Archive-name: Bondage/njlist04.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List -  4 of 20


The List
     Column 1
       Item 4

     The next day, Saturday, we went shopping at the Mall. Sounds
mundane, right? Well...
     Around ten in the morning, he took off my collar and wrist and
ankle straps, and told me to put on my makeup and the same white high-
heeled sandals I had worn the first night--nothing else. I did as he
asked, not knowing what was coming. Then he held my fleece-lined coat
out for me. I slipped into it. Standing behind me with his arms around
me, he hugged the fleece lining against my bare skin and said over my
shoulder, "Time to go shopping."
     "Like this!?" I said, hoping he was kidding. He wasn't. Jeezus, I
think. He's taking me out in public like this! It wasn't cold, but I
didn't know if I could handle it. It sounded titillating and exciting
on paper, on the List, but now...
     "Don't button the coat," he said. We walked side by side to the
car, my coat flapping, exposing my extreme nakedness. I looked down at
my body. It was too much. I balked at the car; I knew that if I got
in, I wouldn't be able to stop this. I just stood there undecided,
looking at him as though he would tell me what to do to solve this
problem.
     "Are you refusing to go?" he asked.
     "We agreed to no public humiliation," I said, "it's not fair to
keep my coat open."
     "If you do as I say there will be no public humiliation," he
said, emphasizing the word 'public.' "You have to trust me. Are you
trying to bargain with me?" he said with that same look that he had
just before he put the gag in my mouth last Thursday.
     "No," I said hurriedly. "It's just that I...I..." I got into the
car, hoping it wasn't too late to avoid whatever he had in mind. I
could see it was something. It wasn't worth breaking the bargain over,
though. I got in. You have to trust.
     He told me to pull my coat up around my hips so my bare skin was
on the cold seat. I did, and tried to pull the coat around me as best
I could to keep the rest of me warm. We really drove to a shopping
mall, and he got out of the car, came around and opened my door and
told me to get out. I did, holding my coat closed. Then he told me I
could button it, thank God. I looked around the immense parking
lot--only a sea of cars, no people in sight--and said, "I can't
believe I'm really doing this."
     Then we really did it.
     We went into the mall. I felt all eyes were upon me, that every-
one knew. He put my arm through his and led me into a dress shop. We
wandered around looking at dresses (he looked, I pretended to look
while I worried about people unmasking me--as though, even if someone
did somehow know, they would whip off my coat and have me arrested). A
shop assistant came up and asked me if she could help. Somehow I was
expecting him to answer for me, but he didn't. He just looked at
something on one of the racks. I stammered "Just looking, thanks," and
as she walked away I realized with an idiotic thrill that she didn't
suspect anything. Of course she didn't. Idiot. J had found a dress in
my size. It was a long-sleeved mohair-like knit turtleneck in white,
not really a mini, but well above the knee. He knew my size. He handed
it to me and told me to try it on. The assistant came up to us again
and showed me to a changing room.
     "May I take your coat?"
     Oh God. "No, thank you," I said, praying. Fervently.
     "Well, just let me know if I can help you." ThankyouGodOThankyou.
I swear, if she had asked me why I wanted to keep my coat, I would
have said `Oh, for sentimental reasons.' I couldn't think of any other
reason. Total blank. Idiot.
     In the changing room I slipped the coat off, the dress on,
smoothed it down and looked at myself in the mirror. It was obvious to
me that I wasn't wearing anything underneath it, but I didn't know if
it would be to anyone else. The dress was (is) very form-fitting. At
least I couldn't see through it. Or at least I thought I couldn't. My
nipples aren't dark enough to show through, and, of course, no dark
pubic hair. If my nipples didn't become erect--which of course they
did immediately--no one would notice a thing. I look okay without a
bra. I mean I don't sag much. J says I sag just exactly the right
amount, whatever that means; I always thought ANY sag was too much,
but he insists that's not true. Something about the way they slope, or
something, he says. Men. I waited and tried to concentrate on other
things until my nipples stopped performing.
     I came out and modeled the dress for J, expecting the shop
assistant to show up any moment with a security guard: "That's the
one, Officer." When she did show up, I was afraid to even look at her
in case my guilty expression gave me away. I really don't think she
could tell, though. At least she kept a straight face while she told
me how nice it looked, trying to make a sale. Of course, my nipples
betrayed me immediately, erect and screaming, "Here we are! Look! Over
here! No underwear at all! Call the police!" She probably would have
had me arrested if she hadn't been on commission. She rang it up and
took J's credit card.
     "Would you like me to box it for you?"
     "Uh," I said wittily. We Hoosiers are known for our wit.
     "Why don't you wear it?" said J. Then to the shop assistant,
"Would you get the lady's coat, please?"
     My eyes bugged out, and when she had gone I whispered fiercely,
"She'll see I wasn't wearing anything!" He smiled benignly. "There's
no other dress in the changing room!" I explained, thinking he didn't
understand, that he was the stupidest person on the planet. He just
smiled. I wanted to hide. I hit him. He smiled some more. Somehow,
without resorting to any logical thought process, my mind had conclud-
ed that this must be a crime like shoplifting, except that instead of
leaving with three dresses on under your coat .... Well, there has to
be some rule about leaving with the right number, right? Anyway, I was
about to be apprehended. "I'm sorry, madam but you must leave the
store with a minimum of TWO dresses. It's the law. You should know
that, you're from Indiana."
     As she came back out with the coat and a worried look, he took it
smoothly and thanked her, took my arm, and strolled out the door. She
was about to say something, but instead she looked back at the chang-
ing rooms with a puzzled expression. I don't think she figured it out.
As they say about the South, "It ain't the heat, it's the stupidity."
I think this one actually WAS stupid. Maybe she was from Indiana.
Also-not-rocket-scientist.
     We'd done it! My nipples sprang up again. I asked for my coat.
"Are you sure you want it," he says.
     Sure? Of course I was sure. I whispered, "I'm still naked under
here, remember?" Talk about stupid. He looked at me without saying
anything. I thought over what I had just said, and realized it sounded
ridiculous. Everyone is naked under their clothing. For some reason
that sign you see on restaurant doors comes to mind: "No Bare Feet."
     I have an okay body, and I have gone without a bra before. What
the hell, why not? I took his arm, leaned against him, and we strolled
slowly out of the mall. And I mean strolled. I could feel the soft
fabric shifting against my skin, and the thrill of what I had just
done made me feel on top of the world. Floating. A man walking with
his wife watched me go by, and I knew he was admiring my body, not
gaping at a naked person under a dress. Well, maybe he was at that.
His wife watched me too. When we had started out for the mall, I
couldn't believe he was really doing this. Then we did it. Then I
couldn't believe we had really done it. I still can't. But we really,
really did it.
     At the car J said, "Do you want to have lunch somewhere?"
     I looked him straight in the eye and said, "If you like, but what
I really want is to go home and change into my everyday clothes." He
smiled, knowing what I had to wear at home, and unlocked the door. He
opened it for me, and I got in, this time pulling my dress up around
my waist without being told. The last half of the drive home is on a
two lane rural road. When we were out of the city traffic, I pulled
the dress off over my head and said "I don't want to get my only dress
wrinkled, do I?" I rode the rest of the way nude in the car beside
him. Pure devilment.
     And when we got out of the car at the house (which is safely
isolated in the middle of the ten wooded acres) I left him at the car
and strode ahead to the house in nothing but my shoes. I waited by the
door for him to open it. I was so full of myself.
     Idiot. I'm thinking of changing my name to Definitely-not-rocket-
scientist.


The List
     Column 1
       Item 5

     I don't know what had come over me. I had suddenly become daring,
deliberately doing outrageous things on my own, without being made to.
It felt great. Dangerous, but safe at the same time. I felt I could
handle anything on the List and maybe even a few things that weren't
on it.
     When we were back in the house, he mentioned that he, too, had
noticed a change in me. I just smiled and went to get my collar and
cuffs. I call them cuffs, but they aren't handcuffs, just brown,
polished cowhide with little holes to lock on the buckles. He has done
some leather work as a hobby. In fact, he's quite a handyman: he can
do electronics, cabinetwork, carpentry, plumbing, body work (on cars,
on cars) and stuff like that. The garage is a regular workshop, full
of tools. He says he's been waiting years to have a workshop. It must
be nice to have a real salary after so many years of school. Nurses
don't get real salaries. It only sounds real to high-schoolers.
     I digress. After I had gotten the cuffs he told me he had some-
thing special in mind for after lunch. We ate, I naked, he fully
clothed, then left the dishes on the breakfast nook table.
     "Do you think that by 'strutting your stuff' you have somehow
made up for questioning me and hesitating at the car door this morn-
ing?" he said. "Now put on your cuffs," he said, striding toward the
living room. He seems to enter this artificial 'master mode' when he's
about to do something to me. Like he's reading from a script or
something. I ran along side him, fumbling with the cuffs, playing
along.
     "I thought you would be pleased," I said, "I did it for you."
     "And I sensed a little more than the desire to please in your
actions. There was pride and a touch of rebelliousness. You were
playing today's game to win." He really talks that way when we're ...
well ... doing this kind of stuff.
     "No, really!" I protested, unconvincingly. He took my head
between his hands and held my face so I had to look him in the eyes.
He said nothing, just looked skeptical.
     Okay, so taking off my dress unasked and then leaving him stand-
ing by the car was, maybe, more than was strictly required of me.
"Well ... maybe ..." I hedged, not really admitting it, my eyes
sliding away from his.
     "Besides," he said, releasing me, "you were fully dressed the
whole time, and nudity in a car with tinted windows on a country road
or in an isolated woods isn't really all that daring. You know what
they say about a tree falling in the woods when there is no-one there
to hear it..." He was right. I was only brave when I was safe. But
still, it felt ... exciting.
     I was hopping on one foot trying to buckle a cuff around my ankle
and convince him at the same time. It didn't work; he ignored me.
     He told me to take out my contact lenses and lie down on the
dining room table and wait for him. The table is a heavy oak refectory
table. The top is three inches thick and made from a single piece of
wood from the trunk of a large tree. Long and narrow, it weighs a ton,
and is a beautiful antique. It was also cold on my back. I laid myself
out on it, legs together, fingers intertwined on my stomach, and
waited, like in a doctor's office, staring at the ceiling. He came
back with a tool box from the garage, and a soft nylon rope. He tied
my wrist cuffs together under the table with my elbows hooked over the
edge. My legs hung over either side of the table and were similarly
tied, my feet pulled nearly together under the table by a rope tied to
each ankle.
     It was a very awkward and ungraceful position to be in. Despite
my newfound inner 'coolness' (read cockiness), I was becoming very
embarrassed again. By lifting my head and looking down the length of
my body, I could see my badly out-of-focus reflection in the mirror
over the fireplace. The table was wide enough to hold my legs well
apart, and with my knees hooked over the edges of the table, I really
couldn't get into a position to pull them together--which I really
wanted to do: even though I am nearly legally blind without glasses, I
knew the view was grossly, GROSSLY embarrassing, and I was grossly
embarrassed. I have felt far less exposed and vulnerable in front of
my gynecologist.
     He was standing behind my head, so I had to watch him in the
mirror or try to lift my shoulders and twist to the side to see what
he was doing. Rattling noises. Metallic scraping and a hissing noise.
In the mirror, I could see well enough to tell he was lighting a
blowtorch!! [After he read this, he told me to correct it to propane
torch, as if such details would have made any difference to the way I
felt.]
     "What are you going to do to me!?" I cried, my voice cracking,
suddenly on the edge of hysteria. I wasn't absolutely sure if I should
actually BE hysterical or not, but I was not going to pretend to be
cooler than I felt.
     He looked at me impassively, a look I had seen before. "You
haven't learned yet, have you? You're going to have to learn to trust
me," he said, and left the room.
     I DO trust him, but Jesus, a BLOWTORCH! That's REAL scary stuff.
I was entitled to some kind of reassurance, wasn't I? Some explana-
tion? Well, I had already had all the explanation I was going to get:
"You have to trust me." I clung to the fact that he seemed to care
whether I trusted him, since in my position he could have done whatev-
er he wanted regardless.
     He came back with the gag and stood beside me at the head of the
table. He put his hand on my chin, holding my lower jaw.
     "Open up," as though he were about to give me a tablespoon of
castor oil.
     "Please don't.I won't talk." I was scared.
     "Open up."
     "But I-"
     Gently, he put the gag against my lips and waited, patient but
implacable. What did it matter? No one could hear me anyway. I could-
n't get loose, so I could either go along with this gagged, or could
just go along. I looked into his eyes for a long moment, trying to
find reassurance, feeling a little scared again. Imagine Bambi caught
in your headlights: that's how I felt. I stretched my mouth open,
keeping my eyes on his. My lips would have quivered if the gag hadn't
been pressing against them. In it went. He didn't even bother with the
strap this time. I couldn't get it out without a free hand.
     A small, heavy bag plopped onto the table next to my head. I
twisted and rolled my eyes to get a look at it, loose ends of the gag
strap flopping. He folded a wet towel and laid it on my abdomen (Josef
Mengele/operations/scalpels/Charles Manson/body-parts-found-in-the-
woods-by-hysterical-campers flashed through my head. I have an unfor-
tunate imagination.), and out of the bag poured a small heap of gold-
colored chain. (I asked later: It is only gold-plated steel; otherwise
I would be worth a small fortune right now.) The chain was "Y" shaped,
the three pieces joined in the middle to a ring about an inch in
diameter. He lifted my lower back up and passed the chain under me,
adjusting the ring under the center of my back.
     I wasn't thinking very clearly or I would have been relieved at
the sight of chains. It could have been plastic garbage bags and a
meat cleaver. Well, knowing J it couldn't have been, but my imagina-
tion was in overdrive.
     He pulled the ends of the chain together. They overlapped and he
adjusted them until there was no slack at all, fastening them with an
open link of the same chain. With some large pliers, he bent the open
link back into shape, and went back to lighting the torch. I twisted
my head this way and that, watching everything, bug-eyed.
     The noise was what startled me. I had never been that close to a
blowtorch before, and loud noises scare me. It popped and made a kind
of hissing roar. Actually, it wasn't that loud, but the fact that the
roar was made by a very hot flame was not a reassuring thought,
believe me. You can imagine what I thought. Oh, he doesn't need a meat
cleaver, he's got a blow torch. I'm such an idiot. I can say that
now.... Then I was hanging by a thread from the fact that he cared
whether I trusted him even though I was totally helpless and he didn't
need to pretend to care. Somehow, that meant he wouldn't betray my
trust.
     He propped the torch up in his tool box and put a couple of
blocks of wood between the chain and my abdomen, lifting the chain
away from me over the towel. He brushed some gooey stuff on the open
link. Up to this point, I was watching every detail with a great deal
of interest. Believe me, I was paying attention. But when he bent over
me with the torch, I couldn't make myself look, I was so afraid I
would get burned. I just sucked in my stomach and prayed. I was also
relieved that it was the chain and not me.
     It must have taken less than a minute for him to finish. Suddenly
the noise from the torch stopped. For a moment the only noise was my
own rapid breathing hissing noisily in and out through my nostrils.
But I couldn't even feel any warmth, not to mention heat. I looked
down; J was fanning away an acrid smoke with a magazine. He took a
corner of the wet towel and dabbed at the link. Pssssst. More swipes
with the towel and the hissing stopped.
     Soon he was able to gingerly touch, and then hold the link. I was
getting tired holding my head up to watch, but I couldn't control my
horrified fascination. I tried to follow him with my eyes as he put
away the blowtorch and came back into view with some enormous plier-
like things. He clipped away the spare links of the chain as easily as
if he were pruning a plant. I had a seamless belt with no buckle.


The List
     Column 1
       Item 6

     "Lift your backside," he said. I did.
     He reached between my legs and pulled the third length of chain
down from in back. As he pulled on it, I could feel it tugging against
the belt at the center of the back.
     Again he left the room. He came back with something in his hand,
but again he was standing behind my head and I couldn't see what it
was.
     Still hiding the object below the edge of the table, he walked to
the side of the table and stood there. Straining to lift my shoulders,
I could see him doing something between my legs. He was inserting
something into my vagina! Straining, I glimpsed white plastic. I could
feel it was lubricated and smooth, but he was definitely inserting
something! I tried to resist by clenching my muscles and squirming,
but it was too slippery and my legs were too far apart and he was too
insistent. It was past my portals. I made noises behind the gag. I
couldn't stop it from going in. He continued, sliding it deeper, until
it was as far in as it would go. It wasn't impossibly big, probably
smaller than he is, but it was so hard and unyielding it felt like an
enormous intrusion.
     He moved it out again, a little, and back in. And out. Of course,
it was a dildo. Something that my midwestern little mind has had some
trouble adjusting to. I had, of course heard of them, but believe it
or not I had never actually seen one until that Saturday. Where would
I have seen one in my home town? People drive to the next town to buy
condoms. People in the next town drive to ours for them, too. That's
not a joke, by the way. It's an invitation to think about where I'm
coming from.
     He pushed it back in, watching my face. He could see that I
wasn't reacting sexually. I wasn't. It was too artificial, too per-
verted for my midwestern mind. Sorry, if that isn't the sex-vixen
reaction you had in mind, but that's the way it was. He did something
with the chain, and locked the end of it to my waist with another
miniature lock, this one small and gold-colored. But functional. Where
does he get this stuff?
     He went back to my head, lifted it gently, and locked the gag in
place. As soon as he let go of the device, I squirmed, trying to expel
it. No dice. Then he untied my legs. I lifted them onto the table and
gingerly brought them together. I had more freedom of movement, but
still couldn't get rid of it. Then he freed my arms. Instantly my
hands were between my legs, pulling. Again, no dice. I went to jump
down from the table, but quickly realized I had to be very careful of
how I moved. It was awful. My only thought was: What has he done to
me? But I already knew, really. Gingerly, I got down from the table,
and with trembling fingers felt myself to see if there was anything I
could do to get it out. The chain went through a ring in the end of
the ... device. Sorry, but the word 'dildo' sounds so perverted to me.
Nazis in dirty socks and all that.
     Experimentally, I took a step. I could walk, but not quickly or
gracefully. I crept gingerly to the bedroom to get a close look in the
mirror. Again the grotesque face, the stretched lips, mascara running.
I didn't know which end to worry about most. The thing was a g-string
made of chain. I turned my back and looked over my shoulder. The waist
band joined a seamless ring in the center of my lower back. The crotch
piece was joined to the same ring. The chain was tight in my rear
cleft: I could feel it against my ... orifice. [He's really strict
about this. Asshole and anus are right out. He makes me change this
kind of stuff every time].
     By pulling down on the waistband, I could loosen the chain enough
to push it aside for ... bodily functions ... but not nearly enough to
get the device out. Pissing could be messy. The chain itself is
unassailable without the right tools. And of course ... they're locked
in the garage ... do I have to explain?
     My jaw was beginning to ache again, so I went out to look for J.
He was coming in the side door after putting away the tools and said,
as though everything was completely normal, "Put on your shoes and
clear away the lunch dishes."
     Was he kidding? Wash the dishes? In the state I was in? I stared
after him, and started crying again, which, again, only made my jaw
hurt more. But I did as he said: put on my heels, tottered unsteadily
into the kitchen, and stood there over the sink, sniffing, with
mascara running down my cheeks and saliva leaking down my chin again.
There wasn't any way to argue. I finished the dishes--there weren't
many anyway--and wobbled back out to the living room. He was standing,
looking out the picture window. He turned to face me.
     I stood there in front of him, eyes down, every inch the obedient
slave, doing my very best to play the part as he wanted.
     "Are you beginning to understand?" he said.
     "Ah," I nodded enthusiastically, not beginning to understand.
     "We'll see," he said, glancing at his watch. He turned back to
the window.
     I went to put on my collar, thinking that might help convince
him. Of course it didn't. I had to wait. I just stood there, trying to
focus my mind on not letting my jaw hurt. The other device in me
wasn't really a bother if I didn't move around much. I hadn't had to
piss yet. He went to the armchair and sat. I just stood where I was in
front of the window, legs apart, looking down at the floor, waiting.
     Despite my best efforts, the gag still got to me. It is the
worst. I gave up trying to stop the saliva from leaking around it, and
let it drip on me and the floor. It's so hard to swallow with that
thing in; I feel like I'll sprain something. I controlled myself for
as long as I could, but finally a sob escaped me. Well, it started as
a sob, but came out as a squeak and a sniff. I looked at him, implor-
ing with my eyes. Gingerly, I walked over again and carefully knelt at
his feet, holding the sides of my jaw between my hands, and not just
for effect. Again he stroked my hair. Tenderly.
     "Turn around," he said. Painfully, still on my knees, I did. I
felt him take the lock out. My hands went to the buckle at the back of
my head and hesitated. He didn't say anything. I put them back at my
sides, making fists to help control the pain. After waiting a moment,
just long enough to acknowledge that I had learned another lesson, he
said, "Take it out." I did. Relief.
     "Stand up," he said.
     I wobbled unsteadily to my feet, my back still to him. I thought
he was going to take out the other, but he didn't even tell me to turn
around. Instead, he went into the bedroom. I followed silently, not
knowing what else to do. I passed the full-length mirror in the
bedroom and stopped. I was a sight. Mascara and eyeliner mixed with
saliva were smeared all over my face from my eyes to my chin, even
drops on my chest and thighs. My lipstick was smeared; on my stomach
was a smear of that gooey brown stuff he used while putting the chain
on, and my hair was an explosion of straw, partly matted with more
miscellaneous goo. I stood with my legs apart in a most unladylike
position. My hand strayed to the chain; I gave it a desultory tug.
Hopeless. My shoulders sagged. As I say, a mess. And that thing in me.
In the mirror, over my own shoulder, I caught sight of him looking at
me. He had his shirt off. With both hands, I covered my ... self ...
and the thing.
     "The chain is silver-soldered around your waist. It's as strong
as a weld. It won't come off." As if I might think it would. My hand
dropped to my side again. "Come and undress me," he said.


The List
     Column 1
       Item 7

     This was something new. Remember, I hadn't even seen him naked
yet. I hobbled over to him, still holding both hands in front of
myself (don't ask me why, after what he had just seen). He had a small
gold key on a chain around his neck. I knelt, undid his belt, and
unzipped his pants. He stroked my hair gently, then left me kneeling
there and sat on the bed. I knee-walked to him and went to work on his
shoes while he lay back on the bed. When I was through, I sat back
carefully on my heels with my hands covering my lap. Without rising,
he said "Start the shower."
     Despite the age of the house, his bathroom is a large modern one,
I think added to the house recently. It is much larger than the other
(my) bathroom. There are two windows and a third one inside the walk-
in shower. The shower is huge, tiled, with a glass door. The walls of
the bathroom are tiled part way up and stucco the rest; there is an
old cast-iron claw-foot tub, a modern john and sink, and a small table
and chair. I ran the water until it was warm, and told him it was
ready. He walked in, past me. I waited. He said, "Take off your shoes
and come in here." I did, still covering my front. Gently, he washed
my face, chest, and stomach. I didn't think anything would ever make
me forgive him for putting that thing inside me, no matter how gentle
he was afterward. Mostly I was befuddled, but there was a residual
core of resentment.
     I kept myself covered until he gave me shampoo and I had to use
my hands to wash my hair. With the glass door shut, the shower enclo-
sure became like a steam bath: it was almost hard to breathe. He told
me to wash him, but really we washed each other. Then we put on the
same all-purpose unscented hair/body conditioner I had used before.
You're going to think I own stock in the company. It's great stuff,
though. We kissed under the shower with the water, soap, and condi-
tioner running between us, and I could feel him hard against me. I
began to melt a bit myself, but that THING was still uppermost in my
mind. I wasn't going to forgive him. My eyes stayed on the key around
his neck. I wanted it out of me.
     He edged me away from the showerhead and began spreading condi-
tioner over the front of my body. All over, even around the device in
me. Having him feel me there when I was like that was degrading.
Embarrassing. And exciting. My heart began to race, partly from the
excitement, partly from the stifling steam. I felt almost faint. He
turned me around and I leaned with my hands against the tile wall with
my legs spread as though I was being searched by a policeman. He
covered my back and legs with the conditioner. Then he went to work on
me from both sides, like he had before with the talcum powder. His
left hand on my hairless and still- violated front, the other explor-
ing every millimeter of my rear, slipping under the chain, closer and
closer, teasing. Every time he pulled the chain or moved the device, I
felt a delicious shock that drove the breath from me, and I made a
little "hunh!" noise. His right hand slithered under the chain at my
rear, pulling against the device. As before, I wanted him to penetrate
me there. Anywhere. I grasped at his finger with my buttocks.
     He pulled me upright away from the wall and held my trembling
body against his, his erection pressing against my rear cleft. Over my
shoulder, into my ear he said, "Do you like that?"
     "Mmmm," I said, not wanting to admit it, unable to say no.
     He returned me to my stance against the wall. While he slowly
manipulated the device with his left hand, a finger from his right
caressed my rear, on the very edge of penetration. He asked again.
     "Oh," I said, squirming against his hand, hoping he would get the
message. That in itself is a very risque thing for a midwesterner.
     "Say it," he said, "tell me what you want," penetrating perhaps a
half inch and continuing to manipulate me.
     "Can't you tell?" I whined.
     "Say it," he repeated, withdrawing the half inch again.
     "Yes," I whispered, hanging my head between my arms. Looking
down, I could see his left hand caressing between my legs, feel his
right poised to enter my rear.
     "Louder," he said, "Tell me what you want. You'll have to tell
me." He continued to tease, stroke, and manipulate. My knees were near
buckling.
     "I want you inside me," I cried. "I want you to fill me up." My
voice broke. With all the water, steam, sweat, and conditioner, he
couldn't see that I was crying. I'm not sure I actually was, but I
wanted to. Or at least I was trying to. I felt like I should be.
     "Where?" he said, insistent.
     "Anywhere," I sobbed. "Anywhere you want. Please!"
     "Cover me with the conditioner." Hands shaking, I did. I covered
his chest. The key was gone. In his hand? When I got to his legs, I
got on my knees and caressed his erect member, underneath, even in
back where he had just (almost) penetrated me. I'd never done that
before. I covered him everywhere. He guided my mouth to him. The
conditioner tasted awful. I rinsed it off and tried to take all of him
in; I began sliding back and forth. I had never done this for anyone
else. I never really wanted to do it even for J, although I did. But I
always thought it was so ... well ... unhygienic.
     Somehow the cleanliness of the shower made it all right this
time. I continued to caress him with one hand, but my other hand
slipped down to the device in me. I began to masturbate in someone
else's presence for the first time in my life, although the device in
me was a bit of a hindrance. I guess it's a male myth that penetration
is somehow essential to the female orgasm. It's not. But it's kind of
nice to be penetrated while having one. Anyway, he was too engrossed
to notice what I was doing. I think the first time he knows will be
when he reads this. Unknowingly, he stopped me before I brought myself
to orgasm by telling me to get up.
     He turned down the water to a gentle fine spray, as hot as was
comfortable, and the steam abated enough for us both to catch our
breath. He unlocked the chain at my waist, and keeping the tension on
the free end with one hand, slowly pulled on the chain from the rear
with the other hand until it was free of the ring on the device, link
by jarring link, rubbing against both openings at once. It pinched me
a few times, enough that I gasped, but he was watching my face so
closely and pulling on the chain so slowly and carefully that he
controlled every pinch, every nuance of sensation I felt. Every time
it pinched, he slowed and let the pain become almost-pleasure.
     By the time the chain was out, I was panting, nearly hypervent-
ilating. He let the chain dangle from the waistband, but held the
device in me with his hand. Slowly, he inched it out.
     "Hurry," I whined. "Please!" I wanted to reach down and take it
out myself.
     But he continued to manipulate and stroke both of my openings.
His other hand, lubricated by the conditioner, worked at my rear,
penetrating slightly, loosening, penetrating again, more each time,
while the device continued its work in front. Finally he took the
device out altogether and went to work with his hand. I was about to
have an orgasm, and could not continue to stand. I sagged a little; he
supported me by holding both sides of my slippery and hairless crotch
cradled between his hands as I slid to my knees.
     Still leaning with my arms up against the wall, I was on my
knees, and his fingers resumed their work. At last, one of his fingers
penetrated my rear fully. I contracted against it, but it was insis-
tent, continuing to probe and stimulate. I couldn't stand it any more,
and began contracting both openings against his fingers. I couldn't
come. I got more and more frantic, squirming. I was so close. His rear
finger left me. Then it was back, but it wasn't his finger.
     It was warm; I thought it was his erect member at first, and I
tried to relax for him. But it wasn't. He was inserting the device,
still warm from my body heat, into me, this time searching gently for
my rear opening, and God help me, I relaxed and spread wider to help
him even though I knew what it was. I am admitting this now, but then
I pretended--half believed--that at first I thought it was he that was
entering me instead of that ... thing. Once it was started in, though,
I rebelled. It was stretching me too much. I tried to avoid it, tried
expelling it, anything to just get rid of it. But I couldn't. He held
the chain around my waist as I tried to crawl away, and forced me face
down onto the shower floor. I slithered forward on my stomach, trying
to squirm away, but I came to the end of the shower; with my face
turned to the side and my cheek pressed against the tile, I could go
no further.
     Slowly, gently, inexorably, he continued.
     It felt huge. I don't know if you've ever had this done to you,
but the first time was a bit of a shock for me. I knew by the way it
had felt in my vagina that it was smaller than he was, but it was so
unyielding, so hard. It stretched me terribly, and it felt so much
bigger than it had before in my other opening. The conditioner contin-
ued to lubricate it, but I had never done anything even remotely like
this.
     It was forcing me open, violating me, filling me even after I
felt full. This was pushing me close to the edge. I begged him to
stop. I don't know if he would have if I had been more sincere. I felt
pretty sincere. There was still a small part of me that was curious
and excited, but it was a very small part.
     I told him I would do anything if he would just please take it
out, but eventually, rather than continuing to fight it, I found it
hurt less--or felt better, I'm not sure which--if I relaxed and helped
him. Still it continued. Suddenly, by relaxing, the feeling became one
of simply being penetrated and filled up. I found I was able to accept
it, and, I realized, able to almost get into the sensation--if not
exactly enjoy it. He was so gentle that it got better, though. Much
better. Ultimately, I was rubbing my front against the shower floor,
trying desperately to climax.
     "Up on your knees," he said. I could barely do even that, but
once I did, the device continued its penetration until it was com-
plete. My hand went to my crotch briefly, perhaps to masturbate again,
perhaps to feel what he had done to me, I'm not sure which. A little
of both. He told me to keep my hands on the floor. I felt him slip the
chain through the ring in the end.
     "Straddle me," he said, lying on his back on the shower floor and
sliding under me. He held the end of the chain underneath, holding the
device fully in me while I lifted my leg over his hips and sat astride
him, but without his erection inside me. Once again, slowly, he pulled
the chain out, letting the entire length of it slide between my
swollen lips, each link tapping the ring in the device. At the same
time, he was stroking me in front, masturbating me. I was wild. When
the chain was once again out, I could wait no longer, and I slid down
on him, enveloping him, thrusting him deeply into me in one smooth
motion.
     I lay prone on top of him, plunging him into me frantically,
grinding against him. He was letting me do all the work. The water
from the shower head was falling on us from my shoulders to my knees,
and the end of my chain dangled between my legs and rattled on the
tiles. He grasped the ring on the end of the protruding device, and
began to pump it gently in time with my own movements. He gradually
picked up the tempo, thrusting with his own hips. I'm normally not
very noisy, but my pants and whimpers echoed in the shower, and at
first I was tempted to ham it up a bit, but by the time I approached
my first orgasm, which was almost as soon as he started moving his
hips, I was crying out genuinely. The tiles in the shower made my
cries seem louder.
     My second orgasm came almost immediately, a long, shuddering
continuation of the first. Being penetrated twice that way is inde-
scribable. When he had his orgasm, and I my third, I think I had one
in each opening. Is it possible to have a triple simultaneous orgasm?
Sounds like one of those moves that figure skaters or olympic divers
do. Well, I don't know what the doctors say, but I think we got all
10's, even from the East German judge....
     After my third orgasm, I lay there unable to move, panting, the
sound of hissing water in my ears. He began to remove the device.
Immediately I gasped and reacted with a fourth convulsive orgasm,
beyond my ability to control. It kept on as he continued to slide it
out. He was torturing me. He would pull a little and twitch his hips a
little, and I couldn't help myself; I just kept spasming and convuls-
ing every time he moved. I was utterly exhausted, unable even to flex
my thighs as I normally do during an orgasm. Weakly, I tied to say "No
more," but I was too weak to even get that out in the face of the
continuing spasms. It just came out "Unh."
     Finally, thankfully, I felt the last of the thing slide out of
me. I felt myself contract again to normal size, and, too weak even to
twitch in response to this final stimulation, I came to the end of the
last orgasm.
     When I had recovered enough to stand being moved, he helped me to
roll onto my side where, once more, he washed me. He turned off the
water and knelt by my side. I was flat on my back as the last of the
water gurgled down the drain beside me. The shower was silent except
for dripping water. I swear I couldn't move. I lay like a puddle of
pink pudding while he spread still more conditioner on my flushed
skin. Again he covered me, missing nothing, not the tiniest crevice,
hairline to toes. Finally, he helped me into a sitting position. The
steam cleared a bit when he opened the shower door; cold air replaced
the warm, but I still couldn't move. I sat, eyes shut, head back and
leaning against the shower wall, unable to stand. Hands under my
armpits, he lifted me to my feet. I couldn't support myself. Well, I
probably could have, but I was really wobbly. He propped me against
the shower wall; my chain had slipped to the side, and the underneath
part dangled on my hip. Letting me collapse into his arms, he carried
me into the bedroom and sat me on the edge of the bed. I immediately
flopped to my back.
     As I lay there on the bed, he dried me--not with a towel, but
with a hair dryer. I remember vaguely thinking it odd, but said
nothing. As he worked over me the noise of hair dryer droned, cutting
off all other sound, and I drifted off to sleep. The last thing I
remember was being gently rolled over, and feeling his fingers in my
hair as he began drying it.
     When I awoke it was dark. I really just drifted back awake: I
can't sleep very deeply when I nap in the afternoon. He had covered me
with a comforter, and I was nude under the soft cotton. My skin was
unbelievably soft: I felt like satin all over. Drying me with the hair
dryer had left me coated in the softening conditioner. I can't de-
scribe the luxurious feeling of awakening this way, completely squeaky
clean all over, warm, dry, satiny sleek-smooth, muscles a little sore,
as though I'd had a good workout at the spa ... heaven.
     I spent more time than I needed to wake up, pampering myself just
soaking in the soft luxury of the bed and remembering the preceding
hours. I began to feel a tingle of excitement as my mind wandered
sleepily over what he had done to me. No. I couldn't again, I thought.
Not tonight anyway. No way. Absolutely, positively ... probably ...
not.
     I got up gradually, first stretching, then sitting on the edge of
the bed and focusing my thoughts. I could hear kitchen noises. He was
fixing something to eat.
     He had reduced me to a mindless puddle of overstimulated proto-
plasm, degraded me, embarrassed me, and made me admit I wanted it. And
then he did an equally expert job of putting me back together again
afterwards. The only thing he makes better than the wound is the
bandage.
     I got up and looked in the mirror. I looked pretty good. A little
pale, maybe. I looked (and felt) like one of Dracula's victims: pale,
weak, used, kind of ethereal, but I didn't look tired. And my hair was
a huge frizzy cloud around my head; drying it without brushing and
conditioning creates an unmanageable near-afro. Still, I looked great.
Even without makeup. He had relocked my chain, this time without
anything inside me. That looked great too.
     The form-fitting white cotton outfit was laid out on the bed. I
put it on over my chain, put on some sandals, and checked myself in
the mirror again. I strolled, almost dreamily, to my bedroom to get my
thin gold necklace, and the feel of the clean, soft cotton against my
satiny skin was distractingly luxurious. Seriously--this body condi-
tioner is great stuff if it is overused properly.


[A Note From the Future:
     [Through the miracle of word processing, you are now looking
forward in time to the end of this account; it has been a month,
although it seems like a lifetime. After reading this over, I can see
now that this was a turning point. I unknowingly (maybe not so unknow-
ingly) decided, in the moments you have just read about, that I wanted
...well... more. We continued, from time to time, to have sex in ways
that I used to describe as "normal". But I do know now that those
times of normal sex were unsatisfying for me. There'd been two years
of normal sex before we left Chicago. I thought I enjoyed it. I did.
I'm sure I did. He was a sensitive and thoughtful lover, and a wonder-
ful day-to-day companion. Really, I had several orgasms almost every
time we made love. Not a record to sneer at if the women's magazines
are to be believed.
     [But if I were to relive those days now, it would be like a diet
of rice pudding after acquiring a taste for raw steak. J had started
me on a path that I now know is one-way, although at the time I was
sure I could--would --stop and go back. Gradually, and in carefully
choreographed steps, he forced (led?) me to first acknowledge that I
was fascinated and titillated like a dirty-minded schoolgirl by the
things he was doing to me, and later to like it so that I had to
justify myself by pretending it was just sophisticated sex. But I
ended up way beyond all that. I acknowledge a need akin to addiction.
I fought it, to be sure, but I fought because resisting is participa-
tion in the process rather than an attempt to end it. A few days ago I
was willing to give him my absolute and utter voluntary acceptance of
his control over me. At least until further notice.
     [That weekend a month ago was only the first tottering step of a
babe in the woods. A babe with a long way to go.
     [The word 'slave' sounds so theatrical and phony, and most of the
literature I have since read about B/D, S/M etc., make it sound so
lurid and juvenile and, well ... pornographic, and as much as I don't
want to be identified with that kind of lifestyle, I have to tell you:
If I wasn't a slave in the literal sense of the word (that is, a
servant, which I'm not), I was at least a voluntary, self-confessed,
incurable Addict. I want(ed) to dive in headfirst, forget caution, and
be owned. I wanted to know what it would be like to give everything up
for it. Isn't there a kind of freedom in giving everything up?
     [And yet there was a worm slumbering at the root of my addiction,
and as that addiction metamorphosed into a way of life, the worm began
to waken, and a duality developed in my personality. I reacted to the
events you have just been reading (and others like them) in two
mutually inconsistent ways: I wanted revenge, and I wanted to submit.
I wanted more of the degrading treatment I had been getting; I resent-
ed the fact that it wouldn't continue since J has--and
does--steadfastly hold to the one month time limit. Since the List was
a contract that entitled me to eventual repayment in kind, the more I
got, the sweeter I thought my revenge would be. But I wanted the
treatment I was getting, too. I actually ended up begging for more,
and at the last, revenge was not necessarily uppermost in my mind. It
might never have been if J hadn't stopped Column One himself. I would
have exceeded the List, and gone on exceeding it as long as J did.
Ultimately I wanted to go further than he did. I think he found it
unsettling, as if he had created a monster.
     [And he had. I had told myself that my motive for revenge was
repayment for what he had done to me. I was kidding myself. It ended
up with me, like a spoiled child, wanting to punish him for stopping,
in effect, for holding to the contract. If I actually go through with
it (Column Two) I will punish him as much for having stopped as for
what he actually did to me before stopping Column One.
     [As I write these words I have arrived at the moment when I must
decide whether to go on or not; I've come back to read the earlier
parts of this account to help me decide (also because it turns me on
to read over it), but I'm taking the opportunity to fill you in a bit
so you will understand some of what follows, insofar as I can under-
stand it myself. Most of the justification, excuses, and explanation
you will read will be a load of bull: the shallow self justification
of a silly prude from southern Indiana with less understanding of her
own motivations than a dog in heat. You ASB regulars (yes, I am a
reader of ASB now, in the "future") will recognize the self deception.
You've probably been there before). Oh, the facts are accurate enough;
what you are reading is not fiction: it happened as it is written.
Embellished dramatically, to be sure, and the dialogue may not be
verbatim, but it is basically true, nonetheless. But the psychological
interpretations are, for the most part, nothing but the pathetic self-
deception of a schoolgirl mentality that felt it far safer to keep a
firm anchor in adolescent nonsense than to put out on the troubled
seas of growth and introspection. As though I was entitled to stop
growing when I graduated from college.
     [But then, I have an advantage: I am a different person now,
looking back from the end of this little tale, so I know how it comes
out, or at least how Column One ends. This duality that developed in
me means there are two bottom lines: They may seem inconsistent, but
believe: I was, and am, his. He possesses me completely. BUT. Since he
insists on ending his turn, I want my turn. I'm tempted. I'm sure I
would be good at 'topping' in a technical sense. Maybe better than J.
     [After all, I'm a registered nurse.
     [It's quite a dilemma: I don't want to change either my status or
his. Switching roles might destroy my image of him as the dominant
one--I'm not sure I want to do that. But I have the option because of
our agreement over the List.
     [Anyway, this moment in the narrative was the fulcrum on which
all subsequent events turned, and the crossroads that led to my
present indecision. After that point, as near as I can estimate, I
didn't want to go back, I didn't want to undo my new psyche. Another
cliche, but I guess I discovered myself. I hate it when I can be
reduced to a formula and the formula turns out to be a cliche.]


The List
     Column 1
       Item 8

     The next day, Sunday, we went to the exercise spa. He had brought
my old leo's from my bags, with my shorts to wear over them to hide my
chain which would otherwise have made lumps. There's not much to
relate, and besides, I don't have a lot of time since I have to get
ready for San Francisco. J is going to let me go shopping on my own
tomorrow, and the next day we leave. Today, I have to depilate again.
     So, a short note on the spa. I went as his guest. The exercise
machines are arranged in two parallel rows. We went down the two rows
side by side, each of us doing our own weights, and he absolutely wore
me out. I was sweating by the time I got to the end of my row, and he
made me start the stair machine with him. When I thought I was all
through, we did another round on the weight machines. By then, I was
absolutely drenched in sweat, my hair sticking to my head, my leos to
my body. He had completely exhausted me on purpose.
     I need to get into a regular exercise routine.
     We drove home and showered together, but this time no hanky-
panky--well, a little hanky maybe. I wore one of his sleeveless tank-
top t-shirts; it was more comfortable than anything of mine. He wanted
to talk, and he wanted me relaxed. After lunch, tired out and with a
meal and two glasses of wine inside me, I tend to get sleepy. He sat
me down on the sofa (I have to sit gingerly these days, settling
around my chain to keep it from pressing on my coccyx. This is espe-
cially a problem on the exercise machines. The exercycle is out of the
question.
     "I want you to understand something clearly," he said. "I am
going to continue as I have been. At the end of the month I will
possess you like a piece of property. Everything I do to you is
directed toward that goal. I'm not going to ask you to like what I do,
but I'm asking--correction--ordering you to tell me: do you want to be
possessed in this way? You haven't said so yet."
     I didn't know how to respond. On one level, this whole routine
sounded like I had always imagined a grade z porn movie to sound. He
sounded like he was reading from a script again. But the reality was
so ... Well, the reality was what went on in my mind and that wasn't
grade z. Even _I_ have to admit that last bit of dialogue is grade z,
but that's what he actually said, more or less, so that's what I
wrote. I wonder if he rehearsed it.
     I adopted an equally formal and artificial conversational tone. I
told him I liked the idea of belonging to him, that I wanted that but
the things he had done were too much for me. I needed time to get used
to this. It was all too new. Anyone listening would have thought we
were bad actors.
     "You understand that won't change what I do," he said.
     "What are you going to do to me?" I asked, suddenly suspicious. I
had the feeling he was planning something.
     "You already know: I'm going to make you mine."
     "I mean what things are you going to do to me? Specifically."
     "You have the List. Beyond that you're going to have to live with
not knowing."
      -*-
     That first week had been a very intense week for me. I think that
if I had encountered new sexual experiences at that rate for much
longer, I would have been unable to continue. But things slowed down
during the next week, and J didn't introduce anything new into my
life, just variations on the same themes he had already established.
     Once he tied me gagged and immobile in a wooden armchair so I
could do nothing but turn my head; he teased me unmercifully with
feathers and fingers until I was exhausted. At the end, behind the
gag, he couldn't tell if I was laughing or crying. I couldn't either.
     And once he had me hanging by my spread ankles with my wrists
tied by ropes to the same overhead rings so I was doubled up and
looking down at my own crotch (I'm pretty flexible--yoga and all that)
My bottom was just resting on the bed enough to take my weight off my
arms and I had to watch helplessly while he put ...things... in me.
You know what things. I had no choice but to watch.
     I'm getting used to this more cosmopolitan and liberalized
attitude toward sex. It IS sex, I think, even when he just watches me
walk around the house in my chain and nothing else. I know it doesn't
sound like it, but I get turned on by the restraints and control.
     One new thing happened, though. He said he was "totally charmed"
by my inept attempt to strip seductively, and asked if I would, to
please him, learn "the moves." I said yes, and on Monday evening, he
came home with four video tapes: three x-rated ones that had profes-
sional strippers doing their thing, and one "how to" tape with lessons
on exotic dancing. I have been practicing. Not the tassel-twirling
kind of stuff that people with names like "Boom-Boom" and "Treasure
Chest" (Bang-Bang LaDesh, Marsha Dimes, Irma the Body) do, but more
seductive stuff. I feel silly at home alone, writhing on the sofa,
grinding my hips, wiggling my chest and peeling my clothes off an inch
at a time, but right now, I would feel still sillier if he were
watching. Soon, maybe I'll be able to do it for him. The belly dancing
is more challenging and fun to learn. It takes a lot more coordination
than I would have thought.
     That Sunday night, though, I was spread-eagled on the bed,
blindfolded and gagged--not with that awful ball-shaped gag, he just
uses that for punishment--while he teased me with half-melted ice
cubes. While he was driving me crazy this way, he whispered in my ear
that the time would come, before the end of the List, when he would
make me a proper slave, and I would voluntarily call him "master." He
knew I wasn't ready then, but he told me to think, as an exercise,
once a day, of the circumstances it would take. He knew instinctively
that I would associate that word with the kind of B&D scenarios that
had already made me (to my immediate regret) laugh. He knew I hadn't
gotten deeply involved enough to use such a word and mean it, even
within the limited context of the List. But what he said registered.
I'm still thinking about it. I fantasize about the circumstances in
which I could say it, but would still not be able to SAY it without
thinking it faintly ridiculous, like Nazis in black socks with dust on
the soles of the feet.
     I haven't talked about one aspect yet: the limitations set by the
List. Of course, he won't do anything that's not on the List, but
there is a lot of latitude in HOW he does what IS there. (Witness how
he put on my chain: that blowtorch was very scary.) It is in this grey
area that I have to trust him to be sensitive enough to approach and
even exceed my verbally admitted limits without exceeding my true
threshold. I'm beginning to learn that this takes enormous sensitivi-
ty. And I thought the primary requirement for the dominant figure in
this kind of relationship was that he/she be Insensitive.
     The other limit for the List is a long-term time limit. We agreed
to a strict limit of four weeks for each column. Sounds like a couple
of lawyers, I know, but we decided that it couldn't be shorter and be
still be meaningful: I wanted the feeling I was really plunging in to
something serious. Somehow, in my fantasies about this, it was seri-
ous, not play. And a strict time limit gives me something to cling to
as an "out" without letting me frivolously interrupt the process.
There is comfort in knowing there is nothing on the List that can do
me any real physiological damage, but I know that the cumulative
discomfort of that gag (it is by far the worst) adds up to actual
pain, and I trust him not to overdo it. At some point you have to
trust, I guess.
     We leave for San Francisco tomorrow.
     -*-
     Well, we're back from San Francisco now, and do I have a story to
tell. It's Saturday morning, and we got back late last night.
     He had to take my chain off for the plane trip, and for a few
minutes it actually felt strange to be without it. Not naked, exactly,
but like something was missing. He had me wear my tight knit dress
with nothing underneath, and once we were in the air, he took a collar
and lock out of his hand luggage and told me to go into the restroom
and put it on under the turtle-neck of my dress. I couldn't have worn
my chain through the metal detector, although he said he thought about
making me do that and letting the female guard search me to find out
why I set it off. That would have been crossing the line between
embarrassment and public humiliation, I think. Still, what could they
do? Arrest me for chain smuggling?
     Once we were in our hotel room (it was pretty nice: someone else
was paying for it), he put the chain on me again, this time locking
all three loose ends with the little padlock. I could have put the
chain on while on the plane, I suppose, but it would have showed
through that knit dress, even with a belt to conceal it. Trust me,
that dress is form-fitting everywhere.
     The plane trip was uneventful. We arrived at the airport, rented
a car, and he went to his meeting while I had a few hours of almost-
freedom to drive around town, buy lunch and pick him up again. I was
wearing jeans and a sweater, so my chain didn't show. That evening,
chain off, dress and collar on again, we went to Sausalito and had a
great dinner in an intimate little restaurant right on the water. We
had great sex that night, but only great. I wore only the collar;
somehow a hotel room, no matter how luxurious, is just not the right
setting. And the collar wasn't enough, somehow. It seemed out of
place, a weak reminder, a tenuous connection to something stronger
elsewhere. My nesting instinct has been perverted to a longing for the
familiarity and safety of a dungeon, I think. I wanted to be back
"home". I almost felt like that big empty cavern of a house was
waiting for me.
     It was afterwards, after we had showered and he had relocked my
chain, that he broke the news to me. The next day, I was to get my
nipples pierced. We had put this on the List, but I had considered it
more as a theoretical possibility, since I have inverted nipples. Not
so. He had talked to the woman that runs the business and she said
there was nothing she hadn't seen, including my problem. I have
pierced ears (one three times, the other twice) but the thought of
piercing my nipples made me cringe. J was careful to explain to me
that he didn't want me to do this to inflict pain on me, rather he
wanted me pierced as another way of binding me to him. It would mark
me as his, like removing my pubic hair. I could have a local if I
wanted, even.
     Reminding me of that helped calm me down a little, but I was
still nervous. I had heard of this kind of piercing, and admit I was
curious--maybe more than curious about it. I had thought about it on
more than one occasion, and as a matter of fact, I was the one that
suggested it for the List, partly to see his reaction to something I
had been thinking about. But still, I was nervous. Both nipples at
once was really jumping in at the deep end for me.
     The front room of her home in the (to me) famous Mission district
had lots of jewelry on display, some of it custom, and she had a
little clinic in the back where she did it. She was very careful about
hygiene, and I could tell right away that she had lots of experience.
She had a ring in her nose, in her lower lip, several in each ear,
and, she said, a surprisingly large number elsewhere. Twenty-something
in all. I was curious, okay?
     It took a lot of self control for me to make myself watch, but I
wanted to be sure I knew what she was doing--and that she knew too.
She was very gentle and reassuringly efficient. Obviously, my nipples
will protrude even when they aren't erect if they are held out--which
they were. Since even normal nipples have to be held during the
procedure anyway, it didn't really matter that mine were inverted.
They went erect and stood out on their own anyway. I think they were
cringing.
     I wanted a local anesthetic, but she said that would sting at
least as much as the piercing needle. She also said that for some
people the act of piercing itself was more important than the jewelry
they wore afterward. Some customers deliberately let their piercings
close so that they could be re-pierced. She convinced me.
     She had an instrument I had never seen before, a sort of forceps
with slots in the jaws. She held me from the sides and this hollow
needle went right through both me and the clamp. The rings followed
through after the needle. She let J stay with me, holding my hand.
     It was over quickly with almost no bleeding. Just seconds for
each piercing. It did sting a little, but less than an injection of
local xylocane to remove a mole. Really it wasn't much different than
getting my ears done. It was nothing compared to the gag. I wasn't
wearing a bra, so she put band-aids on. Aspirin was enough to make me
comfortable, she said, but I didn't really need any. I don't think
this is something I would do myself. I have thought about it, and I
think I could--as an RN I suppose I am qualified, but there is nothing
like experience.
     We had time before going to the airport to do some shopping, and
J took me to a place that specializes in the kinky appliances and
stuff he has been using. He had me try on some shoes and boots, and
then told me to wait in the car. He had a couple of pretty big bags of
packages when he came out. I wonder what the x-ray security monitor at
the airport thought of the contents. She probably figured we were just
more midwesterners on our way back home from San Francisco.
     We drove to the airport and waited for the plane. The flight back
was uneventful. When we finally arrived home it was late, and we both
went straight to bed. I took aspirin to help me sleep, more to coun-
teract the coffee I had on the plane than because of my nipples
(aspirin puts me to sleep).
     This morning, I inspected myself. The band-aids were the "ouch-
less" variety, thank goodness. I am a little swollen, and the swelling
makes me look a little deformed. Maybe I should say deformed in a
different way, since inverted nipples are not exactly normal anyway.
But at least before, my nipples were identical; now they are swollen
in different ways, so that one nipple partly protrudes from the
areola, while the other is less swollen. This makes me nervous. I
don't want to be permanently this way. I can only wait for the swell-
ing to go down, though. I heal quickly, and then we'll know. I guess I
can always remove them. I disinfected myself again and put on some of
the Neosporin she had given me, and fresh band-aids. The rings are
small circular gold ones. She said they were a fine gauge, but I don't
remember what size they are. She also said I could enlarge the holes
easily later. I don't think I'll want to. Well, maybe. We'll see.
     J is very sympathetic and caring, and it makes me think maybe he
really does like my nipples the way they are. I know that sounds
funny, since he had just changed them, but he wanted to decorate me
there, draw attention to them, not hide them. It's a very private kind
of feeling, since I am still not publicly proud of them, but if this
works out I think I will be proud to show myself off to J. In the
meantime, I am practicing my exotic dancing. I hope the swelling goes
down soon, though.
      -*-
     Sunday: J has just told me an interesting bit of news. He says
he's going to send this to a computer bulletin board or something. I
don't know how this works yet, but he says the people in his depart-
ment are tied into it and read it. Thank God I've left out anything
that might connect us to this story. He d****d well better be right
when he says he can send it in so no one finds out where it came from!
I'm going to have to go back over it and make sure I didn't leave any
clues. Computer nerds are usually pretty smart fellows. Maybe I should
say "You guys (maybe gals too?) are..." since I now know who my
audience is. I know you aren't ALL geeks. I remember some pretty cute
guys hanging around the computer center when I was in school. I am
living with one, come to think of it. And he is effing smart.
     And maybe I'll spruce up the literary style a bit while I'm at
it. He suggested the format for the chapter headings, so you now know
where that came from. Also that I capitalize the word "List". Already
I have a sense of power. But, folks, I won't make anything up. Prom-
ise. Besides, he wouldn't let me. Well, well. An anonymous audience.
Enjoy, people.

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