again.  I was wearing jeans and a sweater,  so my chain didn't

show.   That evening,  chain off,  dress and collar on again,  we

went  to  Sausalito and had a great dinner in an intimate  little

restaraunt right on the water.  We had great sex that night,  but

only  great.   I wore only the collar;  somehow a hotel room,  no

matter  how luxurious,  is just not the right setting.   And  the

collar wasn't enough,  somehow.  It seemed out of place,  a  weak

reminder,  a  tenuous connection to something stronger elsewhere.

My  nesting  instinct  has been perverted to a  longing  for  the

familiarity  and safety of a dungeon,  I think.   I wanted to  be

back "home".  I almost felt like that big empty cavern of a house

was waiting for me.

    It was afterwards, after we had showered and he had  relocked

my  chain, that he broke the news to me. The next day, I  was  to

get  my nipples pierced.  We had put this on the List, but I  had

considered  it more as a theoretical possibility,  since  I  have

inverted nipples.   Not so.  He had talked to the woman that runs

the  business  and  she said there was nothing she  hadn't  seen,

including my problem.   I have pierced ears (one three times, the

other  twice)  but  the thought of piercing my  nipples  made  me

cringe.  J was careful to explain to me that he didn't want me to

do  this to inflict pain on me,  rather he wanted me  pierced  as

another way of binding  me to him.  It would mark me as his, like

removing my pubic hair.  I could have a local if I wanted, even.

     Reminding me of that helped calm me down a little, but I was

still nervous.  I had heard of this kind of piercing, and admit I

was  curious -- maybe more than curious about it.  I had  thought

about  it on more than one occasion,  and as a matter of fact,  I

was  the one that suggested it for the List,  partly to  see  his

reaction  to something I had been thinking about.   But still,  I

was nervous.   Both nipples at once was really jumping in at  the

deep end for me.

       The  front room of her home in the (to me) famous  Mission

district had lots of jewelery on display,  some of it custom, and

she  had a little clinic in the back where she did it.   She  was

very  careful about hygene,  and I could tell right away that she

had lots of experience.  She had a ring in her nose, in her lower

lip,  several in each ear,  and,  she said,  a surprisingly large

number elsewhere.  Twenty-something in all.  I was curious, okay?

     It  took a lot of self control for me to make myself  watch,

but I wanted to be sure I knew what she was doing -- and that she

knew  too.   She  was  very gentle  and  reassuringly  efficient.

Obvoiusly,  my nipples will protrude even when they aren't  erect

if  they  are  held out -- which they  were.  Since  even  normal

nipples  have to be held during the procedure anyway,  it  didn't

really matter that mine were inverted.  They went erect and stood

out on their own anyway.  I think they were cringing.

     I wanted a local anesthetic,  but she said that would  sting

at least as much as the piercing needle.  She also said that  for

some  people  the act of piercing itself was more important  than

the  jewelery  they wore afterward.  She had customers  that  let

their  piercings  close  deliberately  and  be   repierced.   She

convinced me.

      She  had an instrument I had never seen before,  a sort  of

forceps  with slots in the jaws.   She held me from the sides and

this hollow needle went right through both me and the clamp.  The

rings followed through after the needle.  She let J stay with me,

holding my hand.

    It was over quickly with almost no bleeding. Just seconds for

each piercing.  It did sting a little, but less than an injection

of  local  xylocane  to remove a  mole.  Really  it  wasn't  much

different than getting my ears done.   It was nothing compared to

the  gag.    I  wasn't  wearing a bra,  so she put  bandaids  on.

Aspirin was enough to make me comfortable, she said, but I didn't

really  need  any.   I don't think this is something I  would  do

myself.  I have thought about it, and I think I could -- as an RN

I suppose I am qualified, but there is nothing like experience.

      We  had  time  before  going  to the  airport  to  do  some

shopping,  and J took me to a place that specializes in the kinky

appliances  and stuff he has been using.   He had me try on  some

shoes and boots,  and then told me to wait in the car.   He had a

couple of pretty big bags of packages when he came out.  I wonder

what  the  x-ray security monitor at the airport thought  of  the

contents. She probably figured we were just more midwesterners on

our way back home from San Francisco.

      We  drove  to the airport and waited for  the  plane.   The

flight back was uneventful.  When we finally arrived home it  was

late,  and we both went straight to bed.   I took aspirin to help

me sleep,  more to counteract the coffee I had on the plane  than

because of my nipples (aspirin puts me to sleep).

      This  morning, I inspected myself.  The bandaids  were  the

"ouchless"  variety, thank goodness.  I am a little swollen,  and

the swelling makes me look a little deformed.  Maybe I should say

deformed  in  a  different way, since inverted  nipples  are  not

exactly  normal  anyway.  But at least before,  my  nipples  were

identical;  now  they are swollen in different ways,  so that one

nipple partly protrudes from the areola,  while the other is less

swollen.  This makes me nervous.   I don't want to be permanently

this  way.   I can only wait for the swelling to go down, though.

I heal quickly, and then we'll know.  I guess I can always remove

them.  I  disinfected  myself  again  and  put  on  some  of  the

Neosporin  she had given me,  and fresh bandaids.   The rings are

small circular gold ones.  She said they were a fine gauge, but I

don't  remember what size they are.  Sha also said I can  enlarge

the  holes easily later.  I don't think I will  want  to.   Well,

maybe. We'll see.

     J  is  very sympathetic and caring, and it  makes  me  think

maybe  he really does like my nipples the way they are.   I  know

that sounds funny, since he had just changed them, but he  wanted

to  decorate  me there, draw attention to them,  not  hide  them.

It's  a  very  private  kind of feeling, since  I  am  still  not

publically proud of them, but if this works out I think I will be

proud to show myself off to J.   In the meantime, I am practicing

my exotic dancing.  I hope the swelling goes down soon, though.


     Sunday:  J has just told me an interesting bit of news.   He

says  he's  going to send this to a computer  bulletin  board  or

something.   I  don't  know how this works yet,  but he says  the

people in his department are tied into it and read it.  Thank God

I've left out anything that might connect us to this  story.   He

d****d well better be right when he says he can send it in so no-

one  finds out where it came from!   I'm going to have to go back

over it and make sure I didn't leave any clues.   Computer  nerds

are  usually pretty smart fellas.   Maybe I should say "You  guys

(maybe gals too?) are..." since I now know who my audience is.  I

know  you  aren't ALL geeks.   I remember some pretty  cute  guys

hanging  around the computer center when I was in school.   I  am

living with one, come to think of it.  And he is effing smart.

     And maybe I'll spruce up the literary style a bit while  I'm

at it.   He suggested the format for the chapter headings, so you

now  know where that came from.   Also that I capitalize the word

"List".   Already I have a sense of power.  But,  folks,  I won't

make anything up.   Promise.  Besides, he wouldn't let me.  Well,

well.  An anonymous audience.  Enjoy, people.


                       The List

                       Column 1

                       Item 9

     Monday  again.   The  swelling has finally gone down  on  my

nipple.  There was a slight infection but Neosporin antibacterial

ointment took care of it.   I'm symmetrical again,  but I'll keep

treating them until I don't feel any unusual sensitivity when the

rings  are disturbed.   It's probably not necessary,  but I still

cover  them  with bandaids.  J can even make a bandaid  a  sexual

thing.  Those  round  bandaids that look like  nipples  were  too

small,  so  he had me make larger circular bandaids out of flesh-

colored "ouchless" plastic surgical tape with sterile gauze stuck

in  the middle.   They cover my nipples completely,  and  from  a

distance  he says it looks like I don't have any nipples at  all.

Like  a department store mannequin.  Interesting  concept.   They

don't bother me any more, though.

     As  I look back over this account, it appears that the  only

thing  we do is have sex.  That's not true.  Sex may be the  only

thing I write about, but we do lots of other things together, and

I have lots to do during the days when he is at work. Cleaning up

this  gawdawful barn of a house,  for one thing.  And I have made

curtains for my room,  done some weeding, normal stuff like that.

I sound terminally domestic,  I know,  but I'm used to a long and

busy work day.  I'm still adjusting to not having to eat over the

sink or in my car.   I get hyper and have to do something,  so  I

made curtains, okay?

     I  exercise on his weight bench in the garage almost  daily:

he has moved a big full-length mirror in there for me; one end of

the  garage is like a little carpeted mini-spa.  And of course  I

read -- and write this.   And check out the usenet.  It's nice to

feel I have a pipeline to the outside world.

     So  after working at St.  Hectic  and living in a big  city,

the  restful pampered schedule is welcome,  and the sex is pretty

powerful.   Overwhelming,  but in a good way.  Well, maybe "good"

doesn't describe it. I don't feel like a good little girl anymore

(small loss).  Maybe fantastic is the correct word,  because I am

living out a fantasy.   I could almost go for the life of a full-

time "kept woman."  Almost.

     But our slave/master relationship IS full-time,  for now. We

don't  turn  it  on  and off,  and  it  gets  a  little  tiresome

sometimes,  even  though I asked for it to be real.   He  doesn't

push  it by making me scrub floors or do degrading things.   What

I'm  trying  to say is he doesn't use me for slave  labor  to  do

things  he doesn't want to do.   But I do have to cook almost all

the meals and wash the dishes.  He says that is my reminder of my

(temporary) status.   His turn will come,  he says.  When we were

both on tight schedules in Chicago, we shared the household stuff

50/50, so I don't mind.

     We  were a little ginger with sex right after I got pierced:

Either  me on top being careful or rear entry.  It wasn't  really

necessary,  but J thought it was,  so we did.  Being entered from

the rear is a position we had previously almost never used  since

I found it relatively unsatisfying, but J has fixed that problem.

First we tried it with me on all fours.  He had taken foreplay to

his  usual  extreme  again,  teasing me until I  was  a  babbling

nymphomaniacal bundle of uncongealed nerve endings.   I felt like

a  dog in heat;  on my hands and knees with my collar on,  I even

looked like one.  When he penetrated me,  though, it still wasn't

satisfying.   I  just couldn't climax.   It helps me to  have  an

orgasm  if  I can straighten my legs and flex my  thigh  muscles,

and  you  can't do that on all fours.   Also,  my clitoris  isn't

stimulated as much in that position.

     Then  he tried a variation:  with us both on our left sides,

kind of propped up by pillows,  still penetrated from behind.   I

was able to lift my right leg and spread myself open in front, so

that  he  could  stroke and caress all of me  (even  my  breasts,

carefully),  and more importantly,  so could I.  In fact, he TOLD

me to stroke myself while we were making love this way. You can't

do  this in the missionary position,  so this was new to me.   He

took  my  hand  in  his and guided it to  my  clitoris  while  he

continued thrusting from behind.

     As I have said before, I am reluctant to masturbate in front

of  anyone else,  even J.  I was still reluctant this  time,  and

withdrew  my hand,  but he whispered over my shoulder,  "I  can't

force  you to enjoy this,  but there are other things you can  be

made to do." He guided my hand back.  "If you don't..."  A thinly

veiled threat was all it took.   His control,  my body. There was

nothing  I could do.   The implied threat of that gag is  enough,

and  I'm  sure his imagination isn't limited to  that  particular

"minor  discomfort".

     So I did it. He continued stroking from behind and caressing

in front,  but I was in complete control of my own orgasm; it was

almost as though I were in complete control of his lovemaking.  I

brought  myself to the edge and held myself there,  and  all  the

while he continued to plunge into me and caress my front.  It was

like having four hands to caress myself with.   This time I drove

myself crazy, teasing and hesitating on the very edge. My nipples

became  erect under the bandaids.  They ached deliciously already

from  the excitement,  and now the ache was even more intense  --

almost a stinging sensation as they hardened.  Which made me even

hornier.   We'll have to try that position again after my nipples



     Yesterday  he  had  me pluck my  eyebrows  until  they  were

pencil-thin.  I did this my last year in high-school and my first

two years in college, but fashions change and I let them grow out

full again -- until yesterday.  But I always preferred them thin.

Anything goes these days anyway, so I don't mind.  I think I look

better  this  way.   I'll  leave the  heavy  eyebrows  to  Brooke

Shields.   I  understand she is popular in Russia.   She probably

reminds them of Brezhnev.

     I need depilatory again today,  too.  This will be the third

or fourth time.   I know it sounds like I'm self-absorbed,  but I

have always liked "working" on myself, whether it is with makeup,

eyebrow tweezers,  shaving my legs, brushing my hair, exercising,

or whatever. You would think that after a while I would get tired

of self-maintenance,  but I still get a kind of sensual  pleasure

out of it,  even now.

    I don't think I'm narcissistic,  because I enjoy the physical

act  of doing these things rather than the results.   Sounds like

I'm  justifying something,  I know,  but the preparation is  more

important than the finished product. Maybe a bit like a craftsman

who likes his job.  I take a lot of time with it, and try out new

and  different variations whenever I can.  I have a  tendency  to

make myself look too artificial,  although a little artificiality

is attractive,  I think.   Needless to say, I have about a ton of

partly-used experimental makeup.

      Several  times when things were slow on the night shift  at

the hospital (a rare thing, believe me) I even removed some of my

own moles:  I anesthetized the area with topical benzocaine, then

injected  subcutaneous  xylocaine and burned the  little  suckers

right off.  Did as neat a job as any dermatologist,  too.  That's

partly why I have such perfect skin. I got nearly all of them.

     I  guess the point is that I like "working" on  myself,  and

don't  see  decorating my nipples,  depilating,  and plucking  my

eyebrows  as  a  burden,   but  rather  another  aspect  of  self

improvement and maintenance,  just like doing my nails;   until I

go  back  to work,  I will have plenty of time for this  kind  of

thing,  so why not indulge?  Besides,  it's a turn-on knowing I'm

getting ready for sex.

     It's not just polishing and perfecting myself that facinates

me,  though.  I  like being able to change myself,  too.   I have

experimented  with  just about everything about me  that  can  be

changed:  my  hair,  my makeup,  my clothing styles,  everything.

It's  almost  like a compulsion to try something  -- anything  --

else.  I get a thrill out of being something different than I am,

I  guess.   It's  a good thing "do-it-yourself  plastic  surgery"

isn't  a reality:  I would probably do it.   Really.  It  doesn't

sound like a very healthy self-image now that I write it down.

    When  I got back from the spa the post office had left a note

that  my  sewing  machine arrived at the  local  post  office.  I

shipped it and some other stuff from Chicago before I drove  down

here.  I'm  going to pick it up myself tomorrow.   I should  have

used U.P.S.

     I  would  have done a better job with the curtains if I  had

waited for it to arrive, but I was antsy.


     Tuesday.   J  has started on some kind  of  project.  You're

going to think this is wierd.   Even I do.  I didn't know what he

was doing at first: yesterday evening he tied me on the oak table

again,  the same as before,  but with my legs straight on the top

of the table,  ankles tied at the edges, and with a plastic drop-

cloth under me.  He scotch-taped saran-wrap over my sex and  then

covered  me  from  just below my breasts to my  upper  hips  with

petroleum jelly.   That part was a little sexy,  but I was mostly

mystified.   Then  with  me craning my neck to  watch,  he  mixed

plaster  of paris in a big bucket on the floor by the table.   At

that point I had figured out that  he was going to make a plaster

cast of my front.   I was half right.   Anyway, tying me down was

just to keep my attention.

    When he smeared the plaster over my lubricated torso, it  was

kind  of an interesting feeling, cool and slippery at  first  but

warmer  as it began to set.  He had imbedded strips of  cloth  in

the  plaster partly to strengthen it, and partly to tie  it  into

the other sections of the cast when he added them later. When  he

pulled  it off it was an unbroken and faithful copy of  my  lower

body.   He freed me then,  and told me to wash myself off.  I had

been dismissed.

    While  I  cooked dinner he sawed and filed the edges  of  the

cast  smooth,  and after we had eaten he told me to get my shower

cap  and  come to the garage.   While I watched,  he covered  the

edges  of the mold with wax and had me stand.  He fitted the cast

against my front.   Naturally,  it was a perfect fit. He strapped

it  tightly in place with old belts,  and had me help support  it

with my hands.

     He  covered  my breasts, neck and shoulders  with  pertoleum

jelly,  bandaids and all, and mixed more plaster.   He  explained

that he wanted my breasts to hang naturally for this part of  the

cast, so I had to do it standing up.  The shower cap  was to keep

my  hair up out of the plaster.  He built up the already-finished

mold of the lower front of my body by adding on to its upper edge

until  he  had a mold of me from my upper thighs to  my  uplifted

chin.  I kept asking him why he was doing this,  but he just told

me I would find out.   Finally, he said he would use the gag if I

didn't  just stop asking questions.   The mold was quite heavy at

this point, and it was only half done.

     He  sawed and filed the rough edges until he had a  complete

impression of the front half of my torso,  and again he fitted it

to me. It required a little squirming, but it was still a perfect

fit.   Then it was back to the oak table,  where he put the  mold

with  the  interior up and had me lie face down,  fitting  myself

into it. He supported me with pillows under my forehead and legs,

and then plastered my entire back then,  neck to hips.   After it

had  set,  the two plaster halves separated neatly where  he  had

wax papered the edge of the front half.   The final product was a

huge and cumbersome mold of my torso.   I can't figure out why he

made it.   He still hasn't told me.  I don't even know why he had

me  write  about it in such detail.  It wasn't really  an  erotic

experience.  I told him it would have been much easier if he  had

used the water-activated cast material they use for broken bones.

You can get it from any medical supply store.


     Wednesday.  My sewing machine arrived okay.   I picked it up

today.   He  put my chain on again last night after he came  home

from work.   I don't mind,  except that during week days when I'm

not at the exercise spa or out shopping I like to put on what few

clothse I have (total clothing:  the knit dress, the black thong,

my exercise outfit,  and the sheer cotton) and now the knit dress

doesn't look good any more with the chain under it. Besides, it's

too  nice for around the house.  I can slip the thong through the

waistband of the chain and wear it underneath if I want,  because

it  unsnaps at the crotch,  but it's not  very  comfortable;  the

dress and the pants present problems in topology if I try to wear

them under the chain.

     He didn't tie me down this time when he put the chain on.  I

suppose  I  knew  what was coming though,  so  it  wouldn't  have

mattered anyway.   Certainly I didn't fight it.   In fact I  held

the  torch for him,  like an assisting nurse.   If he would  just

leave the crotch chain unlocked,  I could wear those sheer cotton

pants  under the chain.  The waist would still be welded  on.  Oh


     Now  that my sewing machine is here,  maybe I can make  some

more  clothing.   As it is,  I have to wear my exercise leos with

shorts  and a t-shirt everywhere I go,  and pretend I  just  came

from the spa.  Anyway, I got some material and patterns. I'll get

started this afternoon.


     As  soon  as  he proofed this,  J "forbade" me to  make  any

clothing without his approval.(!)  Of course,  he prefers it when

I  have to wear sexy clothing -- which is all I have (except  the

exercise stuff).  I have a really sexy short black knit dress  in

my  luggage that I could wear if he would unlock the crotch chain

(yes, that's a hint).

     My  period  is due soon.   I have to get him to  unlock  the

chain for it.  I'm not sure he would if I just asked.  After all,

it would be for convenience rather than necessity.  I can perform

all my bodily functions by just pulling the waist chain down  and

the  crotch  piece  to one side.  Listen to me.   People  in  the

midwest don't discuss bodily functions;  I don't think my  mother

even HAS any bodily functions, and here I am discussing "feminine

hygene" on public (pubic?) TV.   Monitor.  Whatever. I still have

to learn computerese.   At the hospital I really just followed  a

cookbook when I learned the computer at the nurse's station.  But

I'll learn more.   Several times I've wanted to post something on

ASB and didn't really know how.

     Anyway, my period might be a problem with the chain.  I have

an idea that might work.  I have been saving it for when I really

need something from him. I'll tell you if it works.


     Thursday.  Well, it worked, sort of.  I am not sure it was a

great idea,  but I'll put it down here anyway.  I have never been

terriffic  at  oral sex.   I am reluctant to do it in  the  first

place  (due  to a vestigial but typical midwestern conflation  of

hygene  and morality),  and have never been able to make it  very

satisfying for him.   Plus I gag reflexively if I hold even  half

of  him  in my mouth.   So anyway,  last night I put on my  black

thong  (under my chain),  and some formal black  heels.   I  made

myself  as  stereotypically  sexy  as I  could.  I  couldn't  put

pantyhose  on  with the chain and ankle cuffs,  but  I  put  body

makeup  and powder on my legs and behind,  right up to the thong,

to  make  my  skin perfectly smooth and even.  I  fixed  a  great

chicken  dish with desert and fruit;   I gave him the  works.   I

even  ate by myself earlier so I could wait on him hand and  foot

before  and  during the meal,  pouring his  wine,   bringing  the

courses  one at a time,  everything I could think of from  candle

light  and  incense  to little touches like  brushing  my  breast

against him while serving his food.

      Afterwards, dishes cleared, with him sitting on the sofa by

the lit fireplace,  I by his feet, I made my well-rehearsed pitch

in  that  same artificial style that marks all  our  master/slave

conversations. I guess it's role playing.

     "J,  I have a favor to ask of you.   Before I ask, I want to

do  something for you that I haven't been able to do  before.  It

isn't an item on the List;  well,  it is, but I want to go beyond

the List for you in this.

     "You  know I can't control my gag reflex when I try to  take

all of  you in my mouth," I continued (too embarrased to look him

in  the eye),  "but I think I might be able to with your help and

patience." Actually, didn't need much help at all to do this, but

his patience was essential.

    Without  telling him what I intended,  I  started  undressing

him.   When he was nude,  I told him I had to go into my bathroom

to  prepare myself.  I had filled an old perfume atomizer with an

OTC   liquid topical oral anesthetic,  twenty percent  benzocaine

(which  is a pretty potent percentage).   I looked myself in  the

mirror, calming myself  for a few seconds before I went ahead.

     I had practiced the day before, so I knew it worked.  I just

didn't know if it would work well enough.   I sprayed the back of

my throat while,  with my mouth wide open and tongue depressed, I

said  the  magic vowel,  "eeeee".   Of course  with  your  tongue

depressed  it doesn't come out "eeeee",  but your vocal cords are

best positioned for exposure to the spray, and if you take a deep

breath   first  so  you  don't  have  to  inhale  the   vaporized

anesthetic,  and try not to swallow while your salivary glands go

into  overdrive,  the anesthetic will stay on your throat  lining

long  enough to numb it.   You learn a few tricks working in  ENT

and internal medicine.

     After  several  applications,  each  time spitting  out  the

residue  rather than swallowing,  the back of my throat had  that

thick  feeling that accompanies numbness.   The rest of my  mouth

was  beginning  to  feel tingly,  too.   Now I  could  apply  the

anesthetic  directly to the back of my throat with a cotton  swab

without  triggering a gag reflex.   I rinsed my mouth  well  with

water  so I didn't reduce his sensitivity (that would defeat  the

purpose for sure).

    Almost  as  an afterthought,  I brought the hand  mirror.   I

wanted  to see what I looked like while doing this for him.   You

have  to understand:  this was a very daring thing for me to  do.

He is the only person I have ever done oral sex for (no-one,  not

even J,  has ever done it to me.  In case I didn't tell you, he's

a  midwesterner,  too.) and I have only done it a few  times  for

him,  and  not well even then.   My heart wasn't in it.   I  have

never  really gotten over the feeling it is unhygenic,  and  I've

never given him an orgasm that way.  But I'm working on it.

    When  I went back out to the living room and told him  I  was

ready,  my voice was different, or maybe because I was excited it

just felt different,  kind of husky and low.  No... it definitely

sounded different.

     A single touch of my hand and he was ready.   He didn't even

know  what  he  was anticipating,  but he obviously knew  it  was

something.   He  leaned back on the sofa and I knelt between  his

legs on the flokate rug.   I took him into my mouth and sucked on

the  end of his penis,  rotating my head around and  pressing  my

near-numb  tongue against the underside.  With every heartbeat  I

could feel him pulse larger and larger in my mouth.

     Tentatively, I slid forward.  When he reached the back of my

mouth,  I  didn't  gag.  I  almost  did,  but it  was  so  easily

controlled  it  was forgotten in seconds.   So  far  so  good.  I

stroked back and pushed forward again, this time a little deeper.

He  was in firm contact with the very back of my mouth and I  was

still  in  control,   so  I  went  with  that  for  a  while  and

experimented  with trying to relax my throat and get the feel  of

it.  He felt larger than I had hoped he would,  but not too large

that I couldn't slide forward a little more.

     Finally he was in contact with the back of my throat, and my

breath  was  shut  off.   I  backed  off,  gagging  slightly  but

unnecessarily.   I needed to learn to coordinate my breathing.  I

took a few deep breaths,  inhaled, and tried again. Again, I took

him  to  the back of my throat a few  times  experimentally,  and

tried  contracting my throat around him.   He gave a slight moan.

Good sign, but I had my own problems to concentrate on.  I pushed

a little more,  getting the feel of going even deeper.   I  could

tell  he  wanted  to  push,  but was keeping  strict  control  of

himself.   I kept this up for a while,  getting accustomed to the

feeling.  I was too slow and tentative to give him an orgasm, but

one step at a time.   I even tried swallowing motions, although I

couldn't really complete the action.   I actually had him all the

way in!  I was secretly exultant.

     I  had  propped the mirror against the arm of the sofa so  I

could reach it and look at myself while I had him inside.   I had

to  open  my mouth very wide,  and had to use my lips to keep  my

teeth from scraping him,  so I looked a little funny, but no more

unattractive than with that gag (I don't believe it,  but J tells

me  I look beautiful with that gag in).  When I take him all  the

way in,  though, my throat is distorted: kind of distended like a

croaking frog.  It looks wierd,  like I have an iodine deficiency

or something.   You can tell he's in there even from the outside.

Not to mention the inside.

     I continued experimenting until the anesthetic began to wear

off.  It doesn't last long.  But even then I was able to take him

all the way in.   So I kept on.  It's really just a knack. My gag

reflex seemed to be under control enough for me to continue,  but

my  throat finally began to feel wierd,  so I ended  up  stopping

before he had an orgasm.

       J was pretty turned on, though. Basically I had worked him

into quite a state,  but hadn't given him release. I could see he

was almost in pain.   It gave me a secret feeling of power.   And

pride. I was delighted with myself. He was delighted with me too:

he  recognized that what I had done was quite  an  accomplishment

for  me,  and made our subsequent lovemaking particularly  tender

and special for me.  He seems to know all the right things to do,

when to change the tempo, shift positions, everything.

     This  morning when I got up I was a little hoarse,  and  I'm

afraid  I  hammed  it  up a bit more than was  necessary  to  get

sympathy I didn't really deserve.   I think I could try it again,

maybe this time with no anesthetic.   I discovered that caressing

the  end  of  his  penis  with  my  lips  and  tongue,  and  only

occasionally  engulfing him completely has the  best  effect.   J

says a mouth is not designed to be a substitute for a vagina, but

it  can  be  very  interesting  nonetheless.   The  oral  sex  is

incredible,  he  says,  but  even so,  it's not as fulfilling  as

normal frontal sex.   Whatever that is.  I haven't had normal sex

since  we  got  back together,  although a lot  of  it  has  been


     Anyway, he unlocked the chain for me.  Now it is just a belt

with   the crotch  piece hanging down,  which I wear to the side.

It looks kind of pretty.   I like gold.  The link where he welded

it  is  kind  of burned looking,  though.   I wish  it  could  be

replated.   He  told  me  I didn't have to do the  "deep  throat"

routine just to persuade him,  though.  He would have unlocked it

for my period if I had asked.


     Friday.   My  period is here,  and neither of us  likes  sex

during  this  time.   I know some don't mind,  but I  do.   Thank

goodness he gave me some panties from my suitcase, too.

     My  nipples  aren't healed yet,  but now I can see how  they

will look.   I love them.  While they are just resting, inverted,

the  little  rings half protrude from  their  hiding  places.   I

haven't shown J yet.   I'm really excited about them.  Can't wait

until I can put other jewelery on them.  Small pendants and such.

I  wish  I had thought to get some while we were in the  piercing

clinic in San Francisco.


     Saturday.  I'm in big trouble.  Or at least I will be when J

reads this.   I bought a package of hacksaw blades on a  shopping

trip in town after we got back from San Francisco.   I don't know

what  posessed  me,  I suppose I thought of them as insurance  in

case  I really needed to get out of this situation  I'm  in.   My

feelings  oscillate between a temptation/fear to explore  bondage

more  deeply  (at  least  I  can  call  a  spade  a  spade   now:

Bondage.  Bondagebondagebondage) and a feeling of shame at what I

have  done and what he might make me do.  I'm a sort of  combined

midwestern  fool and an angel,  wanting to rush in and fearing to

tread at the same time.   Anyway, I thought of the hacksaw blades

as  insurance.   And  a  personal proof that I have  at  least  a

vestigial intention to resist this ...  process.  I was going  to

say experiment, but it's more than an experiment.

     But  I've  decided to let J find them.

     (They  are laid flat under the rug in the living  room,

    J,  behind  the  big sofa.   There are  three  of  them)

    I'm  doing  this  because  not  betraying  you  is  more

    important to me than insurance.

         Besides,  the only times I have  considered

escaping  were  when it was clearly impossible for me  to  use  a

hacksaw anyway. So tomorrow you will know, J, but before you

                   ++++ Note from the Future ++++

      This is a load of bull.  I wanted to show J I was committed

to  him. That's why I told him about the hacksaw blades.   And  I

wanted  to give  him cause to take the next step -- to punish me.

That's why I bought the blades in the first place.   I could have

just  buried the blades in the woods while he was at work and  he

would  never  have known.   But I didn't.   I was in  a  rush  to

descend  to greater depths without having to admit to myself that

that was what I wanted.   I've got all that sorted out in my mind

now.  At least I know what I want.

                    ++++ End of Note ++++

punish me I want you to remember why I told you this voluntarily:

I love you and am yours to do with as you please.

     I  think my nipples are almost healed now.   I can move  the

rings with only a little tenderness,  and they've stopped exuding

fluids  and crusting up.   One or two more days of  antibacterial

ointment should do it.


      Sunday.  J  didn't  read yesterday's entry,  so  I  have  a

reprieve.   I've been extra good.  Last night I told him I wanted

to  make  something really sexy to wear for him.   He told me  to

make  a body stocking.   What he means is a unitard.   It will be

easiest to modify one from [store name deleted] rather

than  make one from scratch.   It has to be black,  and cover  me

completely.  The instructions were detailed.

     I  guess this is our week for arts and crafts.   In addition

to the body stocking,  J has been fitting me for something.   I'm

not sure what,  but he has measured my thighs, waist, hips, upper

and lower arms in several places,  inseam,  sleeve length,  neck,

everything.   He  then  disappears into the garage where  I  hear

pounding  and scraping noises.  And machines.  I'm not allowed to

watch.   I  think  he's too preoccupied to  proofread  my  latest

entries.   Maybe he won't read them at all.  I wish he'd hurry up

and  finish his project,  though.   Actually,  he says it's three

projects,  all  to do with me.  Anyway,  I miss using the  weight

bench, since it's locked in the garage while he's at work.

     I've  been  practicing my exotic dancing  religiously  every

day.   I  even  think I'm getting pretty good.   I  can  make  my

stomach  undulate in a very interesting way,  although it looks a

lot sexier than it feels.  J has unlocked my chain so I have more

freedom of movement,  although it wasn't really a  hindrance.   I

loop the loose end and lock it at my waist, letting it hang at my

hip.   It looks kind of nice that way.   Of course I can't get it

off, since it is still welded (or whatever) around my waist.


     Monday:  This morning I went out and bought a black  unitard

body  stocking  and a yard of lycra.   Finding black  gloves  was

pretty  difficult.   They  aren't  lycra,  and all of  the  black

material  I  bought  is  in  different  shades  of  black.   It's

surprisingly hard to match black.   But I will start on it  later

this  afternoon.   I  am  to  be  covered  from  my  toes  to  my

fingertips,  with  a  zipper from the middle  of  my  back,  down

between my legs,  and up to my front neckline.  The neckline will

be a rollover turtleneck that,  when unrolled, has a zipper along

the top edge under my chin,  zipping to a hood -- a ski mask with

no openings. It will cover my head completely.

     He says to make it very tight, so I bought the body stocking

a  size too small.  All I really have to do is sew the gloves  to

the sleeves and make some feet to attach to the ankles, then work

on the hood.


     Tuesday.   My period will be over tomorrow.  He STILL hasn't

read the latest entries (about the hacksaw blades).  Normally  he

sits at the computer and proofs them while I cook dinner, but now

he is working in the garage every evening.   Sometimes he lets me

exercise while he's working and I can watch what he is doing, but

I can't really tell what he is making.   It involves leather, and

I  have  a pretty good idea what it is for.   I'm not a  complete

idiot.   But he also keeps two things covered up with old sheets.

One is three feet tall and sits on his workbench.   The other  is

on  the floor.   Sometimes the smell of leather is strong on  his

hands and in the garage. Sometimes it is solvents of some kind. I

think the plaster mold of me, whatever it was for, was a failure,

though.   I  saw it all broken up in a cardboard box last  night.

Today it is out by the garbage cans.

     I've  been having trouble perfecting a design for the  black

hood.  It's a kind of Catch-22: It doesn't quite fit right, and I

can't see to correct it while I have it on.  J said cut slits for

the eyes and sew them up last.  He also said I should leave small

holes  for  my nostrils.  I said that I can breathe  through  the

material,  but he said to do it anyway:   I might need to breathe

more quickly, he said. Hmmm.  I also had to cut off the thumbs of

the  gloves  and  sew them up. And he dosen't like  the  way  the

leotards  squash my breasts. He wants me to build shaped  conical

cups into the front to cradle me like a bra. I'll look like Darth

Madonna. Won't be able to hitchike, though....

     As one of the the witches in Macbeth says,  "By the pricking

of  my thumbs,  something wicked this way comes..."  Wasn't  that

the  title of a good Ray Bradbury novel?   Something about people

made  into  sideshow  freaks by  the  circus  owner.   'Something

Wicked' was the title,  I think.  Good yarn.  Another one for you

SF  B&D  fans  on  the net:   'The  Real  Story'  by  Stephen  R.

Donaldson.   I found it on the bookshelf here in the  house.  The

rest  of  his stuff seems to be rather dull dungeons and  dragons

fantasy but this is about 80% B&D.   Don't miss it if you can, as

Samuel Goldwyn didn't say.


     Wednesday.   Last  night I told J that I thought my  nipples

were  healed completely and showed him.  They really have  healed

perfectly;   a little sensitive,  still,  but healed.   The  tiny

rings  that  pierce  them  are barely  bigger  than  the  nipples

themselves.  When they aren't erect, only half the ring protrudes

from  the little folds in my areolas.  He had been saving a small

surprise  for me,   the dear.  He'd bought a pair of  very  small

pendants for me.  They are gold with tiny garnet teardrops at the

ends.   They  are  sweet.   I remember them from the shop in  San

Francisco.  He put them on for me.  They dangle and brush against

my areolas when I move;  they make me feel sexy -- more aware  of

myself. He said he still thought the bandaids were sexy.  Hmmmm.

     Then  he  put  something else on me.   It was a  kind  of  a

leather  g-string,  but the strap between my legs was much  wider

than a string.   It smelled strongly of leather.  Actually, it is

neatsfoot  oil  and wax,  he says.   It has two belt  buckles  in

front,  although  it really doesn't need more than  one,  with  a

central  wide strap between my legs.   Very wide.  The end of the

strap  buckles to the waistband behind my back.   He  pulled  the

strap  very tight between my legs.   Very tight.   I think he was

just trying it on for size, though, because he let me take it off

after  a  few  minutes.   We made love  afterwards,  and  it  was

satisfying  (three  orgasms,  countthemthree)  but not  quite  as

fulfilling as the first few times after I came here.  I wonder if

bondage can become boring.

      He has all of next week off,  and says he will spend it all

with me.

      Depilation time again.


     Thursday.   He  proofread last night.  My God.   What have I

done.  I've never seen him so remote. I wonder what he's going to

do.  I'm only half looking forward to it.   I mean, everything he

has  done  to  me so far has been a turn-on.  But  I'm  a  little

nervous now,  the way he's been acting.   Usually there are hints

that he's just kidding. Well, not kidding, exactly, but playing a

role.  Not any more, though.  He told me to follow him out to the

living room,  where he made me pull back the rug and give him the

three hacksaw blades.  He took them, then locked me in my room.

     At  bedtime  he came back and told me to use  the  bathroom.

Then he relocked my chain, pulling it up so tight in back that he

had  eight links left over beyond the lock.   It  was  compressed

tightly  --not  quite painfully but  certainly  uncomfortably  --

between  my  labia,  forcing them apart and pushing them  to  the

sides.   The chain was held taut and rigidly in the crevice of my

behind; I could feel it against the hip bones at my waist, it was

pulling down so hard on them.  I couldn't even get a finger under

it  very easily in places.  He locked another length of chain  to

the  leftover  loose  links at the center of  my  back  and  with

another  lock,  attached  a  some heavy weights from  his  weight

bench.   A  ball and chain.   He left me that way all  night.   I

barely slept.  I wonder if he really thinks I trust him so little

I  have  to keep hacksaw blades around.  That's  really  not  the


     This morning he loosened the chain, but left the weights on.

At  least I can move around,  but I have to carry the weight with

me wherever I go.   I haven't heard the last of this.   He didn't

say  a word to me this morning.   I'll keep working on  the  body

suit.  All  that is left is the hood and the zippers at the neck.

It's  not going to be easy working around my chains.   I can  put

the  bodysuit on over them,  but the chain will have to  protrude

from the neckline while I am trying it on.  Before he proofed the

last entry I had asked if I could make an exotic dancer's outfit.

He said yes,  but I don't have all I need to finish it.  At least

I'll  get started.   Maybe he'll be pleased if I dance  well  for


    Sorry if this is disjointed, but I'm a little preoccupied.  I

don't know what he's going to do to me, but the tight chain isn't

the last of it.


                        The List

                        Column 1

                        Item 10

    Friday afternoon.   Well, I knew he'd do something; now I'm a

platinum blonde. How's that for an opener?  I don't believe I let

this happen.  It's really my fault. I did it to myself.

    I objected, sort of. Well, I begged him not to make me do it.

I  could have just put my foot down,  and said no,  but it  would

have ruined everything.  I knew deep down it was fruitless to try

and change his mind.  Somehow, he persuaded me to go through with

it.    Besides,  it's  an  interesting  change.   I  look  really


      Changing my hair color is on the List,  after all, and J is

right when he says that I can always dye it back.   I guess I was

mostly  worried  about getting a job,  which is something I  will

have  to  do  fairly  soon.   Platinum blonde  hair  is  not  the

conservative kind of image a nurse should  project.

     Well,  would  you  let  Madonna inject  anything  into  your

bloodstream?   Don't  answer that.  You probably would.   I think

patients  feel more comfortable trusting their lives to  Florence

Nightengale.  Not that I look remotely like Madonna.   But if  it

weren't  for having to get a job,  it actually looks pretty good.

Still  bushy,  though.  It's not the total disaster I thought  it

would  be.   My hair is frizzy enough without being  weakened  by

bleaching, though.  Now it's even frizzier.

    I  thought  at  first that having my  hair  bleached  was  my

punishment  for buying the hacksaw blades,  but now that I  think

about it, it couldn't have been, since J had made the appointment

well ahead of time, which means he had planned this -- maybe from

the  beginning.  He  told me that I might have  to  convince  the

hairdresser to make me a blonde,  since it was a big change, so I

actually had to cooperate in doing this to myself.   I had agreed

to  it  as  part  of  the List,  and  he  has  always  been  very

persuasive,  so  I  agreed to go along with  it  (secretly,  I've

always  wanted to try being a blonde,  although not necessarily a

platinum blonde).

     As  it turns out,  it was a kind of avant garde place  where

all the hairdressers are punk.  The guy didn't even blink an  eye

when  I told him what I wanted.  He would have given me a  purple

mowhawk  if  I had asked.   They had scheduled nearly  the  whole

morning for it when J called, and it took that long to do.  J had

me  go without my contact lenses,  and he told me not to look  in

the mirror while the hairdresser worked,  but I couldn't help it.

I had to look when he asked me how I liked it.   So I had an out-

of-focus glance at myself, but that's all.

    When we got home, the first thing he did was to pull out more

chains and small locks.   The chains aren't particularly heavy --

not  like the dramatic clanking iron ones you find in dungeons in

the  movies -- but there are no seams in the links and  they  are

plenty  strong  enough.   I've  tried to break them.   And  I  am

positively festooned with chains.  First he put real handcuffs on

my wrists,  but joined by a one-foot length of chain with a  ring

in the middle.   Then "handcuffs" (I guess they are leg irons) on

my ankles,  joined by a slightly longer chain.  A length of chain

joined the the ring between my wrists to the chain joining my leg

irons,  but it passed through a ring on the waistband paddlock of

my ever-present chain g-string. I can take short steps, and since

the chain slides through the loose ring at my waist,  I can  lift

my  hands as far as my face if I'm not walking.   By crouching  I

will be able to wash my hair.  I don't know how long I'll have to

stay  like this.   The various cuffs chafe if I move  around  too

much and it's boring,  sometimes, being in the house alone during

the day.

     But  other  times  my nipples go erect  while  I'm  hobbling

around  the place and I think about him coming home and I  wonder

what he's got planned for the evening.

     He  had  taken  time  off from work  for  the  hairdresser's

appointment and rechaining me after.   After putting these chains

on, he left me like this and went back to work.  It's slow going,

typing  with  chains hanging from my wrists.   I make  a  lot  of

mistakes,  and  it  rattles against the printer under the  table.

Before he left, he said that neither the bleaching nor the chains

were my punishment for the hacksaw blade episode.  They were just

preventative.  The  punishment is still to come.   I  can't  even

really practice my exotic dance routine in this getup.   At least

I can sew and read.

     I  can't see myself going to the exercise spa anytime  soon,

even without the chains.   I've gotten to know a few people there

on  a casual basis,  but not so casual that I could show up  with

platinum blonde hair and not raise eyebrows.  I know, Madonna has

platinum blonde hair,  so what's the big problem anyway?   What's

so special about that look?  She puts her cones on one at a  time

just like the rest of us,  right?  I don't know. I guess I'm just

not  Madonna.  Maybe I could have gone out,  but I didn't get the

chance, really. I certainly couldn't go out now.


                       The List

                       Column 1

                       Item 11

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

can remember 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

conversation 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


     "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 showgirls 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 bod.   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 embarrased; but even that potential public

embarrasment 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

embarrasment 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 embarrased,  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


    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 embarrased too,  but I could  get

into that kind of embarrasment. 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 me 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 finished 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, lingering 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

embarrased  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."

     "Um,"   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,

stimulating  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 sooooo 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  continued.   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 paddlocked 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-

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

fiberglass.   He has done bodywork on his own cars (he even built

his  own  kayak),  and he 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  sleeveless  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  was wondering 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 directly 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 spectacularly 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.  Despite  the fact that my thighs are naturally  wideset,

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 locked those tiny padlocks  at  every


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

actually hurt to straighten my legs out 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

paddlocks  and told me to put them on.   He left the room without

even checking to see if I did.

     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 over to the mirror on the four inch heels.  I have

small  feet,  and  four  inches puts me very nearly  on  my  very

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 grotestuely;  a  small  paddlock

dangles in the gap.

     I  felt  around  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 survival.   At that moment, all my antennae

were out and testing the air.

     Hoping  my  instincts were right,  I slowly  turned  around,

holding my arms away from my sides so he could see all of me. The

sound of my shoes scraping 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 heard 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,

his  hands exploring the backs of my buttocks,  the only  exposed

part  of  me that even remotely resembled an erogenous  zone.   I

trembled;  it  had been only minutes since he had 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 is finished,  hood and all,"  I said, thinking that the

first step to orgasm would be to get out of this torso.   As sexy

as  it  looks,  it is ultimately an erotic success only  for  the

observer,  not  the  wearer.   If I think about  it  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 restaraunt (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, polishing, 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  of  my

plastic-coated breasts, "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  retaped 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 retaped my legs.   Once again, I was

helpless:  I  couldn't  straighten either my arms  or  legs.   He

stripped  off his clothse as I watched,  and got into bed  beside

me.   Stroking and teasing, 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 out with 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  and  my  dam

burst,   releasing  an  entire  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 continued

to contract and spasm of its own accord.  I was ready for more: I

had at least two more orgasms 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

towell 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 frustration 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.

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

conditioner   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 paddlock 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 excruciatly 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 restaraunt.  He kept

up  a  cheery  but  subdued  banter,  refilling  my  wine  glass,

deflecting my heavy-handed inuendos 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 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 had

me  sleep  next to him in his bed for the first time since I  had



     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

raconteur;  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 romanticized. 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, hornyness, 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

stiletto 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 very disoriented, being 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  very


     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

openings, 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 vibrator,  the front one,  just wasn't

touching  the right spot,  no matter how hard I squirmed.   I was

being stimulated constantly,  but the vibrators couldn'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 nothing.   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 turmoil going on 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


      There was a pair of scissors in his hand.

                       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 hysterical 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


     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 dignity."  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 embarrasment.   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 strongest,  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 justifying 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 responsibilties, 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?

     So  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 uppermost 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 goddam 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 appearance 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 embarrasment 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


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

looked at my feet in the boots, still chained.  My chained wrists

rested on my thighs,  my 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 shocking to see myself that way.  I

couldn't help it. Tears welled up 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


     "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 wierd.  At least not pathologically  wierd.  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


     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 fingertips that something joined the zipper of the

bodysuit  with  the neckline 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 together (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  advantage.

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


     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


     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  caresses  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



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

thouroughly 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 facinated  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


    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 anything with  my


     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

unnaturally  -- 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 strap clipped to my collar in front,  passed

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

tight  and buckled,  pressing the crotchpiece cruelly against  my

nether  lips,  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


     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  question 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 midwesterner  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 crotchpiece of my leather "g-string" rather

than my neck. Even if I fainted, I would not fall, could not hurt


     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  standing 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 wierd? 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 couldn'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 woould 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.   Exhaleinhale.  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


    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 of  the


     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  necessary.    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 standing.   My breath  became


    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 excitement.   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

happened.  The thing that convinced me that I actually was  still

attractive  -- 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

embarrased.   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 resurection.  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.



     Afterward  he  washed  me,  unlocked my legs,  and  left  me

on the bed, a jumble of conflicting emotions.

     He liked -- in a deep psychological way -- how I  looked,  I

hate it;  I wanted him to love me as much as he could be made to,

maybe even at the cost I had paid,  but if he was as wierd as the

evening's events indicated,  maybe I didn't want him as much as I

thought;  he  had opened a previously unknown (to me) dark  inner

closet  and made himself vulnerable to me in a way that  gave  me

power  over him in an odd way (what if I told people what he  did

to  me?).   I had wanted to be closer;  now I am,  but closer  to

what?  To whom?  Also, I had given him something noone else would

have.   It  will  be hard for him to find anyone else that  would

give  him  what he wants,  if this is any indication of  what  he

wants. That makes me sort of special, doesn't it? Sort of?

     I was hungry,  though,  and in a few minutes I followed  him

into the living room, my hands still locked to my thighs.  On the

way I looked in the full length mirror.   My hair had dried while

it  was  pressed against my head under the hood.  It was  slicked

straight  back on my head; I looked  like a sort of nordic  Ratso

Rizzo; in fact from the front it looked almost like I didn't have

any  hair at all. I couldn't do anything about it with  my  hands

locked where they were.

     I wandered into the living room where he had already laid  a

fire.  It turned out he had prepared a light microwave meal while

he left me hanging from (well,  not really hanging,  but attached

to)  the bedroom ceiling.    He lit the fire he had laid,  and we

sat  side  by side on the sofa while he fed me dinner  in  little

bite-sized  pieces.   He  caressed me as he fed  me,  creating  a

second  appetite  and  teasing  me with both  the  food  and  his


    When we had finished eating, he took out a present for me. It

was a thin gold chain that had a clasp on each end.  He  attached

an  end to each of my nipple rings;  the center hung in a  gentle

curve  between  my  out-thrust breasts.   We both went  into  the

bedroom to admire it in the mirror, and he removed the strap that

held my shoulders back, letting my breasts and shoulders assume a

more natural posture.   The chain was nice,  but I still couldn't

help thinking about my hair and feeling sick inside.  What has he

done to me?

     He had more presents.  He took me by the shoulders and stood

me  facing  the mirror,  and told me to wait  there.   My  shaved

forehead  and slicked-back helmet of platinum hair was even  less

attractive than it had been before I showered in the bodysuit.  I

wanted  to  fluff it up or rewet it and put  curlers  in  it,  or

something.  Anything.

     From  behind me he produced a wig.   It was a huge  tangled-

looking mane of black hair that reached to the center of my back.

Suddenly I looked great.  Better, in fact, than I had ever looked

in  either my natural color or as a blonde.   The texture of  the

hair  on the wig was much nicer than mine had ever been,  and  it

was much much longer.  While I was checking myself in the mirror,

turning  this way and that, trying to decide if I could pass  for

normal  in  public, he came back with another wig,  this  time  a

blonde  one in the same tangled mane style. Not  platinum  blonde

this  time,  but a more natural honey blonde.   And  he  had  yet

another:  it  was short and nearly matched my original  color.  I

could restyle it until it matched my real hair, he said.

     Finally,  he  put leather cuffs back on just above my  knees

and  locked the strap between them that forced me to  take  small

steps; then he unlocked my wrists and told me to shower, wash and

dry my hair,  and put on my makeup.   Afterwards, I was to put on

just the stiletto-heeled bimbo boots.

     Too much was happening at once that evening.   He had shaved

my  forehead.   I  hated  that.  I had learned  for  an  absolute

certainty that my new appearance turned him on in a way that  was

nearly  beyond his ability to control.  I didn't know how I  felt

about that revelation.  Still don't. There were wigs that I could

wear  so all was not lost:  I could still go out in public.   But

would  I  fool anyone?   Would they be able to  tell?   The  wigs

didn't look natural to me, even the one that matched my old hair.

The others were just too stunningly magnificent to be real  hair.

But  then,  noone here knows me except a few casual acquaintances

at the exercise spa.

     And most important:  did this mean J was weird in the  head?

Worse,  am I weird?   What would I be if I found it within myself

to tolerate -- even like -- my appearance? Remember, I HAD agreed

to  it originally,  so there must be something there  inside  me.

In  fact,  while  we were separated he had written about a  slave

fantasy in which he had shaved my head for some minor  infraction

of the imagined rules of the scenario, and I had responded with a

similar  fantasy  in  which  I had submitted  willingly  to  this

treatment,  and  more.

     I had originally started to write that letter just because I

could  see it was something that intrigued J,  but as I  wrote  I

found  I  actually  got  into the  idea  of  total  unconditional

submission.   But  that  was as far as it went.   It was only  on

paper and seemed attractive only in an abstract theoretical  sort

of way.   The practical reality was something else.   How could I

get  a  job and go to work now?   Exercise at the spa?   Even  go

shopping?   And  in  the  back of my mind  was  the  ever-present

thought that he had said this was the beginning of my punishment.

What, exactly, did that mean, the beginning...?

     I wanted to discuss all this with him after I showered,  but

that had to wait.  When I came out of the bedroom, I had dried my

hair  and  put  on the boots as he told  me.   His  reaction  was

instantaneous  and  unmistakable.   He carried me back  into  the

bedroom,  unlocked my knees, and made love to me with  a  renewed

urgency. I don't suppose I'll ever know what would have  happened

if I could have resisted him.  I think he would have stopped, but

I  can't  say  for sure.  He wasn't really violent,  but  I  felt

completely  helpless  when confronted with the intensity  of  his

need. Just seeing me this way had done this to him.  I chalked up

another orgasm for that day.  So did he.

     Afterward,  in bed together,  we discussed my feelings about

what had happened that day.  He is very persuasive.  It was clear

that while he was satisfied with our relationship before,  he was

becoming addicted to it now. He didn't put in so many words,  but

I was somehow in the process of trapping him.    I admitted  some

of  the  same  feelings to him,  although that day's  events  had

almost  cured  my addiction.   The practical aspects of  my  hair

could  easily  be dealt with by using a wig,  even at a  job  and

while  exercising.   I  could  stick with  the  stair  and  other

exercise machines rather than the aerobics until it grew back.  I

could  wear  a  short-haired wig and grow my hair into  the  same

style so there would be no conspicuous transition.

     And he wanted to have me as his own,  as his  posession,  so

that  there  was  no question that I belonged to  him  alone  and

absolutely.   Emotionally,  for me, that was a strong argument in

his  favor.   I  finally  came to the  conclusion  that  my  real

reservations  all stemmed from gut-level emotional  reactions  to

being  "different"  and the nagging fear that down deep he  might

be  a little wierd.   But there was also a kind of excitement  at

being  different and having no-one know.   And weird or  not,  he

loved me and I thought I could even love him wierd.  I decided to

reserve judgement until we had tried the wig out in public.   But

I still hated what he had done to me.


       The next day,  we did just that.  At the exercise spa, the

guy  that  runs the front desk complimented me on  my  hair.   He

thought I had had it done. The brown wig was shorter and slightly

different in color and texture from my old hair. No-one else even

commented on the change.  That evening,  he got out my white knit

dress (nothing underneath,  naturally,  but 2 bandaids to hide my

nipple  rings) and I wore the brown wig again.   We went  to  the

movies.  I had missed "9 1/2 Weeks" the first time it showed, but

it  was  back  again  and we saw it.   I think  he  planned  that

especially.  I thought it was a silly and juvenile movie.  I hate

it when I get turned on by something silly and juvenile.

     We  went  to an intimate restaraunt afterwards. He  made  me

change  into the long dark wig in the car before going  into  the


     I  could  get to like being wined and  dined.   It's  great,

having a real income and living like people for a change.  I have

always  insisted  that money isn't important to  me,  but  having

dinner  at a good restaraunt and being pampered is a nice  change

from years of graduate school for J while I worked nights at  the

hospital,  and  a house in the country is a definite  improvement

over a studio apartment in Chicago.   At dinner,  we talked about

the  List and how I felt about it.   He drove home the point that

he felt "joined" to me by all this, more so than before.

     As  he  talked about it,  I realized we  were  doing  things

together that set us apart from all the other people around us in

the restaraunt.  I looked around at them and suddenly J and I had

a  wonderful  private  very special secret  together,  and  these

people  around us were going to go home and be ordinary  for  the

rest of their lives. But at our table....  At our table there was

something  scandalous, wicked and sexy just under the surface;  I

wasn't  wearing  a thing under my dress but bandaids  and  nipple

rings.  If they only knew,  I thought.  All this was hidden  from

them  only  by  the thinnest facade;  a fraction of  an  inch  of

material.  I  felt  I was living dangerously.  I  felt  I  should

brighten up their lives a little. Maybe take off my wig and leave

it  as  a  tip.  Didn't  someone say that  scandal  is  merely  a

compassionate  allowance  which the gay make to  the  humdrum?  I

think it was Oscar Wilde.  (Hey, you should see the video version

of  "Salome." You know it was that play that got him in very  hot

water with victorian England?  It is pretty raunchy, but fun when

you think of the furor it must have caused.)

       Still, (back at the restaraunt) I had misgivings. At least

he  understood them, and the further we went despite them  was  a

measure of the strength of our joining. Talking about it that way

in public was a kind of a turn-on, too, in a funny way.  It  made

me feel that we were so very different from the people around us,

except  for  the  thinnest veneer of behaviour  and  dress-- just

enough that they hadn't quite noticed yet.  I know, I'm repeating

myself,  but it is a new feeling to me,  and I like it.   I never

felt daring before.   It was almost as if we were doing something

outrageous right there among the other patrons.

     By  the time we had gotten home that night,  I had  decided.

J  had said that when he shaved my forehead it was the  watershed

of this thing we were doing,  but for me,  that evening at dinner

was  the  moment  when  I made my  first  conscious  decision  to

plunge  in headfirst and voluntarily begin the descent into  this

other side of my sexuality.  Fuck'em I thought. And fuck Indiana,

too.  It  wasn't  even  really a  decision,  rather  a  voluntary

relaxation of resistance,  a letting go.  What the hell, why not?

Where have I heard that before?

     Not that I haven't resisted -- even rebelled  -- since,  but

after  that  evening  I fought against him as a matter  of  form,

almost  as a ritual.  My resistance lacks sincerity,  and I rebel

only by deliberately feeding my own fears and letting them  show,

giving  J  my fear and embarassment as gifts rather than  letting

them rule me.  It is a strangely liberating experience to use and

even  enjoy  my own fears;  to be afraid and still  plunge  ahead

recklessly,  always  secure in the knowledge that J is there  and

will  keep  me  safe even though he is the ultimate cause  of  my

fears.   There is a fundamental contradiction here  somewhere,  I

know.   Again,  if  (despite the contradiction) you think I'm not

making sense,  just remember that nothing makes sense.   Where is

it  written  that  anything has to make sense?   Wouldn't  it  be

awfully boring if everything made sense?

     When we got home, we went into the living room, flopped down

on the sofa,  and kicked off our shoes.  He put his arm around me

and  sat looking into the ashes in the fireplace.   The time  had

come for me to tell him my answer to his unasked question.  I got

up and went into the kitchen.   I ran some warm water in a  basin

and brought it back,  putting it on the floor in front of him.  I

could see a question on his face,  but I put a finger on his lips

to  silence  him and went into my bedroom.   There,  I  stripped,

fixed my makeup,  and put on my leather collar,  ankle, and wrist

cuffs.  As a last touch, I put on my nipple pendants and the thin

gold  chain  connecting them.   Then I smeared my  forehead  with

shaving  cream and brought a towel,  razor,  and mirror into  the

living room, where I settled on my knees in front of him.

     I  began  shaving the stubble off my forehead.   When I  was

through,  I  didn't look up at him:  I kept my eyes  lowered  and

waited  with  my hands in my lap.   He took my hands  and  stood,

lifting me to my feet.   Together we went into the bedroom.   I'm

going to leave the rest of this one to the imagination.  He likes

the Elizabethan look, though.  I'm convinced.


     I decided to wear a wig all the time after that.   Of course

he takes it off when he wants it off. But it's best if he doesn't

grow  accustomed  to (read bored with)  my  new  appearance.  The

visual  impact is an important asset for me:   it buys an instant

and almost involuntary erection from him. I kinda like that.

     He has told me to keep my forehead shaved,  just like I keep

my pubic hair depilated.   He told me not to use depilatory on my

head  since  he didn't know what the cumulative  effect  on  hair

follicles was.   That gave me pause to consider: the time between

depilations has been increasing.  Am I damaging my hair follicles

Down There? Anyway, every day I brush my hair back out of the way

and  shave  my forehead along with my legs and  underarms.   More

daily maintenance.

     The  following day I wanted to give him a special  surprise.

First thing in the morning,  I asked him to lock my chain back on

(the one around my waist and between my legs), and he let me have

the car keys to go into town.  I went to the local costume rental

place  in town,  where I bought some body paint and other  stuff,

and  to  an oriental import house that sells  cheap  Indian  body

jewelery:   silver  plated  necklaces,  belts,  toe  rings,  bell

earrings, etc.  They will go with the harem outfit.

     That afternoon,  I fulfilled another fantasy.   I spent  the

hours after lunch preparing myself.   One of the fantasies that I

had  written to him about involved me as a kind of forest goddess

(sounds  hokey,  I  know)  that  has green  skin  and  tatoos  of

vines  growing all over her body.   I covered myself (hair,  too,

blow-dried)  with  green food coloring (quite a  job,  that)  and

finished up with body-painting honeysuckle vines growing up  both

legs,  wrapping  around  my body,  twining in spirals on  my  bum

cheeks  and breasts,  encircling my nipples and growing around my

neck and in tendrils around my arms,  completely covering me.   I

even  had vines winding up the sides of my face to merge with  my

eyebrows.   It  took me over two hours to get  myself  ready.   I

finished at sunset and turned on some of the exotic dance music.

     Wearing nothing but my garnet pendants,  I danced for him. I

did  a  kind of hip-grinding combination of exotic dance and  the

strip-tease  moves  on one of the tapes he  got,  but  there  was

nothing  to strip off.   It won't do any good to try and describe

the way I danced.  Suffice it to say that I shook a lot more than

my  pendants at him,  and finished up taking his  clothse  almost

completely  off while I danced.  He was turned on enough that  he

didn't  mind helping me a bit there at the end.   I ended up with

him  deep in my mouth and we both lost track of exactly  when  we

made the transition from dancing to lovemaking. J had two orgasms

again.   All  I had to do was bring up the subject of my forehead

and  how embarrased I was over it and how I wasn't sure he  would

like  my  forest  goddess idea with a shaved  forehead  and  all.

Downcast eyes and an embarrased hand over my forehead and he  was

off and running again.

     Afterward,  the  bed was a total mess (so were  we).   Green

food  coloring and bodypaint and various precious  bodily  fluids

were all over the sheets.   When we showered together to wash off

the mess we ended up making love again on the shower floor,  both

of us all covered with soap.   I think three in one evening for J

is a record of some sort.  I know I set a "personal best" record.

     We  sat  up  and  rinsed while seated/sated  in  the  steamy

shower,  too  exhausted  to get up.   Finally he turned  off  the

water.   We  sat in a delicious kind of daze for what  must  have

been  five or ten minutes,  the only noise was the water dripping

from  the  shower head and our own  breathing.   I  mustered  the

strength  to kneel,  and I covered him with body  conditioner;  I

like the feeling of tending to him.  Then I covered myself in the

most  entertaining  way I could manage.   When we got out of  the

shower I helped him to towel off the excess conditioner;  he  was

ready for an encore,  and we could probably have gone again it we

had put our minds to it.   But neither of us wanted to.   I think

the  quality declines after that many orgasms.   I don't  exactly

know  how many I had -- some of them kind of merged together  and

who's counting anyway.  There are only two possible numbers where

orgasms are concerned: Not enough, and enough. We had had enough.

     I  got his bathrobe and slippers for him and then put on the

fitted white muslin outfit.   We sat and cuddled for the rest  of

the  evening,  cooking  and  eating two of those  great  prepared

microwave   dinners  between  cuddles.    They're  probably   98%

cholesterol and 2% preservatives,  but they taste great.  We fell

into bed at 9:30 we were so tired.


     The  next evening we were getting ready to go out for dinner

again and talking about this slave/master thing we are doing.  He

had bought a white dress and some sandals for me and I was trying

them  on  while I told him that I was getting into  this  bondage

thing  but  that  there were still some aspects that  I  couldn't

handle,  the main thing (after my hair) was that we walk the edge

of the ridiculous.  I fantasize about really calling him "Master"

and  taking  an even more seriously submissive  role,  but  don't

think  I could handle the reality without  laughing.   Images  of

Nazis  in  white  boxer shorts and black ankle-high  socks  dance

uncontrollably through my head.  J had a solution.

     "We  need a new protocol," he said,  and began to remove the

dress I had just put on.   "You can start now just by NOT calling

me by my first name,   and by making a habit of keeping your eyes

lowered.   Whenever  you  speak  or answer a  question  you  will

preface your words with a phrase like:  'If it pleases you  ....'

We'll  start  with  that for a while and see  how  it  goes.   Of

course,  I'll  punish you for mistakes.   You will have to figure

out what forms of address you can use without  laughing,  because

the biggest mistake you can make is laughing.   Once the habit is

established,  it  won't be a cause for nervous laughter.   Do you

think you can handle that?"

      I  thought about it,  not paying attention while he  got  a

paper bag out of the closet.  Three rules: No first names,  lower

the  eyes,  and say 'If it pleases you.' And the fourth rule:  no

laughing about the first three.

     "I think so."

     "So?"   He was looking at me, waiting.

     I  realized  what he meant and after a moment  of  confusion

I lowered my eyes.  There was a pause while he continued to wait.

"If it pleases you," I said.   I don't know why, but lowering the

eyes is a great help.   Maybe it is easier for the imagination to

work without eye contact.  We know each other too well,   and not

having eye contact puts some distance between us.   I might  have

laughed out of embarrasment then if I hadn't had my eyes lowered.

Well, it was a start.

     The dress he had gotten me was several layers of sheer white

cotton,  midi length with long sleeves and a high neckline,  lots

of buttons in front.  But after I had put it on,  he had taken it

off again.

     "Just  stand  there,"  he said.   He took a  roll  of  white

plastic cord out of a paper bag and knelt by my ankles. Finally I

noticed we were doing more than getting me dressed.

     "What are you doing?  I mean, if it pleases you, what ...?"

     "Just stand there," he repeated.

     I  stood.  He untied the straps of my new sandals.  They are

the kind that wrap around the ankle several times in a crisscross

pattern  and  then tie further up the calf.   He  tightened  them

until they were cutting into my skin,  and tied the loose end  of

the  roll of white plastic cord to the top.  It is  that  colored

plastic leather substitute that boy scouts use when doing crafts,

weaving key rings and belts and such.  I think they call it gimp,

or gymp or something.  He began wrapping the stuff tightly around

my leg in a spiral. He spiraled up my body and out one arm, where

he  tied  it off and then did the same thing on the  other  side.

Then  he  spiraled up the first leg in  the  opposite  direction,

making a crisscross pattern.  It was very tight.

     He  continued,  wrapping me over and over,  until my  entire

body  was covered in a very tight webbing of  the  stuff.   Every

time a roll ran out he pulled out another,  white again, and tied

them together.  He was very careful to keep the whole arrangement

symmetrical,  my  left  side a mirror image  of  the  right.

     He  wrapped a flanged vibrator into my vagina.  The  webbing

slipped  off  when  I  moved so he superglued it  back  onto  the

vibrator.  He didn't turn it on, though. After a while I began to

feel very weird. I was free to move, but I felt ... contained. No

matter what I did,  moving or not,  I could feel the pull of  the

webbing.  I  felt  awkward,  as though every movement I made  was

being opposed or deflected by something.   Like being under water

with  currents or something.  He worked around my breasts so that

when he was through they were flattened and criscrossed and  held

against my chest.  Only my nipples protruded, bulging out between

the strands, pendants dangling.

    Then he put my dress back on and took me out to dinner.  From

the  outside  I looked pretty good:  A blonde (I was wearing  the

long  honey  blonde wig) in a semi-diaphanous  cotton  dress.  No

boobs  at all to speak of.  White leather sandals.  The  wrapping

didn't  show anywhere.   A close observer might have noticed that

my sandal straps were tight, but there were no close observers.

     We went to an Italian restaraunt,  but an expensive one.   I

walked  slowly,  sat carefully,  and ate sparingly.  Even  so,  I

spilled  wine,  water,  and food all over the place.   I wish  it

hadn't been Italian food and red wine.  It was a new dress.   The

waiter didn't say anything, but I really made a mess.

     Back at home,  he cut away the strands holding the  vibrator

in. He had used separate strands for the vibrator so that cutting

them didn't loosen the rest.   He made love to me.  I'm not going

to tell you it was the best lovemaking I had ever had, but it was

definitely an interesting experience.  I never would have thought

it would be.   I imagine that you probably are wondering what was

the point?   I dunno,  but he does good things to me, and I don't

need  a point.  It is a little like art,  I guess.   It was  just

there.  Because.

     I kind of like being a blank canvas.

     After,  as  I lay panting on the bed,  spread out flat on my

back and feeling as though I had fallen from a great  height,  he

took  some  bandage scissors and cut the strings one at  a  time,

slowly. Then he untied my sandals.

     All in all, a very satisfactory evening. I have no idea why,

but there it is.


     Several days ago,  he brought home a modem for this computer

and  showed  me how to log onto his work account and  access  the

rn news network.   This is completely new to me.   I have started

reading   the   entries   under  some  of   the   headings   like

rec.arts.erotica  and,  although I haven't posted

anything.    Apparently  I'm a "lurker."  Or at least I  will  be

until  he  posts this entire document and you read  this.   Jeez.

I'm talking to people now.

     Hi, people.  Two questions occur to me. seems to be the most sincere news discussion

group about sex. The little boys in remind me of a lot of

farm boys back home in Indiana.   They weren't getting any there,

either.  When  they boast about their exploits,  it reminds me of

the line from Lao Tzu:

     Those who speak do not know, those who know do not speak.

    (Will  ya listen to me:   I may well be writing  the  longest

autobiographical posting in history.  But it doesn't matter if  I

speak,  because I DO know. Maybe not everything, but some things.

And besides,  I have no choice other than to write this. "He made

me  do  it.") I'm sure many of you that post  in

actually do the things you write about,  but some of you seem  to

have lost the essence of what I am doing with J. Maybe I'm wrong,

but  some of you seem to have become technicians,  going on about

the relative merits of handcuffs vs.  leather cuffs.   Others are

advice-givers.   Others  enjoy shocking their readers with  their

tales and comments.   Others are almost political ("what will  we

call ourselves/will society ever accept us ...").   These seem to

be displacement activities. Am I right?

     My  first  question:   I have just started to  explore  this

stuff;  it occupies me almost full-time right now. Will it become

so  mundane and familiar for me that I,  too,  will get into  the

'lore' of bondage and take up these displacement activities? Like

writing this account, you ask.  Hmmm....

     Question two:  I have often thought of what I would do if  I

could  go  back to the moment when I lost my virginity and do  it

over again -- take more control and do it right -- with the right

person.  I was more concerned with enduring it than  experiencing

it. Youth is wasted on the young, my grandfather used to say.

      But now I am losing another kind of virginity. I don't want

to look back with regret and wish I had done it right.  Of course

by the time you read this, it'll be too late for advice, but it's

a question I can still ask:  did we do it right?  Post an answer.

I'll read it, promise.  This is new to J, too.  I don't know what

I  could  have  done differently to  control  what  happened.   I

suppose voluntary submission is a kind of limited  control.   Sex

the old way certainly is boring.  'Vanilla,' you call it.  I like

that.  New usage. Will we run out of interesting things to do and

then  be  back  where we started?   Will this path I  have  taken

escalate to an ultimate boredom?

     Another question:   who was Saltgirl?   I liked her, but she

seems to have stopped posting.   She seems sensible.   Probably a

midwesterner.   So  anyway,  a  big hello to  all  you  happytime

hardcores out there in leatherland, with special regards to Ctan,

STella,  Elf, and Saltgirl, wherever you are. Maybe some day I'll

join the out-of-the-closet gang.   The hell I will.  I don't know

who reads this stuff.  Maybe my future boss.


     The next day we were showering and J was 'preparing' me  for

sex  again  the way he almost always does when we  are  showering

together,  by  covering  me with skin conditioner  and  exploring

every  orifice until I was eager to have him inside me in any way

he chose.

     Without  actually  saying  so,  I  have  signaled  in  every

nonverbal way possible that I was prepared to have sex in the one

way we have never had it.   When his fingers were deep between my

buttocks,  inside me,  I would squirm against him, trying to push

his fingers deeper.   I actually feel pleasure when he does  this

to  me,  and the responsive noises I make indicate my  sensations

clearly, but he has never penetrated me ... that way.

     I have arrived at the conclusion he was toying with the idea

but  that  it  repelled  him somewhat.   I  must  admit  that  my

facination  with the idea was tempered with a certain  amount  of

apprehension:  I had never had anything that big inside me there.

Also,  I am perhaps overly hygenic in my approach to sex.  I like

to  be clean before and to wash after.   The preparation and  the

postcoital rituals are important to me:   he almost always leaves

me a little excited afterward,  no matter how sated I was during,

so  cleaning up afterwards is an erotic experience.  The odor  of

soap  evokes  a  more  erotic response in  me  than  the  various

secretions our bodies make.  It's conditioning, I guess.

       Anyway,  I  think  the hygenic aspect might still be  what

bothers  us both most,  even now.   So while we were showering  I

made a tentative suggestion.   It was very very hard to bring  up

this  subject for the first time.   ASB'ers probably already know


     "You  must  know that I get tremendously turned on when  you

do  that,"   I said,  trying to approach the  subject  obliquely.

Which  was difficult,  considering that I was near orgasm and  he

had  a  number of fingers deep inside various  parts  of  me.  He

didn't answer.

     "If  you  want me ...  that way ...  I could  clean  myself.

Inside,  I mean."  He still didn't answer.   "If it would  please

you,"   I added.  We both got more interested in other things  at

that point and further discussion had to wait until later.

     I  have  worked  in  internal  medecine,  and  have  prepped

patients  for  rectals before.   I explained.  Not all  the  gory

details, but enough that he knew that I knew what to do.

     "I hadn't even thought ... " he said.

     But the thought had obviously taken root.   For the rest  of

the  week,   in the back of my mind was the thought of what would

come later.


     I took a chance making that suggestion.  You see, this whole

thing  is something of a game.   I can't seem too forward when  I

suggest  an innovation like that.   He must take the lead  and  I

must  follow.   Reluctantly.   And  it is best for me when I  can

resist  what he does to me,  even though I may secretly want  it.

That way the responsibility is his.   He has to believe that I am

going along against my will, at least to some extent -- which has

always been true up to now.   He gets me so turned on that I want

to go forward despite a certain amount of trepidation about  what

he  will do to me.  I am always afraid,  but ready to do the next

item  on the List,  even though I don't know what it is.   It  is

only  after  he has started that I sometimes  chicken  out,  even

though  I agreed to it when we made up the List.   But by then it

is  too late.  Still rushing in and fearing to tread.   In  fact,

today, having settled down a bit, I can even look back on when he

shaved my forehead with an equanimity that borders on sensuality.

     He  must  know  by now that I have come to like what  he  is

doing to me.   I am becoming addicted to him.  But I have to walk

a tightrope for both of us.   He would lose interest if I gave in

too easily.   I have to fight it all the way.   So we have  these

three  silly rules just so I can break them so I can be punished.

Except  that when he thinks I have transgressed deliberately  the

punishment  is much worse.   He always makes me regret  it.  Like

this  last time.   He walks a tightrope too:   he always makes  a

time come when I myself don't know if I want him to stop.   After

that, sometimes, I genuinely want him to stop, but he never does.

And if he did, I would be disappointed afterward.  I knew when we

made  up the List there would be some things that I would want to

stop,  but  I also knew intellectually that nothing on  the  List

could actually hurt me.

     There  seems  to  be  a  lot  of  discussion  on  ASB  about

safewords.  I think I get more of a thrill working without a net.

That's  not true:  the List is my safety net,  and I to hang onto

that  rather  than a safeword.  I'd have to trust J  either  way,

safeword or List, but the List allows me to feel I have no net. I

think a safeword would spoil it for me somehow,  although it sure

would make life easier for J.  He watches me like a hawk.  I like

that.  But he watches for real intolerable pain,  not just what I

don't like.  There's a grey area at the edge of the limits set by

the List.   That's the terra incognita where we play.   He  stays

within the limits of the List, but takes liberties insofar as the

List  and  common sense let him.  I dunno.  maybe a  safeword  is

better.  We're  new  to  this  and haven't really  run  into  any

genuinely harmful situations yet.

     I have a sneaking suspicion that my presumptuous  suggestion

in  the shower is what earned me the rest of my punishment,  even

though he later acted on the suggestion. If I get too forward, he

takes  control  again  by  doing  something  else  awful  to  me.

Remember  the "rest of the punishment?"  Shaving my forehead  was

just the beginning?   Well, it would have come eventually anyway.


     The smell of neatsfoot oil has become a turn-on for me.   My

next  punishment began with the leather straps.   I don't need to

describe  again how he immobilized me,  except this time he  left

the  strap  between  my knees off so I  could  take  normal-sized

steps.    My  arms and shoulders were still strapped back so that

my breasts were unnaturally prominent;  strapped so far back that

the chain between my nipple rings was taut.

     He told me to follow him out to the garage,  where he showed

me  the  contraption that he had kept covered with a  sheet.   It

looked  like a wooden sawhorse -- in fact he called it a horse --

except that there were two horizontal parts side-by-side  instead

of the usual one, and they were separated by a space.  And in the

middle,  on either side of these pieces,  were two blocks of wood

shaped to form a tiny, smooth, wooden saddle, also split down the

middle  by that same space.   The whole was sanded and  varnished

quite expertly.

      He let me see it.   That was all.   Then he took me back to

the bedroom,  put the hood on me, and locked my collar to a chain

attached to the bedpost.  I had to sit on the edge of the bed and

wait,  listening to him move around the house,  wondering what he

was doing,  and what the "horse" gizmo was for.

     Finally,  he led me into the living room where he hooked the

shoulder straps to something overhead, and my ankles to something

that  held  them apart;  blindfolded,  I couldn't tell  what.   I

also  couldn't fall,  and I couldn't bring my legs together.   He

unbuckled  the  crotch  strap  and I felt  him  begin  to  insert

something  into me.   I squirmed against it,  but it was  only  a

token  squirm.   I  knew  he had  control.   Besides,  it  wasn't

particularly large and didn't hurt,  although I could feel it was

hard.  It was well lubricated and completely painless.  I assumed

it was a dildo.   He did the same to my rear opening.  I squirmed

harder against this second intrusion,  but I was already  getting

turned  on by the first and ended up voluntarily relaxing  enough

to accept the second device.   He pushed the two deep into me and

held them, and I stood there, hooded, docile.

     I felt something heavy brush between my legs.  I didn't know

for sure, but from the noise and the prelude, I expected it to be

the  horse.   He  told  me  to sit.  Slowly.   As  I  did  so  he

manipulated  the dildos inside me into position.   I didn't  know

what  he  was doing at the time,  but I soon learned that he  had

slipped  the ends of the dildos into the slot in the seat of  the

horse  and clamped them tightly (with a wrench) into  place  with

bolts  that pulled the two parallel horizontal pieces together to

hold  the dildos immobile.   Once he began removing the hood  and

the  other  restraints,  I also found that the  two  dildos  were

nearly touching deep inside me, separated only by the floor of my

vagina and the anterior wall of my rectal cavity.

     When he was through I was completely unfettered: not a scrap

of  leather anywhere on my body.   Even my hands were  free,  for

what good it did me.  The dildos were rounded and smoothed wooden

dowels,  each  covered with a condom to make it comfortable  (and

splinter-free,  thank  God).   They were clamped into position so

that  even  if I tried to stand up they wouldn't  slip out.   No

matter how I moved,  I couldn't get off the horse without causing

myself  pain,  maybe  even  damage.  Yet there  were  no  visible


       "What  have  you  done to me?!"  I asked  in  an  unsteady

voice.  I  looked around me,  twisting as far as I could  to  see

what he had done,  becoming increasingly nervous and uncertain. I

felt over the device that held me seated.  The bolts were far too

tight for my fingers to budge them.   I ran my shaking hands over

both  places where the dildos disappeared into me;  they were far

too  firm  to be shifted.  I wasn't uncomfortable so  long  as  I

didn't try to move, but I had no choice about getting free of the

thing.  I had to sit there and wait for what came next.

       He told me he wouldn't free me until I had an orgasm while

he watched.  With my hands free, I was able to masturbate, but it

was really embarrasing,  sitting there in the middle of the room.

To  the  casual observer I would have looked like a  naked  woman

sitting  astride a simple wooden sawhorse.  Admittedly,  a  naked

platinum  blonde elizabethan woman with no pubic hair and a chain

connecting her nipples, but even so, you wouldn't have known that

I couldn't get up.

     I  really tried masturbating,  but I just couldn't get  into

it.  On  the horse,  I just couldn't make it work.   He stood  in

front  of  me,   hooked  his finger under the  chain  between  my

nipples  and pulled me gently but firmly toward him.   The  horse

would let me lean just so far. My nipples stretched out to points

in front of me.

     "Try  again," he said,  "harder."   I was in too delicate  a

position to resist him,  and he knew it.   I tried again, harder.

I still couldn't.

    He  put  the hood back on me,  and strapped my wrists  to  my

thighs again,  and my shoulders back in that unnatural  position.

I waited.  When he took the hood off again, there was a small end

table in front of me.  On it were a pair of scissors,  a basin of

water, shaving cream, a towel, and a razor.

     "Oh no,  please!"  I said.   "I will do anything!   Not  the

rest of my hair!"

     He didn't answer.

     "I'm  sure I could climax if you just let me  try  again..."

No  response.  "Master!  I can call you Master now,"  I  babbled.

"I  was waiting to tell you!   Truly!  I can really  do  it!   No

problem!"   He  knew  I  would have said anything  to  stop  him,

although  my last plea caught his attention,  I could  tell.   He

gave me an appraising look and shook his head almost sadly as  he

picked up the scissors.

    It's no good begging when he's like that.  I let out one last

whimpering  cry  as  he  stepped  forward  to  begin.

   "Please?  Master?"  I whined, my voice breaking and dissolving

into a kind of hiccuping crying sob.  He kissed me gently on  the

forehead  and  started cutting right away,  with no  nonsense  or

teasing.  I let out a cry that sounded like I was in pain when he

took the first cut. I was crying openly, just saying "No, please,

no,  please  please  please don't please ..." over and  over.   I

could  see  my hair falling on the floor around me as he  cut  it

away,  but I didn't even try to resist.   I suppose I could  have

twisted my head from side to side or something, but he would have

won in the end.

      This  time  there was no mirror for me to  see  myself  in,

and I was grateful.

      He lathered my entire scalp with the shaving cream and went

to  work  shaving  my  head  while  I  whined  and  blubbered  in

frustration  and tugged ineffectually against the straps  holding

my wrists to my thighs.  I had figured that maybe my bangs didn't

need  to  grow out to the same length as the rest of my  hair  in

order for me to be presentable in public.   I had figured maybe I

could  do something with a bandana.   Now it will be half a  year

before I can go without a wig.

     He  damp-toweled  my  scalp  and kissed  me  on  the  mouth,

muffling my near-hysterical whimpering.

     "My  God  but  you're beautiful," he  said.   "Now  for  the

finishing touch..."

     That focused my attention and stopped my crying immediately.

"Finishing touch?" I thought, "what's left to do to me?"

                           The List

                           Column 1

                           Item 15

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

facial  hair.  He put it on my eyebrows.   I had forgotten  about


     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 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

hairless.   I am really no worse off than when he had shaved just

my  forehead:  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 inconsequential -- 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


      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


     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 disgustingly 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 nuttin'.  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

erogenous 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 my embarrasment 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 inflatable 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 is

possible 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 teriffic orgasm,   made all the more teriffic 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  destroyed.   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 towelling 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

psychology 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


     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 behaviour  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 interferred 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 impending (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


     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 clothse in the next room,  I put on  a

foundation  and  a very pale coverup with the faintest  touch  of

blusher.   Next,  heavy  eyeshadow and mascara (I know  he  likes

that).   Then  I  put a shot across his bow,  as they say in  the


    "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 off the wig now?"


    "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 hearties.

     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

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

metaphorically. 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 understand (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  completely

clueless.  I  can 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

unfairness  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 alphabetize 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 eyebrows 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



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

knew  for an absolute undeniable fact that even though we had 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

slinked  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 I had had yet was

when I was on top in the shower with the dildo inside 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

(ANYTHING)  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 matress 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 exhilirated 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


     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  functional.  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 criscrossed 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


     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  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 allover body tatoo.  Face and all.   A pierced

nostril is a must, someday, I think.

If  only cosmetic breast enhancement could be safe and reversable

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 "Something

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


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 wierd, 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

involuntarily,  is  an erotically charged experience for me,  and

not necessarily 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 behaviour.  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  wierd  about  all



                         The List

                         Column 1

                         Item 17

     He  began  by telling me to prepare myself  for  the  "other

kind" of intercourse.  Despite all we have been through, we  both

still did a kind of verbal dance around the concept.

     "You  remember saying how you could prepare yourself.   In a

special way..." he began.

     I hadn't actually given him the details,  but I knew what he

meant. "You mean cleaning myself inside ... behind ...?"  I said.

     "Yes.    I know that that kind of ... preparation ...  isn't

on the List, though..."

     "If  it  would please you we can add it.   Besides,  if  the

alternative is no preparation, I would prefer to ...."

     "There  is  that to consider." My my,  so formal.  Maybe  we

haven't left Kansas after all,  Toto.  No matter how disgustingly

anatomical,  no  matter  which  -- or how  many  -- orifices  are

penetrated,   no  matter  what  glandular  secretions  or  hidden

perversions  are  involved,  there is no situation that can't  be

sanitized by midwestern etiquette.

     I'll give you an example.   Sorry to digress, but I once met

a  gay  activist playwright from Indianapolis who felt  he  could

challenge  the homophobic political environment in the midwest by

writing plays that highlighted the supposedly more liberal social

attitudes of classical Greece and Rome.   He is best known for  a

disastrous  satirical farce about a gay gladiator named  Felonius

Orifice and his twin brother Titus.

     He had hoped that if his play didn't actually make any money

it  might at least be accorded the dignity of censorship  at  the

hands   of  the  city  comissioners  or  the  chief  of   police.

Unfortunately,  on opening night there was a sizeable audience of

gay  activists  that  were attending  as  a  politically  correct

gesture of solidarity for their fellow activist.

     During  the first act it became apparent that the playwright

had  seriously misjudged the collective sense of humor in the gay

community,  although the rest of the audience seemed to enjoy  it

immensely.    Apparently  the  play was a little ambiguous as  to

exactly  who  was being satirized,  and the gays thought  it  was

them.   They  took  their  cause  more  seriously  than  did  the

playwright. They felt betrayed. They left during the intermission

to  invest in vegetables and poultry products.   The play  closed

during  the early moments of the second act.   The theater  owner

had to replace the curtains.

     Anyway,  the  playwright was notorious:  you can imagine the

joy  he brought to newspaper columnists,  editors,  and  critics.

They  agreed  unanimously  that the play should  reopen,  but  no

theater  owner would touch it.   There wasn't a person  within  a

hundred miles that didn't know the story.  EVERYBODY knew.

     Even  so,  when  I  was  introduced to him  by  a  nice  old

midwestern  biddie,  a scion of the Indianapolis cultural  scene,

she says,  "He's *single*,  you know..." with a significant  look

that  was supposed to tell the Whole Story:  "single" equals  gay

when said in the right tone of voice and with the eyebrows in the

correct position.   This is the sort of linguistic semaphore code

that  midwesterners  understand  perfectly.   It allows  them  to

communicate with the Deep South,  for example,  and to  translate

for New Yorkers.

     And if you think the old biddie lives in La-La  Land,  don't

you  believe it.  She bought IBM stock for peanuts as a  teen-age

girl  and  thinks  New Yorkers are overly  dependent  on  reality

anyway. She has homes in Miami, New York, and Indianapolis.

     So  J  and I had absolutely no  problem  understanding  each

other,  even  though  not a single bodily function or  anatomical

feature was mentioned.

    Anyway,   our  little exchange made it pretty clear what  the

choices were: I could prepare myself for what was to come or not,

but it was finally going to happen.   I only had control over the

level of hygene and nothing else.

     So I prepared myself.   J says I have to include this in the

account,  so I'll put it in,  but   I will try to describe this a

delicately as possible.   We're talking about colonic irrigation,

here,  folks.   Several  repeats of the  procedure were necessary

until I was voiding clear,  clean water.  Then another just to be

sure.   This  is  more  than would be required  by  an  examining

physician,  but then we weren't just looking,  were we?  I wanted

to be clean. For me as well as for J.  'Nuff said, especially for

someone from the midwest.  As, I've already mentioned, my mother,

the archetypic midwesterner, doesn't have any bodily functions at

all,  as far as I can tell.  My apologies to the folks back home,

but  I  found  out that in the real world people use  words  like

'colon' sometimes.   They even use their *colons* sometimes,  ma.

Recreationally, even.

     Meanwhile,  back  at  the  raunch,  the next  step  was  the

obligatory  ritual shower.   I was clean inside and out,  and  as

naked  as it is possible to be -- with the exception of a  couple

of  chains.   He had me put a matte makeup foundation on  without

the  mirror,  and a powder over that.  Then,  with the  the  long

tangled  black  wig in place,  I was finished.   I knew what  was

coming,  so I put on the same "pained" eyebrows again.  That look

really  turns me on -- I think [know] it  does him.  Besides,  it

expressed how I expected to feel.

     He  led  me  out into the bedroom by the  wrist  chains  and

started with a little light foreplay and cuddling on the bed.  As

he got me warmed up,  my mind kept focusing on what was about  to

happen (I was mostly worried that it would hurt) and I was caught

a little by surprise when he slipped a new kind of device  inside

me.  Another toy from chains-R-us in San Francisco;  he must have

spent  a  fortune that day.  It was a vibrator,  the kind with  a

flange  at the outer end that pressed against my  clitoris  while

the  rest of it rested (later vibrated) inside me.   He lifted me

to my feet and had me kneel with my chest on a little bench (kind

of a short piano bench) with red velvet upholstery on the top. He

taped  my  wrists  and  knees  to the  legs  of  the  stool  with

electrical tape and strapped a belt all the way around the  stool

and my waist so that I couldn't get up -- or in fact move much at

all except my head. I could wiggle my rear end a bit, though.

     There  was  a full-length mirror right in front of my  face,

leaning against the wall.   My breasts just peeked over the  edge

of the bench, and I could just barely lift my shoulders enough to

see my little garnet nipple pendants. I looked pretty good in the

long,  shaggy  wig.  I  could see the reflection of J's face  and

shoulders behind me.

    I  squirmed  a little but the way they were taped I  couldn't

pull my legs together when he reached between my legs and  turned

on the vibrator.  When he pressed it against me it was  stunning.

I  pushed  against  the stool with my  hips,  which  pressed  the

flange-thing against my important bits,  and I could  tell  right

away that this was a vibrator designed by a woman.

     Immediately,  though,  I felt his fingers lubricating me for

penetration.  Once again, I found myself trying to concentrate on

two  things  at once.   The vibrator was doing  very  interesting

things  to me,  but I could see him over my shoulder and feel him

spreading  and stretching me more and more.   I really  got  into

that part.

     Being able to watch my own expression during this was a  bit

like making love to myself.  Sounds narcissistic,  I know.  Well,

it was.   I make no excuses:   for some reason I felt unabashedly

and  overtly  narcissistic,  and  I  gave in  completely  to  the

impulse.  What the hell,  I said. I had never watched myself in a

mirror during sex before.  (This is sex,  isn't it?)  Anyway, the

looks I gave that mirror were directed as much at myself as at J.

     The  first  look was one of pained surprise as he  began  to

enter  me.   I gasped for real at the sensation and tried to push

forward away from the pain.

     "Wait!!" I squeaked,   "It's too big!"  He was already being

gentle,  but he is a little bigger than the vibrator I had had in

there  before.   He had prepared me well with lots of  lubricant,

though,  and  was already partly inside.   I can't  describe  the

sensation of being parted and penetrated there.  The anticipation

when he held my cheeks apart was exquisite.   I'm proud to report

that I savored the anticipation and apprehension like a  gourmand

tasting a new dish for the first time, fully aware that there can

be  only  one  first time.  I felt as though I were  truly  being

violated,  though -- more so than when I lost my virginity.   But

it  was  a  delicious  violation.   I  remember  a  fleeting  and

unarticulated thought flashing through my mind:

     "This time I will experience rather than endure."  (Actually

it  was more like:  "Ouch!  Oops.   I gotta try and enjoy it this


     After that I stopped thinking.   I panted,  taking my breath

in  short gasps as though a deep breath would have somehow  hurt,

and I cried out several times as he slipped incrementally  deeper

into  me.   He stopped and waited while I tried to relax more  to

accomodate his size.   During the pauses he flexed (?).   I don't

know what the actual physiological basis for this is, but he kind

of twitches and seems to grow momentarily larger inside me.  It's

not  a motion of the hips,  but of his actual organ.   Anyway,  I

call it flexing for lack of a better description,  even though  I

don't  know  of  any  muscles to explain  it  (I  checked  Gray's

Anatomy.  It was no help) and J doesn't know what he does either,

but  he's  sure all males can do it.   It  is  another  delicious

feeling -- one that really helped as he continued to gently pulse

his way into me.

    It really is profoundly different from "normal" sex.   It was

a feeling of being filled up.   That describes it best.   It  was

all  the  more  foreign  and new because  it  is  accompanied  by

sensations  that I normally associate with being emptied.   But I

was  being filled completely and couldn't escape it:  I tried  to

wiggle away -- and I savored not being able to escape.

    Finally  he was thoroughly in.   I could feel his hips  tight

against  my  buttocks.  I was dizzy with new sensations,  but  he

waited  until  my breathing stabilized and I had adjusted to  the

feeling.   Experimentally,  I tried contracting around him,  even

though  I was stretched to capacity and it was all I could do  to

keep myself big and relaxed enough to prevent it from hurting. He

felt the contraction and "flexed" back at me.

     I  didn't think of it then,  but the attitude I HAD to adopt

is  one  that  encapsulates the entire idea of  bondage  for  me:

Relax,  submit to it,  welcome it,  and pain can become pleasure.

Oddly the converse is not true:   Fight it and the pleasure  does

not become pain.   Rather,  if you are clever,  resistance brings

you  closer to the edge of pain so you can play there.   Fighting

it  also takes away the guilt.   I can still feel the guilt,  you

know, what with being from Indiana and all.

     He  let me be the first to begin moving,  contracting around

him and pushing with that (very interesting) new vibrator against

the edge of the stool.  At first I just made a few very tentative

experimental  movements,  exploring my limits.   I decided he was

exactly  the right size.   If he had been even a fraction  of  an

inch  larger I would have been in serious pain,  but he filled me

completely and if I relaxed and didn't fight I could push against

him  and enjoy it.  (Yes,  I know,  who could really enjoy  that,

you're  thinking,  but all it takes is a good vibrator and a very

sensitive  lover -- one who can control his own instincts  enough

to help you through these critical moments.   I didn't expect  to

do more than endure, but I ended up enjoying  -- sort of.  I take

that  back.  I enjoyed it,  period.   That doesn't mean it didn't


     Don't get me wrong though: the orgasm was entirely caused by

the  vibrator.  I could never have an orgasm from anal sex alone.

Those   sensations   were  mostly  penetration,   wierdness   and

occasional pain; it was the combination of the two with an orgasm

that made it so, well, good.

     I  tried  sort of pushing back against him  and  rubbing  my

front  against the vibrator,  and I began to get the hang of  it.

He began moving gently in response to my halting motions,  but he

changed  the rythm:   rather than thrusting into me when I pushed

back  against  him,   he  followed me as  I  thrust  against  the

vibrator and helped me push against it as well, gently pinning me

against the edge of the stool.  As I pushed back, I tried to open

and relax,  drawing more of him into me as he first retreated and

then followed my next thrust.  So he began by moving with, rather

than against me.

     All the while I was watching my own face in the  mirror.   I

have  to  admit  that  the  expressions  that  semi-involuntarily

crossed  my face were a turn-on.   Occasinally he would thrust  a

tad  too  hard and I would gasp and an expression of  pain  would

cross my face (enhanced,  of course, by the expressive eyebrows I

had   given myself).   He watched for those signals and was  very

careful with me, but I was still completely in his hands. I would

have had to accept whatever he wanted.   I watched myself through

half-closed  eyes as my breathing quickened and I became more and

more responsive.  There was nothing making him be careful, but he

was careful nonetheless,  to perfection.  He also kept me just on

the  edge of what I could take,  now and then pushing me over  by

just the right amount to make me gasp again.   More than once, my

half-closed eyes sprang open with astonishment and a half-cry  of

pain  escaped  as the breath was driven out of me -- but  he  had

such  control  that it turned instantly to  pleasure.  He  really

walked the edge that time.

     As  I neared orgasm (it really was the vibrator rather  than

the  other  that brought me there) I wanted desperately  to  make

great  heaving motions against him and the  vibrator,  but  every

time I tried an extreme movement I caused myself instant pain.  I

was  forced  to  control myself and limit my  motions  to  little

thrusting  twitches  which  suddenly,  and without  my  volition,

became  spasmodic and convulsive.  I had been going  slowly,  not

thinking  about  (or even hoping for)  an  orgasm  when,  without

realizing it, I found myself in the middle of a big one.

     My eyes widened and my mouth opened as though I were  saying

"Oh!"  but  no  noise came out.  The temptation of  the  orgasmic

contractions  was  too  great  to  resist,   but  every  time   I

contracted,  I felt pain. Even now, I don't know whether pleasure

or pain was the dominant theme of that orgasm,  but I do know the

pain  intensified  the  pleasure  in  a  way  that  I  had  never

experienced.   I couldn't separate the two.  As I say,  he really

walked the edge.  I guess I did, too.

     At  that  critical moment,  just when I was watching my  own

face in the throes of pleasure/pain and thinking I looked really

beautiful  like this,  he reached up and pulled my wig off and  I

saw my shaved head for the first time.

     He timed this shock to come right smack in the middle of  my

orgasm.  I couldn't stop my own powerful pelvic contractions even

though  each spasm caused me pain behind that forced increasingly

loud  gasps from my lips.   I was completely incoherent from  the

ongoing  orgasm and at the same time horrified by my  appearance.

I looked so bald and naked!   My gasps became louder and I  heard

myself  crying "No!" and "Don't!" and "Please!" and "Stop!"  with

each  of  his thrusts even though I was the one causing the  pain

more than he.   And it wasn't only the sex and the pain I  wanted

to stop,  it was the sight of me so naked and bald and awful.   I

was totally out of it,  orgasmically,  visually, psychologically,

every  way  you  can imagine.   I reacted  strongly  and  without

inhibition  to everything at once.   It sounds silly to say  this

now, but that's how I felt, that's how I remember it.

    My whole body stiffened and hardened as the orgasm peaked.  I

think  every  single  muscle  must have  been  tensed.   Even  my

breathing was suspended.  My eyes were wide and round, staring at

my  reflection  with a kind of stupefied amazement.  In  fact,  I

really was astonished by the feelings I was  experiencing.   More

than  that,  I was transfixed:   my mouth was open in a surprised

but silent "O" and I was straining against the bonds at my wrists

and  knees;  I  remember  the  tendons in my  neck  and  forearms

standing  out.    As the orgasm held me in its grip my body  just

seemed  to  take charge all on it's own and clench every  muscle,

leaving  me with no voluntary control at all.  I gripped him  and

the vibrator like a vise.   I looked into my own eyes and had the

distinct feeling that in some way I was making love to myself,  a

victim of my own needs.   Even more,  (it is embarrasing to admit

this) that I was in love with myself.  Does that make sense?  I'm

not bisexual,  but narcissism really is a kind of  homosexuality,

isn't  it?   Hey, at least it's sex with someone I love....

    Finally I realized I had been holding my breath.  As I tipped

over the edge and began sliding down the far side of the  climax,

a  surprisingly  loud cry escaped and I expelled the  lungful  of

stale air I had been holding.   I began breathing again in  great

gulps and gasps.

     After  we  were  through he inched his way  out  slowly  and

carefully.   I was grateful for that.  I was almost sorry to feel

him finally leave.   I felt emptied.  Depleted. He turned off the

vibrator,  unbuckled the belt around my waist,  and cut my wrists

free,  leaving the scissors for me to free myself the rest of the

way.   While  he was in the shower,  I just stared at myself in a


     I  am normally in a daze after a "session",  but this time I

was dazed by the way I looked as much as by how I felt.   I  just

stared mindlessly for quite a while.  Finally, I shook myself out

of  it  and  cut my knees free.   I sat on the stool  for  a  few

minutes, peeling electrician's tape off my skin and trying to get

my head together before getting to my feet.  I felt a bit wobbly.

I  was still wearing those chains,  but other than that,  when  I

stood  in  front  of the mirror I was completely  -- and  I  mean

completely -- nude.  It was quite a shocking sight.

        I'm  sorry to dwell on this,  but it's the biggest  thing

that's happened to my body since I reached puberty and grew tits.

I really look different.  So very very naked.

     Words like nude,  exposed, hairless, bald, shorn, and shaved

all  come to mind,  and I know I keep saying this over and  over,

but  these words just don't capture the feeling of being  totally

naked everywhere and from all angles. I don't know how to express

it.  It just wasn't me in the mirror. I turned to the side to see

what  I looked like.  Still in disbelief over my  appearance,  my

hand  crept up to touch my scalp,  half checking to make sure  it

was really true, still hoping it wasn't.  With the hand mirror, I

looked  at  the back of my head.   It is so white and smooth  and

round  -- even paler than the rest of my skin,  which  was  quite

pale,  even  after the first treatment with tanning  lotion.   It

isn't lumpy,  like some bald men's heads are;   it is a perfectly

featureless dome,  front, back, and sides.  Somehow that makes it

look  even more naked.   I usually think of my earrings as  minor

accessories,  but  without any hair they suddenly have  become  a

major aspect of my facial appearance.   They used to be hidden by

my hair.

     This  may  sound odd,  but I looked at my nipple  rings  and

thought,  "Well,  at least I still have those."  Stupid,  I know,

but for some reason I was reassured by the thought of them as the

last  vestage  of  the "old me" even though  I  should  logically

regard them as the earliest symbols of the "new me." Maybe I just

think  of  them the only part of me that hasn't been taken  away.

Jesus, I don't know. I don't know what to think.

    J  came  out of the shower and stood behind me with his  arms

around me as I looked into the mirror.   I asked him how he could

possibly like the way I looked,  and immediately felt an erection

growing against my back.   I guess I really don't need more of an

answer  than  that.  It turns him on.   Even though  I  hate  it,

aspects of it turn me on,  too.   The embarrasment,  for example.

Every  time he does something I think I hate,  he reminds me that

what I am feeling is,  ultimately, embarrasment, and then he asks

for it as a gift.  He asks me to let myself feel it,  let it come

out.   For  some reason,  that diverts my feelings of  resentment

into something that becomes erotic.  Usually. I don't know.

    Over the previous few days, I had come to assume that it  was

the simple visual impact of my hairlessness that turned J on, but

it seems it's more complex than that.  What was just as important

was  that  he knew I was stunned by what he had done  to  me  and

would be shocked again when I saw myself for the first time.   My

mental  state  was at least as important to him  as  my  physical

appearance, and the expression on my face (frozen there during my

orgasm)  had expressed exactly the mental state that  turned  him

on so.

    During  that  session J had been holding back out of  concern

for the tenderness of my previously unviolated rear  portal,  but

something  about the way I looked in the mirror at the moment  of

my orgasm (he later said) caused him to lose control  -- although

I  wouldn't have known if he hadn't told me.  As I came down from

my orgasm I ended up just panting and staring at my face and head

in the mirror.   I still had kind of a shocked and surprised look

on my face: after all, I had never seen myself with absolutely no

hair before.   Perhaps I shouldn't mince words.  I was (am) bald.

Absolutely  naked bald.   (I know, I know. I'm going on about  it

again...) Anyway,  as I knelt there staring at myself,  quivering

and twitching slightly,  I felt him grow larger and harder inside

me.   He  began  very  slight but very  powerful  and  restrained

stroking  inside  me and came almost immediately.   That was  him

"losing control" as he put it.  What he means is he couldn't stop

having an orgasm, not that he lost all regard for me.

     Our "usual" frontal sex normally takes more effort than that

on his part, but this time,  it took almost no stimulation at all

to bring him to a climax.   I asked him about it later.   He said

it  wasn't  having sex "that way" that did it.  It was the way  I

looked  -- the  expression  on my face  -- during  and  after  my

orgasm.   I guess the brain is the real erogenous zone.   It must

be. How else could wet dreams happen?

    This really interested me,  so pay attention.   I quizzed him

(insofar as it is appropriate for a slave to quiz her master)  on

exactly  what I looked like to him,  and what it was that did  it

for him.  He was turned on by a combination of things.  First was

the  idea that I was so surprised and unable to control what  was

happening to me.  I really was surprised, but I deliberately used

my  face  to  express that surprise far more  explicitly  than  I

normally  would have.   Somehow that's a really important  lesson

for me.   Of course the feelings themselves are most important to

us  as human beings,  but in the process of human  communication,

appearances  are  at  least as important  as  the  feelings  they


     Actors watch themselves in the mirror to judge whether their

faces  do a good job of communicating what they pretend to  feel.

The  average  person doesn't bother to do this,  and  so  doesn't

communicate as well, even when the feelings are genuine. That's a

stupid thing of me to say:  of course, that's why they pay actors

to  do  what  they  do.

     THe  bottom  line  is this:  I suppose you could  regard  my

facial expressions as acting and therefore deceptive,  but I  was

only  playing around with really showing well what I was actually

feeling.  I  MADE my face LOOK the way I FELT.   In so  doing,  I

realized that it normally doesn't reflect my feelings accurately.

Doing this was a visual turn-on for ME,  too.

      Is it phony if you have to become an actor to show what you

really feel? Uh Oh. I feel a quote coming on ...

      "Truth and Myth are the same thing ... you have to simulate

       passion to feel it, ...  man is a creature of ceremony."

                                                 Sartre, I think


     I  don't  know what came over me that night after  my  first

experience with this new kind of sex.  I felt very odd.  I was in

an  erotic  mood  but  I didn't want to have  more  sex.   I  did

something I normally would never have thought I would do:  I went

and got the plastic torso and put it on.  I mean  voluntarily.  I

don't know why, it's such an anti-erotic thing to wear.

     I showered first,  and conditioned my skin, and then got the

torso and locked it in place,  even though J had the only key.  I

put  it on over charcoal sheer-to-the-waist pantyhose.  I have to

plan ahead when I put that carapace on:  I had to put my boots on

before the torso,  because with the torso on I can't bend  enough

to put them on easily. Then I sat for what must have been an hour

or  more  putting on my makeup.  I know it would have made a  lot

more  sense to put the torso on last,  after the  makeup,  but  I

didn't want to. I really don't know why.

       Putting  on makeup is a reassuringly  familiar  occupation

that I do without thinking; it is almost a kind of meditation.  I

made  myself  look  as artificial as the plastic covering  I  was

wearing.   Kind of a doll-like, with crisply defined eyeliner and

pencil-thin arched brows (totally unexpressive,  as though I were

a doll made up for a kabuki play) and lips painted to look like a

cupid bow.   I even put on false eyelashes,  something I  haven't

done in ages.  With coverup I made my skin flawless and smooth as

the  plastic,  and  I even redid my nails in black to  match  the

torso.   I finished myself off with the long,  tangled black wig.

The  mirror over the sink opens out so you can see yourself  from

three sides.   Seeing myself from the side,  motionless, I looked

like a department store mannequin, my makeup was so heavy.

     Don't ask me why I did that; I don't know.  J realized I was

in a strange mood and left me to myself.  In fact, he even cooked

dinner,  something  he  does  rarely and only out  of  deliberate

choice  these  days  (that is,  while we're  doing  Column  One).

Usually I cook.

     We ate in silence.    I wasn't mad at him,  or  anything,  I

just  was in a quiet mood and I kind of retreated inside  myself.

He seemed entranced.  I sat there with the erect posture that the

torso enforces,  eating like a cadet in the mess hall during hell

month.   He  almost forgot to eat himself he was watching me with

such  facination.  It was a bit distracting for a moment,  but  I

retreated to my own interior and forgot about him while I ate.

     After dinner, I rose to do the dishes and he stopped me.  He

told me to relax and read a book or something -- he said he  felt

like  doing  the dishes.   Just to let him know I wasn't  mad,  I

answered,   "If you're sure it pleases you,  Master."  I  noticed

distantly  -- almost indifferently -- that the M word slipped out

naturally and with no vestige of giggly embarrasment on my  part.

It  just  seemed like the right thing to say.   A part of me  was

faintly  interested in the observation that this could happen  to

me, that I could refer to him that way without thinking about it.

     I  was in that detached,  floating mood again.   I felt that

nothing  could  touch  me unless I wanted it  to.   Maybe  I  was

disassociating  myself from reality,  but I actually felt more in

touch  with  everything  -- just  less  concerned  about  it.   I

wandered  aimlessly through the house while J rattled  dishes  in

the distance.

     I  was  standing in front of the full-length mirror  in  his

bedroom  when he finished the dishes and came to stand behind me.

I was looking at myself the way one might look at a stranger, and

wondering  what  I would think of that stranger if I saw  her  in

public dressed this way.   Face it,  the only place would be in a

floor  show  at a bar where they catered to  the  leather  crowd.

Freakish,  but sexy.

     I really do look ... well ... regal ... with my chin held up

so  high.  I'm forced to have the posture of a queen.   If I  had

that  kind  of posture naturally,  people would think  I  was  an

incredible snob. I appear to be looking down on the world, and it

doesn't really come up to my standards, and I haven't decided yet

if I'm going to stay here.   I don't feel that way, but if I look

at myself objectively, that's what I see.

    And  the  sleek  black plastic is very  flattering  from  the

front.   Whenever I move,  the locks rattle against the sides  of

the  torso;   the  lock dangling in the space between my legs  is

somehow especially sexy.  Well, you'd have to see it to know what

I mean.

     I still can't tell you why I put on that particular  outfit.

I  guess  I  just felt like throwing myself completely  into  ...

this.  Sort of an offhand, almost careless impulse.

     It's  hard to describe my feelings at that moment.   I  felt

sorry for myself.   My old life seemed so distant, and I had lost

so much.  Indiana seemed very very far away.   I wondered idly if

I  clicked my black leather heels together three times  and  said

"There's  no  place like home...  theres no place  like  home..."

Sorry,  Auntie Em.

  They all dress this way in the merry old land of Oz.

    I just dropped in to pick up Toto's leash.

      You can keep Toto.

     Normally I would have laughed at the thought,  but for  some

reason  I had this maudlin,  self-indulgent thought that I wasn't

going home again.   Metaphorically,  I mean:  not back to the way

it used to be.

     That  thought  got through my armor plate and a single  tear

plowed  a  furrow through my masklike makeup.  I  wasn't  feeling

particularly  strong or deep emotions -- in fact,  it felt as  if

someone  else was feeling them for me,  and I watched her in  the

mirror almost curiously.   As I say,  I don't know what came over

me.  Childish sentimentality, that's all it was. Here I was, with

J, careening through the List and having the most profound sexual

experience  I could have hoped for,  and I was feeling sorry  for


     That one tear seemed to have an effect on J,  though.   It's

not like I was crying or anything;  it was just the one tear.  My

face  remained  unchanged -- not even a quivering lip.  (My  lips

really  do quiver when I'm about to cry.)  Still,  he turned  all

solicitous  and felt he had to do something,  so he took off  the

torso.  Crying  means so much more to men than it does to  women.

They always feel they have to DO something.   It's sweet, really.

Totally clueless, they are.

     It was a relief to get the torso off,  actually, even though

I had put it on myself.   I can kind of settle into it and forget

how  much more comfortable it is possible to be without  it.  The

relief is a surprise, in a way. He carried me into my bedroom and

took off the pantyhose and boots and put me on the bed.  He  said

to tell him if I wanted anything.  It was sometime after ten, and

I was feeling tired anyway, but I couldn't sleep.  I could hear J

getting ready for bed.

     I got up and removed all my makeup,  the wig, everything but

the nipple rings (I don't want the holes to close up).   I lit  a

candle  rather  than turn on lights (it just seemed  appropriate)

and went into J's bedroom and stood in the doorway.   I said  his

name, faintly.

     "Master?"   Okay,  so it's not his name,  but that's what  I

said.  And not in a subservient way, either. I said it naturally,

as though it were his name, not a title.

     He wasn't asleep.  I couldn't see him in the darkness beyond

my  candle,  but  I know he could see me,  standing there in  the

candle  light  as naked and bare as the day I was born.   I  felt

like a little girl going into her daddy's room after a  nightmare

for  reassurance.   He  told me to come to bed with him,  and  to

close the mosquito netting over the bed's alcove.

     The  candle  light made the bed a cosy nest.   It  was  just

nice...I  don't know if I can even explain why I'm writing  about

this part.  It just made an impression on me -- almost as much of

an impression as when he shaved my head.  The feeling of security

was something I needed very badly at the time.   Of course that's

what  I went in there for,  and J knew  that  instinctively.   He

almost always gives me what I need (not always what I  want).   I

think he was expecting me to come in,  though.  I don't even know

why I did.   That day had been an interesting one.  The sex was a

completely  new  barrier we had broken through,  and I  am  still

inwardly  proud that I got through it -- and I will look  forward

to it when the time comes again.   I don't think it was the  very

best sex ever, but it was so different as an experience that it's

a  matter of comparing apples and oranges anyway.   It was  good.

Really good.  I'm glad he made me do it.


     The next day,  J was gone for the morning.  He left me alone

at  the  house and I had the whole morning  to  myself.   I  gave

myself the artificial tanning treatment (I was getting noticeably

darker  by the third treatment,  but I think it is primarily  the

lotion;  the pills shouldn't have kicked in yet, according to the

directions.)  and  I  worked on this account for  three  or  four

hours.   I was (still am) several days behind.    He had left  me

unchained,  unconstrained physically in any way.   Except that he

had  me pack my wigs and all my clothing except the harem  outfit

and the thong in a small bag for him to take with him.  My credit

cards,  checkbook,  and bankbook were with my other clothing.  He

left me my car keys,  though.  Nice touch, that.  How far would a

bald  girl in a harem outfit (even with a black thong  under  it)

get  with no money?   I suppose I could wear a bedsheet and chant

Hare Krishna. I need a tambourine.

     I  have  given  my scalp extra applications of  the  tanning

lotion to try and even out the color difference between my  scalp

and  the rest of me.  I also did a bit of very careful sunbathing

(sunscreen assisted).  As I have said,  I normally avoid the sun,

but my scalp has NEVER seen the sun and is still very  white.   I

tan  so  easily,  a couple of days at five or ten minutes  a  day

should  do  it.   I  didn't really want a tan,  but it's  a  nice

experiment.   I  would have liked to just kind of neutralize  the

bluish color that very pale skin has,  but I obviously got a tan,

sun or not.  Well, maybe not obviously to you, but from where I'm

sitting today ....  Actually, I look pretty good with a tan.

     When  he  came home I was exercising on the weight bench  in

the garage, wearing the black thong and perspiring heavily.  When

his car pulled up I went out to meet him.   There must have  been

something  about  seeing me all sweaty and pumped up that had  an

effect on him:  he opened the bag on the spot and handed me a wig

to put on.   I got on my knees right there in the grass and asked

if I could talk with him.

     I don't like being free to leave, especially when I look the

way I do.  I used to ask myself a thousand times a day "why don't

you  just  go?"  and before I could always  answer  "because  I'm

chained  here."  Now the only answer I can give is that I am  too

embarrased  by my appearance,  so I feel guilty for not  leaving.

Embarrasment isn't a dignified reason for staying.

     Kneeling  there,  I  presented  him with a  rather  confused

manifesto  in which I told him I didn't like this  new  chainless

arrangement.   I  thought he was giving me too much freedom,  and

suggested  that  he was trying to end the List and  possibly  our

relationship and was he tired of me?

     He  explained that he didn't leave me unchained to  give  me

freedom.   He  felt  I was even more constrained than I had  been

before,  even  though it was fear of public  embarassment  rather

than chains that keep me here.   He's right, too.

     He  brought  me home some more of the sheer cotton  material

and told me to make a robe for myself.   I later knocked together

a  kind  of monk's habit (do monks have habits,  or  is  it  just

nuns?) with a cowl and long sleeves with big cuffs.  Transparent,

so  it's  not quite as chaste as your average monk's  habit.   He

didn't want anything to obscure the view,  so I couldn't make  it

wrap  around  like  a bathrobe.  He wanted more  of  a  button-up

sheath.   I only had four odd buttons in my sewing box, so I used

those.   Still, it's the most comfortable thing I have for around

the house while he's gone. I feel dressed anyway, sort of.

     That evening before dinner he gave me a present.  He had had

them made by a jeweler in town.   I don't know what to call them,

really.   Nipple  cages?   Imagine a conical cage made of  silver

wire.   The base of the cone is a circle of wire the diameter  of

my  areolas.   There are wire struts supporting a tiny hook  that

hangs  down  inside  the apex of the cone.   There  are  bits  of

filigree   where  the struts are joined to the  base.   With  the

bases resting on my areolas,  my nipple rings hook to the  apexes

of  the cages so my nipples are held out in little points  inside

the  conical  cages.   They  are quite charming with  the  garnet

pendants hanging from the tips,  and the feeling is exquisite  --

in short doses.  I worry that they will do some kind of damage if

he  leaves tham on me too long.   Perhaps make one of my  nipples

evert permanently.  It would be wonderful if I could be sure both

would  evert,  but I would rather be symmetrically inverted  than

have one "outie" and one "innie."

      But  they  are  sweet.   Maybe  Jennifer,  the  founder  of

rec.arts.bodyart,  will  read  this  and pass a  comment  on  the

world's  first orthopedic pasties.   He gave me some tiny  bells,

too.   Actually,  they're not so tiny,  they just sound tiny.  In

fact,  they  are amazing and I have no idea at all how they work.

They are small, very lightweight silver-colored spheres less than

an  inch in diameter.   They emit a kind of tinkling  chime  when

disturbed,  even when you hold them between your fingers.  That's

the amazing thing: you can't dampen the chiming noise by touching

the  outside.   There are no openings or seams.   I can't  figure

them  out,  but he has superglued them to pearl pendants in place

of the pearls and they can hang from my nipple rings.   They  are

absolutely  delightful.   He  says he got them in a flea  market.

They are a novelty called "faerie bells" or some such thing.   So

now I tinkle.

     I  wore  the bells dangling from the ends of the the  nipple

cages during dinner.  Tinkle tinkle.


     After  dinner,  I tried something different  -- something  I

wanted  to do before the routine with the tanning lotion  changed

me  too much.  Actually,  I was probably unnaturally pale before,

anyway,  but  whatever.   I had about average coloration at  that


     I  tried a new concept in makeup.   I painted big artificial

blue 'baby doll' eyes on my eyelids,  with large false  eyelashes

glued  on  my upper eyelids,  and painted-on lower  lashes,  with

thirties-style eyebrows.    (I've tried just about all styles  of

eyebrows:  simple straight ones,  surprised, pained, emotionless,

even slanty Mr.  Spock and heavy Mariel Hemmingway ones).  I also

painted  on  very  artificial cupid-bow lips and  over-rouged  my

cheeks.   With  my  eyes shut,  I looked a bit like  a  wide-eyed

Raggedy-Anne  doll.  I  covered my nipples and navel  with  round

patches  of surgical tape (the kind that looks a bit like  tissue

paper) and covered it with makeup blended into my skin.   I  made

myself   look  as  much  like  a  department-store  mannequin  as

possible. Nipple-less, navel-less, expressionless.  Blonde wig.

     When  I  came  out  of my bedroom he wasn't  looking  in  my

direction, so I stood stock still in a department store pose with

my eyes shut and my hand on the back of the sofa for  balance.  I

was  completely nude.   I don't know how he reacted,  if  he  was

startled,  or what.  I bet I looked like a mannequin,  though. He

didn't say anything.

    But he did something. To me.

    He  led  me into the bathroom and sat me down  at  my  makeup

table  and removed the makeup from my face.  Then he stood me  in

front  of the full-length mirror with my wrists in straps over my

head.  I  thought at first he didn't like what I had done and was

going to punish me for it in some way,  but I was wrong.  He took

more  of  the surgical tape and taped my  nether  lips  together,

covering  my  sex  completely.  He blended more makeup  into  the

surrounding skin;  I already was hairless down there, but he made

it look as though I was sexless as well.

    "What are you going to do to me?" I asked.  This question has

become almost a formula with us. No matter how nervous I am about

what he's doing to me,  I'm not supposed to ask it,  and I always

do  anyway,  and  his response is always disciplinary.

     This time, it was adhesive tape over my mouth. Securely over

my  mouth.  I tried to open my lips after a while,  and couldn't.

I  watched while he cut little ovals of tape and put them over my

eyes,  one at a time,  taping them shut. He was thoughtful enough

to protect my eyelashes from the tape with a bit of kleenex,  but

my eyes were taped securely shut.   Then he reapplied the  makeup

job on the outside of the tape (I figured this out later as I was

taking  it off and cleaning up):  Cupid-bow lips,  big  baby-doll

eyes with false lashes, the whole nine yards.

     He put cotton in my ears,  held in with beeswax.  I had only

two  operating  senses:  touch  and  smell.   He put  a  drop  of

sandalwood  oil on each shoulder and somewhere on the tape on  my

face, and for the next few hours, that was all I could smell.

     When  he  unhooked  me from the ceiling,  I  was  completely

disoriented,  and would have fallen if he hadn't supported me.  I

felt  very  odd.   He put me on the bed with my  wrists  strapped

together  and held over my head at the headboard.   I could  have

gotten  the tape off my face if he weren't watching,  but he  had

too much of an advantage.  When I tried to reach my face with  my

hands,  he  pulled my ankles until my arms were extended above my

head again.

      Then he made love to me. I turned my face blindly from side

to side,  trying to figure out what he was going to do next,  but

he kept surprising me.  During the foreplay he used partly-melted

ice cubes,  feathers, clothsepins, a snap with a leather shoelace

here  and  there  (I know it doesn't qualify as a whip  with  you

hardcore ASBers, but it was the first time for me for all of this

stuff,  and  it hurt -- mostly because I didn't know what it  was

and  from  the surprise of not knowing what was coming  next,  or

when).  I screamed several times under the tape.  Each time I was

rewarded with a loving kiss on the offended spot,  or a stroke of

an ice cube.

     He  peeled  the  tape off  my  nipples.   Slowly.  That  was

excruciating.   Then off my nether lips.  Likewise.  I was pretty

excited  by that time.   I can only imagine how I  looked.  Later

when I took off one eyepatch, I realized I must have had a vapid,

vacuous, and rather silly but expressionless appearance no matter

what I was feeling behind that mask.

     More  foreplay with the ice cubes on my nipples  and  nether

lips.  During my second orgasm (almost always the best) he had me

on top and he slipped an ice cube into my behind.   I was too far

gone at the time to even protest, but it was a teriffic orgasm --

it  seemed that that second orgasm became a plateau from which  a

third orgasm launched.   I don't know how to put it,  but  it was

like  an orgasm on top of (added to?) an orgasm rather  than  two

consecutive ones.

     I know,  ice cubes are probably tame stuff for you.   It was

new to me,  though.  I realize now (after reading the postings in

a.s.b.)  that  this entire List must seem like the  inexperienced

fumblings  of  a couple of virgins.  Especially to the  guy  that

walked  around with thumbtacks stuck in him.  Yow.   I feel  more

than a little embarassed that you might read this,   not so  much

out  of  shame for what we did,  but because we are such  vanilla

softies.   This  is  really just plain bondage -- is  there  such

thing  as  vanilla bondage?   I haven't  really  experienced  any

serious pain (except that gag is still a killer).  Spanking is on

the  List,  but  I  don't  think  J is  any  more  interested  in

inflicting pain than I am in experiencing it.   Besides, spanking

isn't  real  pain  either.  I came close to  some  serious  stuff

yesterday, though.  I was really afraid. I'm coming to that.


     We  made  love  the following night after what must  be  the

strangest conversation on record.  I'll try to reconstruct it.

     On  his instructions,  I had prepared myself with the  usual

shower,  shave, conditioner, makeup, wig, etc., leather cuffs and

collar, too.

     Now,  don't get the wrong idea when I tell you this, because

I  still hate having my head shaved,  but it's done and can't  be

undone except by many months of waiting.  Shaving my own head now

just  delays regrowing it one more day,  so it's not a big  deal.

If that seems I'm being too logical and unemotional,  that's  not

true.  I do feel emotional about it. If I could have my hair back

right  now,  I'd  do  it,  List or not.  But I  can't,  so  I  am

experimenting with this new look -- just for a few days -- before

Column One is over and I can start growing it back.   So what I'm

trying  to  tell  you is that when I shaved,  it  was  an  erotic

experience.  It still is.  After a shower,  I shaved my underarms

and legs (I didn't need depilating). Then I covered my scalp with

his  fluffy  white shaving cream so it looked like I  had  short,

white hair.   I "revealed" myself with the razor.  Don't  ask.  I

can't  explain.   When I read over that last paragraph it doesn't

capture the eroticism of becoming so extremely naked,  but for me

it is an erotic process.

     Anyway.  Back to the tale.

     He had lit two candles in the bed alcove and was waiting for

me.  He just started right in with the foreplay.  I was unable to

get  into  it,  even though preparing myself for sex is always  a

turn-on for me.   Anticipation is half the game for me.   I don't

like spontaneity.  Surprises, yes, but I have to know that he has

thought  them out well in advance and planned the things he  does

to me.  I like my sponteneity to be well planned.

     But I just couldn't get into the foreplay.   The worst  part

was  that he knew it -- and he seemed to be expecting me to  have

trouble, too.  He was even pleased, I think.

     "What's the problem," he said.   He had that smug smile that

says  "I already know the answer to this question."   I hate that


     "I don't know, Master," I  said, knowing perfectly well.

     "I think you do," he said, knowing perfectly well I knew.

     "No, really..." I said, pretending I didn't know anyone knew


     "Why  did you put on the cuffs and collar?" he asked.   Good


     "I  thought you might have wanted to use them ...?"   Stupid


     He just looked at me.

     "Would  it please you if I put on something else?"  I asked,

trying to change the subject. Stupid question.

     He just looked at me some more.  I was floundering.  I could

see he didn't believe me.

     "You wanted to be bound.  Admit it."

     "No!  Really!   I don't know what it is with me tonight,"  I

protested.   "... Master,"  I added.  "I just can't seem to ..."

     "You  can't  seem to get into it because  this  is  'vanilla

sex,'"  he said.  "Admit it."

     Of course it was true,  but I couldn't admit it.   I thought

it  would  spoil it if I admitted I liked something  that  I  was

supposed to be fighting every step of the way.   It takes away an

essential  ingredient of bondage if you don't fight it,  and  you

can't  fight  it  if  you admit  you  want  it  -- especially  to

yourself.  Can you?

     "We've  reached another milestone here and you just  haven't

realized it yet," he said.   "The illusion that you are resisting

me is your last fig leaf.   I'm not going to allow you even  that

shred  of dignity.   Tonight I'm going to make you admit you want

everything I do to you.  I'll even make you beg for more.  You'll

voluntarily give up even the illusion of resistance.

     Drawing on my fine command of the english language,  I  said


     He  got out that wonderful little vibrator and put it in  me

and chained my wrists to the bedposts.  While I was squirming  on

the  bed he ran ropes through the eyes in the ceiling and  pulled

my ankles high in the air and wide apart.  My rear end was nearly

pulled  off  the bed.   He went to work on my rear  opening  with

another  lubricated  vibrator,  beginning by working his  fingers

into  my opening until I was relaxed enough to accept  it.   With

nothing to press against, it was hard for me to stimulate myself.

My squirming became more and more frantic.   I remember  thinking

that this isn't exactly going to wrench a confession from me.   I

just got hotter and hotter.   He pressed against the front of the

vibrator,  helping to bring me closer to a climax.  He watched me

very  closely,  alternately  pressing and waiting,  pressing  and

waiting.   I came to the very edge of an orgasm.  I was teetering

at the very top,  panting and heaving.   I held my legs straight.

My thighs were quivering, I flexed them so hard trying to come.

    "I'm  not  going to let you have an orgasm until you beg  for

it," he said.   He took out a small bottle and held it up.  "This

is  an oral anesthetic.   It is benzocaine -- not clove  oil.  It

lasts just a few minutes.  Every time you get close to an orgasm,

I  will put a little more on."  It was the same anesthetic I  had

used  earlier (ages ago) to suppress my gag reflex.   I  knew  it

would  work perfectly on sensitive membranes -- that's what  it's

intended for.

    I watched in dismay as he took out the vibrator and put a dab

of it on my clitoris.   He massaged it in, and put a liberal dose

on my labia.  After a couple of applications, I could barely feel

him touching me at all.   By lifting my head I could just see the

tops  of  my  nether lips.  They get kind of swollen  when  I  am

turned on.   In fact,  they were engorged and dripping.   I could

literally feel moisture trickle between my legs.   But I couldn't

feel  my clitoris;  I couldn't feel anything.   I watched him put

the vibrator back between my numbed lips.   He pressed it solidly

against me,  and I felt the vibration in my hips,  but I was  too

numb to feel the vibrator itself.  He kept watching.  I was still

panting,  still very turned on,  but groaning with disappointment

every  time  I strained to recapture that edge....  After  a  few

minutes  he  took a washcloth and wiped my clitoris free  of  the

anesthetic, but I was still numb.

     "I can keep this up all night," he said.  "Or, I could  wash

off the anesthetic, gag and blindfold you, and tie you  suspended

from the ceiling.  Which would you rather?"

     "Ceiling?" I said.

     "Look up.  See the extra rings?"

     I did.  there were several new eye-rings in the ceiling.   I

had noticed them already.

     "I  will  put a harness on you -- one you haven't seen  yet,

and  suspend you from the ceiling by it.   You will  be  floating

above the bed,  blindfolded,  gagged,  and spreadeagled.  And you

won't be able to stop having orgasms.

    "But you'll have to beg me for it.   You'll have to  convince

me that you want it."

     He  was still pressing on the front of the vibrator.   I was

beginning  to  feel it again.   I tried to  keep  from  reacting:

maybe  I  could steal a secret orgasm.  I wasn't exactly  on  the

edge,  but  I  could just barely see the beginning of  an  orgasm

peeking  around the corner when he took it out  again,  suddenly.

It was almost a shock for the vibration to stop.  Then he put  it

back in. He took nearly a half hour of teasing to bring me to the

edge again.  With the control over me the anesthetic gave him, it

was  much  easier  for him to keep me on the  edge.  He  kept  me

quivering  for  another  fifteen minutes,  letting me  rest  just

enough to keep me from exhaustion,  but not enough to let me cool


     "Allright!"   I said,  finally,  just as he was opening  the

bottle again for a second dose.  I had had enough.

     "Allright what?"  he said.

     "You win,"  I said sullenly,  "you were (pant) right."

     "About what?"

     "Me,"  I said. Pant pant.

     "Say it."

     (Pant pant, calming a little) "I want to be tied up," I said

flatly.  "I  get off on it."  I didn't sound convincing  even  to

myself.   Its  easier to tell an unconvincing truth than it is to

tell  a  convincing  lie.  Did  you  ever  tell  a  truth  in  an

unconvincing way because you didn't want it to be believed?  Even

though it was true,  I couldn't make myself reveal the truth,  so

my  answer  sounded like a recitation  read  from  cue-cards.   I

didn't  mind him knowing I liked bondage,  I just thought it  was

degrading for me to have to tell him.

     "Not good enough."

     "Please!  What more do you want?  I've admitted it!"

     "Admitting it's not enough."

     "But this is torture," I wailed.

     "Does it hurt?"

     "Yes! No! I don't know what you want!"

     "I  want  to be convinced.  If it's true, convince  me.   If

it's  not, say so and I'll stop, untie you and put you in a  nice

comfortable bed."

     "But I said it's true!   What more do....Oh Noooooo....!" My

protest dissolved into a wail as he put more of the stuff  on me.

     "Now we'll wait for it to take effect," he said.

    [Editorial insert:  Actually, he didn't put more on  me,

    he  just  pretended to.  He told me after proofing  this

    account that instead of waiting for it to take effect he

    was waiting for me to cool down a bit.  We went  through

    several  cycles of this,  with the pretense that he  was

    anesthetizing me: sometimes he really did, sometimes not

    (I think);  he won't  tell me if he really used it again

    or  not.  It was really the power of suggestion that did

    it to me.  And a little Anbesol,  BTW. I guess  this  is

    Just  another  mindfuck.  Well,  the brain  IS my second

    favorite organ.

     So  I squirmed and cried in frustration while I became  numb

for  the  second time.  And a third, and a  fourth.   Each  time,

using both vibrators alternately and in concert, he brought me to

the  edge of a climax -- and each time he pulled me  back  again.

The last time, I was covered in perspiration. The bed was soaked,

and my wig had come off.  My eyes were stinging from the salt and

makeup.   I can't remember what my exact words were that  finally

convinced  him, but they WERE heartfelt in the end.  I  literally

begged.  If I could have gotten to my hands and knees and  kissed

his  feet  to show my sincerity, I would have. I  wanted  release

from the torture.  I wanted it to stop and I wanted that  orgasm.

I had earned it. As I say, this may not be an exact transcript:

     "Pleeeeeeease!    No  more!"  I wailed.   I  thought  I  was

exhausted  after the first dose,  but by now I had  been  through

four.  "I'll do anything!  You're right! I want to be tied up!  I

have to! I want to be used -- I want to be filled to overflowing!

I  don't even WANT an orgasm unless you force me to have  it.   I

can't  ....  I  need  it  that way.   I need  to  be  gagged  and

blindfolded!   Please!   I'm  begging!" ...and so on with lots of

crying and panting in between.   Actually, even though I wouldn't

want you to think I wasn't incoherent (say what?), I can't really

remember what I said.   Whatever it was,  it convinced him that I

was sincere:   either I had gotten to the point where I sincerely

wanted him to stop even without giving me an orgasm,  or I wanted

one  so badly I would say anything,  or I really was telling  the

truth about prefering bondage to straight sex.   He had no way of

knowing.  Actually, it was all three.

     Anyway, he freed me.  Rather than suspending me like he  had

promised or giving me my promised orgasm, he told me to get on my

knees  on  the bed while he stripped (the  vibrators  were  still

inside  me)  and  take him in my mouth.  After just a  few  false

starts, I was able to take him all the way down my throat without

gagging.    I'm getting pretty good at that.   The vibrator in my

rear tended to gradually slip out as I worked on him, and he told

me  to hold them both in while I brought him closer and closer to

an orgasm.   I still can't have an orgasm easily while  kneeling.

It helps to flex my legs and straighten them, but I couldn't.

     He came in my mouth.  He had before, over the last month but

not  when he was actually down my throat.   The first spurt  went

deep down my throat and I swallowed it reflexively.  I caught the

rest in my mouth.   He hasn't ever told me I have to swallow  it,

but  over  the last few weeks I have gotten used to the taste  --

and the idea.   I looked up at him to see his reaction,  (looking

up was a deliberate infraction of the rules,  but what did I have

to lose?)  and swallowed.   He didn't say anything, but I know he

knew.  I lowered my eyes again.  I figured that ought to win me a

few points with him.

     I was incredulous at the time,  but he actually made me wait

until the NEXT DAY for an orgasm.   He could have made love again

in  a few minutes,  or even have used the vibrator on me,  but he

made me wait until the morning.   I was kneeling in front of  him

after  I  had swallowed,  and he bent me over and took  the  rear

vibrator  out.   He told me to roll over on my back,  and he took

out the other one.  I was SO sure he was going to finally give me

my  orgasm then ...  but he didn't.   He told me I would have  to

wait until tomorrow.   My nether lips were swollen and my  entire

pelvis  felt  congested  and  uncomfortable.   He  waited  -- and

watched -- while I got ready for sleep;  then he locked me to his

bed,  both hands to a longish chain at the head, one ankle at the

foot.   I  could almost (but not quite) bring my arms down to  my

waist if I straightened my leg and scootched up to the headboard.

I  tried after he was asleep.   I spent a fairly miserable night,

although we went to bed early and I did finally sleep.   The next

morning he got me up before dawn.


                       The List

                       Column 1

                       Item 18

     I had cooled down by the next day,  but he left instructions

before he went to work for me to prepare myself for him. You know

the routine.  Shower, shave, conditioner, makeup, etc. This time,

though,  no clothing.  Not a stitch.  Starting at 5:30, I waited,

reading, in the living room.

       He  took me into the bedroom practically the minute he got

home   and  started  right  in  putting  straps  and  belts   and

constraints all over me. He put a strap around each arm above the

elbow and locked my right wrist to my left elbow behind my  back,

and vice versa.   What followed was a bewildering array of straps

around my ankles (held three feet apart by a stiff pole locked to

my  ankle straps),  thighs (upper and lower),  and neck (a stiff,

high  collar that had three buckles to close it in  back).  There

were  straps around my chest above and below my breasts,  a  very

wide one around my waist, and two straps that went from the front

of the waistband (leaving my sex exposed) under my crotch to join

a single wide strap that buckled to the back of the waistband  --

but  only after he had put another device in my rear.   This  one

was a surprise.  It was a while before I figured out what it was.

     Before  buckling the back of the belt,  he told me to sit on

the bed.   He rolled me over and lifted me to a kneeling position

with my face and shoulders resting on the bed and my rear in  the

air, legs held apart by the pole between my ankles.  With my arms

behind me,  there wasn't much I could do to resist.  There was no

foreplay.  He  just lubricated his fingers and started  loosening

me, preparing me for something.  When I saw it, I was nonplussed.

     "What's   that?!    What  are  you  going  to  do  to   me?"

Contraptions  make me nervous,  especially when I don't know what

they're for.

     "It's on the List," he said. "Trust me."  Well, it is on the

List, but only technecally.

      The 'horse' had been on the List, too:  two dildos at once.

That  was  stretching  the intent of the List  to  the  limit.  I

couldn't make head nor tail of this,  though.   It looked like  a

very large condom on the end of a small-diameter rubber hose.

     "But  Master,  if it pleases you,  I don't remember anything


     He  gagged  me.   This time it wasn't that  horrible  rubber

ball,  but it was still a gag. It was a kind of ring that went in

my mouth, held in with a neck strap.  The ring just held my mouth

open  -- that's all,  just held it open.  Sounds  simple,  but  I

couldn't  make  an intelligible sound to save my  life.   It  was

humiliating.  And I know I must have looked like a drooling idiot

with my mouth hanging open.

     I  relaxed a little,  though.   He wouldn't gag me if he was

doing  something that required feedback to avoid hurting me.   He

inserted  the  condom-thing into my  rear,  poking  it gently but

fully inside me with his fingers -- I was left with a rubber tube

hanging out of me.  He buckled the crotch strap of the  'chastity

belt' (unchastity belt?) in back,  holding IT (I'll tell you what

IT was in a minute) inside me.

     Then  he blindfolded me and started the real  show.   I  was

already  trussed up pretty securely just lying there on the  bed,

but  he  was  tying  ropes to the rings on the  various  bits  of

leather harness that held me.  Soon, I felt myself being hoisted:

at first it was just my feet being lifted.  Then my shoulders and

waistband.   Step  by step,  he hoisted different parts of me  up

over the bed until I was hanging, suspended, like a kind of near-

horizontal puppet.  I was very disoriented,  but I'm sure my head

was  higher  than my feet,  and I know my legs were  held  spread

apart even after he took off the pole that held my ankles.

     I  was  well supported everywhere.  There weren't  any  real

pressure  points,  and  my circulation was  fine.   It  was  like

sitting in a swing, sort of.

     But  something was happening inside me.   The device he  had

put in my rear portal was doing something, seemingly on it's own.

     I  twisted my head blindly from side to side.  "Aaaaah  aaah

oooh ooo!" I said.   Ha ha very funny, I know, but you try saying

"What are you doing?" without being able to close your mouth.   I

was  feeling VERY strange down there.   The sensation was one  of

being filled,  but from the inside.   It was a warm feeling,  but

oddly familiar.  When I finally figured it out, I realized he was

filling  the condom inside me with warm water through the  rubber

tubing.    The sensation of being filled increased (and increased

and  increased).     I felt much much fuller than I ever had with

anything  else that had been in there.   Packed,  in  fact.   Not

stretched  the  way  a dildo would  have  done,  just  full.   My

breathing  and  heart  rate began  to  increase.   I  guess  that

technically it was a water-filled dildo?

     Meanwhile, I could feel him putting on my nipple cages. That

feeling really is exquisite.

     Then  he  entered  me.  I could feel his hands on  my  hips,

steadying me.   He was standing on the futon between my legs.   I

felt  a slow stroking motion -- I think it was me  swinging  back

and forth rather than him thrusting.   Maybe both.  I really felt

I was floating above the bed,  though.  Floating and full.  (Will

she resist the temptation, you ask yourself.)  I think not:

     Floating, full, and f****d.  Heh heh.

     Is  that the first time I've used the F word?  Shame on  me.

It'll probably be censored.   If you're logging on in California,

it  may have been censored on its way through the  midwest.  They

have filters in the phone lines in certain counties.

     I  won't bore you with the rest.   I had  a few orgasms  and

lost all sense of orientation in the process.   I might have been

weightless for all I knew.  The most interesting thing was that I

was  free to try to move in any direction but still  constrained.

Hanging  free,  unable  to touch anything,  but still  completely

trapped.  I couldn't have hurt myself no matter what I did.  Like

a fly in a spider web.  And I like the feeling of being filled --

but this way is a little kinky for me.   He drained me, freed me,

and that was that.    Sorry to be so brief about it,  but I don't

want to dwell on it and you are probably tired of gratuitous  sex


     We  talked  about  it  afterward,  and I found  out  he  had

considered  leaving  the  condom  inside  me.   At  first  I  was

horrified  -- didn't he know sea turtles die that way?  Digestive

systems  plugged with party balloons?  He had put a  rubber  band

around  the  condom to hold it onto the tubing,  but as a  safety

measure  he  had  passed a piece of string  under  the  band  and

knotted  it around so the condom wouldn't be lost inside me  even

if it slipped off the tubing.

     Then  it occurred to him that if the tubing was slipped  out

deliberately, the rubber band would close the condom and  I would

still  be filled by the condom but unable to expell it;  a simple

tug on the rubber band would expose enough of the condom that  he

could  burst   it  with a pin.   Which I wouldn't be able  to  do

unless my hands were free.   Clever,  clever.  A little technical

for my taste.   I'm glad he didn't do it.  I think he (correctly)

figured what he had done to me was wierd enough,  even though the

newspaper,  coincidentally  enough,  said it was National  Condom


     Now there's a parade you don't want to miss....

     But I HAD told him (under duress) that I wanted to be filled

up,  so I can hardly blame him for being wierd.   Still,  it  was

wierd.  But who am I to criticize anyone for unnatural practices.

And  no,  it would not have felt more "natural" if it had been  a

sheep intestine condom.  Despite what the ad on the package says.

More  natural,   hah.  For  certain  guys  in  certain  parts  of

Tennessee and West Virginia, maybe.  Give me artificial any day.

     Less than a week to go and the month alotted for his turn at

Master and mine as slave will be over.


     It started raining heavily while I wrote down the preceeding

entry.   I went outside and stood in the rain for no good reason.

You  know,  one of those tropical downpours where it  just  pours

down  vertically and the trees bend under the weight of water  on

their  leaves.   My muslin robe was plastered to my  skin.   Good

excuse for a hot shower and some conditioner,  followed by a nice

cup of tea in my robe, fresh out of the dryer.  Luxury.

     There has been a lot of rain this Spring.  The plants in the

garden are loving it.


                        The List

                        Column One

                        Item 19

     I'm  still catching up on these entries.   He was on holiday

last  week,  so  we spent a lot of time together and  I  couldn't

write.   Since he went back to work on Monday,  I've been able to

write  up  the  events of last week.   It's  Wednesday  now,  and

tomorrow evening is the end of my month.  Or his month, depending

on how you look at it.

     Yesterday  (Tuesday) I asked him if we could continue for  a

while  longer.   I have been "bottoming" for a month now,  and  I

have thought a great deal about Column Two.   I have decided I am

not  tempramentally equipped to "top."  (Will ya listen to me?  A

few  weeks ago I had never heard the term "bottom" and now I  are

one.  Thats what reading a.s.b. will do. I gotta edacation now.)

    He  turned me down flat.   He thinks that the List should  be

sacred  -- if we start bending the rules,  the bottom won't  know

what he/she can depend on anymore.   I suppose that's  true,  but

still,  if  both agree...   He also thinks that a month  straight

(perhaps  'continuous'  is a better word) is enough.  Maybe  he's

right there. I think I would like to do this on special occasions

rather  than continuously.  But I don't want to stop  just  quite

yet.   The  month  has been delicious.   Still,  I think if  both

agree,  it ought to be alright.   He just won't agree, so I guess

we won't go on.


     J told me to prepare a special meal for Tuesday night.   And

to  take  special  care in preparing myself.   He  wanted  to  be

surprised.   I must have a pretty poor imagination,  because  the

only  thing  I  could  think of to do was to try  out  the  harem

costume  I  had made.   I am almost ashamed of it  now.   When  I

decided  to  make it,  it seemed so appropriate to what  we  were

doing,  but  it seems like such a juvenile fantasy by  comparison

with the things we did subsequently that it was a cliche before I

had a chance to try it out.

    But  I  went through with it,  so I'll put it down  here.   I

think  that  the only two ideas I have contributed  -- the  harem

dance   and  the  raggedy-anne  eye  makeup  -- were  imaginitive

failures  on  my  part.   J rescued the makeup idea and  made  it

interesting by taking charge;  he is too kind to say so, but even

I  find  my ideas mundane by comparison with what J has  done.  I

take that back.  Suppressing my own gag reflex with an anesthetic

was  a  stroke of genius.  It was also the product of  a  twisted

mind,  but genius nonetheless. And the forest goddess -- that was

my  idea  too.  Maybe I'm not so dull witted.   Anyway,  I  would

rather be the one that is entertained, rather than vice versa.

    I intended to treat J like a king that night.   I cooked food

that I could feed him by hand,  a morcel at a time, and I dressed

the part of a harem girl.   To go with the outfit I had  made,  I

had  bought a cheap Indian silver belt that kind of drooped  down

in  a  kind of decorative v-shaped chain mesh  loincloth,  and  a

necklace  of the same mesh.   I had wrist and ankle  bangles  and

rings on my toes and fingers and a (fake) ring in my nose.  I was

looking  pretty  dark and persian by then anyway,  thanks to  the

tanning  lotion.   My makeup was perfect  and  elaborate:  slanty

persian eyes,  rouged nipples, a jewelled navel, a beauty spot, a

veil,  obscenely  long fake nails,  a black wig like a huge  wild

mane,  jewel  hanging  in the middle of my  forehead,  sandalwood

perfume, da woiks.

     I  waited on him hand and foot from the moment he walked  in

the door.  I bathed him,  put conditioner on his skin, rubbed his

back,  served him drinks and stuffed him with hors  d'oeuvres.  I

lit  incense.   I  lit candles all over the house.   I turned  on

exotic music and danced and wriggled (and jiggled) circles around

him.  I  stripped  as  I wriggled,  removing  everything  but  my

pendants.  The  wig came off last during the grand finale.   When

the music finished I prostrated myself at his feet (well, next to

the sofa since that was where he was reclining,  sultanesque) and

asked to beg a favor of him, in the approved slaveoid manner.

     I  asked quite seriously to be excused from column  two.   I

offered  to  let him do anything to me if only we could go  on  a

little more with column one instead.   I offered to let him put a

ring  in  my  nose -- through the nostril or  (even  more  kinky)

through the septum.  He hasn't done anything that is permanent to

mark me as his.   Tatoos were on the List,  but he didn't make me

get one.  I offered.  I had prepared a long mental list of things

he might want to do to me,  and as I babbled my way through  this

list,  he  sat  in complete silence.   When I finally ran out  of

words and faltered to a halt he remained silent.  Finally, I told

him he could do anything to me that he wanted.   Anything.  Still

no response.

     I really don't know what else I could have said or done.

     I  think  I may have irritated him a bit by going  on  about

wanting  him to continue "topping."  Finally,  he told me to stop

trying  to  discuss  it,  and that Column One would  be  over  on

schedule as agreed.

    I  protested  that I had been begging abjectly  like  a  good

slave should and it wasn't fair to stop me.  That was dumb of me.

Obviously a good slave would have shut up when told to do so.  He

told  me he was going to punish me for mouthing off,  and he did.

     I  think he did this to make me WANT Column One to be  over.

                            The List

                            Column One

                            Item 20

     He  locked  the ball gag on me and led me into  the  bedroom

where he told me to sit in a half-lotus position.  We took a yoga

course  together  (one night a week for nine months) and  we  are

both pretty limber,  although not as limber as the  teacher.  She

was  incredibly  flexible  but  a little too  much  into  eastern

mysticism for our taste.   It's hard to find a yoga teacher  that

doesn't  debase  the discipline by mixing it with  some  mystical

cosmic theory involving universal truth,  beauty, peace, harmony,

virtue,  and  vegetarianism.   Yoga could be defined as  exercise

corrupted  by  morality.   That's not why  we  quit,  though.  We

enjoyed  it  despite the incense and  ceremony.   Maybe  I'm  too

midwestern.   I hate to keep blaming everything on my upbringing.

Maybe this time it was good old-fashioned narrow-mindedness.  But

just  because I'm narrow-minded doesn't mean the mysticism wasn't


     So  anyway.   There I was in a half-lotus and J strapped  my

shins  together so I was stuck that way:  right ankle on  top  of

left  knee,  left  ankle beneath right knee,  two  belts  wrapped

around  several times and buckled.   Then,  in some kind of wierd

symmetry, he strapped my forearms in a similar position behind my


     I  guess  you  could  call  it the  corruption  of  yoga  by


    He left the bedroom to get something;  I thought he was going

to  leave  me that way for a while but he came  right  back.   He

flipped me over on my face so that I was "kneeling" with my  rear

end in the air at one end and resting on my chest, shoulders, and

the  side  of my face at the other end.   Talk about awkward  and

degrading verging on painful.   He got the hot water bottle and a

collection of rubber hoses out of the bathroom.  I figured he was

going  to  give me a repeat routine like he did before  with  the

water-filled condom (way back in "Item 17", was it?), except this

time  he  inserted  two hoses into me,  one with  a  condom,  one


     "You said I could do anything to you.  Anything at all,"  he

said.  "Lets see if you still feel that way tomorrow."

     He sat me back on my hips again and began filling the condom

inside me just as before.  I could feel it expanding.

     When it was full,  he tipped me over onto my chest again and

removed the tube from the condom, just as he had considered doing

the last time.   The water-filled condom was inside me, acting as

a  kind  of  plug.   It was held closed by a rubber band  with  a

string tied to it so it could be pierced and drained later.   For

now I was plugged.  There was no way I could expell anything that

large.   He  tipped me back again so I was sitting on my rear  in

this enforced half-lotus position,  and began filling me  through

the  second  tube.   As I became fuller and fuller  I  eventually

became unable to hold my stomach in any more.  I had to relax and

let  my  abdomen distend under the water  pressure.   My  stomach

protruded and filled my lap.   The hot water bottle was suspended

four  feet  overhead and I couldn't prevent the flow  by  pushing

back;   neither  could  I  stop  the flow by  clenching  my  rear

opening: the tube would not collapse.

     Before I became uncomfortable he stopped the flow,  took out

the  gag and unstrapped my legs.   It took me several moments  of

intense  pain and whimpering to straighten my legs after being in

that  position  for so long.   I thought he was through with  me,

that  this  was all he was going to do, but I was wrong.

     He stood me up, strapped my ankles close together so I could

only take the tiniest of steps, and locked my arms to an overhead

chain.   I watched while he taped a loop of the water tube to the

flange  of  a  vibrator and put it inside my sex  with  the  tube

between my clitoris and the flange. He taped it in place. Then he

moved a chest of drawers nearby.   I didn't know what the hell he

was doing.  Then he started the flow and turned on the vibrator.

     "What are you doing to me?" I asked.

     "You can stop the flow by pressing the vibrator against  the

edge of the chest of drawers," he said.   He put the ring gag  in

my mouth.  At least it wasn't the ball gag again. I began filling


     After  a  while I began to feel  uncomfortable  and  pressed

against the tube, which transmitted the vibrations directly to my

clitoris,  but  it  stopped the flow.  Something  gurgled  in  my

abdomen and the discomfort disappeared,  but I continued to press

lest it return.

     As  I  pressed  against  the  tube I  tried  to  ignore  the

vibrations.  I  discovered I had to press quite hard to stop  the

flow.   After  about ten minutes I was unable to stop the  orgasm

and  while I tried to regain control of myself I began filling up

again.   I  went back to pressing but had another orgasm after  a

few minutes.   That was the last one I had that night.   After  a

while  the vibrations just got so tiresome I had to step away and

let the flow continue unhindered.

     I  watched my stomach slowly distend to become a belly.   It

grew  until  I began to look pregnant.   I kept looking  from  my

stomach  to J,  trying to ask with my eyes when he would stop it.

From time to time I made little incomprehensible mewling  noises,

not really trying to talk,  but expressing my growing discomfort.

Several more times I began to feel uncomfortable but each time my

stomach gurgled, the discomfort passed, and the flow continued.

     I  know  that the length of the tube was too short  for  the

water  pressure to do any damage,  but I finally felt so big  and

heavy I had to let out a moan.   He let it go a little longer.  I

couldn't  tell  if the water pressure had equilibrated  with  the

pressure  inside me or if I was still expanding,  but he  finally

stopped  it  and  took out the tube.   I had  been  clenching  to

prevent any leakage around the tube,  and after he had removed it

I  still tried to stop the humiliation of the water  leaking  out

and running down my legs. But I needn't have worried.  I couldn't

have expelled the water if I had tried to, plugged the way I was.

     He  took off the gag,  freed my ankles and released me  from

the overhead chain.  With my arms still strapped behind my back I

couldn't reach the string between my legs, but I was free to walk

wherever I wanted.   Immediately,  I went to the bathroom,  but I

couldn't  expell the condom or the water.   Not a drop.  I had  a

pee,  though.   It didn't help. In the mirror I looked like I was

about  four or five months pregnant.  I felt incredibly distended

and all I could think about was getting the water out of me;   of

course I was powerless to do so.  I felt so ungainly and bloated.

I  couldn't  even walk naturally with my abdomen  distended  that

way. I waddled back out of the bathroom to confront him.

     "My God," I whimpered, "what have you done to me!?"

     I started begging him to let the water out.  He left me that

way,  though,  and actually made love to me in that condition.  I

suppose I should say he used me to satisfy himself:  I didn't get

much  out of it.   He just sat me on the edge of the table in the

living room and penetrated me while he stood between my legs  and

I  lay back on the table waiting for it to be over.   At least he

didn't  put his weight on my abdomen.   I didn't have an  orgasm,

and he didn't seem to care.

     When he was through with me he freed my arms.   I cradled my

stomach  in my hands and started to rush to the bathroom.

      "Wait," he said.  I stopped, but didn't turn to face him. I

just stood there shifting from foot to foot,  wishing I could get

back to normal.   "You're beautiful when you're worried, too," he

said.  I tried to regain a measure of composure, steadied myself,

and  turned to face him.   I still held my abdomen in my hands as

though  it  were  fragile enough  to  burst.   "Okay,"  he  said,

releasing me.

     In the bathroom, I pulled gently on the string until I could

puncture  the  condom with a nail scissors.   The condom  emptied

quickly  and so did I.   I'm sorry if I can't dress this  up  and

make  it  sexy and entertaining,  but I didn't feel very sexy  or

entertained  myself.   I  had told him he could  do  anything  he

wanted  to  me,  but I think (hope) he chose to do this to me  in

order  to get me to change my mind about continuing with  him  as

top.   Or maybe J has better associations with this sort of thing

than  I do because he has a prostate to be stimulated.   Maybe  a

pretty nurse gave him an enema once.  Ask Freud. I was not turned

on by it.

     Okay.   I endured it, I wrote about it. I consider myself to

be  pretty liberal on most issues.   I don't think anything is so

obscene that it justifies censorship but  this, to me, was pretty

gross.  I felt ... well, defiled.

     I  define  obscenity as whatever produces an erection  in  a

judge.  At least I felt that way up to now.

       I'm  not so sure I feel that way any more.   Maybe what  J

did  to me was obscene.   Maybe he meant it to be.   I  concluded

that  if he were to continue as top,  I wouldn't want to  explore

that particular avenue any further.   Maybe that's why he did it.

I probably gave him the idea anyway when I cleaned myself out for

anal sex.  But I don't want to do that scene again. I don't.


                        The List

                        Column One

                        Item 21

     He made it up to me the next day, though.  I guess he wanted

me to know how good it could be if we followed the rules.  When I

say good, I mean it was the best ever, and the scariest.  Earlier

I said he brought me to the edge of serious pain.  Well,  this is


     By  Wednesday  evening I had started to turn  a  quite  dark

shade of brown from the tanning lotion.  Quite dark. He still had

me  putting  it everywhere.   My scalp,  my  face,  in  my  ears,

everywhere.  I think the pills are starting to kick in,  too.  It

is starting to stain the bedsheets. They will be ruined unless it

washes out.   Those in his room were a disaster after the scene I

am about to describe.

    I  had just finished rubbing in my third dose when he had  me

sit  on  the edge of the bed and buckle on the waistband  of  the

leather  (un)chastity belt while he put on knee and ankle  straps

with a pole to separate my ankles.    Then he locked my wrists to

the   back of my collar and doubled me over by chaining  my  knee

straps  to  the front of the collar.   This exposed my  nakedness

completely.   He "arranged" me face down on the bed on my  elbows

and  knees with my rear end in the air and then chained my collar

to the head of the bed and my ankles to the foot.

    I   still  can't  believe  I'm  writing  down  what  we  did,

    sometimes.   Sorry to interrupt, but the thought just hits me

    from time to time.

    Then  he spread my knees and tied them to the  sideboards  of

the  bed.   I was unable to move in any direction,  couldn't roll

over, couldn't do anything but kneel there with my bum in the air

and wonder what would come next.  He began loosening my rear end,

this time with a massage oil.

     I  really  get into it now when he manipulates me  with  his

hands.  He knows exactly what to do.  He is able to masturbate me

as  well  as I can myself when my hands are free.   Of course  he

teases  me  instead,  but  he is as familiar with my  body  as  a

violinist is with his instrument.   He can be almost casual about

the way he turns me on.

     I don't know if you've been able to tell,  but over the last

month  I've become pretty docile about what I will let him do  to

me.   Sure,  I fight it, but my struggles have become a matter of

ritual -- on occasion fueled by real apprehension,  but the  List

really has protected me from anything approaching serious damage.

This  night  was different.   I was straining to see what he  was

doing behind me,  twisting my head left and right as he  prepared

his  latest entertainment.   When I saw,  my apprehension  became


     Several  times  in  the  past,   I  was  punished  for  some

infraction of a trivial rule that was made up for no other reason

than  as  an  excuse  to  punish  me.   Sometimes  I  was  little

rebellious,  too. Now, he does these things to me without feeling

the slightest need for a pretense.   It isn't punishment anymore,

it  is just for his own pleasure.   Or facination.   I can accept

that,  too.   Except  this  time he was stretching the  point  --

literally and figuratively.

     Finally, I saw what he had been preparing me for.

     "You're not going to put that in me are you?!"  I  squeaked.

"...Master?" I added hastily.   It was an enormous dildo.   Or it

looked enormous to me.  Up to now, HE was the biggest thing I had

had  inside  me  there,  and  he isn't made  of  hard  unyielding

plastic.   This ...  thing ... was appreciably bigger than he is.

Words like monumental spring to mind. Heroic. Legendary.

     I began struggling and protesting,  but even when I threw my

weight against the straps it did nothing but tip me from side  to

side a bit.  I couldn't even fall over,  and I certainly couldn't

straighten up.

     He loosened me some more,  but I was finding it difficult to

cooperate.  I  continued my futile struggles.  The SIZE  of  that

thing was all I could think of.   When he started it in, I knew I

would have to cooperate as much as I could, and I tried, I really

did. I stopped struggling and tried to relax. He spread my cheeks

and  I  relaxed  enough for it to get started,  and  at  first  I

thought I could stand it.   It was tapered a little.  But just as

I thought I had taken the whole diameter, he edged it in a little

further and I gasped a real gasp.

     "Its too big," I cried,  "I can't take it!   It's stretching

me!"  I  strained forward away from it,  renewing my  ineffectual

rebellion,  but the way I was tied caused me to just lift my rear

in the air more.  I couldn't wriggle away.  I kept begging him to

stop, but he just waited until I settled down and adjusted to the

sensation,  and  then  he continued to insert it.   I  cried  out

again.   I  was being stretched open to the point that  I  almost

wondered  if I would be damaged.   I know intellectually that the

human  body is very resilient.  People have checked into  the  ER

with much bigger (and more interesting) objects than that  inside

them  (a small bust of Mozart,  for example,  but that's  another

story.   You  can  imagine the bad puns about music  lovers  gone

bust,  etc.),  but  I wasn't able to intellectualize this.  All I

knew  was that I was being invaded,  it was too big,  I  couldn't

expel it, and I couldn't stop it.

     When  it  was finally in all the way to its flange,  I  felt

extremely fragile,  stretched to the absolute breaking point, and

very very FULL.   He buckled the crotch strap in back, holding it

securely  inside  me.   I couldn't do anything about it  with  my

hands locked to my neck.  He unchained and untied me from the bed

so  I could straighten out.   I couldn't sit up.   It would  have

damaged me.  Probably not really, but it certainly felt that way.

    Well, some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others

have greatness thrust within them.

    [Note from the Future -- but not very far in the furure:   he

    told me a few days later that he had showed me one dildo  and

    inserted another smaller one.   Still, the one he DID use was

    as  big as he is -- and quite a bit less forgiving.   I guess

    this was what the folks at A.S.B. call a mindfuck.]

He  took off the separator pole but left my wrists locked to  the

back  of my neck.  It took some slow and ginger creeping about on

my part before I was able to stand up, and even then I could walk

only  with great difficulty,  slightly doubled over.  He put  the

tiny  chain  between my nipple rings and led me by  it  into  the

walk-in  shower in his bathroom He didn't turn on the  water;  he

massaged more oil into every crevice of my body.   He even worked

it under the belt that held in the dildo.

     In the bathroom mirror my completely hairless,  brown, oiled

body  was quite a sight.   I looked like some kind  of  primitive

polynesian native captured and taken into slavery.

     He  attached a fine chain -- actually a necklace  -- to  the

chain between my nipples and used it as a leash to lead me out of

the house.  It took only the slightest tug to lead me wherever he

wanted  to  take me.   For one panicked moment I thought  he  was

taking me to the car (I would have had to go), but he just led me

on a stroll around the yard like a pet being taken for a walk.  I

walked -- almost hobbled -- haltingly behind him.  I was  doubled

over  slightly,  trying to keep from being stretched unmercifully

by the dildo.  And the nipple leash.

     It  was sunset after a light rain and the atmosphere in  the

yard  had that luminous greenish-yellow cast that sometimes comes

for a few minutes when the air is clear and fresh and the sun  is

near  the  horizon behind the trees.  The grass was wet under  my

feet and glowed with the intense green of new spring growth;  the

woods around us were dark and smelled of wet leaves.  The air was

still and comfortably warm,  and it was too early in the year for

mosquitos.   We  smelled  the flowers and he  picked  two  purple

azalea  blossoms  and tucked one into each nipple ring:   in  the

twilight  and against my golden-brown skin they seemed to have  a

fluorescent glow.

    All  these  sights  and smells were just as  intense  as  the

emotional uncertainty,  the apprehension, and the full, stretched

physical sensations I experienced as he led me around the yard. I

gasped  sharply from time to time as my nipples and my  distended

rear portal alternately claimed my attention.

     There  is  a small grassy path that leads down to  a  little

azalea-bordered  glade in the woods.  It really is  lovely:   the

azalea bushes are as old as the house (more than fifty years) and

are monstrous.   Earlier, without telling me, he had spread a big

blanket on the ground in the clearing,  and it was there that  he

led me.

     While I stood in the middle of the clearing, he took off the

tiny  leash.  He knelt in front of me and took off the ankle  and

knee straps, and then stood to release my wrists from the ring at

back of my neck.   My hand went to the strap between my legs that

held  in the dildo,  but he took my hand in his and guided it  to

his sex.  I could feel he was rigid inside his pants.  He told me

to  undress him.   I did,  kneeling as gracefully as  the  device

inside me would permit, and taking off his sandals and pants.

     When  he  was naked he knelt beside me and helped me to  lie

back  on the rough wool blanket where he unbuckled the belt  from

my hips and pulled it gently away.  I was wearing nothing but the

collar and the enormous device inside me.

    Gently,  he lifted and parted my legs,  and with excruciating

slowness, he entered me.  I spread myself further, welcoming him.

His lovemaking was particularly tender, perhaps because these are

the   last  nights  of  our  scheduled  month,  perhaps  out   of

consideration for the device inside me.  Perhaps it was just  the

mood  set  by  the azaleas surrounding us and  the  glow  of  the


     Together we climbed lazily from plateau to plateau,  seeming

to  wander  aimlessly  from  one  sensation  to  another  without

searching for a climax.  It was a languid and unhurried  journey.

We built to the slowest,  sweetest,  most tantalizing  crescendo.

At  some point he rolled us gently and put me on top so he  could

manipulate  the  thing inside me.

     It  was as though he were leading me at exactly the pace  he

wanted,   waiting,   hesitating  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice,

approaching  the  abyss  from every angle  without  plunging  in.

Normally  an orgasm is something I strive for;   this one we both

knew  we could have together any time we chose,  so  we  delayed,

teasing ourselves, looking into the depths and pulling back again

and  again,  staying  near the edge longer and longer  with  each

visit.  Finally, we looked into each others' eyes and knew it was

time.  We both smiled secret little smiles with just our eyes and

then turned inward together to look down into the depths and wait

hand  in  hand on the very edge for it to come to us and take  us


    We  both  knew  that if either of us so much as  twitched  it

would  set  off a landslide and carry us over the edge  together.

Still  we  waited,  looking  into each others  eyes  and  knowing

together about this secret interior world we shared.   Finally  a

little surprised gasp escaped me and I went out of focus, falling

away from him into the depths, but that tiny gasp pulled him over

the  edge with me and we were falling together.   We didn't  lose

control,  we just didn't bother keeping it.  Instead we just fell

together  forever.   Somewhere far above me I could hear  someone

crying out.  It might have been me.


     Okay,  so  I got carried away writing that,  but it was  the

best orgasm I have ever had, bar none, so I'm entitled.  I didn't

do  it justice, but that's still the general idea of what it  was

like.  I  can  see why the french call it the  little  death.   I

remember thinking fleetingly how foolish it is to TRY to have  an

orgasm.  They're  so  much better if you just  let  them  happen.

Imagine  if a symphony orchestra's objective was to reach the end

of  the  music rather than to concentrate on  playing  the  other

bits.  Kind of defeats the purpose, and yet sex has been so goal-

oriented  for me.   "Achieving" an orgasm is subtly ingrained  in

the   way  I  think  and  it  is  a  hard  attitude  to   change.

Obviously, I'm working on it.

     Afterward,  we  were both a long long time  recovering.   Or

maybe  we  were just enjoying the floating sensation  that  comes

after.   See? There I go again.  It wasn't really over,  was  it?

We  had just passed a crescendo in the music, but the  music  was

still going on.  IS!  IS still going on.  Sheesh!  You could miss

your whole life just by not paying attention.

     The sky, the azaleas, the treetops, everything seemed to  be

bathed in the same afterglow I was experiencing.   Eventually,  I

wobbled  to  my  hands  and knees and  after  a  while  stretched

languidly the way a dog does on all fours.   He ran his hand down

my  back to the end of the device and touched it lightly,  moving

it just enough to make me react again.

     Eyes closed,  I waited on my hands and knees with him  lying

next to me on his side,  head propped on one hand;  he watched my

face  closely  while  he slowly removed the  thing  from  me.   I

concentrated  intently on enjoying/experiencing everything as  he

inched it out,  fully aware that he was watching me.   I  savored

every  millimeter  of it,  and rather than just taking it out  he

helped me,  reading every gasp and shudder,  every bitten lip and

arched back,  every sudden breath, every movement.  He has always

known   that  the  journey  is  far  more  important   than   the

destination.  I shuddered through several aftershocks and when he

came  to  the end,  the suddenness of it slipping completely  out

left  me twitching and contracting on my own with no  stimulation

other than that of my own mind.   I was so far gone I wasn't sure

if it was even out of me.

     I  collapsed onto the blanket and he cuddled and stroked  me

while I settled back down to earth.  I ended up sprawled face  up

on  the blanket looking up at the stars coming out in the evening

sky.   After  a  while he clipped the tiny necklace-leash  to  my

nipple-ring chain again and we got to our feet.

     After  he led me back into the house he told me to dress for

him while he cooked a light dinner.   I held everything I have up

in  front of me in the mirror,  and nothing looked right with  my

dark  brown  skin.   The white cotton outfits (the robe  and  the

tight-fitting one) looked wrong.   The thong was too  artificial.

A moment of inspiration and I had made a g-string-like  loincloth

out of twisted scraps left over from the cotton robe.   The white

looked  great  against my darkened skin.   He  thought  so,  too.

Eating dinner at the oak table with candles and formal silverware

while dressed that way was a turn-on,  for some reason.  I almost

wished we could do it at a formal restaraunt just to see the look

on  the other's faces when J led me in on a leash.   Of course  I

wouldn't  really...  unless  I  could  be sure  we  wouldn't  get

arrested.   I wonder how I would look in a fig leaf?   There is a

fig tree in the yard....  BTW,  I ate with my fingers,  just  for


                       The List

                       Column One

                       Item ... none

Well,  this  will  be my last entry.   When we were  making  love

yesterday (Thursday) evening,  it was vanilla sex and, although I

didn't realize it,  it was exactly (to the hour),  four Thursdays

ago  that we started Column One.   He rolled us over so I was  on

top and said,  "Time to start column two,"  and that was that.  I

mean,  we  went on to have our vanilla orgasms and they were  all

very nice,  I'm sure,  but it was clear that it was over at  that


     I  wish  the final episode in this little drama  could  have

been an erotic Gotterdammerung,  but it just didn't work out that

way.  If you want an orgasmic Ride of the Valkiries, read Item 20

again and try to imagine how it was for me ...

     I  suppose that I don't have to even make any more  entries,

since  the chains are off now,  as it were,  but I'll finish this

one.  After that,  I suppose J will be the one making the entries

if I can bring myself to do it to him.

    Now  I  can safely admit that I skipped the last two days  of

tanning  lotion (okay,  so I lied in my last entry),  and I  have

been  scrubbing  my  skin raw to get it off,  but  I  still  look

brown-yellow.  I haven't even started to look blotchy yet.  It'll

be  a while before I can go out of the house,  even with  a  wig.

It'll be a week before I even look like Sinead O'Connor.

    I am still not ready for this topping business.   I'm  afraid

I'll  ruin  J's  image as my Master.   Or my image of him  as  my

Master.   Also,  after J's little trick with the condom,  I'm not

sure  I want to continue as bottom either,  unless we work out  a

new List and stick to it.

    I  feel like I should say something profound at  this  point,

but  I'm not a profound person.   Mostly I feel pretty  silly.  I

know myself a little better now, but maybe it is only the shallow

that  can  truly know themselves anyway.

     I could quote someone ELSE profound if I could just remember

who  said it:   "Young girls already know all about love  -- it's

just  their  capacity to suffer for it that grows."  Except  that

this hasn't really been suffering for me.

     I don't know if I have lost J -- or the person I thought was

J,  or  what.   I think I might leave him if he doesn't have  the

strength  to keep me.  I also might leave him if that last little

condom  trick  of his was a glimpse of the real J rather  than  a

mindfuck.   I haven't figured that out yet.  If he did it because

of himself rather than in spite of himself, I'm history.

    So  goodbye  all  you people at A.S.B.,  obviously  the  only

readership  this little account will ever enjoy.   Here's  a  big

kiss.   No  kidding:  I  am going to make a little circle on  the

screen below and press my nipple against it as a goobye kiss.

    I  know  it's  electronic and through the net  and  has  been

stored  on a diskette and it's a different monitor and  all,  and

you'll think me a bit flaky, but it's a real kiss nonetheless,

                            *   *

                         *         *

                       *             *

                      *      ___      *

                       *     (_)     *

                         *         *

                            *   *

and I really pressed myself against the screen.  You may not know

it,  but  you all deserve a kiss for helping me get  through  the

last month,  even if you didn't even know I existed.  It was good

to know there were other people out there discovering themselves,

and that some had already done so and seemed to be normal anyway.

But don't get any fancy ideas:  kiss or not,  it's just a monitor

and I'm still a devout midwesterner,

Somewhere down deep where J just hasn't quite hit bottom yet ;-).




I  found this note on the kitchen table yesterday.   I have added

it to the end of this document because it explains  itself.   Two

weeks  have passed since we finished "Column One".  I changed our

names in the note, and the deleted part was too personal to post.

If I post this at all.  We'll see. Shit.




   I am leaving for a while.  It isn't because of the last month.

I  liked  it  -- almost every minute -- probably  more  than  was

healthy for me.   It was the two weeks after we finished that got

to me.   I guess I just need a dose of reality.  Funny,  but  the

last  two  weeks have been the unreal part.   That  scares  me  a

little.   I  feel  like I am convalescing from a disease  that  I

would  rather not have had cured.  There is an empty place in  me

and I haven't decided whether it is best left empty.

     I'm  going  to visit Connie and see her kids.  After that  I

don't  know,  but  I'll  try  to call.   I took  a  wig  and  two

suitcases.   The rest of my stuff is in my bedroom. Will you keep

it for a while?

     I should have gotten a job at the hospital.   If I come back

I will have to, no arguments.


                                                  Love, M


From Nurse Jones:

Okay,  okay.  Here is some of Column Two.  I wrote it while still

lurking. But it's all wrong because a lot has changed since then.

For  one thing,  I know some of you through e-mail now,  and  I'm

more  than  a  little embarrased to send it out,  for  reasons  I

explained  in a recent post.  And it's getting more difficult  as

time goes on. For some reason, I didn't care so much if strangers

read  about my innermost thoughts,  so long as noone I KNEW found

out this stuff.  But I've just realized that I am getting to know

"you  people."  Anonymously,  sure,  but what does  that  matter?

You've  formed a mental image of me,  just like I have of some of

you.  Now if I shock and disappoint you,  I care.  Now it matters

what you think of me.   In fact,  I just turned beet red thinking

about the end of Column One.   Well, not BEET red, maybe fuchsia.

Which  has  got  to be the most carefully spelled  color  in  the

midwest,  possibly the world.  I could NEVER confront anyone that

had read Column Oneand knew all that about me. Except Jay.

     But here it is, the beginning at least, almost unedited:

                         The List

                         Column Two

I'm  back.   (in  a  deep,   Schwartzenegger-esque  voice,   with


S.F.  is a pretty neat place.   Almost worth chucking it all for.

I'm  surprised  everyone  doesn't want to live  there.   I  could

probably  get a job there easier than J could,  given what I  do.

Maybe  someday I'll go there and help them do the offbeat  things

they  get away with while even managing to act as if it were  all

perfectly  normal.   Start an all-nite yoga clinic or  something.

You laugh.  There would be competition.

I'm  NOT going back to Indiana.   My home town is proof that Hell

is full and the dead walk the earth.   Besides, it's easier to be

kinky  a long way from home.  Hmph.  It's easier to be  _liberal_

when  you're a long way from MY home.  You know how  the  Jaycees

always put a little sign outside their town to encourage tourism?

Like  "Wisk  Broom Capital of the World" or  whatever.  Our  town

motto would have to be something like:

     "Not as  bad  as  you  might  have imagined."

or  maybe

    "Preferable  to Gary."

how about:

    "Leave it in drive"

     Even  Chicago  was  better.  At least  there  was  something

happening all the time. Most of it unsolved.

     Anyway, I like the South almost as much as SF and a lot more

than Chicago. You don't have to shovel water.  And I like J a lot

more than I thought I did when I left.

     So anyway,  I'm a top now.   Sort of.  I got my feet back on

the  ground  over the last month,  and decided that J  wasn't  so

gawdawful wierd after all.  He's still  adamant about me having a

shot at topping,  and I still don't really feel  constitutionally

suited to it,  but I'm going to do it.  When I decided to go back

to  J I called and told him I needed some money if I was going to

top him.   For toys. He sent me a bundle, so I'm back, and loaded

for bear. As they say. In fact, we got started on Column Two when

I got back, but we had to stop when I pulled a groin muscle, even

though  it  wasn't  mine.

    I  mailed  the  first part of this document to  a  couple  of

ASB'ers  at their home addresses just before I got back to J.  It

was  titled  The  List,  and added up to near 500k  in  6  files,

"chapters"  (items)  1-21.   I don't know if it ever got  posted.

There's no indication that it did on the net.

    [Note from The Present: It ended up getting posted after all,

    thanks to wizvax and some very nice wizpeople, but I'll leave

    this stuff in anyway, out of date though it is.]

If it didn't,  then  this

will  seem  like  an extended non-sequitur to  you.   I'd  better

explain a little.  To be very brief,  I was a bottom for the very

first  time  last Spring.  Not that I had ever been  a  top.   It

lasted a month by prior agreement with J,  and the things he  did

to  me we also agreed upon by way of a negotiated two-column list

(The  List)  broken  down into paired items.   If he  did  to  me

something  listed  in column one,  I could do  the  corresponding

thing  in column two to him and vice versa.  So I guess  this  is

about to become an account of column two.  Except that this time,

I can write it my own way.   He proofed,  edited,  and controlled

what  I  wrote  -- or should I say what  he had me  write  -- for

column one.

     I left J because I thought he had just gotten too wierd, the

things he was doing to me.   Since then,  I've thought about it a

lot  and decided I was just a little slow to adapt.   He's  okay,

really.   I hope I wasn't too hard on him when I left.   I really

do care  about him.

    So anyway, I  went  to  San Francisco for  a  few  months.  We

midwesterners don't change our attitudes very readily,  but I can

certainly say that I got my prejudices rearranged.

   A lot has changed on the net since those days.  Saltgirl seems

to  be gone for good and STella is the new netqueen.  I'm still a

lurker, but  maybe not for long: it looks like there is anonymous

posting now,  if all this wizvax stuff is what it appears to  be.

I guess I'll be posting that way some day if I can figure it out.

I have a lot to learn about using the net,  I guess.  There are a

lot  of  new  folks out there now.  Some of them sound  about  as

tolerant  as  the  hyperbaptists  in  the  main  office  of   J's

department.  They're everywhere,  like the roaches. They tried to

get  the usenet feed cancelled -- specifically because of ASB and

AS. Except that the hyperbaptists are intolerant of ALL perverts,

not just amateurs like me.  Maybe I'd better stay in the closet a

bit  longer.   Coming out to some of you might not be the  thrill

I'd originally thought.  I don't relish being forgiven for having

once been a lurker. The attitude seems a bit smug to me.  I would

have thought that the people that post on ASB (ESPECIALLY  there)


hold tolerance in  such

     profound reverence

           that beside it all the other

               virtues would seem like


    [Note from the Present:  This only applies to Little Retchid,

    now. But you knew that after yesterday's post.]

    Besides,  I'm  afraid.   I remember what happened to Elf  way

back   when.    And  you  should  have  heard  the   things   the

hyperbaptists had to say about ASB'ers.  They are genuinely awful

people.  They make me afraid,  and not just for my  career.   The

way  their jowls quiver with righteous indignation when they  act

on  behalf of the Lord God Almighty.   They seem to believe  they

are doing what He would do if only He knew the facts of the case.

    If  you've read The List,  Column One,  you'll understand why

I'm  pleased to report that I don't have to wear a wig any  more

in polite society.

My  hair  hasn't grown back completely yet,  but I  dressed  a

little punk for a while ....

(although  I'm  really a little too old to carry  it  off.  Okay,

okay, I'm  28.  But I read at the 35 year old level.)

 ...and I didn't look too out of place in the better parts of San

Francisco.   Now I have enough hair to look like Brigitte Nielsen

from the hair up. I'll get a job any day now.

     My pubic hair is a problem, though.

    IMPORTANT  SAFETY  TIP:  If you want your pubic hair  to

    look normal,  don't use depilatory.  I used it regularly

    for that month,  and it didn't grow back right. I almost

    might  as  well have had  electrolysis.   It  was  weeks

    before it started to grow back at all,  and nearly three

    months  later  it  is still so sparse you have  to  look

    twice  to  be  sure  I have any  at  all.   If  this  is

    permanent,  my  next  gynecologist is in  for  a  treat.

    Seriously.   After three months.   I have about 15 hairs

    down  there,  and they are thin and only 1/2 inch  long.

    Thank God J didn't let me use it on my head.

    I kept the nipple rings,  though,  and got a nostril pierced.

So tell me,  am I an exhibitionist?   I like the way I look,  but

I've been hit on a lot by guys lately.   Is there something about

a pierced nose that says, "Hey! Guys! Available broad here! Loose

morals! Nymphomaniac!" or what? Men seem to think that it means I

will automatically sleep with them or something.  And I didn't. I

couldn't,  even  if  I were attracted.   Have you ever  seen  the

inside of an AIDS ward?  Trust me. It takes more guts than I have

to work in one.

     So what changed?  Is it the nose ring?  Or do all men insist

on  treating  the mons veneris as though it were  Mount  Everest,

just  because  it's  there?   I  lost some babyfat  while  I  was

traveling;  maybe I look better thinner, (read more attractive to

men),  even WITH short hair.  Although my tits lost weight,  too.

I'm gaining it back, though, now.

                         Meet The New Me:

    So anyway, I'm back.  Thats what I said to him. I got back on

a Saturday afternoon,  and he came to the door when I knocked.  I

dropped  my pack on the ground and just stood there for a  minute

in the sun,  looking at him. It was dry and hot as hell and I had

left  Houston the previous morning in my unairconditioned beat-up

VW.  The car was dusty,  I was dusty,  my jeans were dusty. I was

wearing a dirty white tank top and some very beat up down-at heel

boots with duct tape on one.   I'd lost weight and had  developed

some  muscle definition in my arms.  Haircut like a man,  pierced

nostril, sunglasses, suntan, and an attitude.

     "I'm back," I said. He told me I looked pretty good. I did.

"You my bottom now?" He nodded. "Run a bath," I said.

     He  looked  at me for a second longer,  picked up  my  pack.

"Now,"  I said.  He gave me a sharp glance, nodded, and turned to

go into the house. That was as long as the Nouvelle Moi lasted. I

screeched and jumped on him piggy-back and wrapped my legs around

him and bit his ear.

    I  had planned on being a proper top,  at least for a  while,

playing the same game with him that he had played with me,  being

distant  and  aloof and tough.  One minute.  That's how  long  it

lasted.   But I was really hot for one minute.  Then pfft.  But I

made him sit at the tap end of the tub.


    When  we  made  up  the  List,   J  had  commented  that  one

unfulfillable  fantasy he had was to know what it felt like to be

me during that month.   To be a woman, I mean.  Actually, I would

like  to know what it's like to have a male body,  what the  male

orgasm is like,  too.  He has this idea that the female orgasm is

something  mystical  and  special,  much more profound  than  the

male's.   I don't know how anyone can ever prove that to be true,

but it's an idee fixee with him.

[Note from the present:  this is as far as I go without help from

my friends.  I'm feeling squirrelley at the moment,  and I  don't

feel  comfortable  talking  about it.  You already  know  we  are

experimenting with hypnosis. I have to let it rest here.]


Nurse Jones, who, if she were really Arnold Schwartzenegger would

still give free medical advice:

Exercise daily,

Eat wisely,

Die anyway.


Clearly, my numbering system is screwy.

From Nurse Jones,

Well,  the  hypnosis  is progressing.  I know,  I know,  this  is 

supposed  to be something that only a qualified physician  should 

do.   Possibly so. I've asked around at the hospital as much as I 

dare,  and the verdict seems to be that no lasting  psychological 

damage  could be done,  even by a malicious hypnotist.   I  won't 

argue,  though,  we could be taking a chance screwing around with 

his  sexuality,  but all the authoritative  references  emphasize 

that  it  is impossible to make someone do something they  really 

don't want to do.   I read one reference (by an MD,  not a  stage 

hypnotist)  that said the mythology about the danger of  hypnosis 

was started by psychologists as a turf-protective strategy.

References: there are hundreds. I used:

LeCron: Self Hypnotism. Signet Pub.

LeCron and Bordeaux, Hypnotism Today.  Grune & Stratton, N.Y.

Cooke and Van Vogt: Hypnotism Handbook, Borden Pub. Co., L.A.

Weitzenhoffer: General Techniques of Hypnotism, Grune & Stratton.

     All in the local library.

     We read and talked it over endlessly.  I am more afraid than 

he is.   I like my men to be men.   Not Arnold Schwartzenegger or 

Rambo, but not swishy either. Some of the most masculine men I've 

known were S.F.  gays, oddly enough, and I don't mean the leather 

set,  either.  I guess being confident enough of your masculinity 

that  you don't feel obliged to demonstrate it 24 hours a day  is 

my  definition of a Real Man.  Which makes _them_ more  masculine 

than  the  scratch-n-burp types from back home.  I like  to  feel 

protected and cared for though, and ... hell, I don't know what I 

like anymore

San  Francisco,  and  relearned  it  in  the  hospital  cafeteria 

recently. But I might have tendencies....

I've told J to stop reading ASB.  I'll save the fun posts for him 

to read later,  but here's where I ask for specific advice, and I 

don't  want  him  to  read it.  I finally  got  a  post  hypnotic 

suggestion to work.  I told him he would shave twice on Wednesday 

morning because his first shave wouldn't be close enough.  I told 

him he wouldn't remember the session.

    He did it.  He says he didn't remember. This is really eerie. 

It gave me chills. Feet still cold.

My Plan:

The  first step is to work on techniques to get him into  a  deep 

trance  quickly.  There are posthypnotic tricks that speed up the 

process. Right now, I spend all my time getting him into a trance 

deep  enough  to give me some influence.  It seems  we're  always 

going  down  stairs  and  escalators,   deeper  and  deeper,   ad 

infinitum.  The  books say to gauge your success with tests  like 

"You  can't  lift your arm," or "You can't open your eyes,"  etc. 

They work.  I made his face numb and he couldn't feel pin pricks, 

even on his lips. Or kisses on the pin pricks.

    But  before  all that we spent half a week trying  to  figure 

whether anything was happening at all beyond him getting a  comfy 

lie-down while I droned on at him for an hour. Twice a day now on 

weekends. Actually, I'm not really sure it worked, even still. It 

seems to have, but I have to take J's word for it.  He could have 

been  faking,  but I don't think so.   Besides I trust  him.   He 

believes it worked,  I'm sure.   Something happened on Wednesday, 


     It was weird, though, I'm tellin' ya.

     The techniques are easy,  but it's hard work.  It just takes 

perseverance  and  trust  and  a little reading  and  a  positive 


    And  he  trusts me  completely:  that's  important.   Equally 

important,  he has to want me to do it.

Back to the Plan:

Hypnosis   aside,   I/we  have  to  create  an  outwardly  female 

appearance  for  him -- all over -- and he probably shouldn't  be 

aware of the details of the process if he is going to believe it.  

He has to look in the mirror afterward and see a woman.   Knowing 

how  I  did  it would spoil that.   It has  to  seem  sudden  and 

miraculous, even though there is a lot to do.

I'm  going  to do this from the ground up.   I told you I  got  a 

corset  in  SF?  Did  I mention I got one for him?  He  sent  his 


no extra fittings,  so keep your fingers crossed. And I got shoes 

in his size.

I'm  going  to use a flesh-colored unitard,  padded out  to  look 

feminine.  I have scads of sterile cotton wadding from supply  to 

make  hips.  I  have  a selection of pastel chalks to  sketch  on 

nipples,  navel,  details  like  that.  I'm going  to  try  water 

balloons, guys, unless you have a better suggestion.

Wig,  makeup,  fabulous fakes,  false eyelashes, I've got tons of 

that stuff. He has the face for it. He'd be better looking than I 

if he were a woman.

I'm going to convince him his anus is his vagina,  and then treat 

it like one. Make him a contralto. Make him walk the walk.

Keep  the  light dim,  him under strict control,  and my  fingers 

crossed. But I can see that this is all a long way in the future. 

I have a lot of work to do.  A lot to develop in his  head.

     And most of all,  I have to make myself feel like I'm making 

him up for a play.  Or a halloween party. Not changing him on the 

inside,  not down deep.  That way, maybe I won't lose my favorite 

top.  He's  GOT  to go from being a definite man to a  believable 

woman without ME thinking of him as anything ambiguous or icky in 


That's the plan, troops.  Elf mustered the shining armour brigade 

to  present  medals  after the dismemberment  of  Little  Retchid

    (shame,  shame,  I  should  be magnanimous in  victory.   But 

    instead I think I'll be unbearable for a page or so.  It just 

    comes over me,  sometimes).

I  think,  for reasons of public health,  Elf also had to relieve 

some of you of your battle trophies:  various internal organs, an 

argyle sock, etc. An unruly bunch.

     Anyway,  Elf now has my scarf to tie on the end of his,  um, 

lance.   And I have to ask him to muster the troops again.  Don't 

just  stand there shuffling your feet in the dust,  boys.  I need 


     Kayvan, stop fiddling with your codpiece and tell me if this 

will work. You're a hypnotherapist. Advice! I need advice!

     WildCard, drop that scrotum, it's nasty. Besides, it belongs 

to  Richid and you don't know where it's been.  No-one  would  be 

impressed by it anyway. Battle trophies are supposed to be big.

     And pay attention,  Strider.

                           And  for heaven's sake put  away  that 

                           pipe  wrench.   I don't care if it  is 

                           kippled. Or squicked.

     And Gweeb,  come out from behind BlackDouga and get in line. 

Wizyrd will make a space for you.   I don't think I want to  know 

what that is behind your back. Come on, let's see it.

Eeewww!    That's disgusting.!  Explain yourself.

      Stop mumbling and stand up straight Gweeb, or I'll put Moon 

Knight in charge of you. He didn't get a piece of Richid and he's 

NOT  in a good mood.  (Although I'm glad to see SOMEBODY polishes 

his armor...)

               Now speak up, Gweeb. What IS that thing?

                           Arriving  too  late to get a proper trophy is  no 

                           excuse,  Odor-Eaters don't count. Give it back to 

                           Richid; he probably needs it anyway.

     Now the rest of you,  put on your helmets (yft, that's NOT a 

helmet  and you know it.  Give Kayvan back his codpiece) and  pay 

attention. Sheesh! Talk about motley. Nurse Jones needs advice on 

how  to top Jay and keep his dignity so I can drop this role of a 

half-pint  Brigitte Nielsen and go gracefully back to  being  the 


     Maybe it's up to him to keep his dignity....... Help!

Nurse Jones,

      reviewing the troops, a butch damsel in diaphanous fatigues,

          hands on hips,

            smile on lips,

              rings on nips.

(deep breath)


Now, boys, I want to thank you all ...

                                           My Goodness!

How on EARTH did you all manage to do that all at the same time...?

       Hmmm. Remind me not to take a deep breath next time.

Still, Elf, I'm touched by the gesture.

                           My scarf looks nice.

                                              Out there.

Wot the hell. (deep breath)

DIS-MISS... Wait!

                              I'm a top now!

Maybe I'll just leave you like this. After all, it's my post.


Nurse  Jones,  learning  that monogamous

                         and  monotonous



                            Even amongus

                       that be


who's doggerel is an insult to the entire canine world,

and who promises to be nice to Richard from now on,  even  though 

he's not speaking to anyone,


                              lurking, and

                                 anonymous behind his real name.

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

ramblings. 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 theraputic.

     I  guess there were a few postings 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's only goin' 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.


     So anyway, 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


     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.

BTW,  I try and 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'm 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.

     BTW  again,  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 sat scootched 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

cerebral palsy victim.  He ate mostly through a straw.  This  was

years ago back 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  some

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 of guy that if he were EXXON  he

would be sueing 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  puppydog

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

trust. Suddenly I don't feel like a nurse anymore. I realize that

this  is play:  I can be what I wanted,  as long as I don't  hurt

him.  I  feel like a goddess dispensing a sacriment.  Holding the

gag against his lips,  I might as well have said,  "Take this and

eat,  in rememberance of me ..." That's the embarrasing part.  It

was an ego thing. I was suddenly benevloent 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   gentleness  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 lingere.

          and lingere the soul of wit.

                          but wait ... (!)

                         Is there more?


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

                     Then I shaved him.


     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 dispensed  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

admission.  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  the  depth  of compassion I felt  should  have  made  me

release him,  and I didn't.  My eyes teared up,  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  allright,

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 embarrased 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 embarrased by what _I_ was seeing. I don't blame you.

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

bottom  will  be  embarrased right out of  the  mood,  blindfold,

blindfold, blindfold.

    For me,  though, by candle light it was kind of nice; I stood

there,  hands  on hips,  considering him for a moment,  and in my

imagination  I was an ancient goddess (Jesus this is  embarrasing

to  admit)  for whom a sacrificial victim had  been  ceremonially

left,  and I was ritually preparing him for my own pleasure.  And

they  seldom survived an evening with me,  the poor  things.  The

thing  was,  even though I knew I was role playing,  I was REALLY

FEELING that sense of power, just letting it go.

     Long  before  I started shaving his naughty bits he  had  an

erection  that looked like it might 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  being one to waste such occasions,  as soon as I  had

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,


    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 just used him to masturbate with, slowly, like I like  it.

When _I_ was through,  I didn't tell him it was his turn. I never

gave him permission.  This was cruel of me (heh),  but I tried to

make him come even though he was really trying not to.  It didn't

take  long.  I wish I could write this from his perspective,  the

way  Column One was written from my perspective,  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


     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

embarrased. 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 hir (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.

Kippling, even.

     (AHA!  Now  you understand my facination  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


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

pussy -- not that they were noticeable anyway -- which turned him

on  immediately  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

difference.  Take  it  from Nurse  Jones:  don't  use  depilatory

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


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

Nutrogena hair/skin conditioner.  WRONG!  (Buzzer sounds).  It is

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 SO 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 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?


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


                      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."

From Nurse Jones,

     Starting off with a note from the present.

     In  case  you  were in suspense from reading  my  last  post

(which  was written while I was still lurking),  and even if  you

weren't, I think my pubic hair's going to grow back.  I can't mix

drinks  for Clarence Thomas yet,  but I'm almost sure I'm on  the

road to complete recovery. Whew.

     That  probably isn't the report you were looking  for  first

thing  this morning,  but I've been looking for it for some  time

now.  It's  been a gradual recovery,  and it's still little  more

than  peach  fuzz,  but I think the verdict is  definite.

     Which reminds me,  I found the wax.  I'm trying to decide if

this is a cruel thing to do to Jay.  We're like two ships passing

in the night,  Jay and I.  Mine is starting to grow back,  his on

the  way  out.   Heh.  I told him to let his grow back  yesterday

(he's  been keeping it shaved on my "orders" for some time  now.)

Little does he know what's going to happen when it's long  enough

for  the  wax  to grab a hold.  So I have a few  days  to  decide

whether to do it or have him go back to shaving.  Eeeeyowch.

     I got a lovely note from ROo a while back.   She went to the

DC-ASB party and was a major hit.   She got me thinking about the

Halloween  party we went to last week.  I was going to  take  the

easy  solution  to costumery and go as a nurse (Nurse  Jones,  in

fact, although noone there would have known that).  Jay had other

plans.  He wanted me to go as a TV character (that's  TELEVISION,

Wyzyrd).  Elvira,  Queen  of the Night.  You MUST have seen  her.

She's wonderful.   Not exactly Oscar material, but she has a good

attitude.  I had the wig, if not the hair.

     MAJOR  DIVERSION!  The  DRESS!  I never told you  about  the

DRESS!  Jay  got it made for me with measurements taken  with  my

corset  on.   The  very  week I was back from S.F.  He  got  this

seamstress  to come by the house and measure me WITH  THE  CORSET

ON! This was big time weirdness for me.  In my own house.  I mean

she  was  60 if she was a day,  and clearly didn't think much  of

anyone  who would wear a corset.  She asked me if I was wearing a

foundation  garment.  Yes.  I will be wearing it with the  dress,

too.  She sighs as though she just doesn't know what the world is

coming to.

     She doesn't.

     Jay and I had argued about this

dress.  He  wanted  it Just Like the one  this  Elvira  character

wears: plunging neckline. Black velvet. He had even located a bra

that  used more than one engineering principle to  avoid  showing

structural,  ah,  members. And he wanted me to wear it in public.

Totally  sleazy.  I  wouldn't go for it.  I mean,  I  don't  mind

sleazy: sex is supposed to be dirty, if it's done right, but just

at home.

     We went 'round and 'round,  Jay and I. I (heh, heh) came out

on top. With a compromise (see under corset, above). The neckline

is high,  like those chinese dresses, chamsongs, I think they are

called.  Zip up the back,  long sleeves,  hemline to the floor. I

would only let her put a slit in it up to the knee. Jay wanted it

up  to mid-thigh.  But she made it so the slit can  be  extended.

More sighs.

     It  is TIGHT.  It was tight when she fitted it,  and I  have

gained quite a bit of the old avoir du pois back since  then.  (I

lost  a lot while traveling).  I'm up to 116,  which is a  little

heavy for me, but Jay thinks it's in the right places. But I mean

this dress is tight!  Right down to the knees.  I can barely walk

in it. Running is totally out of the question. It was practically

like the good old days.  So I went as whatzhername from the Adams

Family.  With fake fangs.

     Jay  just  wanted  the  dress  made.   He  wasn't   thinking

Halloween. I was thinking maybe the opera on a very dark night IF

he bought me something expensive (and long) to drape over it.

     We were both thinking about coming home after.  Turns out it

was after Halloween.

     He  was  the wolfman in a rubber mask,  and I had him  on  a

leash.  And I brought handcuffs just for show-n-tell.  The people

at the party were straight,  totally, with one possible (certain,

now) exception.

     In  fact,  as I told ROo,  I made a complete ass of  myself.

Biiiiig mouth.  They were almost all very conservative. There was

a  couple there that I thought were dressed as Ozzie and  Harriet

and  despite the corset I'm practically doubled over pointing and

laughing  so  hard my fangs fall out.   Turns out they  were  not

amused.  Nor  were  they  wearing  costumes,  just  their  normal



    So there we were, wondering how the hell we were going to get

out  of there gracefully in time to have some fun.  We found  the

teenage mutant ninja host and his superheroine wonder-hostess and

were  about to make our excuses when (would you  believe  it) one

thing  leads to another and they jokingly (I thought) ask if they

can  borrow the collar and leash and I ask if they have a dog  or

would they like the handcuffs too,  which I produce voila from my

bag.  And they look at each other and she turns absolutely tomato

red and has the sudden urge to pass hors d'oeuvres and circulate.

    So I decide for the both of us that maybe we should give this

party a chance to get interesting.   It didn't.   We left an hour

later,  but  I  take  the  hostess aside in  all  the  noise  and

confusion  and I'm feeling pretty good so I try to give  her  the

handcuffs  and  she  turns red again and says Oh,  we  were  just

kidding, really.  And I say Oh go on, live a little, and take her

hand  and  put them in it and she TAKES them,  holds them out  of

sight,  and  asks me if I had a good time,  looking  around  with

elaborate  nonchalance  like  I  had  just  sold  her  drugs   or

something. Ha! Southerners are as bad as midwesterners.

     So  I smile and tell her to call if she wants to know  where

in her house I hid the key.  She looks at me and turns red  again

and  I  can tell she is having second thoughts so I tell  her  to

think  about  it and we really do have to leave now and it was  a

wonderful party.

     The  next  day  we  get a call from  her  husband,  and  Jay

answers:  they found a set of handcuffs that they think belong to

me and they wanted to check before they returned them and by  the

way, was there a key with them, if so it's lost. Uh huh.

     So  Jay tells them where it is and we STILL haven't got  the

cuffs  back.  I hope they are having fun.  I don't want 'em back.

They're  uncomfortable.

     The  big  question is did they call before  or  after?  What

would I have done,  first time out?  Tough decision.  After would

have been better, before safer.

     Anyway,  ROo got me thinking.  When I arrived at that  party

corseted  in  that  dress,  I was  mortified.  That's  her  name,

Morticia.  Adams. Anyway, I was mortified at first. The guys were

all  looking  at me through their eye holes.  It  was  a  thrill,

embarrasing,  and  I felt very sexy.  Especially with the Wolfman

there to protect me. But I got to thinking about that when ROo e-

mailed me her tale,  and I realized that Jay and I are so private

that  we  couldn't even discuss the topic  with  kindred  spirits

under  the very best of circumstances.  Too midwestern.  You just

don't talk about that to other people,  at least not when they're

in the room.  E-mail's OK, that doesn't count, they aren't in the

room. Obviously.

    Anyway,  I  thought about how I would feel if I were in Roo's

stiletto's at that party.   Michael was there,  I understand. I'd

feel  safe  around him,  I think.  Moon Knight  would  take  some

getting  used to,  if he's anything like his posts.

     I just don't know.  I feel weird just wearing that corset in

public.  This party is only the second time I've done that, and I

was  nearly  nonfunctional  from  embarrasment  until  I   became

nonfunctional from screwdrivers.  It was just a costume party for

crissakes. What if I had been at the DC-ASBash?

     I just couldn't.... Naaaawww....


     Another  piece of not-quite-news.  My supervisor,  The Blob,

may  (rumor has it) be getting a lateral promotion.  Pray for  us

now and in the hour of our need.   She's been there since  before

she died, the change would do her good.


     And  I've been working on some important  tricks,  hypnosis-

wise.  I've  worked out some key phrases that with  post-hypnotic

suggestion, help speed up the induction of trances. I spent a lot

of  time  in  the beginning just getting him into a  deep  trance

before  we  discovered this shortcut.   If I were to  start  over

again, I would concentrate on developing this shortcut first.

     And I can induce amnesia about the session, too. There are a

number  of things I need to try out.  Most important:  his voice.

This is hard for me to tell about.  While in the deepest trance I

can induce, I actually had him up, eyes open, and walking around.

The  books  said getting him to do that while in a  trance  would

take a lot of work, and it did, but it's crucial to the plan. And

it was a big shock for me.

     During  that session I had told him that every time I  asked

him  to  speak his voice would gradually become higher  and  more

feminine,  and it did.  I began to feel a little nervous at that,

for some reason.  I don't like people changing on me, even though

I may be the cause of the change.   I stuck him with a rich,  low

contralto  rather than a falsetto.  But it was still eerie.   I'm

not sure if I should be grossed out or not.

    I  want  to back off.  I'm scared.  Jay is really  trying  to

persuade  me  to go on.  I'll write about something  else  for  a



When Jay wasn't home last week I tried out,  on myself,  some  of

the  makeup  tricks  I  would need to use on  him.  I  erased  my

eyebrows  with a blemish cover stick and covered them with  latex

from  the costume/novelty shop.  Makeup over that,  and I had  no

eyebrows.  I  could  sketch in whatever I wanted  with  eyeliner.

Jay's  eyebrows are coarser than mine.  Maybe I should try it  on

him while he's under.  And the padded hips. I packed cotton under

panty  hose until my own hips were seven or eight inches  bigger.

It  came out all lumpy and took a lot of adjusting and four  more

pairs  of  pantyhose before it looked like I  had  oversized  but

smooth,  natural-looking hips.  Actually,  I kind of liked seeing

what I would look like with 42 inch hips.  I don't know why,  but

it made me feel kind of sexy.

     This is weird stuff.  I need feedback from someone.


     I could go seriously wrong here.

Nurse Jones,  so strictly brought up she's desperately anxious to

do the wrong thing correctly.

From Nurse Jones,

I'm lost. But now I know why. And it was ASBTherapy that  helped.

For  me,  reading and writing ASB posts is therapy.  Not  just  a

break from work, which I need desperately sometimes, but  somehow

writing stuff down clarifies it for me so I can deal with it. And

hearing  from  you helps me to feel I'm not (a)  weird,  and  (b)

alone  down here. Jay and I are very close, but he's  really  the

only one I have since leaving Chicago. After a few weeks  posting

I'm  as  close to the ASB regulars as I am to the people  I  work

with,  and certainly more intimate than I have been  with  anyone

but  Jay. How much I post seems to depend on how bad  things  are

going at work at the moment.

     I've  said  before that I'm not constitutionally  suited  to

being a top.  As I read back over an earlier post, I realize that

a motherly attitude toward the bottom is NOT one that  translates

well  into this role. But it's what I've got.  I'm not  sure  Jay

got  anything out of it. He says he did, but he was such a  stoic

that he clearly didn't get what I did.  I was so timid and afraid

of hurting him that I didn't really do my job.

Talk  about  a twisted relationship!  I want to give up  being  a

top,  but my bottom won't let me. I'm supposed to be running  the

show, and I told him I was going to give him an order to top  me,

and  he  wouldn't.  I said

      wait a minute, who's  in  charge  here anyway?

          You are he says.

              So top me, says I.

                  Make me.

I'm not exactly a wilting violet,  (more of a willing violet) but

I don't like being a top.  (Well, I do, I think, actually, but if

I  do  it on my terms he won't enjoy it.  It will seem like  weak

vanilla topping to him. )


I  have  plans, but I know I'll go all soft once I have  him  all

trussed  up again. My attitude is that I have to do these  things

to him but my main job is to help him get through it.

     And he just seems to endure my timid fumblings as though  he

were  waiting for a bus.  None of the writhing histrionics that I

went  through.   I don't know if I get through to him or not.  He

_says_ I'm doing great. He _says_ he knows what is going on in my

mind and it turns him on.  He says that when I put the gag in his

mouth (back in List 15,  I think. Which I never finished writing,

BTW)  he could see the changes of attitude on my face.  I  didn't

think  I  was that obvious.  He said he could see the feeling  of

empowerment. Something about the shape of my nostrils again. What

the hell is it about my nostrils?  I have heard of people  having

cruel mouths,  but _nostrils_?  And he said he could see it,  and

feel it, when I turned all gooey compassionate, too.

     So anyway,  In case you forgot, I had been trying to totally

sexually deplete J.  He had had two orgasms.  I tried a number of

what I thought were sexy tricks to give him a third, but the best

I could manage was half-mast. He had had four in one day, before,

remember.  Finally,  I  decided to take the plunge and  I  spread

eagled  him,  standing  up,  arms chained to those  overhead  eye

bolts. (I have the key to the little locks, now. Remember those?)

I put a vibrator in him.   This was pure curiosity on my part.  I

was  as gentle as could be,  used tons of KY jelly,  and it still

took me a while to even find ...  it.  I watched his face,  still

blindfolded,  as I pushed it in. He endured. He's such a stoic. I

haven't gotten anywhere near a limit of his.

     But his erection grew. I'm happy to report to the females in

this little group,  that It Works. I mean, the prostate is really

there,  and it really is an erogenous zone or something.  When  I

touched it,  the reaction was immediate. He squirmed and his hips

kind of moved as though we were having sex. I don't know if that

was  involuntary or not.   I knew I had touched a very  sensitive

spot, though.

     So  naturally  I turned on the vibrator and pushed a  little

more, still experimentally. Get this: he didn't have an erection,

to speak of,  the poor thing was exhausted.  BUT he had an orgasm

anyway.  He ejaculated. Weakly, to be sure, and involuntarily. He

couldn't control his reaction.

     This  is valuable data.  I know that during a rectal exam  a

doctor  will sometimes massage the prostate to get seminal  fluid

for a lab test, but this was a forced orgasm. I made him have it.

I  could  do it again and make him have an orgasm exactly when  I

want him to.  On cue. Perfect timing. I still haven't figured out

a way to use this valuable information yet.

     But I will.

Nurse Jones,

             looking up an old friend.

From Nurse Jones,

     I have a serious question for STella,  Roo,  Lothie, Amelia,

and all interested parties, especially female.

     There  is this other nurse on our floor that is a "type"  of

person. I know, I should talk, especially to this bunch of, shall

we say, hard-line liberals, about labeling people, but this is  a

legitimate  question.  There IS a type of woman that is  a  man's

woman.  I'll  call this one "Scarlett." She doesn't  even  notice

other  women; it's like we were furniture or something. If  she's

talking  to  you,  you get the feeling she's  looking  over  your

shoulder  in case something male, especially a doctor, comes  out

of the elevator. If it does she's gone like a shot.  Scarlett  is

attractive,  and they usually are. She treats me with  a  certain

amount  of respect, bacsically by acknowledging my presence,  but

that's  ONLY because she percieves me as  potential  competition,

not  because  she wants to communicate.

     There are women on the floor that are fantastic people,  but

not physically up to her standards, and she ignores them.

     There's a young candystriper who uses her head only to  keep

her  ears  apart, and she's worthy of Scarlett's  notice  because

she's  attractive.

     This  is behaviour I see in men, even expect, but  it's  not

common in a woman.  I don't think she (Scarlett) is aware of  it,

even. I think _she_ thinks she's perfectly normal, but she's like

a different species to me. I can't communicate with her any  more

than I can with a hyperbaptist.

     Do  you  know  the  kind  I  mean?  Men  seem  to  find  her

attractive,  and  I don't think they percieve her as odd  because

they never see the side of her that women do.  She doesn't go out

with other women,  shopping,  for lunch,  anything. It's like she

has two mental states, two modes: being around men, and  waiting.

It's  like she has drifted off somewhere and her only contact  is

with  men. She stopped being complete, somehow, and  became  just

part of a person, magnified all out of proportion.

     My first week on the floor, I thought she was just desperate

to  marry  a doctor.  "There goes the good time that was  had  by

all," I thought. But no, she doesn't really seem to sleep around,

I  don't  think. I could be naive, but I don't think so.  She  is

just drifted off into a totally man-oriented existence.

     And then I realized that I am talking almost exclusively  to

men  after taking a brief census of the e-mail and ASB  postings.

Have I drifted off,  too?  Roo and Amelia have e-mailed me, and I

have a very short group of (7 at the moment) special notes that I

keep  in  my mailbox (it overflows a lot,  but I save  ones  like

that) from people that I want to write long, proper e-letters to.

When I have something really important to say.

     But there is very little feedback about what Jay and I  did,

and  are  doing  in The List, and I sometimes wonder  if  I  have

exposed  so much of myself that I seem weird like Scarlett  seems

to me. Roo, I think it was, commented that I was very  courageous

to post that stuff about myself. And that her hair was  something

she'd NEVER give up. That made me nervous. Today I got another e-

mail from someone else that said I was very brave to post.

     I  hadn't  communicated  with ANY of you when I  posted  the

first part of The List,  and I felt like a kid watching from  the

edge  of the playground.  I could roll my ball out and see if I'd

be invited to play, and if I wasn't I could run away and hide and

it wouldn't matter because I didn't know you.

     And now I do know you,  a little, but you already know stuff

about me that I would never tell you if I had to do it over  now.

It's almost like meeting your gynecologist socially. And I looked

back  at the last 3 or 4 parts of Column One (9-12) and I  wonder

if  I'm  weird.  Not to mention when Jay shaved my head.  I  just

realized  that the only real feedback I've gotten was  from  male

ASB'ers  who are begging me to go on at all costs, and even  they

were  noncommital  about exactly what turned them on and  off.  I

seem to be pushing only male buttons.

     Like Scarlett.

     I  guess my question is:  was there ANYTHING about The  List

that appealed to the women? Or appalled?

     And was there anything that turned the men off?

Nurse Jones,

Afraid to look up,

     suddenly nervous that she's standing

         in the middle of the playground

             with her panties around her ankles,

                 and she's just noticed

                     it's very quiet.



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