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Subject: Title story: "The List_8" Author: Nurse Jones 49506087
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Date: Fri, 22 Jul 2005 04:23:37 +0000
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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 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.
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