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Subject: Title story: "The List_2" Author: Nurse Jones 60172653
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Date: Tue, 22 Nov 2005 15:04:14 +0000
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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 South.
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 ...
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