Archive-name: Bondage/njlist02.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List -  2 of 20


The List
     Column 1
       Item 2

     J told me to write this so that people will want to read it. 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), toilet-
ries, 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 apartment, 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 weird 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." Ma own se'f. Besides, I know that if I just "tell it
like it was" without any explanation, there's no way you could possi-
bly 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 re-
lieved, 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 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.
     "Not yet," he whispered, 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 the satin smooth heavily-
conditioned skin, 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 had to wiggle and shake to
get it off my arms behind me without ripping it. That made my breasts
bounce, and I felt embarrassment returning. 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 was chilled
despite the fire. I began shivering; I think it was mostly (but not
totally) the cold. I held the clothes 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, embarrassment. He was still fully dressed,
remember.
     "Drop the clothes," he said. This time, voluntarily, I put my
arms at my sides, leaving myself uncovered. Suddenly the cold was
real. I was shivering violently, but forced myself to stand erect and
face him squarely, keeping my eyes on his. I had lost the 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 trav-
elled 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 control.
     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 bedroom.
     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
grasp the covers and 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 in the ceiling, but no
music was coming out.
     There were four metal eye-rings set in the ceiling, too, over the
bed. New additions, I thought. 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, cozy 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 ordinary, but 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 times.
     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.
     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.
Concern for my feelings was clearly 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 misjudgment 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
again.
     "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, just rested 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 gently to 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 embarrassed by him watching me. Funny
how the mind works sometimes.
     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 aroused. Excitement, apprehension and foreplay are a
deadly combination. I will admit I was afraid, even though I trust him
more than 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 preservation.
     He told me to get into bed. I did, still turned extremely on.
     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 some-
thing 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 impassively,
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 with one hand and pulled gently but
insistently on my hair with the other.
     "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.
     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. A click, and he got off me.
     The moment 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 padlock. 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 "Ah, Ah, Ah." 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--lips stretched around this thing and
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).
"Ah," I said, shaking my head 'no'.
     "Is it on the List?"
     "Ah," 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." I sat on the sofa, knees togeth-
er, 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
embarrassed 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 embarrassment 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 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 down again. My jaw was starting to ache a little, and I
needed to wipe my face. He wasn't going to let me 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.
     "Ah?" 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. 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 padlocks, 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 into the
living room. I got down on my knees again and laid 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 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 me.
     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.
     Anything.
     "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 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 out.
     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 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 "Not-rocket-scientist-who-is-stupider-than-
ostrich."
     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 anything.
     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. He had undressed sometime after I was blindfolded. His
hand slid down my stomach to just below my navel. And ever so lightly,
lower still, to where my skin becomes silk. My breath caught and the
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 deliber-
ately relaxed.
     This is hard to explain. As he continued to stroke and kiss me, I
remained detached, but my body began to move without effort on my
part. Sounds like I'm making this up, I know. It was as though I were
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 rhythmically. His hand left my sex and moved up to my body's
breasts. A gentle stroke and their nipples wakened. They were erect,
hardened. I felt his lips on my nipples, sucking and nibbling gently.
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 allowed.
     I stopped, frozen and heard my body's breathing grow 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 spread-
eagled body floated weightless, penetrated and quivering with excite-
ment. 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 imper-
ceptible. I was on the very edge. My body had to start breathing
again: suddenly I started panting frantically and spasming uncontrol-
lably against the chains. His weight descended on my body, pinning me
to the bed. Spasm after spasm wracked my body, but he held me immo-
bile. The chains tightened rhythmically 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 midwestern-
er. Had his way.... Sheesh!) with me, but he didn't notice. He used me
until he was shudderingly, gaspingly, done 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
granddad 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 clothes 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.

     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.
     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 perma-
nent 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 unattrac-
tive. 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 conven-
tional 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 witticisms like "No man should plant more garden
than his woman can hoe," and then guffaw. Then some buffoon so dim he
hadn't heard that one before would laugh and spray beer out through
his nose. That would be the evening's high point. 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? (Thank-
you-so-much for reminding me, J.) My shoulders are narrow, and my
upper body strength needs a lot more development.
     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 flamboyant for a midwesterner.
Someone might think I was trying to be different, God forbid.
     So I'm just a midwestern farm girl--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 perceive to be other out-of-control imperfections. I
suppose he means my hair. Or my nipples. They have been an
embarrassment, but I don't think 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 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, embarrassment 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. Really.
     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 behavioral 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 behavior (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 gorgeous 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 skier, 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 fascination with the List by
inventing complex pseudo-psychological excuses. Publicly, 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 embarrassed 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....

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