Archive-name: Series/thelist.txt Archive-author: Nurse Jones Archive-title: The List [This version varies from the version in the Bondage directory. It was gathered from different sources. Both have been included for your enjoyment, although they are substantially similar!] -*- Prologue Dear Michael Who Has Great Puns, Thanks again for offering to post this for me. Nobody else even offered. In fact, all I got was a flood of E-wannafucks from people with nurse fetishes. Some of them were pretty icky. It was nice to get a letter rom someone that seems normal. So you get the dubious honor of handling my tale ;-) Of being IN it even :) because this is the beginning of it. Yours gratefully, Nurse Jones Dear Everybody Else On ASB, I imagine that most prologues are the last part written. This one was. I wrote it at the last minute before sending this to Michael. If I can make this thing work, the next 12 files will contain a nearly true account of what happened to me during the Spring of 1991. I say "nearly true" because I have changed details that might identify us. I'll just be "M". Our physical descriptions are accurate. And I am really a nurse from Indiana, but everything else that might identify us is false. Please, as a favor to me, don't take it as a challenge to try and trace it back to me. I'm not ready to come out of the closet yet. I don't think J (I'll call him that) is either. Feel free to copy it (except for profit), but hey: give credit where it's due. Besides, I made a notarized copy last April. Then I sent it (on diskette by anonymoUS mail) to some ASB regulars that give real names in their sigs. I asked that they post it for me. It never appeared. Then came wizvax. I reread and rewrote it just for the hell of it and here it is. I don't have a spelling checker. J tells me I misspelled "embarrasment" all the way through. At the end of the diary, it appears that I left J to get my head back together. I'm back, and we're married now, so it has a happy ending even if it doesn't look that way. It is called "The List" and it is in two columns. This is Column One. We started Column Two before we got married. If you like column one I'll post column two. Sorry if this doesn't make sense. You'll have to read it to have any idea at all what I'm talking about. I tried to make it as readable as possible, recreating dialogue and putting in my own thoughts as I went along. You're probably tired of the undiluted screwing you read on rec.arts.erotica and alt.sex.bondage anyway. And since what follows really happened, maybe you'll forgive me for writing about what went on inside my head as well as inside the rest of my anatomy. Also, mistakenly believing that hindsight improved the clarity of my vision, I couldn't resist going back and screwing up the sponteneity of the first writing. If I tell you it's a true story, you'll think, "Yeah, sure, right. Where have I heard that before." But it is. So there. If I tell you my top "made" me write it, you'll say, "that's how they all start," but he did. It was kind of a bargain that we made, J and I, before I even knew the news net existed. Before I knew a lot of things. The List Column One Item 1 He's at work now, but he told me to start writing this while he is gone. So here I sit, not knowing where to begin. So I made the big "H" at the beginning just for something to do. I want you to understand that I am doing this because J told me to, not because I think anyone should know what happened last night. He says I am to write it in the first person, just like I were telling it to a stranger, rather than to him. It is, ultimately, part of the bargain we made. Okay, I said that. What next? I just don't know where to start. Earnest Hemmingway said always start with the first true thing. I guess I'll begin at the beginning, and when I come to the end, I'll stop. Hey, it worked for Alice in Wonderland, someone I have a lot in common with at the moment. Six months ago, we were living together in Chicago where I was working as a nurse. He got a terrific job offer and had to move. I didn't want to give up the security of my job, so we split up. We said it would somehow only be be temporary, and I stayed behind in the windy city. Neither of us was particularly happy with the separation, and we wrote to each other almost daily. The letters got pretty steamy, and we began trading fantasies -- fantasies we had never discussed when we lived together. We started with pretty tame stuff like being on a tropical island together, or in a snowbound cabin, but gradually we escalated to fantasies of being each other's slaves, B&D, and so forth. Every letter I wrote included comments on his last letter and a new fantasy of my own. He did the same. We became a two- person literary critics circle. I think it was easier to write about these things than to talk about them face to face, maybe because broaching a subject like this for the first time requires such delicacy. You have to be absolutely sure you get the words right before you say them. You can't go back and edit a conversation the way you can a letter. The months wore on; he became assured of success at his new job and bought a house, while I began to feel more and more isolated and left behind. I was working three 12-hour night shifts a week, sleeping days, exercising less and less, reading his letters, and doing little else. I saw no-one, didn't even go to the movies. Our fantasy life -- in letters -- grew until, as I became more and more lonely, it occupied most of my waking thoughts and I came to want to act out those fantasies. I wanted desperately to get back together with him. Move in with him and live with him again. I could quit my job -- I would be able to get a nursing job anywhere. But he didn't ask me to, and I couldn't bring myself to ask him. Midwestern pride, I guess. After we had explored our fantasy life pretty thoroughly he wrote a fantasy in which he came to visit me and we arranged to get back together and live out the fantasies we had written about. In my next letter I commented that I thought that was the one I liked best, and we began to write seriously about actually doing it, planning explicitly to get back together. The character of our letters changed: we wrote more practical fantasies -- things that we could actually do, and how we would do them. And we planned for the future. I was to quit my job and get a job where he lived. Nurses are in demand everywhere, although salaries are lower in the South. I was getting pretty tired of Winter in Chicago anyway. You could freeze to death on the way to stand in line to sort out the phone bill the company screwed up if it wasn't for the muggers being so tightly crowded onto the streets that you didn't have room to freeze in the first place. Besides, I was tired of being lonely. Once I had made the decision, my mood changed dramatically. Suddenly, instead of being lonely, sexually frustrated, and obsessive about getting and writing letters, I was OPTIMISTIC, lonely, sexually frustrated, and obsessive. We got together briefly before I left Chicago. J had written a letter telling me he would visit. Our last few letters had carried a long list of fantasies back and forth between us. We added to the list every time it changed hands. Ultimately it contained nearly everything we had written about and some new things we hadn't. In his final letter he told me he had a cha The bust is tailored to fit my breasts exactly, and "underwired" with elastic. I stick out. The top has long sleeves that are just barely loose enough for me to squeeze my hands through to get my arms in; the front zips from the waist to a high lacy collar that would look very demure on a top that wasn't skin-tight and practically transparent. The pants are also skin-tight, except below the knee, where they flare to become bell-bottoms. Very 60's. The legs are so long that I have to wear heels -- high ones -- to keep from tripping over the cuffs. I have some white open-toed high-heeled sandals that go with it nicely. Nicely? Somehow, "nice" doesn't seem to apply after last night. Last night, the crotch was the really embarrasing part. There isn't even a seam in front to help conceal my sex. It's just tight, sheer, and thin. In fact, there is a very tight g- string-like elastic in back that holds the muslin close over my newly hairless sex and pulls the back of the pants tight against my cheeks and deeply into the cleavage of my bottom. When I made the outfit I thought I would have pubic hair to cover me, but last night I was so ... visible. Still following his instructions, I brushed my hair out and put on my makeup. I was procrastinating, taking unnecessary care with my makeup and adjusting my outfit, examining myself in the mirror: anything to avoid going out into the living room where he was waiting. I really didn't want him to see me like this. After all, we hadn't seen each other naked for six months, and he would see a lot more of me than I had ever shown anyone before. Again, I have to add something here. He told me to. I wouldn't have written this at all, because I have always been a little ashamed of this, but as I said, he makes me put in stuff, details I would rather leave out, in this case. But here goes. Real soon now. (If you haven't noticed, I am procrastinating again.) There's another reason I didn't want to go out there and let him see me dressed like that. It's irrational, I know, because he had seen be completely naked before, but there it is. I have unusual nipples. They have always been a source of acute embarrasment to me. They are inverted. You have no idea how long it took me to type those three words; every time I have to deal with this I look for all kinds of ways to say it without actually saying it, but in the end I just had to type it and the hell with it. They're inverted. This is silly, because I'm used to them. It's not a big deal, really. The tips of my nipples are turned inward so that all that is visible externally is the areola, with just a little horizontal slit across the middle where the nipple should be. It's not all that uncommon; I have seen girls in P.E. classes that have the same condition on one or the other of her tits. It's just that both of mine are that way. It's not like they're repulsive or anything, and they would be perfectly functional if I had children. They even look normal when erect, it's just that when they aren't, I don't have nipples, just areolas. I haven't known very many men, partly because of shyness over this problem, and all of them have been surprised, and I think slightly repelled, by my breasts. All, that is, except J. Other men have made me feel like a freak, with questions like "What's wrong with them?" One even asked me, "Is there anything else you haven't told me about?" Asshole. Assholeassholeasshole. Sorry, I don't normally use language like that, but he was an asshole. Like maybe my day job is in a sideshow, or something? A real Mr. Sensitivity, huh? Before I walked out on that evening's entertainment, I told him to be fruitful and multiply, only not in exactly those words. He was a jerk anyway. In high- school I was young and stupid enough to be impressed that he (at 20) owned (well, had a mortgage on) his own house (well, double-wide trailer). Imagine, at that age boasting he was a self-made man. He was an example of what can happen when you don't follow the directions. Sorry, I went off on a tangent. Anyway, J has never commented on my nipples except to say that I have the most beautiful breasts he has ever seen, all the more so because they are special that way. Special like the special olympics, but nevermind. Still, I was hesitant coming out into the living room, embarrased for no good reason, trying to cover myself, one hand casually fiddling with my lace collar (and incidentally covering my breasts with my arm), while the other hand was draped casually (I hoped) over my southern overexposure. The room was nearly dark, and he was sitting in an armchair in the shadows. I could tell he was fully dressed, but couldn't see his face to judge his reaction. I was feeling awfully exposed, and really needed some reassuring words right then. I didn't get any. There was a small sofa sitting under a recessed light in the ceiling. He didn't get up; he just told me to stand in front of the little sofa, under this very bright light. Like a spotlight. I couldn't see much of anything outside that little pool of light, and I felt awkward, as though my legs were different lengths. He told me to put my arms at my sides and stand up straight. Hesitantly, I did as he told me, uncovering myself. I was nearly shaking with nervousness. That afternoon I had been cruising along the Interstate, and now I was in a totally different world. "Hold your shoulders back and stop slouching," he said. I took a deep breath and tried to relax and regain some composure, some dignity. "Turn around. Bend over and lean on the seat with your elbows. Legs apart." I tried to lean on my hands. "Your elbows," he repeated. So much for dignity. My rear was up in the air for all to see. "Straighten up. Pull your waistband up so your pants are tighter in the crotch; smooth the front so I can see all of you better. Good. Now tell me how you feel right now." "Embarrased," I whispered. My voice wasn't working. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Embarrased," too loudly. I couldn't look up from the floor; I was not handling this well. It seemed a long time before he answered. "Tell me why." "Its these clothse," I answered. "I've seen you with less than that on before." "I know, but ... not like this. I mean, not having any hair ... there ..." I stammered, all the while thinking: dammit I should have more composure than this -- nurses aren't supposed to be ashamed of the human body. Nurses are supposed to be cool and professional -- in charge.... I straightened my shoulders again. "No, the hair isn't it either, but nevermind. Come over here." I walked over to him and stood by his chair. I tried to keep from slouching to show that I had kept my dignity, and I ended up feeling (and looking) like an army recruit trying to look military on her first day at boot camp. He ran his hand up the inside of my thigh. I couldn't help shivering. He slipped his hand lightly back and forth over the thin cloth that was held so tightly against my nether lips. His fingers became more insistent, and I could feel myself and the cloth of my pants becoming wet. I was still shivering with nervousness. I was, throughout the evening, acutely aware that I had no pubic hair. For some reason, whatever I was feeling, that was on my mind. I just hadn't gotten used to it, I guess. I still haven't. I felt shaky and nervous. I was I wasn't afraid, exactly, just aware of my nakedness and uncertain about what was coming next. I knew he wouldn't depart from the List, but there was an awful lot on that list, and after all, I hadn't even kissed him for six months -- had only seen him once in all that time -- and he was practically bringing me to a climax in a strange house under very weird circumstances. I think he meant it to be that way, but I was NOT comfortable. He stood and kissed me. Finally. He must have sensed that I need some reassurance. I could feel his stiffness as he pressed against me. This is what I wanted, I thought, feeling myself to be on surer ground. I ground my hips against him, suddenly getting more deeply into the whole scene. His kiss became more passionate, our tongues probing. Abruptly, holding my shoulders in his hands, he separated himself from me. Although he is slender, he is at least eight or nine inches taller than I and quite strong; I could sense a shudder of suppressed emotion despite the firmness of his grip on my upper arms. I stood there breathing unsteadily, my eyes shut. God, I was horny. He told me to go back and stand under the light. I could feel the wetness between my legs; I was sure it showed as a patch on my front. Again, I tried to cover myself with my hand. "No," he said. "Dont. You have nothing to be ashamed of with me, and you know it." He paused. "Don't you?" "Yes, I know," I whispered, looking down, determinedly ashamed. "Then why are you?" "It's the spotlight." "No, its not. Try again. I've seen you nude in full daylight before, and I've seen more of your body than I can see now, even without hair. And from closer up. Think about what's bothering you, and tell me." He waited silently while I thought; I finally came out with what it was I didn't want to tell him. "I don't just feel nude. I feel naked. I...I think it's because I haven't seen you for so long. It's a little like being in front of a stranger." He waited. And waited. "And it's because you're dressed and I'm not," I rushed ahead, "its not fair and its humiliating and I feel vulnerable and it's not like I imagined it would be." I covered myself with my hands again as if to say 'so there', but I stayed under the light, trying not to look awkward, looking out at where I thought him to be, still unable to see him. Again the silence. Finally from the darkness he said, "Good. Sit down." My ears told me he had moved from the armchair to stand by the unlit fireplace, but I still couldn't see his face. I sat, relieved. At least I could hold my legs together while sitting and hide myself a little that way. With my prim little lace collar, my legs held tightly together, and my hands folded neatly in my lap, I must have looked like a caricature of the proper victorian virgin. Except that I was blushing through transparent clothing and my nipples were erect and positively aching. Sounds like material for a romance novel, I know, but they were. "I don't want you to feel humiliated. Believe that. But your embarrasment is something else. I want that. As a kind of gift to me," he said. "Can you understand that? As a gift...?" I'm not sure how, but I seemed to sense him in the darkness, staring at me, very intent on my answer. Maybe it was something in his voice. I hadn't thought much about the fine line between embarrasment and humiliation. Somehow, though, I could understand the idea of embarrasment as a gift. Don't ask me how or why. "Allright," I said, and suddenly it really was allright. My embarrasment surfaced; I stopped trying to suppress it, and it all came out, but it was okay: I could show it. He wanted -- even valued it. I lowered my eyes to the floor, blushing furiously, making no effort to hide my discomfiture. I took my hands out of my lap and let my legs part a fraction of an inch, deliberately letting myself feel more embarrased, really acting the part -- only not acting, because I really was feeling exactly what I was acting out. Or at least acting out what I was feeling. Well, it was more honest than whatever I had been doing, anyway. "Now," he said, "what are you feeling? Do you like this?" "No. I don't," I said, truthfully, I think. I'm not sure. "Do you feel ... excited?" "Yes." I realized that that was definitely true, whether I liked it or not. "Do you want it to stop?" Another pause. "No," I said, "... no." "Remember, you're my slave. I'm going to tell you to do something now that you might find funny, but I don't want you to laugh. Take it seriously. While sitting there, I want you to do something -- anything -- that you think I will find sexy." As he said this he turned to the fireplace and lit the fire that was laid there. His back was to me. Act sexy? He made it sound so much like a homework assignment, I almost did laugh. I had no idea what to do. Pretend to be a porn star? Blow kisses? Pout and squirm seductively like they do in bad x-rated movies? I tentatively put my hands up to my breasts and rubbed my nipples lightly with my fingertips. They were already erect from the coolness of the evening and the excitement. I didn't know where to go from there, so I kept rubbing, even though the entire tips of my breasts were already very sensitive, even though my areolas were puckered up and hard, aching. I was still excited. But I didn't know what to do next. Then I had an idea. I would take off my top: do a strip tease. Yeah, that's it. My hands went to the zipper at my throat and pulled it halfway it down. "Stop." I froze. "Lean back against the arm of the sofa and close your eyes." I did. "Stroke yourself again." I did. I found it was a lot easier to follow instructions than to make it up on my own. I really wouldn't make a good stripper anyway. I don't know the moves. "Put your hand lower." What did he want me to do? My hand crept down to my waistband. "Lower." Did he want me to masturbate? I wasn't ready for that. I wouldn't. Not with him watching me. It was just too kinky. "Lower," he repeated, more insistently. I put my hand down, more to cover my nakedness than to do what I thought he wanted. I could feel the wetness from when he had carressed me, and for some reason I was acutely aware of my hand resting on my sex. But I wouldn't masturbate, I just couldn't, not in front of him. And as I sat there, neither of us saying anything, I began to think maybe he wouldn't ask me to. He had pushed me right to the edge of what I would do, and he seemed to know it. He let me just sit there, covering myself, extremely aware of how insecure and exposed I was, wishing I hadn't gone as far as I had, wishing I hadn't removed my pubic hair, feeling, not exactly frightened, but very uncertain that this was something I wanted. And just a moment before, when he kissed and caressed me, I had been brought to the edge of a climax. It was a real roller coaster ride. "I know this has been hard for you," he began, "but I have a reason. You remember the evening we made the List. We also discussed our motivations. I told you things about myself that I have never told anyone. And will never. And you told me some things too. Do you remember?" I nodded, uncertain where he was headed, but I said nothing. He flipped a wall switch and the spotlight went off. His face was lit from below by the firelight. I didn't move. My hand stayed where it was, my attention split between what he was saying and the focal point of my hand. "You said that one of the things that you sometimes wanted was to have someone else take charge. That sometimes you got tired of constantly having to deal with everything. I'm sure it was partly the daily pressure of your job that made you feel that way. You wanted sometimes to be the one that was cared for and protected; you wanted to belong to someone and to have someone that you could depend on, someone you could be sure of. And at this moment, you don't feel that way, I know. But I want you to. I want to make you mine. Completely. This is my way of doing that. I know you well enough to be sure you would be far too embarrased to let anyone else see you with no pubic hair. When you removed it for me you took a step toward becoming mine." I was concentrating on my hand. You talk too much, I thought. He went on. "That's why your embarrasment is like a special gift to me. It's something I know you wouldn't give anyone else. I don't want you to even be ABLE to give to anyone else. I want you totally for myself; I want you completely committed to me, and everything I do over the next few weeks will be to make you into that person. I want to possess you totally." Well, it was something like that. I wasn't concentrating fully, but I got the gist. He seems to adopt a formal mode of speech when he talks about the psychology of our relationship. Almost as though he had rehearsed what he said. Still, I was beginning to see. It DID give me a warm feeling to know that he wanted for me to belong to him. Belong with a capital 'B'. Like a slave. I was beginning to see there were layers beneath the surface of this 'game'-- things he had thought about more than I had. As he continued to talk, I began to understand exactly where we were going, what was happening. At least I began to relax a little and feel comfortable. Everything started to fall into place. When he said he wanted me to be his slave he didn't mean as a servant; he meant someone with unreserved and absolute commitment. I dismissed the thought that this had been in his mind from the beginning, six months ago, even before we started writing those steamy letters. As he droned on in the same vein (he does tend to over-explain things sometimes) my mind wandered off on a tangent. Ironically, what he wanted would give me a kind of power over him: it would be hard for him to find anyone else that would be willing to commit so deeply to him: the List contained some pretty personal stuff; not many women would go that far. And whatever he did to me, it was a measure of his commitment, because the List gave me license to respond in kind. However much he made me open up to him, he made himself just as vulnerable if I choose to exercise my rights. Vulnerable to me. My last coherent thought of the evening was: The List is my safety net. He would not go beyond its limits. It is also a direct and tangible gauge of our commitment to each other. I wasn't thinking with the clarity those words imply, but the ideas were there, and I gained comfort from the thought. I became abruptly aware of my hand, still resting There, where he had told me to put it, and I stopped thinking altogether. I couldn't concentrate on anything else he was saying. I could only feel the weight and warmth of my hand resting on my smooth, hairless mons, through the damp, sheer cloth. I could feel every thread of the material. I became aware of the tightness of the elastic between my buttocks, the tautness of my breasts.... The temptation was irresistable to press down slightly with my hand. My eyes drifted shut and my hips moved, seemingly on their own. Suddenly I was jerked to my feet. I found myself facing the fireplace; he was behind me holding my wrists tightly by my sides. I struggled feebly against him, to cover myself, but I couldn't move. "We could stop now if you say the word. Once again: do you want to go on?" he said. "Total commitment?" I understood what he was asking, but still I couldn't think. I didn't even understand why he was asking. It seemed so unnecessary to say anything. I know one should avoid cliches (like the plague?), but time really did seem to stand still. The fire crackled and flickered. I could feel the warmth on my front through the filmy cloth, his breath on my neck. I stared down into the fire, not moving, not breathing, suddenly at peace, serene, and, oddly, more in control of myself than he was. It's funny how such an important decision can be made with so little effort. I felt as if I had been fighting a war all my life and in the middle I simply decided to give up and wander off the battlefield. I wanted so much to give up. So, idly, almost carelessly, with a single word, I abandoned the fortress I had unknowingly defended for a lifetime. "Yes." -*- Column 1 Item 2 J told me to write this such that people will want to read it. So for dramatic effect I should have stopped at the word "Yes", but that wasn't the end of last night. Besides, I have time to tell the rest: he won't be home from work for a while, and I don't have to get ready for him yet. He took my car keys and suitcases with all my clothing when he left this morning. All I have to wear is the sheer cotton outfit (you know about that one already -- I wore it last night) and a lycra one that he also had me make while I was in Chicago. Neither one is practical or warm, or even very comfortable, and it's late February. It's warm here (compared to Chicago) but not that warm. He also left me all my shoes and boots, my fleece-lined knee-length overcoat (thank God -- I'm wearing it now, and nothing else, as I write this), toiletries, and some books I had brought. The television is near-useless: the house is so rural that cable isn't even available. I can't start my car, even if I had clothing, so I guess I will read, and write. Maybe I will do a little gardening once I get my feet on the ground. There are ten acres of partly wooded land to grow stuff on, and I've wanted to try a garden of my own ever since I moved into Chicago. My mother kept one back home in Indiana. This is quite a change for me. A few days ago I was spending my last night in the old appartment, sleeping on a mattress on the floor after the yard sale; now here I am nude in an overcoat sitting at a PC wondering when planting time for vegetables is. Life's a funny ol' thing, that way. Best not to dwell on the incongruities. I laughed about it last night, and learned my first lesson the hard way. Last night, when I agreed to try this (by this, I mean This Whole Thing, not just the writing), I felt a wierd combination of relief at having made a decision, apprehension about what would come later, sexual excitement, of course (why do I say of course?), and at the same time a kind of serenity: a sense of freedom that comes from not having to care what comes next. You wouldn't think apprehension and serenity would go together, would you? It was like I was outside myself, watching myself worry about the future and at the same time thinking: the apprehension is okay, I can "get into" the experience; it somehow doesn't bother me that I am apprehensive: I am floating above it all. Does that make sense? Reading back over it, I can see how you might think it nonsensical to achieve a completely relaxed state of nervous apprehension, but it was a very real sense of ... release, I guess. As the feeling fades, I wish I knew how to recapture it; last night I really had it going strong. Sorry about all the introspection. You probably want me to get to the "good stuff" but if I'm going to have to write this, I'm going to "do it my way." Mah own se'f. Besides, I know that if I just "tell it like it was" without any explanation, there's no way you could possibly understand why a previously conservative (in my social aters act out a scene in a play. I was totally focused on keeping control of my shivering body. It was stupid. I should have given in and told him I was too cold, but I could see that he knew. I could have asked; he was probably waiting for me to, but I wanted to prove something to him -- I don't know what, but something, and it meant standing there as long as I could. Silly. Silly and stubborn. He smiled a little; his eyes left mine and travelled slowly down my twitching body. My jaw was clenched to stop my teeth from chattering, because they would have. My hands were fists at my sides, arms and legs stiff, stomach muscles tense with effort. His eyes lingered on my hairless sex, which by now was covered in goose bumps: I'm sure I looked like a plucked chicken. His gaze travelled back up my body to my face. I was on the edge of losing control. Suddenly he stood, stepped over to me, and picked me up, cradling me in his arms. He carried me down a hall and into his bedroom. Blessed warmth! The room was such a relief! It seemed almost hot after the living room. He put me on the bed and told me to get under the covers. I got up on my knees on the bed and crouched to pull back the comforter; I was shivering so violently it took me two tries to even grasp the covers to pull them back. There was a toasty electric blanket somewhere under me. God that felt great. While I was thawing out, I looked around the room -- remember, at this point all I had seen was the living room and my bedroom, with a few glimpses of other rooms we had walked by. I could see an adjoining bathroom; the bed was in an alcove with mosquito netting hanging from an arch over the alcove. There is a sink right out in the bedroom, as though the bedroom had once been used for something else. He lit a candle and put it on a small shelf in the alcove. I could see some paintings on the wall that I didn't recognize, landscapes. I knew he hadn't had them in Chicago. We had slept on a heated waterbed in Chicago, but this was a futon. Quite a change. We'll be sleeping on grass mats next. There were speaker grilles overhead in the ceiling, but no music was coming out. There were four metal eye-rings set in the ceiling, too, over the bed. They are new additions, I think. There were crumbs of ceiling plaster on the floor. He pushed the heavy, old- fashioned oak door shut with an unnecessarily loud bang. He had my attention. I watched him from a warm, cosy nest; I was floating again, detached, but watching. He moved a chair to the foot of the bed, a heavy oak armchair; it looked like a piece of old office furniture. Then he came over and sat on the edge of the bed and stroked my forehead with his hand. "How are you? Warmed up?" I nodded. "Good." He leaned down and kissed me. His hand felt good through the covers. "I have a kind of test for you. But not if you're still cold." "I'm okay," I said, a little apprehensive. "What test?" "You have to sit in the chair. The room is warm, though. I think you'll be okay." "Okay," I said, looking at the chair. When I didn't move he slowly pulled the covers down to my waist. I sat up. The chair was facing me at the foot of the bed. It seemed ordinary enough. I really wanted to ask what he was going to do, what this test business was. He took my hand gently and stood up, waiting for me. He held my hand by my fingertips as though he were going to be gallant and kiss it, and when I got to my feet he held it as though I were Cinderella stepping down from her coach. The chair was quite ordinary, but it seemed enormous when I sat in it. My toes barely reached the floor. It occurred to me that it looked a bit like one of those old-fashioned Hollywood electric chairs -- the kind they executed James Cagney in so many times. He sat on the foot of the bed in front ether translate roughly as "Not-rocket-scientist-who-is-stupider-than-ostrich." Safe is different from helpless, though, and I was helpless. Safe and helpless. His kisses and caresses were nonsexual at first, and comforting. I was warm and toasty, and realized that nothing was required of me but that I keep my big fat mouth shut. Anyway, I couldn't do anything in this position but passively accept whatever he chose to do. I was not responsible for anything. His kisses became warmer and I became more and more detached. Let him kiss me, I thought. Let him do anything he wants. After what just happened I don't have to do anything but lie here. My lips won't respond to his. And they didn't. It was like I was there in the room watching this happen to someone else, someone numb. He got under the covers with me and his hands began to move over my body, his caresses more sexual. I realized he had undressed sometime after I was blindfolded. His hand slid down my stomach to just below my navel. And ever so lightly, lower, where my skin turns to silk. My breath caught and stomach muscles betrayed me by tightening involuntarily, as though I had been tickled. His hand slid lower still and cupped my hairless sex, stroking gently. I was determined not to respond, and again my detachment returned. He continued to stroke. My skin felt so smooth down there; I could see the point of the hairlessness, I thought for the second time. But I was determined not to respond. Not to move. I could have an orgasm and he would never know, I thought. I was becoming more and more detached; floating, almost dreaming. His caresses became more insistent; his fingers entered me. Still I didn't respond. I deliberately relaxed. This is going to be hard to explain. As he continued to stroke and kiss me, I remained detached, but my body began to move through no effort on my part. Sounds like I'm making this up, I know. It was as if I was watching from outside, still completely relaxed, and my body was acting on its own. I watched my body's hips move first, ever so slightly, pushing against his expert hand. He stroked more gently, searching and probing, finding exactly the right spot. My hips began to move rythmically. His hand left my sex and moved up to my body's breasts. A gentle stroke and my nipples came awake. I felt his lips on my nipples, sucking and nibbling gently. They were erect, hardened. He continued, becoming stronger, more insistent, until they began to ache. Suddenly his hand was at my sex again. My body gasped and arched, pulling against the chains. My knees lifted up, my legs bent as far as the chains would let them. I stopped, frozen and watched as my body's breathing become ragged. I watched him position himself over me and slowly -- very slowly -- enter me. My body was already shuddering on its own. He supported his weight with his arms so that he was almost suspended above me. My spreadeagled body was floating weightless, penetrated, and quivering with excitement. He began moving ever so slowly and gently with what felt like enormous but controlled strength -- strength held in reserve. My body was gasping and panting involuntarily, drawing in great gulps of air and making the same incoherent whining noises I had earlier when I was crying, gagged. Then my back arched off the bed, my limbs pulled all the chains suddenly taut, and my body held itself rock still, almost vibrating, not breathing. My throat made a little squeak, and he made one more powerful, expertly timed thrust, the slowest of all. I don't think I was even climaxing yet, but it was as good as any orgasm. He stroked me again, slowing the pace until it was almost imperceptibly slow. I was on the very edge. My body had to start breathing again: suddenly I started panting frantically and spasming uncontrollably against the chains. His weight descended on my body, pinning me to the bed. Spasm after spasm wracked my body, but he held me immobile. The chains tautened rythmically as I pulled at them, and my head tossed back and forth. He slipped his arms under my shoulders and held my head immobile between his two hands. His mouth came down on mine, hungry. His hips moved rhythmically now, no longer gentle. Finally the dam broke. My orgasm seemed to last forever and ever and ever and ever. -*- As I lay there exhausted, almost getting my breath back, I felt him inside me, still hard. As soon as he felt I was ready, he began again, this time for himself alone. Slowly at first, then, keeping himself on the edge, slowly, ever so slowly, with pauses to prolong his pleasure. I built to a second orgasm, and a third, while he had his way (Listen to me! I'm even sounding like a victorian midwesterner. Had his way.... Sheesh!) but he didn't notice. He used me until he was shudderingly, gaspingly, through with me. I wish I hadn't been blindfolded. I would have liked watching his face. But on the other hand, all things considered.... Well, why fix it if it works, as grandad used to say. Not in exactly this context, though. I drifted off and vaguely remember him cleaning me up, unlocking the chains, and carrying me back to my bedroom. -*- When I woke up this morning, I was in my own bed, and the leather cuffs, anklets, and collar were still on. It was just barely sunrise, and I ached deliciously almost everywhere. I went to the bathroom. I was a mess: my eyes were two big smudges where my mascara had run under the blindfold last night. After a quick pee and a wash, I dashed back to a warm bed just in time for him to come into my room with coffee and hot english muffins. He was fully dressed already, and after a quick kiss and a few instructions, he was on his way to work. The instructions were to start writing this. After a good lie in, I got up and poked around the house. His bedroom was locked, but the rest of the house was open to me. It wasn't until I noticed that my suitcases were gone (cute trick) that I realized I hadn't considered leaving him -- even during the worst part of last night. He didn't need to take my clothse to keep me here, but still, it gives me a kind of warm feeling that he did. He should know better, after last night. I'll stay. Well, that's enough for now. I have to get ready for him and I'm tired of typing anyway. Wordstar says I did 27 pages. Stream of consciousness writing and Mrs. Cooke's typing class, I guess. He'll be home in another hour, and tomorrow is Saturday. -*- Well, he seemed satisfied with what I wrote Friday. It's Sunday now; I don't have time to tell you about Friday night and Saturday now. Later, though. It looks like this is going to turn into a diary. In fact, he said he was surprised I wrote so much. Still, he had me go back and add in some stuff, like the part about my nipples. I hated that. And some other stuff, too. I had to change the names, places, etc., "to protect the innocent" (the guilty, actually) so it couldn't be traced to us. So if anyone ends up reading this, it has been edited. But not bowdlerized, so don't feel cheated. He makes me put in stuff, not take it out. I'm supposed to tell you more about myself, what I look like, why I'm doing this, what motivates me. I only have an hour, so today's entry will be short and factual. I am five feet two and one half inches, one hundred and eight pounds. So for my adult life I have had a choice between "short" and "petite"; I don't like either. Altitudinally challenged? I wear a lot of high heels. Old fashioned, I know, but I'm a midget without them. When I wear running shoes, people say "Wow, I didn't know you were so short." Wow. Thanksalot. I say. Light brown hair, longish, but to be honest the quality of my hair leaves something to be desired. It is kind of coarse and kinky with lots of little tight curls. It looks like I've had a bad permanent and need another, but I haven't and I don't. My hair will never be smooth and shiny like in the TV adds. Every time I wash it, it bushes out like an afro and gets unruly. It was down to the middle of my back in high school, but since then I have been shortening it until it is a little longer than shoulder length. It's really inconvenient to keep it pinned under a nurses hat, but J doesn't want me to cut it, and I haven't since we met. I would like to try it short, though. My complexion is clear, my eyes are blue-grey, and together I think they are my best features. My eyes are large, and I enhance them a lot with makeup. I am not beautiful, but I'm certainly not unattractive. I think somewhere between pretty and "handsome" (definitely not butch, though) might fit me. Despite my size, 'pert' has never been said of me, thank God. I'm also definitely not the cheerleader type. My friends all say I am unconventionally attractive. Back home in Indiana, I never had trouble attracting men, even men who like conventional movie star-type beauty, but then, most of the boys in my home town were such jerks I didn't bother much. And all the conventional movie star type beauties left as soon as they could. So did everyone else. So did I. Even an ostrich would have left. In my home town three bowling shirts is considered a complete wardrobe. The guys were more interested in cars and beer. It was unmanly for these types to actually talk to a woman; getting the attention of one of these specimens just wasn't worth it, believe me. Sort of like saddling a cow: it can be done, but it's a lot of work and what's the point? These bucolic wags would stand around the back of a pickup and belch witicisms like "No man should plant more garden than his woman can hoe," and then guffaw. Then some buffoon that was so dim he hadn't heard that one before would laugh and spray beer out through his nose and that would be the high point of the evening. Do I sound bitter? So through most of my high-school years I kept that wholesome "don't-touch-me-there farm girl look" and didn't wear much makeup until my last year. Then I met an older guy I thought I liked and started wearing makeup to be more "mature". That lasted two weeks until at a critical moment I discovered he had a mirror over his bed. Talk about tacky. It should have had a sign: Objects Appear Larger Than They Are. Besides, he didn't like my nipples. So when that didn't work out I decided to go to college. So I was a virgin until I was nineteen, and then again until I was twenty-two (so I'm a little slow). That was when I met J. I read a lot, exercise a lot, and keep fit, but I haven't yet achieved that lean, hard, sinewy look that many of the women at the exercise spa "up north" had. I still have smooth rounded curves, but I'm working on a "hardbody". I'll have to join a spa here. Okay, okay, my measurements are 34-23-34, and I wear a B cup. Happy now? (Thankyousomuch for reminding me, J.) My shoulders are narrow, and my upper body strength needs a lot more development. I have good legs; in heels, great, in fact. Long for my size. My hips are rather wide, but that is because my legs are set further apart than one finds in most women; actually my thighs are slim. There is just a wider space between my legs than most women have. I don't know why I have to tell you this -- I never even thought about it until J had me add the last few sentences. J says it makes me look great in jeans. I guess he's thought about it. The space between my legs, I mean. I hadn't until now. I tan easily, but don't go in for it, it's so hard on the skin; also, where I come from, a tan means you are a farm hand. I suppose some would describe me as pale. Others might describe me as very pale. But I have good skin, so I'm not pasty and pale, just pale. I try to keep my skin as perfect as possible (no junk food). It is very fine (small pores), and I am proud of my complexion. I do wear makeup, though, maybe a little more than I need to. I just like putting it on, okay? Still a little girl playing with mom's makeup, I guess. I'm nearsighted enough that I definitely need glasses when I drive, but I wear contact lenses instead most of the time. I have a pair that makes my eyes look very blue, but they looked so artificial I got another colorless pair. Too flambuoyant for a midwesterner. Someone might think I was trying to be different, God forbid. So I'm just a midwestern farmgirl -- except for the makeup. You've seen women that have absolutely perfect makeup? You know the ones: lips crisply and perfectly outlined, the corners of their mouths painted sharp, eyeliner neat with sharp corners, eyeshadow a perfect blend of shades, mascara unclumped, eyebrows neatly lined, skin smooth, uniform, and powdered. They look like they spend too much time on their faces. Well, they do: I'm one of them. On the other hand, there are a lot of women out there who could take a little more care with their appearance. J thinks I spend so much time on my makeup because I like to keep everything under perfect control. He thinks I use makeup to compensate for what I percieve to be other out-of-control imperfections. I suppose he means my hair. Or my nipples. They have been an embarrasment, but I don't tihnk they have shaped my life. Maybe he's right. I just haven't been able to convince myself that he is telling the truth when he says he actually prefers them the way they are. Hell, he says he likes me without makeup, too. He just thinks he does. Or likes to think that he he would. Men. My friends tell me I'm a typical midwesterner in my attitudes. It's true. My family never ever discussed sex. I was never told the "facts of life." In the midwest, embarassment has been promoted from an emotion to a way of life. We just don't discuss these things. Thank God for sex ed. in school. Hey -- I'm multiorgasmic. I wish that meant something important, but it really just means J is a sensitive lover. I never thought much about it before, probably because I wasn't that way with any other guys. My orgasms are almost predictable (not boring, though). With J I nearly always start with a small fluttery frissant near the beginning and then have a major one in the middle. He works to make that one enjoyable and always waits for me before he has his. About half the time I have a third one, but the second is almost always the best. Sounds predictable and boring, I know, but I know (knew) so many girls that don't have them at all, I feel lucky. Things might change now, though. We are definitely exploring new territory. I have to add something else here. I don't even believe it, but he says put it in anyway. He says I have an aloof and almost cruel looking face. Something about the shape of my nostrils, for God's sake. Cruel aloof nostrils? Come on. He says it's one of the things that attracted him to me initially. I'm neither. Really. Motivations. We've talked about this a lot. Being in charge of the nurses on an entire floor usually means I have to organize and direct the people around me. I'm really not cut out for that: it's a part of my life that's genuinely not under my control, and yet my job demands that I be able to exert control and I get caught in the middle. My personality just doesn't carry the necessary weight. I guess we all have aspects of our lives and jobs that require we be forceful. I fake it well, but still I am faking it. Maybe that's why I have this dual urge to give up and get out from under responsibility on the one hand, and to exert complete and unquestioned control on the other. Hence the two- column List(?) It seems to express the same duality. J feels the same pressures in his job, and in many ways the two columns reflect these two sides of our personalities. Here's my theory: It seems certain that the differences between male/female (dominant/passive, whatever) roles and behavioural patterns are the result of social -- maybe even biological -- evolution. If so, it follows that they are a socio/biological adaptation imposed on a pre-existing background psychology that is almost certainly more gender-intermediate than either of those two stereotypic extremes. It then follows that there is an unexpressed "more feminine" side to males and an unexpressed "more masculine" side of the female psychology. Both of these sides are perfectly "natural." Perhaps much of what is regarded as deviant sexual behaviour (that is, deviant from the acceptable stereotypic extremes of the male-female spectrum) is the unguarded expression of those natural but sexually intermediate feelings. On the other hand, I had a younger nurse working on my floor once that was 6'1" tall and would have been georgeous but she wanted to be petite. She slouched, and was shy, and managed to look unattractive just because she wasn't comfortable with herself. I would have killed to be six feet tall, so I was always trying to seem taller: I adopted good posture as a way of life and tried to project confidence rather than diffidence. Odd that our lives can be more affected by what we want to be than by what we actually are. Anyway, I'm required to be more dominant in my job than comes naturally to me. I hate that, and would often prefer to be passive and not have the responsibility. At the same time, because I am sometimes (being female and short) unable to exert a strong dominant influence, I would like for just once to control someone or something without being challenged. I want both, I guess. I've only felt that sense of control when downhill skiing. I'm a pretty good skiier, and really feel an exhilarating sense of domination over the mountain. I wonder if it could be that good to dominate a man.... Or maybe I'm just justifying my facination with the List by inventing complex pseudo-psychological excuses. Publically, I have always claimed to be repelled by such things, but privately I'm drawn to "the dark side" of my own nature. If I see erotic literature on a bookshelf, I am embarrased in case anyone I know should see me looking at it, but simultaneously I want to find out what is in it. Repelled and attracted. What a mixed up prude from Indiana. After reading this manifesto of a hyper-prude, if you could see the outfit I'm wearing right now, you'd wonder if I was the same person. But I vas only followink ordersz, mein fuhrer. I'm wearing what he told me to. Oops. J is driving up the driveway. Time to go. I'll fill you in on the weekend while he's at work tomorrow. O.K., I've admitted all. No more pop-psych. And that's it for today anyway. Fun and games time.... The List Column 1 Item 3 Well, it's Monday. I'm sitting here at the computer wearing the second outfit he had me make. Actually, I didn't make it from scratch, I modified it from a spandex exercise leotard. Black, naturally. Why is it men like black so much? It's one of those french cut "thong" designs with just the thinnest behind in the cleft between my cheeks. He had me modify it to show more of me on either side of my sex in front. I guess even then he was planning on me being hairless down there. This is going to take some getting used to, I guess. Anyway, he thing is made a little more comfortable by wearing pantyhose underneath. Of course they just HAVE to be charcoal gray sheer-to-the-waist. More instructions. It unsnaps under the crotch, too, for easy removal -- and access, too, I guess. I had to lower the scoop neckline, front and back, and enlarge the armholes so that my breasts are all-but-completely exposed. A half-inch either way and a nipple would peek out. Men really go for the obvious, don't they? I was wearing this on Friday evening when he came home from work, although without the pantyhose, because they looked funny over the leather ankle cuffs. I actually could have cut the cuffs off, since I now have the run of the house and could get at the scissors. But why bother: I don't want to escape from anything now anyway. That sounds suspiciously like the old joke about not needing to fix the roof when it's not raining. Idle thought: I think he likes my makeup the way it is despite what he says. (I described it in my first entry about a century ago.) He hasn't told me to change it, and when he kisses me hello, he is careful not to mess it up. That comes later (messing it up, I mean). By the way, he has a business trip to San Francisco scheduled for later this week. He's taking me along! He told me on Saturday when he took me shopping for some new clothse. But I haven't told you about Friday night, yet. It was a warm night, warm enough to leave the windows open, but we had the sinful luxury of a fire in the fireplace anyway. Early Spring breezes and a fireplace in February.... I could get to like the South. Just now, as I was typing, my mother called from Indiana to find out if I survived the move from Chicago. Her only exposure to the Deep South was watching the movie Deliverance, so she was worried. It felt weird sitting at the kitchen table chatting on the phone with my mother while wearing this outfit. If she could have seen me, I don't know which one of us would have been more embarassed. 'Dueling prudes' would have been the theme song if Deliverance had been made in Indiana. She wants me to get married. I guess all mothers nag about that. Mine seems to have plans about how my entire life should be, and what I should be like. She lays me out on this pattern -- like a dress pattern, but of herself -- and worries and snips and prods away at any bits don't fit the pattern. Her strategy is to wear you out. We're too embarrased to actually come right out and argue in Indiana. We shut oven doors a little more noisily than is absolutely necessary. Or I read a book and turn the pages pointedly. A New Yorker could be in the middle of a war in Indiana and not even realize it. Anyway, I was going to tell you about Friday. It wasn't nearly as traumatic as Thursday night had been. No gag, or anything like that. We made love on a big fuzzy rug in front of the fireplace. No, not a bear rug, some kind of Greek thing, made of white wool, with about an eight (yes, 8) inch pile. It's like a cloud. When it gets dirty, you just wash it in a washing machine and let it shrink. Anyway, we made love on the rug there by the fireplace. I can see it now over the top of the monitor. Remember that I had not seen him naked yet? At least not for six months. He still hasn't let me. Not that he has anything to be ashamed of: he has a teriffic body. One of the world's great asses. No, he's not hiding his body: he wants to prolong my embarrasment and discomfort at the inequality of the situation. There's nothing more unequal than being naked when your partner is fully dressed, especially the way I am naked and exposed Down There. First, from my bathroom, he had me bring the blindfold and some unscented talcum powder -- why is it that men don't like pretty smells? Then I had to strip again for him. I tried to make it more seductive this time. I'm determined to learn to do it like a pro, but privately. But I think he likes embarrasment more than a smooth act. He got both: I was doing my clumsy best to do a seductive strip. I felt like a total ass, trying to pretend I wasn't blushing furiously. It may never feel natural to be so naked when he's so dressed, but then maybe a true pro is one that knows how to keep her amateur status. When I was through, I knelt in front of him. He had me put on my own blindfold again. No hassle this time. I was a good girl. At his direction, while still kneeling and blindfolded, I began undressing him. I was getting excited. This was more like my good old soft-core fantasies. When I had him naked, I took him in my mouth, still kneeling. As deep as I could take him without gagging. That is something else I wish I could do. I think. If it's not bad for me. I bet there aren't many that can do the Linda Lovelace routine. Unfortunately I'm not one of them. Oral sex is something that I am trying to like. So I tried, and gagged a bit; he noticed and gently tangled his hand in the hair at the back of my head and pulled me away from his erection. Still holding my head back, he knelt in front of me and bent to kiss my exposed throat. I shivered as his hands traversed my flanks. If it bothers me he doesn't want me to do it. Sometimes. Gently, he laid me on my back and began to massage my body with the talcum powder. From my neck to my toes he spread and rubbed, relaxing and kneading me. I went totally limp, turning into jelly in his hands. Powdered jelly. My legs, which I had been holding together instinctively in the approved midwestern fashion, drifted apart a bit. He put the talcum powder everywhere. Over my breasts, between my legs, over my already- satiny and hairless mons. Then he rolled me over like a sack of flour and began on my back. After covering and deeply kneading my back, arms, and legs, he finished with my backside. Gently he caressed the soft powder into my rear crevice. Deeper and deeper. His fingers did everything but penetrate me there. My body was completely covered in talcum powder from the neck down. In my mind's eye I looked like a blindfolded marble statue. His hands still worked on my crevice, relaxing me, probing without penetrating. I wasn't ready for that, and I think he knew, because he didn't try to force me. At first I was nervous that he would, and contracted involuntarily at his touch, but as he continued to massage with the talcum powder, my trust grew and I relaxed completely. I deliberately concentrated on relaxing my rear opening. That's pretty daring for someone like me. I'm not even sure it's LEGAL to relax those muscles in Indiana. Still he continued to tease and stroke. Preparing me physically; I was completely ready. My buttocks rose to meet his hand, clenching to grasp and draw him in (more daring still), but he told me to relax. I tried. The anticipation and nervous excitement I felt were mixed with more than a little apprehension; I had never tried this before. It is one of those things that facinate and repell me simultaneously. But still he teased, and did not attempt to penetrate me. My heart beat faster but he kept telling me to relax. It is a funny feeling, concentrating on letting your body become mush while your heart won't stop thumping. Finally I settled down. I had no muscles whatever, just a tiny core of expectancy. I was jello. Melted passive jello. He could have done anything with me. I wanted him to. "Get up on your hands and knees," he said. I did. I was disoriented, coming back to reality blindfolded from such a physically relaxed state, but I managed to wobble to all fours, and knelt there swaying. His hands continued to work on me, both sides, under and above simultaneously. I began to moan and thrust my buttocks against his hand again, trying to grasp his fingers to signal my readyness. And I was ready. Even eager to try it. IT. That is further than I had ever dreamt I would actually go. And I wanted to go further! But it was not to be. He just wanted to show me how far I could be persuaded to go. I was dripping with anticipation. Literally and figuratively. "Straddle me," he said. He was on his back beside me. He helped me, half lifted me, onto him. I could feel his erection between my thighs. I was on all fours again, but he was guiding himself inside me. I was really ready now. I slid onto him slowly, carefully (I am small there), gradually accepting all of him inside my now-quivering body. He held me still, preventing me from rubbing against him. My vaginal and stomach muscles were twitching and contracting involuntarily, and it took several moments for me to regain control of myself. Eventually, I was able to sit there with him inside me without going completely crazy, although my breath was not at all steady. What now, I wondered. "Take this," he said, "give me a rubdown." I reached out and fumbled in front of me. My hands found the talcum powder container. What a time to pick for a rubdown. My mind was on just one thing, and it wasn't talcum powder rubdowns. I sprinkled some on his chest and began massaging it in, spreading it over his upper body and arms. As I rocked back and forth, rubbing his chest muscles, I felt a warm glow begin to spread from my center. I spread powder over myself, too, massaging my own breasts, something I wouldn't have done if I hadn't been blindfolded. However natural it might be, it seems so narcissistic -- almost masturbatory -- to stroke one's self, especially if someone else is watching. I wouldn't do it on my first night, but this time the blindfold somehow freed me from that inhibition. Since I couldn't see his reaction, I wasn't responsible for responding to him; I could do what I liked. I imagined him watching, and I was aroused by my own exhibitionism. I didn't have to guess how he felt about what I was doing: I could feel him huge inside me, and I deliberately made my little show more provocative, until I was stroking the entire front of my body, crotch to blindfold, and panting theatrically. While I was busy showing off, my first orgasm caught me by complete surprise. With a sharp intake of breath, I dropped the talcum and steadied myself with my hands on his shoulders while I convulsed on his hips; I started rocking wildly back and forth, trying to reach for another orgasm. But as great as it was, an orgasm in that position still isn't as satisfying as one with full frontal body contact. He pulled me down onto his chest and our fronts were suddenly one long satin interface. The talcum powder gave our bodies the feel of living velvet melding together, each sliding luxuriously against the other. I felt so silky and smooth! All over. It was like the satin-smooth, sensitive surface of my hairless sex extended over the entire surface of my body, enveloping him. Us. I enclosed and enfolded his body in mine and we came -- slowly -- to the first simultaneous orgasm that we had ever had. This is not something I can write about. I have deleted several inadequate attempts, and have decided that an orgasm is hard enough to describe. Simultaneous is perfection, and I am not a writer capable of perfection. Still, you may applaud at this point if you wish. -*- The List Column 1 Item 4 The next day, Saturday, we went shopping at the Mall. Sounds mundane, right? Well... Around ten in the morning, he took off my collar and wrist and ankle straps, and told me to put on my makeup and the same white high-heeled sandals I had worn the first night -- nothing else. I did as he asked, not knowing what was coming. Then he held my fleece-lined coat out for me. I slipped into it. Standing behind me with his arms around me, he hugged the fleece lining against my bare skin and said over my shoulder, "Time to go shopping." "Like this!?" I said, hoping he was kidding. He wasn't. Jeezus, I think. He's taking me out in public like this! It wasn't cold, but I didn't know if I could handle it. It sounded tittilating and exciting on paper, on the List, but now... "Don't button the coat," he said. We walked side by side to the car, my coat flapping, exposing my extreme nakedness. I looked down at my body. It was too much. I balked at the car; I knew that if I got in, I wouldn't be able to stop this. I just stood there undecided, looking at him as though he would tell me what to do to solve this problem. "Are you refusing to go?" he asked. "We agreed to no public humiliation," I said, "it's not fair to keep my coat open." "If you do as I say there will be no public humiliation," he said, emphasizing the word 'public.' "You have to trust me. Are you trying to bargain with me?" he said with that same look that he had just before he put the gag in my mouth last Thursday. "No," I said hurriedly. "It's just that I...I..." I got into the car, hoping it wasn't too late to avoid whatever he had in mind. I could see it was something. It wasn't worth breaking the bargain over, though. I got in. You have to trust. He told me to pull my coat up around my hips so my bare skin was on the cold seat. I did, and tried to pull the coat around me as best I could to keep the rest of me warm. We really drove to a shopping mall, and he got out of the car, came around and opened my door and told me to get out. I did, holding my coat closed. Then he told me I could button it, thank God. I looked around the immense parking lot -- only a sea of cars, no people in sight -- and said, "I can't believe I'm really doing this." Then we really did it. We went into the mall. I felt all eyes were upon me, that everyone knew. He put my arm through his and led me into a dress shop. We wandered around looking at dresses (he looked, I pretended to look while I worried about people unmasking me -- as though, even if someone did somehow know, they would whip off my coat and have me arrested). A a shop assistant came up and asked me if she could help. Somehow I was expecting him to answer for me, but he didn't. He just looked at something on one of the racks. I stammered "Just looking, thanks," and as she walked away I realized with an idiotic thrill that she didn't suspect anything. Of course she didn't. Idiot. J had found a dress in my size. It was a long-sleeved mohair-like knit turtleneck in white, not really a mini, but well above the knee. He knew my size. He handed it to me and told me to try it on. The assistant came up to us again and showed me to a changing room. "Can I take your coat for you?" Oh God. "No, thankyou," I said, praying. Fervently. "Let me know if I can help you." ThankyouGodOThankyou.... I swear, if she had asked me why I wanted to keep my coat, I would have said 'Oh, for sentimental reasons.' I couldn't think of any other reason. Total blank. Idiot. In the changing room I slipped the coat off, the dress on, smoothed it down and looked at myself in the mirror. It was obvious to me that I wasn't wearing anything underneath it, but I didn't know if it would be to anyone else. The dress was (is) very form-fitting. At least I couldn't see through it. Or at least I thought I couldn't. My nipples aren't dark enough to show through, and, of course, no dark pubic hair. If my nipples didn't become erect -- which of course they did immediately -- no-one would notice a thing. I look okay without a bra. I mean I don't sag much. J says I sag just exactly the right amount, whatever that means; I always thought ANY sag was too much, but he insists that's not true. Something about the way they slope, or something, he says. Men. I waited and tried to concentrate on other things until my nipples stopped performing. I came out and modeled the dress for J, expecting the shop assistant to show up any moment with a security guard: "That's the one, Officer." When she did show up, I was afraid to even look at her in case my guilty expression gave me away. I really don't think she could tell, though. At least she kept a straight face while she told me how nice it looked, trying to make a sale. Of course, my nipples betrayed me immediately, erect and screaming, "Here we are! Look! Over here! No underwear at all! Call the police!" She probably would have had me arrested if she hadn't been on commission. She rang it up and took J's credit card. "Would you like me to box it for you?" "Um," I said wittily. We Hoosiers are known for our wit. "Why don't you wear it," said J. Then to the shop assistant, "Would you get the lady's coat, please?" My eyes bugged out, and when she had gone I whispered fiercely, "She'll see I wasn't wearing anything!" He smiled benignly. "There's no other dress in the changing room!" I explained, thinking he didn't understand and that he was the stupidest person on the planet. He just smiled. I wanted to hide. I hit him. He smiled some more. Somehow, without resorting to any logical thought process, my mind had concluded that this must be a crime like shoplifting, except that instead of leaving with three dresses on under your coat .... Well, there has to be some rule about leaving with the right number, right? Anyway, I was about to be apprehended. "I'm sorry, madam but you must leave the store with a minimum of TWO dresses. It's the law. You should know that, you're from Indiana." As she came back out with the coat and a worried look, he took it smoothly and thanked her, took my arm, and strolled out the door. She was about to say something, but instead she looked back at the changing rooms with a puzzled expression. I don't think she figured it out. As they say about the South, "It ain't the heat, it's the stupidity." I think this one actually WAS stupid. Maybe she was from Indiana. Also-not-rocket-scientist. We'd done it! My nipples sprang up again. I asked for my coat. "Are you sure you want it," he says. Sure? Of course I was sure. I whispered, "I'm still naked under here, remember?" Talk about stupid. He looked at me without saying anything. I thought over what I had just said, and realized it sounded ridiculous. Everyone is naked under their clothing. For some reason that sign you see on restaraunt doors comes to mind: "No Bare Feet." I have an okay body, and I have gone without a bra before. Wot the hell, why not? I took his arm, leaned against him, and we strolled slowly out of the mall. And I mean strolled. I could feel the soft fabric shifting against my skin, and the thrill of what I had just done made me feel on top of the world. Floating. A man walking with his wife watched me go by, and I knew he was admiring my body, not gaping at a naked person under a dress. Well, maybe he was at that. His wife watched me too. When we had started out for the mall, I couldn't believe he was really doing this. Then we really did it. Then I couldn't believe we had really done it. I still can't. But we really really did it. At the car J said, "Do you want to have lunch somewhere?" I looked him straight in the eye and said, "If you like, but what I really want is to go home and change into my everyday clothes." He smiled, knowing what I had to wear at home, and unlocked the door. He opened it for me, and I got in, this time pulling my dress up around my waist without being told. The last half of the drive home is on a two lane rural road. When we were out of the city traffic, I pulled the dress off over my head and said "I don't want to get my only dress wrinkled, do I?" I rode the rest of the way nude in the car beside him. Pure devilment. And when we got out of the car at the house (which is safely isolated in the middle of the ten wooded acres) I left him at the car and strode ahead to the house in nothing but my shoes. I waited by the door for him to open it. I was so full of myself. Idiot. I'm thinking of changing my name to Definitely-not- rocket-scientist. -*- The List Column 1 Item 5 I don't know what had come over me. I had suddenly become daring, deliberately doing outrageous things on my own, without being made to. It felt great. Dangerous, but safe at the same time. I felt I could handle anything on the List and maybe even a few things that weren't on it. When we were back in the house, he mentioned that he, too, had noticed a change in me. I just smiled and went to get my collar and cuffs. I call them cuffs, but they aren't handcuffs, just brown, polished cowhide with little holes to lock on the buckles. He has done some leatherwork as a hobby. In fact, he's quite a handyman: he can do electronics, cabinetwork, carpentry, plumbing, bodywork (on cars, on cars) and stuff like that. The garage is a regular workshop, full of tools. He says he's been waiting years to have a workshop. It must be nice to have a real salary after so many years of school. Nurses don't get real salaries. It only sounds real to high-schoolers. I digress. After I had gotten the cuffs he told me he had something special in mind for after lunch. We ate, I naked, he fully clothed, then left the dishes on the breakfast nook table. "Do you think that by 'strutting your stuff' you have somehow made up for questioning me and hesitating at the car door this morning?" he said. "Now put on your cuffs," he said, striding toward the living room. He seems to enter this artificial 'master mode' when he's about to do something to me. Like he's reading from a script or something. I ran along side him, fumbling with the cuffs, playing along. "I thought you would be pleased," I said, "I did it for you." "And I sensed a little more than the desire to please in your actions. There was pride and a touch of rebelliousness. You were playing today's game to win." He really talks that way when we're ... well ... doing this kind of stuff. "No, really!" I protested, unconvincingly. He took my head between his hands and held my face so I had to look him in the eyes. He said nothing, just looked skeptical. Okay, so taking off my dress unasked and then leaving him standing by the car was, maybe, more than was strictly required of me. "Well ... maybe ..." I hedged, not really admitting it, my eyes sliding away from his. "Besides," he said, releasing me, "you were fully dressed the whole time, and nudity in a car with tinted windows on a country road or in an isolated woods isn't really all that daring. You know what they say about a tree falling in the woods when there is no-one there to hear it..." He was right. I was only brave when I was safe. But still, it felt ... exciting. I was hopping on one foot try