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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"
Prologue
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 alt.sex.bondage 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 cha.
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
directions.
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
spotlight.
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
here."
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
ashamed.
"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
voice.
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,
anyway.
"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.
"Yes."
Prologue | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18