Archive-name: Bondage/njlist08.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List -  8 of 20


     Afterward he washed me, unlocked my legs, and left me on the bed,
a jumble of conflicting emotions.
     He liked--in a deep psychological way--how I looked, I hate it; I
wanted him to love me as much as he could be made to, maybe even at
the cost I had paid, but if he was as weird as the evening's events
indicated, maybe I didn't want him as much as I thought; he had opened
a previously unknown (to me) dark inner closet and made himself
vulnerable to me in a way that gave me power over him in an odd way
(what if I told people what he did to me?). I had wanted to be closer;
now I am, but closer to what? To whom? Also, I had given him something
no one else would have. It will be hard for him to find anyone else
that would give him what he wants, if this is any indication of what
he wants. That makes me sort of special, doesn't it? Sort of?
     I was hungry, though, and in a few minutes I followed him into
the living room, my hands still locked to my thighs. On the way I
looked in the full length mirror. My hair had dried while it was
pressed against my head under the hood. It was slicked straight back
on my head; I looked like a sort of nordic Ratso Rizzo; in fact from
the front it looked almost like I didn't have any hair at all. I
couldn't do anything about it with my hands locked where they were.
     I wandered into the living room where he had already laid a fire.
It turned out he had prepared a light microwave meal while he left me
hanging from (well, not really hanging, but attached to) the bedroom
ceiling. He lit the fire he had laid, and we sat side by side on the
sofa while he fed me dinner in little bite-sized pieces. He caressed
me as he fed me, creating a second appetite and teasing me with both
the food and his fingers.
     When we had finished eating, he took out a present for me. It was
a thin gold chain that had a clasp on each end. He attached an end to
each of my nipple rings; the center hung in a gentle curve between my
out-thrust breasts. We both went into the bedroom to admire it in the
mirror, and he removed the strap that held my shoulders back, letting
my breasts and shoulders assume a more natural posture. The chain was
nice, but I still couldn't help thinking about my hair and feeling
sick inside. What has he done to me?
     He had more presents. He took me by the shoulders and stood me
facing the mirror, and told me to wait there. My shaved forehead and
slicked-back helmet of platinum hair was even less attractive than it
had been before I showered in the bodysuit. I wanted to fluff it up or
wet it and put curlers in it, or something. Anything.
     From behind me he produced a wig. It was a huge tangled mane of
black hair that reached to the center of my back. Suddenly I looked
great. Better, in fact, than I had ever looked in either my natural
color or as a blonde. The texture of the hair on the wig was much
nicer than mine had ever been, and it was much longer. While I was
checking myself in the mirror, turning this way and that, trying to
decide if I could pass for normal in public, he came back with another
wig, this time a blonde one in the same tangled mane style. Not
platinum blonde this time, but a more natural honey blonde. And he had
yet another: it was short and nearly matched my original color. I
could restyle it until it matched my real hair, he said.
     Finally, he put leather cuffs back on just above my knees and
locked the strap between them that forced me to take small steps; then
he unlocked my wrists and told me to shower, wash and dry my hair, and
put on my makeup. Afterwards, I was to put on just the stiletto-heeled
bimbo boots.
     Too much was happening at once that evening. He had shaved my
forehead. I hated that. I had learned for an absolute certainty that
my new appearance turned him on in a way that was nearly beyond his
ability to control. I didn't know how I felt about that revelation.
Still don't. There were wigs that I could wear so all was not lost: I
could still go out in public. But would I fool anyone? Would they be
able to tell? The wigs didn't look natural to me, even the one that
matched my old hair. The others were just too gorgeously magnificent
to be real hair. But then, no one here knows me except a few casual
acquaintances at the exercise spa.
     And most important: did this mean J was weird in the head? Worse,
am I weird? What would I be if I found it within myself to toler-
ate--even like--my appearance? Remember, I HAD agreed to it original-
ly, so there must be something there inside me. In fact, while we were
separated he had written about a slave fantasy in which he had shaved
my head for some minor infraction of the imagined rules of the scenar-
io, and I had responded with a similar fantasy in which I had submit-
ted willingly to this treatment, and more.
     I had originally started to write that letter just because I
could see it was something that intrigued J, but as I wrote I found I
actually got into the idea of total unconditional submission. But that
was as far as it went. It was only on paper and seemed attractive only
in an abstract theoretical sort of way. The practical reality was
something else. How could I get a job and go to work now? Exercise at
the spa? Even go shopping? And in the back of my mind was the ever-
present thought that he had said this was the beginning of my punish-
ment. What, exactly, did that mean, the beginning...?
     I wanted to discuss all this with him after I showered, but that
had to wait. When I came out of the bedroom, I had dried my hair and
put on the boots as he told me. His reaction was instantaneous and
unmistakable. He carried me back into the bedroom, unlocked my knees,
and made love to me with a renewed urgency. I don't suppose I'll ever
know what would have happened if I could have resisted him. I think he
would have stopped, but I can't say for sure. He wasn't really vio-
lent, but I felt completely helpless when confronted with the intensi-
ty of his need. Just seeing me this way had done this to him. I
chalked up another orgasm for that day. So did he.
     Afterward, in bed together, we discussed my feelings about what
had happened that day. He is very persuasive. It was clear that while
he was satisfied with our relationship before, he was becoming addict-
ed to it now. He didn't put in so many words, but I was somehow in the
process of trapping him. I admitted some of the same feelings to him,
although that day's events had almost cured my addiction. The practi-
cal aspects of my hair could easily be dealt with by using a wig, even
at a job and while exercising. I could stick with the stair and other
exercise machines rather than the aerobics until it grew back. I could
wear a short-haired wig and grow my hair into the same style so there
would be no conspicuous transition.
     And he wanted to have me as his own, as his possession, so that
there was no question that I belonged to him alone and absolutely.
Emotionally, for me, that was a strong argument in his favor. I
finally came to the conclusion that my real reservations all stemmed
from gut-level emotional reactions to being "different" and the
nagging fear that down deep he might be a little weird. But there was
also a kind of excitement at being different and having no-one know.
And weird or not, he loved me and I thought I could even love him
weird. I decided to reserve judgement until we had tried the wig out
in public. But I still hated what he had done to me.
     -*-
     The next day, we did just that. At the exercise spa, the guy who
runs the front desk complimented me on my hair. He thought I'd had it
done. The brown wig was shorter and slightly different in color and
texture from my old hair. No-one else even commented on the change.
That evening, he got out my white knit dress (nothing underneath,
naturally, but a pair of bandaids to hide my nipple rings) and I wore
the brown wig again. We went to the movies. I had missed "9 1/2 Weeks"
the first time it showed, but it was back again and we saw it. I think
he planned that especially. I thought it was a silly and juvenile
movie. I hate it when I get turned on by something silly and juvenile.
     We went to an intimate restaurant afterwards. He made me change
into the long dark wig in the car before going into the restaurant.
     I could get to like being wined and dined. It's great, having a
real income and living like people for a change. I have always insist-
ed that money isn't important to me, but having dinner at a good
restaurant and being pampered is a nice change from years of graduate
school for J while I worked nights at the hospital, and a house in the
country is a definite improvement over a studio apartment in Chicago.
At dinner, we talked about the List and how I felt about it. He drove
home the point that he felt "joined" to me by all this, more so than
before.
     As he talked about it, I realized we were doing things together
that set us apart from all the other people around us in the restau-
rant. I looked around at them and suddenly J and I had a wonderful
private very special secret together, and these people around us were
going to go home and be ordinary for the rest of their lives. But at
our table.... At our table there was something scandalous, wicked and
sexy just under the surface; I wasn't wearing a thing under my dress
but bandaids and nipple rings. If they only knew, I thought. All this
was hidden from them only by the thinnest facade; a fraction of an
inch of material. I felt I was living dangerously. I felt I should
brighten up their lives a little. Maybe take off my wig and leave it
as a tip. Didn't someone say that scandal is merely a compassionate
allowance which the gay make to the humdrum? I think it was Oscar
Wilde. (Hey, you should see the video version of "Salome." You know it
was that play that got him in very hot water with victorian England?
It is pretty raunchy, but fun when you think of the furor it must have
caused.)
     Still, (back at the restaurant) I had misgivings. At least he
understood them, and the further we went despite them was a measure of
the strength of our joining. Talking about it that way in public was a
kind of a turn-on, too, in a funny way. It made me feel that we were
so very different from the people around us, except for the thinnest
veneer of behavior and dress-- just enough that they hadn't quite
noticed yet. I know, I'm repeating myself, but it is a new feeling to
me, and I like it. I never felt daring before. It was almost as if we
were doing something outrageous right there among the other patrons.
     By the time we had gotten home that night, I had decided. J had
said that when he shaved my forehead it was the watershed of this
thing we were doing, but for me, that evening at dinner was the moment
when I made my first conscious decision to plunge in headfirst and
voluntarily begin the descent into this other side of my sexuality.
Fuck 'em I thought. And fuck Indiana, too. It wasn't even really a
decision, rather a voluntary relaxation of resistance, a letting go.
What the hell, why not? Where have I heard that before?
     Not that I haven't resisted--even rebelled--since, but after that
evening I fought against him as a matter of form, almost as a ritual.
My resistance lacks sincerity, and I rebel only by deliberately
feeding my own fears and letting them show, giving J my fear and
embarrassment as gifts rather than letting them rule me. It is a
strangely liberating experience to use and even enjoy my own fears; to
be afraid and still plunge ahead recklessly, always secure in the
knowledge that J is there and will keep me safe even though he is the
ultimate cause of my fears. There is a fundamental contradiction here
somewhere, I know. Again, if (despite the contradiction) you think I'm
not making sense, just remember that nothing makes sense. Where is it
written that anything has to make sense? Wouldn't it be awfully boring
if everything made sense?
     When we got home, we went into the living room, flopped down on
the sofa, and kicked off our shoes. He put his arm around me and sat
looking into the ashes in the fireplace. The time had come for me to
tell him my answer to his unasked question. I got up and went into the
kitchen. I ran some warm water in a basin and brought it back, putting
it on the floor in front of him. I could see a question on his face,
but I put a finger on his lips to silence him and went into my bed-
room. There, I stripped, fixed my makeup, and put on my leather
collar, ankle, and wrist cuffs. As a last touch, I put on my nipple
pendants and the thin gold chain connecting them. Then I smeared my
forehead with shaving cream and brought a towel, razor, and mirror
into the living room, where I settled on my knees in front of him.
     I began shaving the stubble off my forehead. When I was through,
I didn't look up at him: I kept my eyes lowered and waited with my
hands in my lap. He took my hands and stood, lifting me to my feet.
Together we went into the bedroom. I'm going to leave the rest of this
one to the imagination. He likes the Elizabethan look, though. I'm
convinced.
     -*-
     I decided to wear a wig all the time after that. Of course he
takes it off when he wants it off. But it's best if he doesn't grow
accustomed to (read bored with) my new appearance. The visual impact
is an important asset for me: it buys an instant and almost involun-
tary erection from him. I like that.
     He has told me to keep my forehead shaved, just like I keep my
pubic hair depilated. He told me not to use depilatory on my head
since he didn't know what the cumulative effect on hair follicles was.
That gave me pause to consider: the time between depilation has been
increasing. Am I damaging my hair follicles Down There? Anyway, every
day I brush my hair back out of the way and shave my forehead along
with my legs and underarms. More daily maintenance.
     The following day I wanted to give him a special surprise. First
thing in the morning, I asked him to lock my chain back on (the one
around my waist and between my legs), and he let me have the car keys
to go into town. I went to the local costume rental place in town,
where I bought some body paint and other stuff, and to an oriental
import house that sells cheap Indian body jewelry: silver plated
necklaces, belts, toe rings, bell earrings, etc. They will go with the
harem outfit.
     That afternoon, I fulfilled another fantasy. I spent the hours
after lunch preparing myself. One of the fantasies that I had written
to him about involved me as a kind of forest goddess (sounds hokey, I
know) that has green skin and tatoos of vines growing all over her
body. I covered myself (hair, too, blow-dried) with green food color-
ing (quite a job, that) and finished up with body-painting honeysuckle
vines growing up both legs, wrapping around my body, twining in
spirals on my bum cheeks and breasts, encircling my nipples and
growing around my neck and in tendrils around my arms, completely
covering me. I even had vines winding up the sides of my face to merge
with my eyebrows. It took me over two hours to get myself ready. I
finished at sunset and turned on some of the exotic dance music.
     Wearing nothing but my garnet pendants, I danced for him. I did a
kind of hip-grinding combination of exotic dance and the strip-tease
moves on one of the tapes he got, but there was nothing to strip off.
It won't do any good to try and describe the way I danced. Suffice it
to say that I shook a lot more than my pendants at him, and finished
up taking his clothes almost completely off while I danced. He was
turned on enough that he didn't mind helping me a bit there at the
end. I ended up with him deep in my mouth and we both lost track of
exactly when we made the transition from dancing to lovemaking. J had
two orgasms again. All I had to do was bring up the subject of my
forehead and how embarrassed I was over it and how I wasn't sure he
would like my forest goddess idea with a shaved forehead and all.
Downcast eyes and an embarrassed hand over my forehead and he was off
and running again.
     Afterward, the bed was a total mess (so were we). Green food
coloring and body paint and various precious bodily fluids were all
over the sheets. When we showered together to wash off the mess we
ended up making love again on the shower floor, both of us all covered
with soap. I think three in one evening for J is a record of some
sort. I know I set a "personal best" record.
     We sat up and rinsed while seated/sated in the steamy shower, too
exhausted to get up. Finally he turned off the water. We sat in a
delicious kind of daze for what must have been five or ten minutes,
the only noise was the water dripping from the shower head and our own
breathing. I mustered the strength to kneel, and I covered him with
body conditioner; I like the feeling of tending to him. Then I covered
myself in the most entertaining way I could manage. When we got out of
the shower I helped him to towel off the excess conditioner; he was
ready for an encore, and we could probably have gone again it we had
put our minds to it. But neither of us wanted to. I think the quality
declines after that many orgasms. I don't exactly know how many I
had--some of them kind of merged together and who's counting anyway.
There are only two possible numbers where orgasms are concerned: Not
enough, and enough. We'd had enough.
     I got his bathrobe and slippers for him and then put on the
fitted white muslin outfit. We sat and cuddled for the rest of the
evening, cooking and eating two of those great prepared microwave
dinners between cuddles. They're probably 98% cholesterol and 2%
preservatives, but they taste great. We fell into bed at 9:30 we were
so tired.
     -*-
     The next evening we were getting ready to go out for dinner again
and talking about this slave/master thing we are doing. He had bought
a white dress and some sandals for me and I was trying them on while I
told him that I was getting into this bondage thing but that there
were still some aspects that I couldn't handle, the main thing (after
my hair) was that we walk the edge of the ridiculous. I fantasize
about really calling him "Master" and taking an even more seriously
submissive role, but don't think I could handle the reality without
laughing. Images of Nazis in white boxer shorts and black ankle-high
socks dance uncontrollably through my head. J had a solution.
     "We need a new protocol," he said, and began to remove the dress
I had just put on. "You can start now just by NOT calling me by my
first name, and by making a habit of keeping your eyes lowered.
Whenever you speak or answer a question you will preface your words
with a phrase like: 'If it pleases you ....' We'll start with that for
a while and see how it goes. Of course, I'll punish you for mistakes.
You will have to figure out what forms of address you can use without
laughing, because the biggest mistake you can make is laughing. Once
the habit is established, it won't be a cause for nervous laughter. Do
you think you can handle that?"
     I thought about it, not paying attention while he got a paper bag
out of the closet. Three rules: No first names, lower the eyes, and
say 'If it pleases you.' And the fourth rule: no laughing about the
first three.
     "I think so."
     "So?" He was looking at me, waiting.
     I realized what he meant and after a moment of confusion I
lowered my eyes. There was a pause while he continued to wait. "If it
pleases you," I said. I don't know why, but lowering the eyes is a
great help. Maybe it is easier for the imagination to work without eye
contact. We know each other too well, and not having eye contact puts
some distance between us. I might have laughed out of embarrassment
then if I hadn't had my eyes lowered. Well, it was a start.
     The dress he had gotten me was several layers of sheer white
cotton, midi length with long sleeves and a high neckline, lots of
buttons in front. But after I had put it on, he had taken it off
again.
     "Just stand there," he said. He took a roll of white plastic cord
out of a paper bag and knelt by my ankles. Finally I noticed we were
doing more than getting me dressed.
     "What are you doing? I mean, if it pleases you, what ...?"
     "Just stand there," he repeated.
     I stood. He untied the straps of my new sandals. They are the
kind that wrap around the ankle several times in a crisscross pattern
and then tie further up the calf. He tightened them until they were
cutting into my skin, and tied the loose end of the roll of white
plastic cord to the top. It is that colored plastic leather substitute
that boy scouts use when doing crafts, weaving key rings and belts and
such. I think they call it gimp, or gymp or something. He began
wrapping the stuff tightly around my leg in a spiral. He spiraled up
my body and out one arm, where he tied it off and then did the same
thing on the other side. Then he spiraled up the first leg in the
opposite direction, making a crisscross pattern. It was very tight.
     He continued, wrapping me over and over, until my entire body was
covered in a tight webbing of the stuff. Every time a roll ran out he
pulled out another, white again, and tied them together. He was
careful to keep the arrangement symmetrical, left side a mirror image
of the right.
     He wrapped a flanged vibrator into my vagina. The webbing slipped
off when I moved so he superglued it back onto the vibrator. He didn't
turn it on, though. After a while I began to feel very weird. I was
free to move, but I felt ... contained. No matter what I did, moving
or not, I could feel the pull of the webbing. I felt awkward, as
though every movement I made was being opposed or deflected by some-
thing. Like being under water with currents or something. He worked
around my breasts so that when he was through they were flattened and
crisscrossed and held against my chest. Only my nipples protruded,
bulging out between the strands, pendants dangling.
     Then he put my dress back on and took me out to dinner. From the
outside I looked pretty good: A blonde (I was wearing the long honey
blonde wig) in a semi-diaphanous cotton dress. No boobs at all to
speak of. White leather sandals. The wrapping didn't show anywhere. A
close observer might have noticed that my sandal straps were tight,
but there were no close observers.
     We went to an Italian restaurant, but an expensive one. I walked
slowly, sat carefully, and ate sparingly. Even so, I spilled wine,
water, and food all over the place. I wish it hadn't been Italian food
and red wine. It was a new dress. The waiter didn't say anything, but
I really made a mess.
     Back at home, he cut away the strands holding the vibrator in. He
had used separate strands for the vibrator so that cutting them didn't
loosen the rest. He made love to me. I'm not going to tell you it was
the best lovemaking I had ever had, but it was definitely an interest-
ing experience. I never would have thought it would be. I imagine that
you probably are wondering what was the point? I don't know, but he
does good things to me, and I don't need a point. It is a little like
art, I guess. It was just there. Because.
     I kind of like being a blank canvas.
     After, as I lay panting on the bed, spread out flat on my back
and feeling as though I had fallen from a great height, he took some
bandage scissors and cut the strings one at a time, slowly. Then he
untied my sandals.
     All in all, a very satisfactory evening. I have no idea why, but
there it is.
     -*-
     Several days ago, he brought home a modem for his computer and
showed me how to log onto his work account to access the rn news
network. This is completely new to me. I have started reading the
entries under some of the headings like rec.arts.erotica and
alt.sex.bondage, although I haven't posted anything. Apparently I'm a
"lurker." Or at least I will be until he posts this entire document
and you read this. Jeez. I'm talking to people now.
     Hi, people. Two questions occur to me.
     Alt.sex.bondage seems to be the most sincere news discussion
group about sex. The little boys in alt.sex remind me of a lot of farm
boys back home in Indiana. They weren't getting any there, either.
When they boast about their exploits, it reminds me of the line from
Lao Tzu:
     Those who speak do not know, those who know do not speak.
     (Will ya listen to me? I may well be writing the longest autobio-
graphical posting in history. But it doesn't matter if I speak,
because I DO know. Maybe not everything, but some things. And besides,
I have no choice other than to write this. "He made me do it.") I'm
sure many of you that post in alt.sex.bondage actually do the things
you write about, but some of you seem to have lost the essence of what
I am doing with J. Maybe I'm wrong, but some of you seem to have
become technicians, going on about the relative merits of handcuffs
and leather cuffs. Others are advice-givers. Others enjoy shocking
their readers with their tales and comments. Others are almost politi-
cal ("what will we call ourselves/will society ever accept us ...").
These seem to be displacement activities. Am I right?
     My first question: I have just started to explore this stuff; it
occupies me almost full-time right now. Will it become so mundane and
familiar for me that I, too, will get into the 'lore' of bondage and
take up these displacement activities? Like writing this account, you
ask. Hmmm....
     Question two: I have often thought of what I would do if I could
go back to the moment when I lost my virginity and do it over
again--take more control and do it right--with the right person. I was
more concerned with enduring it than experiencing it. Youth is wasted
on the young, my grandfather used to say.
     But now I am losing another kind of virginity. I don't want to
look back with regret and wish I had done it right. Of course by the
time you read this, it'll be too late for advice, but it's a question
I can still ask: did we do it right? Post an answer. I'll read it,
promise. This is new to J, too. I don't know what I could have done
differently to control what happened. I suppose voluntary submission
is a kind of limited control. Sex the old way certainly is boring.
'Vanilla,' you call it. I like that. New usage. Will we run out of
interesting things to do and then be back where we started? Will this
path I have taken escalate to an ultimate boredom?
     Another question: who was Saltgirl? I liked her, but she seems to
have stopped posting. She seems sensible. Probably a midwesterner. So
anyway, a big hello to all you happytime hardcores out there in
leatherland, with special regards to Ctan, STella, Elf, and Saltgirl,
wherever you are. Maybe some day I'll join the out-of-the-closet gang.
The hell I will. I don't know who reads this stuff. Maybe my future
boss.
     -*-
     The next day we were showering and J was 'preparing' me for sex
again the way he almost always does when we are showering together, by
covering me with skin conditioner and exploring every orifice until I
was eager to have him inside me in any way he chose.
     Without actually saying so, I have signaled in every nonverbal
way possible that I was prepared to have sex in the one way we have
never had it. When his fingers were deep between my buttocks, inside
me, I would squirm against him, trying to push his fingers deeper. I
actually feel pleasure when he does this to me, and the responsive
noises I make indicate my sensations clearly, but he has never pene-
trated me ... that way.
     I have arrived at the conclusion he was toying with the idea but
that it repelled him somewhat. I must admit that my fascination with
the idea was tempered with a certain amount of apprehension: I had
never had anything that big inside me there. Also, I am perhaps overly
hygienic in my approach to sex. I like to be clean before and to wash
after. The preparation and the postcoital rituals are important to me:
he almost always leaves me a little excited afterward, no matter how
sated I was during, so cleaning up afterwards is an erotic experience.
The odor of soap evokes a more erotic response in me than the various
secretions our bodies make. It's conditioning, I guess.
     Anyway, I think the hygienic aspect might still be what bothers
us both most, even now. So while we were showering I made a tentative
suggestion. It was very difficult to bring up this subject for the
first time. ASB'ers probably already know that.
     "You must know that I get tremendously turned on when you do
that," I said, trying to approach the subject obliquely. Which was
difficult, considering that I was near orgasm and he had a number of
fingers deep inside various parts of me. He didn't answer.
     "If you want me ... that way ... I could clean myself. Inside, I
mean." He still didn't answer. "If it would please you," I added. We
both got more interested in other things at that point and further
discussion had to wait until later.
     I have worked in internal medicine, and prepped patients for
rectals before. I explained. Not all the gory details, but enough so
that he knew that I knew what to do.
     "I hadn't even thought-" he said.
     But the thought had obviously taken root. For the rest of the
week, in the back of my mind was the thought of what would come later.
     -*-
     I took a chance making that suggestion. You see, this whole thing
is something of a game. I can't seem too forward when I suggest an
innovation like that. He must take the lead and I must follow. Reluc-
tantly. And it is best for me when I can resist what he does to me,
even though I may secretly want it. That way the responsibility is
his. He has to believe that I am going along against my will, at least
to some extent--which has always been true up to now. He gets me so
turned on that I want to go forward despite a certain amount of
trepidation about what he will do to me. I am always afraid, but ready
to do the next item on the List, even though I don't know what it is.
It is only after he has started that I sometimes chicken out, even
though I agreed to it when we made up the List. But by then it is too
late. Still rushing in and fearing to tread. In fact, today, having
settled down a bit, I can even look back on when he shaved my forehead
with an equanimity that borders on sensuality.
     He must know by now that I have come to like what he is doing to
me. I am becoming addicted to him. But I have to walk a tightrope for
both of us. He would lose interest if I gave in too easily. I have to
fight it all the way. So we have these three silly rules just so I can
break them so I can be punished. Except that when he thinks I have
transgressed deliberately the punishment is much worse. He always
makes me regret it. Like this last time. He walks a tightrope too: he
always makes a time come when I myself don't know if I want him to
stop. After that, sometimes, I genuinely want him to stop, but he
never does. And if he did, I would be disappointed afterward. I knew
when we made up the List there would be some things that I would want
to stop, but I also knew intellectually that nothing on the List could
actually hurt me.
     There seems to be a lot of discussion on ASB about safewords. I
think I get more of a thrill working without a net. That's not true:
the List is my safety net, and I to hang onto that rather than a
safeword. I'd have to trust J either way, safeword or List, but the
List allows me to feel I have no net. I think a safeword would spoil
it for me somehow, although it sure would make life easier for J. He
watches me like a hawk. I like that. But he watches for real intolera-
ble pain, not just what I don't like. There's a grey area at the edge
of the limits set by the List. That's the terra incognita where we
play. He stays within the limits of the List, but takes liberties
insofar as the List and common sense let him. Maybe a safeword is
better. We're new to this and haven't really run into any genuinely
harmful situations yet.
     I have a sneaking suspicion that my presumptuous suggestion in
the shower is what earned me the rest of my punishment, even though he
later acted on the suggestion. If I get too forward, he takes control
again by doing something else awful to me. Remember the "rest of the
punishment?" Shaving my forehead was just the beginning? Well, it
would have come eventually anyway.
     -*-
     The smell of neatsfoot oil has become a turn-on for me. My next
punishment began with the leather straps. I don't need to describe
again how he immobilized me, except this time he left the strap
between my knees off so I could take normal-sized steps. My arms and
shoulders were still strapped back so that my breasts were unnaturally
prominent; strapped so far back that the chain between my nipple rings
was taut.
     He told me to follow him out to the garage, where he showed me
the contraption that he had kept covered with a sheet. It looked like
a wooden sawhorse--in fact he called it a horse--except that there
were two horizontal parts side-by-side instead of the usual one, and
they were separated by a space. And in the middle, on either side of
these pieces, were two blocks of wood shaped to form a tiny, smooth,
wooden saddle, also split down the middle by that same space. The
whole was sanded and varnished quite expertly.
     He let me see it. That was all. Then he took me back to the
bedroom, put the hood on me, and locked my collar to a chain attached
to the bedpost. I had to sit on the edge of the bed and wait, listen-
ing to him move around the house, wondering what he was doing, and
what the "horse" gizmo was for.
     Finally, he led me into the living room where he hooked the
shoulder straps to something overhead, and my ankles to something that
held them apart; blindfolded, I couldn't tell what. I also couldn't
fall, and I couldn't bring my legs together. He unbuckled the crotch
strap and I felt him begin to insert something into me. I squirmed
against it, but it was only a token squirm. I knew he had control.
Besides, it wasn't particularly large and didn't hurt, although I
could feel it was hard. It was well lubricated and completely pain-
less. I assumed it was a dildo. He did the same to my rear opening. I
squirmed harder against this second intrusion, but I was already
getting turned on by the first and ended up voluntarily relaxing
enough to accept the second device. He pushed the two deep into me and
held them, and I stood there, hooded, docile.
     I felt something heavy brush between my legs. I didn't know for
sure, but from the noise and the prelude, I expected it to be the
horse. He told me to sit. Slowly. As I did so he manipulated the
dildos inside me into position. I didn't know what he was doing at the
time, but I soon learned that he had slipped the ends of the dildos
into the slot in the seat of the horse and clamped them tightly (with
a wrench) into place with bolts that pulled the two parallel horizon-
tal pieces together to hold the dildos immobile. Once he began remov-
ing the hood and the other restraints, I also found that the two
dildos were nearly touching deep inside me, separated only by the
floor of my vagina and the anterior wall of my rectal cavity.
     When he was through I was completely unfettered: not a scrap of
leather anywhere on my body. Even my hands were free, for what good it
did me. The dildos were rounded and smoothed wooden dowels, each
covered with a condom to make it comfortable (and splinter-free, thank
God). They were clamped into position so that even if I tried to stand
up they wouldn't slip out. No matter how I moved, I couldn't get off
the horse without causing myself pain, maybe even damage. Yet there
were no visible restraints.
     "What have you done to me?!" I asked in an unsteady voice. I
looked around me, twisting as far as I could to see what he had done,
becoming increasingly nervous and uncertain. I felt over the device
that held me seated. The bolts were far too tight for my fingers to
budge them. I ran my shaking hands over both places where the dildos
disappeared into me; they were far too firm to be shifted. I wasn't
uncomfortable so long as I didn't try to move, but I had no choice
about getting free of the thing. I had to sit there and wait for what
came next.
     He told me he wouldn't free me until I had an orgasm while he
watched. With my hands free, I was able to masturbate, but it was
really embarrassing, sitting there in the middle of the room. To the
casual observer I would have looked like a naked woman sitting astride
a simple wooden sawhorse. Admittedly, a naked platinum blonde elizabe-
than woman with no pubic hair and a chain connecting her nipples, but
even so, you wouldn't have known that I couldn't get up.
     I really tried masturbating, but I just couldn't get into it. On
the horse, I just couldn't make it work. He stood in front of me,
hooked his finger under the chain between my nipples and pulled me
gently but firmly toward him. The horse would let me lean just so far.
My nipples stretched out to points in front of me.
     "Try again," he said, "harder." I was in too delicate a position
to resist him, and he knew it. I tried again, harder. I still could-
n't.
     He put the hood back on me, and strapped my wrists to my thighs
again, and my shoulders back in that unnatural position. I waited.
When he took the hood off again, there was a small end table in front
of me. On it were a pair of scissors, a basin of water, shaving cream,
a towel, and a razor.
     "Oh no, please!" I said. "I will do anything! Not the rest of my
hair!"
     He didn't answer.
     "I'm sure I could climax if you just let me try again..." No
response. "Master! I can call you Master now," I babbled. "I was
waiting to tell you! Truly! I can really do it! No problem!" He knew I
would have said anything to stop him, although my last plea caught his
attention, I could tell. He gave me an appraising look and shook his
head almost sadly as he picked up the scissors.
     It's no good begging when he's like that. I let out one last
whimpering cry as he stepped forward to begin.
     "Please? Master?" I whined, my voice breaking and dissolving into
a kind of hiccuping crying sob. He kissed me gently on the forehead
and started cutting right away, with no nonsense or teasing. I let out
a cry that sounded like I was in pain when he took the first cut. I
was crying openly, just saying "No, please, no, please, please,
please, don't, please..." over and over. I could see my hair falling
on the floor around me as he cut it away, but I didn't even try to
resist. I suppose I could have twisted my head from side to side or
something, but he would have won in the end.
     This time there was no mirror for me to see myself in, and I was
grateful.
     He lathered my entire scalp with the shaving cream and went to
work shaving my head while I whined and blubbered in frustration and
tugged ineffectually against the straps holding my wrists to my
thighs. I had figured that maybe my bangs didn't need to grow out to
the same length as the rest of my hair in order for me to be present-
able in public. I had figured maybe I could do something with a
bandanna. Now it will be half a year before I can go without a wig.
     He damp-toweled my scalp and kissed me on the mouth, muffling my
near-hysterical whimpering.
     "My God but you're beautiful," he said. "Now for the finishing
touch..."
     That focused my attention and stopped my crying immediately.
"Finishing touch?" I thought, "what's left to do to me?"

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