Archive-name: Bondage/njlist10.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List - 10 of 20


The List
     Column 1
       Item 17

     He began by telling me to prepare myself for the "other kind" of
intercourse. Despite all we have been through, we both still did a
kind of verbal dance around the concept.
     "You remember saying how you could prepare yourself. In a special
way..." he began.
     I hadn't actually given him the details, but I knew what he
meant. "You mean cleaning myself inside? Behind?" I said.
     "Yes. I know that kind of- preparation isn't on the List,
though."
     "If it would please you, we can add it. Besides, if the alterna-
tive is no preparation, I would prefer to-"
     "There is that to consider." My, my. So formal. Maybe we haven't
left Kansas after all, Toto. No matter how disgustingly anatomical, no
matter which--or how many--orifices are penetrated, no matter what
glandular secretions or hidden perversions are involved, there is no
situation that can't be sanitized by midwestern etiquette.
     I'll give you an example. Sorry to digress, but I once met a gay
activist playwright from Indianapolis who felt he could challenge the
homophobic political environment in the midwest by writing plays that
highlighted the supposedly more liberal social attitudes of classical
Greece and Rome. He is best known for a disastrous satirical farce
about a gay gladiator named Felonius Orifice and his twin brother
Titus.
     He had hoped that if his play didn't actually make any money it
might at least be accorded the dignity of censorship at the hands of
the city commissioners or the chief of police. Unfortunately, on
opening night there was a sizeable audience of gay activists that were
attending as a politically correct gesture of solidarity for their
fellow activist.
     During the first act it became apparent that the playwright had
seriously misjudged the collective sense of humor in the gay communi-
ty, although the rest of the audience seemed to enjoy it immensely.
Apparently the play was a little ambiguous as to exactly who was being
satirized, and the gays thought it was them. They took their cause
more seriously than did the playwright. They felt betrayed. They left
during the intermission to invest in vegetables and poultry products.
The play closed during the early moments of the second act. The
theater owner had to replace the curtains.
     Anyway, the playwright was notorious: you can imagine the joy he
brought to newspaper columnists, editors, and critics. They agreed
unanimously that the play should reopen, but no theater owner would
touch it. There wasn't a person within a hundred miles that didn't
know the story. EVERYBODY knew.
     Even so, when I was introduced to him by a nice old midwestern
biddy, a scion of the Indianapolis cultural scene, she says, "He's
single, you know..." with a significant look that was supposed to tell
the Whole Story: "single" equals gay when said in the right tone of
voice and with the eyebrows in the correct position. This is the sort
of linguistic semaphore code that midwesterners understand perfectly.
It allows them to communicate with the Deep South, for example, and to
translate for New Yorkers.
     And if you think the old biddy lives in La-La Land, don't you
believe it. She bought IBM stock for peanuts as a teen-age girl and
thinks New Yorkers are overly dependent on reality anyway. She has
homes in Miami, New York, and Indianapolis.
     So J and I had absolutely no problem understanding each other,
even though not a single bodily function or anatomical feature was
mentioned.
     Anyway, our little exchange made it pretty clear what the choices
were: I could prepare myself for what was to come or not, but it was
finally going to happen. I only had control over the level of hygiene
and nothing else.
     So I prepared myself. J says I have to include this in the
account, so I'll put it in, but I will try to describe this a deli-
cately as possible. We're talking about colonic irrigation, here,
folks. Several repeats of the procedure were necessary until I was
voiding clear, clean water. Then another just to be sure. This is more
than would be required by an examining physician, but then we weren't
just looking, were we? I wanted to be clean. For me as well as for J.
Enough said, especially for someone from the midwest. As, I've already
mentioned, my mother, the archetypic midwesterner, doesn't have any
bodily functions at all, as far as I can tell. My apologies to the
folks back home, but I found out that in the real world people use
words like `colon' sometimes. They even use their colons sometimes,
Ma. Recreationally, even.
     Meanwhile, back at the raunch, the next step was the obligatory
ritual shower. I was clean inside and out, and as naked as it is
possible to be--with the exception of a couple of chains. He had me
put a matte makeup foundation on without the mirror, and a powder over
that. Then, with the long tangled black wig in place, I was finished.
I knew what was coming, so I put on the same "pained" eyebrows again.
That look really turns me on--I think [know] it does him. Besides, it
expressed how I expected to feel.
     He led me out into the bedroom by the wrist chains and started
with a little light foreplay and cuddling on the bed. As he got me
warmed up, my mind kept focusing on what was about to happen (I was
mostly worried that it would hurt) and I was caught a little by
surprise when he slipped a new kind of device inside me. Another toy
from chains-R-us in San Francisco; he must have spent a fortune that
day. It was a vibrator, the kind with a flange at the outer end that
pressed against my clitoris while the rest of it rested (later vibrat-
ed) inside me. He lifted me to my feet and had me kneel with my chest
on a little bench (kind of a short piano bench) with red velvet
upholstery on the top. He taped my wrists and knees to the legs of the
stool with electrical tape and strapped a belt all the way around the
stool and my waist so that I couldn't get up--or in fact move much at
all except my head. I could wiggle my rear end a bit, though.
     There was a full-length mirror right in front of my face, leaning
against the wall. My breasts just peeked over the edge of the bench,
and I could just barely lift my shoulders enough to see my little
garnet nipple pendants. I looked pretty good in the long, shaggy wig.
I could see the reflection of J's face and shoulders behind me.
     I squirmed a little but the way they were taped I couldn't pull
my legs together when he reached between my legs and turned on the
vibrator. When he pressed it against me it was stunning. I pushed
against the stool with my hips, which pressed the flange-thing against
my important bits, and I could tell right away that this was a vibra-
tor designed by a woman.
     Immediately, though, I felt his fingers lubricating me for
penetration. Once again, I found myself trying to concentrate on two
things at once. The vibrator was doing very interesting things to me,
but I could see him over my shoulder and feel him spreading and
stretching me more and more. I really got into that part.
     Being able to watch my own expression during this was a bit like
making love to myself. Sounds narcissistic, I know. Well, it was. I
make no excuses: for some reason I felt unabashedly and overtly
narcissistic, and I gave in completely to the impulse. What the hell,
I said. I had never watched myself in a mirror during sex before.
(This is sex, isn't it?) Anyway, the looks I gave that mirror were
directed as much at myself as at J.
     The first look was one of pained surprise as he began to enter
me. I gasped for real at the sensation and tried to push forward away
from the pain.
     "Wait!" I squeaked, "It's too big!" He was already being gentle,
but he's a little bigger than the vibrator I had in there before. He
had prepared me well with lots of lubricant, though, and was already
partly inside. I can't describe the sensation of being parted and
penetrated there. The anticipation when he held my cheeks apart was
exquisite. I'm proud to report that I savored the anticipation and
apprehension like a gourmand tasting a new dish for the first time,
fully aware that there can be only one first time. I felt as though I
were truly being violated, though--more so than when I lost my virgin-
ity. But it was a delicious violation. I remember a fleeting and
unarticulated thought flashing through my mind:
     "This time I will experience rather than endure." (Actually it
was more like: "Ouch! Oops. I gotta try and enjoy it this time.")
     After that I stopped thinking. I panted, taking my breath in
short gasps as though a deep breath would have somehow hurt, and I
cried out several times as he slipped incrementally deeper into me. He
stopped and waited while I tried to relax more to accommodate his
size. During the pauses he flexed (?). I don't know what the actual
physiological basis for this is, but he kind of twitches and seems to
grow momentarily larger inside me. It's not a motion of the hips, but
of his actual organ. Anyway, I call it flexing for lack of a better
description, even though I don't know of any muscles to explain it (I
checked Gray's Anatomy. It was no help) and J doesn't know what he
does either, but he's sure all males can do it. It is another deli-
cious feeling--one that really helped as he continued to gently pulse
his way into me.
     It really is profoundly different from "normal" sex. It was a
feeling of being filled up. That describes it best. It was all the
more foreign and new because it is accompanied by sensations that I
normally associate with being emptied. But I was being filled com-
pletely and couldn't escape it: I tried to wiggle away--and I savored
not being able to escape.
     Finally he was thoroughly in. I could feel his hips tight against
my buttocks. I was dizzy with new sensations, but he waited until my
breathing stabilized and I had adjusted to the feeling. Experimental-
ly, I tried contracting around him, even though I was stretched to
capacity and it was all I could do to keep myself big and relaxed
enough to prevent it from hurting. He felt the contraction and
"flexed" back at me.
     I didn't think of it then, but the attitude I HAD to adopt is one
that encapsulates the entire idea of bondage for me: Relax, submit to
it, welcome it, and pain can become pleasure. Oddly the converse is
not true: Fight it and the pleasure does not become pain. Rather, if
you are clever, resistance brings you closer to the edge of pain so
you can play there. Fighting it also takes away the guilt. I can still
feel the guilt, you know, what with being from Indiana and all.
     He let me be the first to begin moving, contracting around him
and pushing with that (very interesting) new vibrator against the edge
of the stool. At first I just made a few very tentative experimental
movements, exploring my limits. I decided he was exactly the right
size. If he had been even a fraction of an inch larger I would have
been in serious pain, but he filled me completely and if I relaxed and
didn't fight I could push against him and enjoy it. (Yes, I know, who
could really enjoy that, you're thinking, but all it takes is a good
vibrator and a very sensitive lover--one who can control his own
instincts enough to help you through these critical moments. I didn't
expect to do more than endure, but I ended up enjoying--sort of. I
take that back. I enjoyed it, period. That doesn't mean it didn't
hurt).
     Don't get me wrong though: the orgasm was entirely caused by the
vibrator. I could never have an orgasm from anal sex alone. Those
sensations were mostly penetration, weirdness and occasional pain; it
was the combination of the two with an orgasm that made it so, well,
good.
     I tried sort of pushing back against him and rubbing my front
against the vibrator, and I began to get the hang of it. He began
moving gently in response to my halting motions, but he changed the
rhythm: rather than thrusting into me when I pushed back against him,
he followed me as I thrust against the vibrator and helped me push
against it as well, gently pinning me against the edge of the stool.
As I pushed back, I tried to open and relax, drawing more of him into
me as he first retreated and then followed my next thrust. So he began
by moving with, rather than against me.
     All the while I was watching my own face in the mirror. I have to
admit that the expressions that semi-involuntarily crossed my face
were a turn-on. Occasionally he would thrust a tad too hard and I
would gasp and an expression of pain would cross my face (enhanced, of
course, by the expressive eyebrows I had given myself). He watched for
those signals and was very careful with me, but I was still completely
in his hands. I would have had to accept whatever he wanted. I watched
myself through half-closed eyes as my breathing quickened and I became
more and more responsive. There was nothing making him be careful, but
he was careful nonetheless, to perfection. He also kept me just on the
edge of what I could take, now and then pushing me over by just the
right amount to make me gasp again. More than once, my half-closed
eyes sprang open with astonishment and a half-cry of pain escaped as
the breath was driven out of me--but he had such control that it
turned instantly to pleasure. He really walked the edge that time.
     As I neared orgasm (it really was the vibrator rather than the
other that brought me there) I wanted desperately to make great
heaving motions against him and the vibrator, but every time I tried
an extreme movement I caused myself instant pain. I was forced to
control myself and limit my motions to little thrusting twitches which
suddenly, and without my volition, became spasmodic and convulsive. I
had been going slowly, not thinking about (or even hoping for) an
orgasm when, without realizing it, I found myself in the middle of a
big one.
     My eyes widened and my mouth opened as though I were saying "Oh!"
but no noise came out. The temptation of the orgasmic contractions was
too great to resist, but every time I contracted, I felt pain. Even
now, I don't know whether pleasure or pain was the dominant theme of
that orgasm, but I do know the pain intensified the pleasure in a way
that I had never experienced. I couldn't separate the two. As I say,
he really walked the edge. I guess I did, too.
     At that critical moment, just when I was watching my own face in
the throes of pleasure/pain and thinking I looked really beautiful
like this, he reached up and pulled my wig off and I saw my shaved
head for the first time.
     He timed this shock to come right smack in the middle of my
orgasm. I couldn't stop my own powerful pelvic contractions even
though each spasm caused me pain behind that forced increasingly loud
gasps from my lips. I was completely incoherent from the ongoing
orgasm and at the same time horrified by my appearance. I looked so
bald and naked! My gasps became louder and I heard myself crying "No!"
and "Don't!" and "Please!" and "Stop!" with each of his thrusts even
though I was the one causing the pain more than he. And it wasn't only
the sex and the pain I wanted to stop, it was the sight of me so naked
and bald and awful. I was totally out of it, orgasmically, visually,
psychologically, every way you can imagine. I reacted strongly and
without inhibition to everything at once. It sounds silly to say this
now, but that's how I felt, that's how I remember it.
     My whole body stiffened and hardened as the orgasm peaked. I
think every single muscle must have been tensed. Even my breathing was
suspended. My eyes were wide and round, staring at my reflection with
a kind of stupefied amazement. In fact, I really was astonished by the
feelings I was experiencing. More than that, I was transfixed: my
mouth was open in a surprised but silent "O" and I was straining
against the bonds at my wrists and knees; I remember the tendons in my
neck and forearms standing out. As the orgasm held me in its grip my
body just seemed to take charge all on it's own and clench every
muscle, leaving me with no voluntary control at all. I gripped him and
the vibrator like a vise. I looked into my own eyes and had the
distinct feeling that in some way I was making love to myself, a
victim of my own needs. Even more, (it is embarrassing to admit this)
that I was in love with myself. Does that make sense? I'm not bisexu-
al, but narcissism really is a kind of homosexuality, isn't it? Hey,
at least it's sex with someone I love....
     Finally I realized I had been holding my breath. As I tipped over
the edge and began sliding down the far side of the climax, a surpris-
ingly loud cry escaped and I expelled the lungful of stale air I had
been holding. I began breathing again in great gulps and gasps.
     After we were through he inched his way out slowly and carefully.
I was grateful for that. I was almost sorry to feel him finally leave.
I felt emptied. Depleted. He turned off the vibrator, unbuckled the
belt around my waist, and cut my wrists free, leaving the scissors for
me to free myself the rest of the way. While he was in the shower, I
just stared at myself in a daze.
     I am normally in a daze after a "session", but this time I was
dazed by the way I looked as much as by how I felt. I just stared
mindlessly for quite a while. Finally, I shook myself out of it and
cut my knees free. I sat on the stool for a few minutes, peeling
electrician's tape off my skin and trying to get my head together
before getting to my feet. I felt a bit wobbly. I was still wearing
those chains, but other than that, when I stood in front of the mirror
I was completely--and I mean completely--nude. It was quite a shocking
sight.
     I'm sorry to dwell on this, but it's the biggest thing that's
happened to my body since I reached puberty and grew tits. I really
look different. So very, very naked.
     Words like nude, exposed, hairless, bald, shorn, and shaved all
come to mind, and I know I keep saying this over and over, but these
words just don't capture the feeling of being totally naked everywhere
and from all angles. I don't know how to express it. It just wasn't me
in the mirror. I turned to the side to see what I looked like. Still
in disbelief over my appearance, my hand crept up to touch my scalp,
half checking to make sure it was really true, still hoping it wasn't.
With the hand mirror, I looked at the back of my head. It is so white
and smooth and round--even paler than the rest of my skin, which was
quite pale, even after the first treatment with tanning lotion. It
isn't lumpy, like some bald men's heads are; it is a perfectly fea-
tureless dome, front, back, and sides. Somehow that makes it look even
more naked. I usually think of my earrings as minor accessories, but
without any hair they suddenly have become a major aspect of my facial
appearance. They used to be hidden by my hair.
     This may sound odd, but I looked at my nipple rings and thought,
"Well, at least I still have those." Stupid, I know, but for some
reason I was reassured by the thought of them as the last vestige of
the "old me" even though I should logically regard them as the earli-
est symbols of the "new me." Maybe I just think of them the only part
of me that hasn't been taken away. Jesus, I don't know. I don't know
what to think.
     J came out of the shower and stood behind me with his arms around
me as I looked into the mirror. I asked him how he could possibly like
the way I looked, and immediately felt an erection growing against my
back. I guess I really don't need more of an answer than that. It
turns him on. Even though I hate it, aspects of it turn me on, too.
The embarrassment, for example. Every time he does something I think I
hate, he reminds me that what I am feeling is, ultimately, embarrass-
ment, and then he asks for it as a gift. He asks me to let myself feel
it, let it come out. For some reason, that diverts my feelings of
resentment into something that becomes erotic. Usually. I don't know.
     Over the previous few days, I had come to assume that it was the
simple visual impact of my hairlessness that turned J on, but it seems
it's more complex than that. What was just as important was that he
knew I was stunned by what he had done to me and would be shocked
again when I saw myself for the first time. My mental state was at
least as important to him as my physical appearance, and the expres-
sion on my face (frozen there during my orgasm) had expressed exactly
the mental state that turned him on so.
     During that session J had been holding back out of concern for
the tenderness of my previously inviolate rear portal, but something
about the way I looked in the mirror at the moment of my orgasm (he
later said) caused him to lose control--although I wouldn't have known
if he hadn't told me. As I came down from my orgasm I ended up just
panting and staring at my face and head in the mirror. I still had
kind of a shocked and surprised look on my face: after all, I had
never seen myself with absolutely no hair before. Perhaps I shouldn't
mince words. I was (am) bald. Absolutely naked bald. (I know, I know.
I'm going on about it again...) Anyway, as I knelt there staring at
myself, quivering and twitching slightly, I felt him grow larger and
harder inside me. He began very slight but very powerful and re-
strained stroking inside me and came almost immediately. That was him
"losing control" as he put it. What he means is he couldn't stop
having an orgasm, not that he lost all regard for me.
     Our "usual" frontal sex normally takes more effort than that on
his part, but this time, it took almost no stimulation at all to bring
him to a climax. I asked him about it later. He said it wasn't having
sex "that way" that did it. It was the way I looked--the expression on
my face--during and after my orgasm. I guess the brain is the real
erogenous zone. It must be. How else could wet dreams happen?
     This really interested me, so pay attention. I quizzed him
(insofar as it is appropriate for a slave to quiz her master) on
exactly what I looked like to him, and what it was that did it for
him. He was turned on by a combination of things. First was the idea
that I was so surprised and unable to control what was happening to
me. I really was surprised, but I deliberately used my face to express
that surprise far more explicitly than I normally would have. Somehow
that's a really important lesson for me. Of course the feelings
themselves are most important to us as human beings, but in the
process of human communication, appearances are at least as important
as the feelings they convey.
     Actors watch themselves in the mirror to judge whether their
faces do a good job of communicating what they pretend to feel. The
average person doesn't bother to do this, and so doesn't communicate
as well, even when the feelings are genuine. That's a stupid thing of
me to say: of course, that's why they pay actors to do what they do.
     The bottom line is this: I suppose you could regard my facial
expressions as acting and therefore deceptive, but I was only playing
around with really showing well what I was actually feeling. I MADE my
face LOOK the way I FELT. In so doing, I realized that it normally
doesn't reflect my feelings accurately. Doing this was a visual turn-
on for ME, too.
     Is it phony if you have to become an actor to show what you
really feel? Uh Oh. I feel a quote coming on ...
     "Truth and Myth are the same thing ... you have to simulate
     passion to feel it, ... man is a creature of ceremony."
     Sartre, I think
     -*-
     I don't know what came over me that night after my first experi-
ence with this new kind of sex. I felt very odd. I was in an erotic
mood but I didn't want to have more sex. I did something I normally
would never have thought I would do: I went and got the plastic torso
and put it on. I mean voluntarily. I don't know why, it's such an
anti-erotic thing to wear.
     I showered first, and conditioned my skin, and then got the torso
and locked it in place, even though J had the only key. I put it on
over charcoal sheer-to-the-waist pantyhose. I have to plan ahead when
I put that carapace on: I had to put my boots on before the torso,
because with the torso on I can't bend enough to put them on easily.
Then I sat for what must have been an hour or more putting on my
makeup. I know it would have made a lot more sense to put the torso on
last, after the makeup, but I didn't want to. I really don't know why.
     Putting on makeup is a reassuringly familiar occupation that I do
without thinking; it is almost a kind of meditation. I made myself
look as artificial as the plastic covering I was wearing. Kind of a
doll-like, with crisply defined eyeliner and pencil-thin arched brows
(totally unexpressive, as though I were a doll made up for a kabuki
play) and lips painted to look like a cupid bow. I even put on false
eyelashes, something I haven't done in ages. With coverup I made my
skin flawless and smooth as the plastic, and I even redid my nails in
black to match the torso. I finished myself off with the long, tangled
black wig. The mirror over the sink opens out so you can see yourself
from three sides. Seeing myself from the side, motionless, I looked
like a department store mannequin, my makeup was so heavy.
     Don't ask me why I did that; I don't know. J realized I was in a
strange mood and left me to myself. In fact, he even cooked dinner,
something he does rarely and only out of deliberate choice these days
(that is, while we're doing Column One). Usually I cook.
     We ate in silence. I wasn't mad at him, or anything, I just was
in a quiet mood and I kind of retreated inside myself. He seemed
entranced. I sat there with the erect posture that the torso enforces,
eating like a cadet in the mess hall during hell month. He almost
forgot to eat himself he was watching me with such fascination. It was
a bit distracting for a moment, but I retreated to my own interior and
forgot about him while I ate.
     After dinner, I rose to do the dishes and he stopped me. He told
me to relax and read a book or something--he said he felt like doing
the dishes. Just to let him know I wasn't mad, I answered, "If you're
sure it pleases you, Master." I noticed distantly--almost indifferent-
ly--that the M word slipped out naturally and with no vestige of
giggly embarrassment on my part. It just seemed like the right thing
to say. A part of me was faintly interested in the observation that
this could happen to me, that I could refer to him that way without
thinking about it.
     I was in that detached, floating mood again. I felt that nothing
could touch me unless I wanted it to. Maybe I was disassociating
myself from reality, but I actually felt more in touch with every-
thing--just less concerned about it. I wandered aimlessly through the
house while J rattled dishes in the distance.
     I was standing in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom
when he finished the dishes and came to stand behind me. I was looking
at myself the way one might look at a stranger, and wondering what I
would think of that stranger if I saw her in public dressed this way.
Face it, the only place would be in a floor show at a bar where they
catered to the leather crowd. Freakish, but sexy.
     I really do look ... well ... regal ... with my chin held up so
high. I'm forced to have the posture of a queen. If I had that kind of
posture naturally, people would think I was an incredible snob. I
appear to be looking down on the world, and it doesn't really come up
to my standards, and I haven't decided yet if I'm going to stay here.
I don't feel that way, but if I look at myself objectively, that's
what I see.
     And the sleek black plastic is very flattering from the front.
Whenever I move, the locks rattle against the sides of the torso; the
lock dangling in the space between my legs is somehow especially sexy.
Well, you'd have to see it to know what I mean.
     I still can't tell you why I put on that particular outfit. I
guess I just felt like throwing myself completely into ... this. Sort
of an offhand, almost careless impulse.
     It's hard to describe my feelings at that moment. I felt sorry
for myself. My old life seemed so distant, and I had lost so much.
Indiana seemed very far away. I wondered idly if I clicked my black
leather heels together three times and said "There's no place like
home... there's no place like home..."
     Sorry, Auntie Em.
     They all dress this way in the merry old land of Oz.
     I just dropped in to pick up Toto's leash.
     You can keep Toto.
     Normally I would have laughed at the thought, but for some reason
I had this maudlin, self-indulgent certainty that I wasn't going home
again. Metaphorically, I mean: not back to the way it used to be.
     The thought penetrated my armor plate and a single tear plowed a
furrow through the mask of my makeup. I wasn't feeling particularly
strong or deep emotions--in fact, it felt as if someone else was
feeling them for me, and I watched her in the mirror almost curiously.
As I say, I don't know what came over me. Childish sentimentality,
that's all it was. Here I was, with J, careening through the List and
having the most profound sexual experience I could have hoped for, and
I was feeling sorry for myself.
     That one tear seemed to have an effect on J, though. It's not
like I was crying or anything; it was just the one tear. My face
remained unchanged--not even a quivering lip. (My lips really do
quiver when I'm about to cry.) Still, he turned all solicitous and
felt he had to do something, so he took off the torso. Crying means so
much more to men than it does to women. They always feel they have to
DO something. It's sweet, really. Totally clueless, they are.
     It was a relief to get the torso off, actually, even though I had
put it on myself. I can kind of settle into it and forget how much
more comfortable it is possible to be without it. The relief is a
surprise, in a way. He carried me into my bedroom and took off the
pantyhose and boots and put me on the bed. He said to tell him if I
wanted anything. It was sometime after ten, and I was feeling tired
anyway, but I couldn't sleep. I could hear J getting ready for bed.
     I got up and removed all my makeup, the wig, everything but the
nipple rings (I don't want the holes to close up). I lit a candle
rather than turn on lights (it just seemed appropriate) and went into
J's bedroom and stood in the doorway. I said his name, faintly.
     "Master?" Okay, so it's not his name, but that's what I said. And
not in a subservient way, either. I said it naturally, as though it
were his name, not a title.
     He wasn't asleep. I couldn't see him in the darkness beyond my
candle, but I know he could see me, standing there in the candle light
as naked and bare as the day I was born. I felt like a little girl
going into her daddy's room after a nightmare for reassurance. He told
me to come to bed with him, and to close the mosquito netting over the
bed's alcove.
     The candle light made the bed a cozy nest. It was just nice...I
don't know if I can even explain why I'm writing about this part. It
just made an impression on me--almost as much of an impression as when
he shaved my head. The feeling of security was something I needed very
badly at the time. Of course that's what I went in there for, and J
knew that instinctively. He almost always gives me what I need (not
always what I want). I think he was expecting me to come in, though. I
don't even know why I did. That day had been an interesting one. The
sex was a completely new barrier we had broken through, and I am still
inwardly proud that I got through it--and I will look forward to it
when the time comes again. I don't think it was the very best sex
ever, but it was so different as an experience that it's a matter of
comparing apples and oranges anyway. It was good. Really good. I'm
glad he made me do it.
     -*-
     The next day, J was gone for the morning. He left me alone at the
house and I had the whole morning to myself. I gave myself the artifi-
cial tanning treatment (I was getting noticeably darker by the third
treatment, but I think it is primarily the lotion; the pills shouldn't
have kicked in yet, according to the directions.) and I worked on this
account for three or four hours. I was (still am) several days behind.
He had left me unchained, unconstrained physically in any way. Except
that he had me pack my wigs and all my clothing except the harem
outfit and the thong in a small bag for him to take with him. My
credit cards, checkbook, and bankbook were with my other clothing. He
left me my car keys, though. Nice touch, that. How far would a bald
girl in a harem outfit (even with a black thong under it) get with no
money? I suppose I could wear a bed sheet and chant Hare Krishna. I
need a tambourine.
     I have given my scalp extra applications of the tanning lotion to
try and even out the color difference between my scalp and the rest of
me. I also did a bit of very careful sunbathing (sunscreen assisted).
As I have said, I normally avoid the sun, but my scalp has NEVER seen
the sun and is still very white. I tan so easily, a couple of days at
five or ten minutes a day should do it. I didn't really want a tan,
but it's a nice experiment. I would have liked to just kind of neu-
tralize the bluish color that very pale skin has, but I obviously got
a tan, sun or not. Well, maybe not obviously to you, but from where
I'm sitting today .... Actually, I look pretty good with a tan.
     When he came home I was exercising on the weight bench in the
garage, wearing the black thong and perspiring heavily. When his car
pulled up I went out to meet him. There must have been something about
seeing me all sweaty and pumped up that had an effect on him: he
opened the bag on the spot and handed me a wig to put on. I got on my
knees right there in the grass and asked if I could talk with him.
     I don't like being free to leave, especially when I look the way
I do. I used to ask myself a thousand times a day "why don't you just
go?" and before I could always answer "because I'm chained here." Now
the only answer I can give is that I am too embarrassed by my appear-
ance, so I feel guilty for not leaving. Embarrassment isn't a digni-
fied reason for staying.
     Kneeling there, I presented him with a rather confused manifesto
in which I told him I didn't like this new chainless arrangement. I
thought he was giving me too much freedom, and suggested that he was
trying to end the List and possibly our relationship and was he tired
of me?
     He explained that he didn't leave me unchained to give me free-
dom. He felt I was even more constrained than I had been before, even
though it was fear of public embarrassment rather than chains that
keep me here. He's right, too.
     He brought me home some more of the sheer cotton material and
told me to make a robe for myself. I later knocked together a kind of
monk's habit (do monks have habits, or is it just nuns?) with a cowl
and long sleeves with big cuffs. Transparent, so it's not quite as
chaste as your average monk's habit. He didn't want anything to
obscure the view, so I couldn't make it wrap around like a bathrobe.
He wanted more of a button-up sheath. I only had four odd buttons in
my sewing box, so I used those. Still, it's the most comfortable thing
I have for around the house while he's gone. I feel dressed anyway,
sort of.
     That evening before dinner he gave me a present. He'd had them
made by a jeweler in town. I don't know what to call them, really.
Nipple cages? Imagine a conical cage made of silver wire. The base of
the cone is a circle of wire the diameter of my areolas. There are
wire struts supporting a tiny hook that hangs down inside the apex of
the cone. There are bits of filigree where the struts are joined to
the base. With the bases resting on my areolas, my nipple rings hook
to the apexes of the cages so my nipples are held out in little points
inside the conical cages. They are quite charming with the garnet
pendants hanging from the tips, and the feeling is exquisite--in short
doses. I worry that they will do some kind of damage if he leaves them
on me too long. Perhaps make one of my nipples evert permanently. It
would be wonderful if I could be sure both would evert, but I would
rather be symmetrically inverted than have one "outie" and one
"innie."
     But they are sweet. Maybe Jennifer, the founder of
rec.arts.bodyart, will read this and pass a comment on the world's
first orthopedic pasties. He gave me some tiny bells, too. Actually,
they're not so tiny, they just sound tiny. In fact, they are amazing
and I have no idea at all how they work. They are small, very light-
weight silver-colored spheres less than an inch in diameter. They emit
a kind of tinkling chime when disturbed, even when you hold them
between your fingers. That's the amazing thing: you can't dampen the
chiming noise by touching the outside. There are no openings or seams.
I can't figure them out, but he has superglued them to pearl pendants
in place of the pearls and they can hang from my nipple rings. They
are absolutely delightful. He says he got them in a flea market. They
are a novelty called "faerie bells" or some such thing. So now I
tinkle.
     I wore the bells dangling from the ends of the nipple cages
during dinner. Tinkle, tinkle.

--