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Prologue | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18
The List
by "Nurse Jones"
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
hands.
I was already worse off than before -- but he wasn't
through. He buckled a collar around my neck. He didn't bother
to lock it: I couldn't reach it. Another strap around each leg
just above the knee, those connected so I could take only tiny
steps -- another strap around each ankle -- still another at each
elbow -- yet another around my waist with a wide strap between my
legs, forcing my buttocks apart. I remembered that one: he had
put it on me once before. This time, though, my elbows were
locked to the waistband.
A strap across my back, under each arm and over each
shoulder, holding my shoulders back and making my breasts jut out
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
exactly.
I could walk slowly, talk, and sit. Carefully. I didn't
even feel safe walking. What if I had lost my balance? I asked
just that 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
myself.
All I could do was stand there.
"When I come back, I will remove one restraint. Think about
what you will do to get me to remove the next," he said. He left
me 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
intense.
Inhaling eased some of the tension on my nipples. The
sensation seems somehow to extend deep inside my breasts and to
tug directly at my womb. I know there's no physiological basis
for this sensation, but it is real. I am sorry J isn't sensitive
that way and will never experience that sensation.
No, I'm not sorry. Well, yes, I am.
I could feel myself getting wet beneath the leather of the
crotchpiece.
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
ragged.
He lifted me into the center of the bed and laid me on my
back. He removed the strap between my knees. He strapped my
ankles to the bedposts, my legs held quite far apart, although
not to the point of actual discomfort. Then he attached something
to my knee-straps that pulled my knees even further toward the
edges of the bed. I had never been spread so wide before. I could
feel the muscles between my thighs straining under the tension.
He knelt between my knees, unbuckled the waistband buckles
in front and opened the leather belt, exposing my already-wet
sex. He unhooked my elbows from the waistband and unbuckled the
strap that ran from the front of my collar to the front of the
waistband. Lifting my buttocks, he slid the waistband from
underneath me. I was as exposed to him as it is possible to be,
my legs spread wide, my breasts jutting, my wrists still locked
to my thighs.
Carefully, he let his weight settle gently on top of me; he
felt like a warm, heavy snowfall blanketing me. I was panting,
partly from the near-pain caused by the position of my legs,
partly from 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
fingers.
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
restaraunt.
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.
more to come
Prologue | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18