Archive-name: Bondage/njlist15.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List - 15 of 20


From Nurse Jones,

     Aside from making me wish Jay had shaved me "down there" (instead
of making me do it myself), Averti's wonderful story (about tying
Joker to that barber chair and shaving her) reminded me that I haven't
told you about my very first attempts at topping Jay, just after I got
back. OR how we got married, even, come to think of it. OR how we met.
     If you haven't noticed yet, I've decided to take excerpts from
The List parts 13-14 and just incorporate them into my other
rumblings. So from now on, things won't be chronological. I'll be
jumping from the present (hypnotism experiments) back a few months.
This is fun. And therapeutic.
     I guess there were a few posting in the middle there that will
fall through the cracks in somebody's archive because they didn't have
a "Subject:" line with "The List" in it. So be it. At least the ASB
regulars will know the whole story. From here on, Life is Art. I write
it as we do it, I post it as I write it. If you like it, keep it. It
only goes by once folks: I won't be saving it. If it has anything to
do with The List, I'll put it in the "Subject:" line if I remember.
And I've already forgotten a few times.

     After I settled in, having gotten back from SF, I decided to try
topping. I take that back: I didn't decide exactly. I knew I would
have to, so I did. I am not well suited to this at all, especially
with Jay. I could bluff and play the tough broad with anyone else, but
it's harder with Jay. I don't know how to say this in such a way that
the rest of you will be able to understand: you talk so much about
switching roles you make it sound easy. His role is as my protector. I
don't want to dominate him. I want to care for and cherish him. Love,
honor and obey. All that stuff. Which I vowed to do ceremoniously,
intentionally, deliberately, at our wedding. The judge was surprised I
wanted that obey part in there. But that's another story.
     Anyway, I'm not going to go through Column Two in a hurry, like J
did Column One. "Slave for a month" is on my List, but I'm just going
to browse through the other Items one scene at a time, when I feel
like it. Maybe I'll use my month a weekend at a time. Not knowing
where to start, I thought about the overall problem of showing him
what it's like to be a woman and decided I would do stuff that would
head in that direction.
     I try to keep him chained, locked up, etc., while doing this
stuff to him, not because I can't control him--although I couldn't, if
he were even half trying--but because I assuming he's like me. I kept
my dignity largely by believing I had no control, so I was absolved of
responsibility for anything that we did. "He made me do it." Maybe his
mind doesn't work the same way. Whatever.
     So here's what I did first. Remember, this was back when I was
still lurking. I had him shower; then I put ankle and wrist straps on
him and locked them together. Wrists together, ankles together, naked
on the bed. Candles all around, on the bedposts, on the bedside table,
on the shelf, the floor even. I stretched him across the bed, hands
chained loosely at the headboard, feet at the foot. I didn't think
ahead: if I had I would have covered the bed with towels to avoid
ruining the sheets. As it was, I had to kind of push a towel against
him as I worked over him.
     Then I put the ball gag in. This was the scariest (and the
sweetest) part. And the part that, for some reason, it disturbs me the
most to tell.
     I wore just my black bimbo-boots with the four inch heels for
this. Thought I'd give him a treat. I look pretty good in them. Well,
I could tell he thought so, anyway.
     I was very tender with him. Motherly, almost. As though he were a
patient. I scooted up beside him on the bed and cradled his head in my
arms and held him close, supporting him against my breast.
     I placed the gag gently against his mouth, and flashed a brief
image of myself at work feeding James, an 18 year old with cerebral
palsy. He ate mostly through a straw. This was years ago, in Chicago.
He was a regular, in and out for years because he didn't get adequate
care at home. I think he sometimes made himself sick just to get into
the hospital for TLC. It's odd to feel motherly toward someone who's
nearly as old as you are. James was special. Eighteen years is a long
time for someone with his problems. Pneumonia, finally.
     It makes me mad when I think of this old guy I've got now,
complaining about everything under the sun. He should have spent a few
weeks with James. They operated on this joker late last week and took
out his tumor and he complained that they had performed unnecessary
surgery because it turned out to be nonmalignant. This is the kind
who, if he were EXXON, would sue Alaska for getting duck feathers in
his oil.
     It's typical of modern medicine to find the only part of him that
wasn't malignant and remove it.

     Sorry to digress. So Jay looks up at me with this puppy-dog
expression that says "Anything you want to do. Anything." Total trust.
Suddenly I don't feel like a nurse anymore. I realize this is play: I
can be what I want as long as I don't hurt him. I feel like a goddess
dispensing a sacrament. Holding the gag against his lips, I might as
well have said, "Take this and eat, in remembrance of me." That's the
embarrassing part.
     It was an ego thing. I was suddenly benevolent and forgiving,
caring for a fragile mortal that worshiped me, looking down at him,
holding him, controlling his destiny if I wanted. He was mine, all
mine. I felt an unbecoming and certainly unladylike sense of power,
maybe like those Hollywood socialites that kept a panther on a leash
years ago. They controlled a powerful, dangerous animal, with gentle-
ness and subtlety, and probably felt compassion for the animal that
they had taken freedom from.
     I tightened the chains so he was stretched out full length.
     And then, and then .... Oh No! Could this be a cliffhanger?

Tune in next week, for
     Nurse Jones,
       in nothing but four inch heels,
       for whom brevity is the soul of lingerie.
          and lingerie the soul of wit.
     But wait ... (!)
       Is there more?
     Yes!
     Just kidding. I couldn't really do that to my knights in shining
       armor.

     Then I shaved him.
     Lovingly.
     Intentionally, carefully, I avoided any hint of the sense of
humiliation and embarrassment that I felt when he had shaved me months
earlier. (Don't get me wrong. It was erotic humiliation when he shaved
me. And later, well ... in retrospect, if there wasn't such a long
recovery period, and if I didn't want to keep my job, I'd do it for
him again. Or let him do it to me. Whatever. But I'd have to think
about it.)
     I held myself against him while I did it, stroking his body with
mine. I dangled my nipple pendants against him. I caressed him with
the razor, using skin conditioner as shaving cream and working in
little patches rather than covering him all at once. And I kissed
every inch of him, testing with my lips for stubble as I worked him
over. Over him. Whatever.
     I sat astride his chest, my boots against his ribs and, pressing
my--nether self?--against his abdomen, I shaved his face. He had just
shaved in the shower anyway, but I did it again, just for the chance
to be near his face, to work (and kiss) around the gag, and look into
his eyes, searching for reassurance, giving it to him, showing my
concern. Looking for the slightest hint of uncertainty. And I dis-
pensed a little goddess-like compassion and tenderness as well.
Stroking his cheeks with the backs of my hands .... I wanted to show
him how I would like to be treated. The next time. But I was still a
goddess, in complete control and not about to relinquish it, no matter
how sad and sympathetic I felt, no matter how sorry I was for what I
was going to do to him.
     It became an ego thing for me. That's the first shameful admis-
sion. I let myself go; I felt this sense of power so strongly and with
such confidence that I could afford to be benevolent, compassionate, a
benign goddess. But a hypocrite, because compassion should have made
me release him, and I didn't. My eyes filled, I wanted to take care of
him so much. And he saw my expression and looked at me like he was
concerned for what I was feeling. He wanted the gag out to reassure
me. He didn't know why I got teary and thought it might be something
bad. I felt fine. I stroked his forehead and brushed his hair back and
told him No, no, hush, it's alright, and kissed him some more. But I
didn't take the gag out, didn't release him.
     I shaved his chest, his underarms, the tops of his feet, the
backs of his arms, even the backs of his hands--fingers too-- and his
legs. I nicked one of his knuckles, just a tiny nick, and sucked on
his finger until it stopped bleeding. I turned him over and shaved
everything I had missed, his bum (Oh, his bum. Like an adorable ripe
little apple...) and finally, (of course) I turned him back over to do
his naughty bits. I (reluctantly, but firmly) had to pull his knees
apart by tying them to the sides of the bed. Well, I didn't HAVE to,
but I did. I don't know if he felt as embarrassed as I did, first time
in that position, but I blindfolded him first, the way I would have
wanted to be.
     Tch, tch. The way my mind works. _I_ blindfolded HIM so HE
wouldn't be embarrassed by what _I_ was seeing. I don't blame you.
Trust me on the ostrich principle. If you think your midwestern bottom
will be embarrassed right out of the mood, blindfold, blindfold,
blindfold.
     For me, though, by candle light, it was nice; I stood with hands
on hips, considering him for a moment. In my imagination I was an
ancient goddess (Jesus, this is embarrassing to admit) for whom a
sacrificial victim had been ceremonially left, and I was ritually
preparing him for my own pleasure. They seldom survived an evening
with me, the poor things. Even though I knew I was role playing, I
really felt that sense of power, just letting go.
     Long before I started shaving his naughty bits he had an erection
that looked ready to explode if I touched it. I went over him so
slowly and carefully that there wasn't a single additional nick on his
body, and I especially didn't want one Down There. I did him twice
There, feeling carefully and thoroughly through the conditioner for
stubble, not wanting any to scratch me. Maybe I felt a little too
thoroughly for stubble. I teased him a little, I'm afraid. After all,
he was mine.
     Not one to waste such occasions, as soon as I finished shaving
and damp-wiping him, I jumped on and had my way with him--still as
lovingly as I could (with the tenderness that one should show toward a
woman). I left my boots on, though.
     And I whispered in his ear that he was under orders not to come
until I did, or else, and he didn't. Or else what? I have no idea; he
did what I wanted for some reason other than fear, obviously. What was
I going to do? Strike him with lightening?
     I used him to masturbate, slowly, as I like it. When I was
through, I didn't tell him it was his turn. I never gave him permis-
sion. This was cruel of me (heh), but I tried to make him come even
though he was trying not to. It didn't take long. I wish I could write
this from his perspective, the way Column One was written from mine,
but I can only really tell you how I felt. And I prefer to imagine how
he felt anyway, because it makes it more erotic for me, and I'm the
one that gets to be selfish in Column Two. This was good though, very
good. Better than I thought it would be. And I started out shaving him
because I really just didn't know what else to do. I started out
nervous, hoping I could pull it off without ruining it, and ended up
playing the part of a goddess and really getting shamefully immersed
in it.
     That is my shameful thing.
     I try to be kind when I deal with people, but indulgent, benign,
forgiving benevolence is different. It has always infuriated me in
others. It assumes superiority. It presumes inferiority. It seems to
say: "I Know I'm better than you. I Know I'm Right, and you, you poor
dear thing, haven't a hope. I pity you, and I forgive you for being
pitiful. And forgiveness is such a respectable sentiment you don't
have the moral right to resent me."
     In a word: smug. And complacent. Smug and complacent. That
describes it. In a word. Or two. My supervisor, the hyperbaptist is
like that. On a good day. She's always forgiving us for things that
need no forgiveness. Somebody once told her that "to forgive is
divine" and she doesn't realize that to forgive unnecessarily is
offensive.
     And there I was, Our Lady of Extreme Discomfort, riding high on a
wave of that same feeling. You'll understand if I'm embarrassed.
Embarrassed. Embarassed? I've been meaning to look it up. Jesus, by
now you'd think I'd have learned how to spell it, wouldn't you?
     The compassion, the teary eyes, the extreme godlike tenderness,
it was all acting. The working out on myself of sentiments I didn't
really have. I can't fake tears, and I didn't then: I really felt
those emotions, but it was because I wanted to, not because they came
spontaneously. The indulgent mother- superior benevolence was what was
genuine. The compassionate sympathy wasn't. The feeling of power and
control was genuine. So powerful I could afford to be kind and sweet
and gentle as a throwaway emotion.
     Anyway, by the time I was through, the only hair on him was on
his head and eyebrows. He didn't even think of flinching when I went
for his genetic future with a razor. If he had I would have stopped
the whole scene. The whole column. That was one of my litmus tests of
his trust.
     We showered together afterwards. Before I go on, I should tell
you, this evening's festivities were intended as an experiment as well
as entertainment for me. As part of my overall strategy, I wanted to
determine what his absolute limits were. How many orgasms could I
force him to have? The reason is that if I eventually get it all
together and create a female persona for him, I don't want her (HA! I
got one of those in. IloveitIloveit!) getting an un-feminine erection
part way through the process and ruining everything from his psyche to
his panty line. So the plan was to sexually deplete him thoroughly,
totally, and completely. By whatever means I could manage, bar none.
Electrical stimulation by cattle prod if necessary. Kipling, even.
     (AHA! Now you understand my fascination with electricity, phone
sex, etc. Just to reassure you, we have given up on it after getting
frantic E-mail from a number of electrical engineers. However, the Van
de Graff generator is still on order...)
     When we were in the shower I decided I wanted sex with him with
us both shaved, so I whisked off the three or four hairs on my pus-
sy--not that they were noticeable anyway--which turned him on immedi-
ately and we had another go right there on the shower floor, both of
us covered in skin conditioner. It was divine. I recommend it highly.
Incredible, the slippery feeling, when it's both of you. Us.
     I hope my *%&**@!* pubic hair grows back. More hair has been
appearing, but still, I'm pretty bare. Shaving makes almost no differ-
ence. Take it from Nurse Jones: don't use depilatory repeatedly. At
least not until the final word is in on my little problem.
     AND! Before I forget! In one of my past posting I said we used
Nutrogena hair/skin conditioner. Wrong! (Buzzer sounds). It's Unicure.
I have so damn many bottles and jars I forget which is which. I just
recognize them by the color. Unicure. Great stuff. Any K-mart has it.
Seriously, I recommend it.
     Hey, did you notice that? My language has loosened up a bit. I
called my pussy a pussy. I don't know why, but it sounds much nicer
than "cunt." I kinda like "nether self," though....
     So anyway, total sexual exhaustion was the goal. I just KNEW he
had more than two orgasms in him. Time it right, push the right
buttons, and four in one day was the standing record.
     Why shave him? Women don't have a lot of body hair. And I will be
taping his naughty bits tightly out of the way some day soon. Wouldn't
want to pull hair out with the tape would I.
     Would I?
     FLASH!
     Wax! I have hair wax somewhere. You know the stuff. Melts at a
low temperature in a double boiler, sticky, and hardens HARD. Used to
pull unwanted hair off at beauty salons. Heat it, spread small dollops
on (maybe I'll drip it on?), yank it off. And I was having him keep
himself shaved because it gets boring. I'll tell him to let it grow
for a while in strategic areas, and ....
     Gotta go. I guess this is going to be a cliff hanger after all.
I'll tell you about the other half of this scene later, promise.


Nurse Jones,
     interrupting the creative process to do more research, so that
     when they ask J how long he's been married, he'll smile a secret
     smile and say, "Every minute of the day and night."

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