J told me to write this so that people will want to read it. 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. There is only one PC and he has shut down the internet connection and will only turn it on occasionally, so I can use the computer only to write my account. 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 apartment, sleeping on a mattress on the floor after the yard sale; now here I am nude in an overcoat sitting at a computer 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 weird 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." Ma 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 attitudes, not my politics) midwesterner would agree to do these sorts of things.
My growing attitude of 'what the hell, why not' got me into all this that night when he visited me in Chicago and I agreed to leave and to go with the List. It led me to take the next steps last night, when I said to myself 'what the hell, what will it hurt to give him what he wants and remove my pubic hair,' and later, 'what the hell, I'll follow through with the whole bargain and live the part, what difference will a month make?' Besides, I really wanted so much to belong to him, and for him to want me to belong to him. So anyway, I said 'Yes.' Okay?
At that word, I felt him relax behind me, and I knew he had been relieved to hear the answer. I relaxed too, not because I was relieved, but because I liked leaning back into him, letting him enclose me in his arms.
Still standing behind me, he ran his hands over my body, up over my breasts, lightly caressing my nipples through the filmy cotton, down my front and between my legs. I moaned and pushed against his hand, trying to send him the message: I am ready. He caressed more firmly: I was getting wet again. He put one hand on my front between my legs and one behind, exploring both halves of me through the flimsy cloth. Again my breath was becoming ragged. I turned in his arms and asked, "Now can we...?" I had been in various states of arousal all through the evening. So had he, but he was in control and he wasn't going to let it end yet.
"Not yet," he whispered, and that was okay, too. I was still floating, you see. I just went with the flow. But I remember feeling a secret glow of anticipation when I realized that at least he had used the word 'yet.' He caressed me again, this time slipping his hands inside the waistband of my pants, over the satin smooth heavily- conditioned skin, down to explore and excite me more.
When I was once again on the razor's edge, he pulled away and said, "Strip." He sat down in the armchair again and just watched me. I stayed by the fire where it was warm; when I had collected myself, I unzipped my top. It's hard to take off without tearing because it's so tight and at the same time so delicate. I had to wiggle and shake to get it off my arms behind me without ripping it. That made my breasts bounce, and I felt embarrassment returning. I checked to see if he was watching, but he was looking into my eyes rather than at my body. He kept his eyes on mine as I kicked off my shoes and slid my pants down over my hips. They are so tight around the thighs that they don't just fall down by themselves, I have to pull them down, so I had to bend over (I don't believe I'm writing this!).
I tilted my head up, all the while looking directly at his face. My eyes never left his. I could feel my breasts hanging down between my arms as I pulled the pants down to my ankles and then off. Funny the everyday things you can suddenly become acutely aware of. The tile floor was freezing on my bare feet. When I stood upright I was chilled despite the fire. I began shivering; I think it was mostly (but not totally) the cold. I held the clothes to the front of my lower body with one hand, trying to cover and warm myself. I hugged my breasts with my other arm. My nipples were erect again, and I was shivering with cold and, once again, embarrassment. He was still fully dressed, remember.
"Drop the clothes," he said. This time, voluntarily, I put my arms at my sides, leaving myself uncovered. Suddenly the cold was real. I was shivering violently, but forced myself to stand erect and face him squarely, keeping my eyes on his. I had lost the sense of benign detachment. There is nothing like physical discomfort to do that for you. I was no longer a third party in the room, floating and watching two strangers 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 grasp the covers and 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 in the ceiling, but no music was coming out.
There were four metal eye-rings set in the ceiling, too, over the bed. New additions, I thought. 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, cozy 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?"
"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 ordinary, but 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 of me and showed me a roll of black tape. The kind electricians use. He peeled off about a foot and held it across my wrist.
I could see he was going to tape my wrists to the arms of the chair. He didn't wrap it around, though, he just held it there and looked at me for a reaction. I was scared. I couldn't help it. Even though I trust him completely, we had never done anything like this before. I guess I was seeing a side of him that was completely new, and I immediately thought of hidden psychoses and serial killers and ritual murders with candles and Charles Manson and I was a million miles from home and nobody knew where I was and I was so far out in the country nobody would even hear me scream, and they would probably never even find the body parts.
I didn't say anything, but I must have looked as scared as I was, because he stopped and asked me if I was still okay. I nodded, looking into his eyes for some sign of what he was really thinking. Up to this point he had been unreadable, but something in my expression must have touched him because he kind of melted.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
Something about his expression brought me back to reality. Concern for my feelings was clearly uppermost in his mind.
"Yeah. Really," I nodded, still looking at him like a trapped rabbit. My heart was pounding. I had a lot of confidence in his character, but the consequences of misjudgment were unthinkably horrible. The very worst thing that can happen is when someone you love turns out to be a different person. That's what makes Invasion of the Body Snatchers and The Exorcist the two most horrifying movies ever made.
I was scared, I admit it.
He wrapped the tape around my wrist and the arm of the chair three times and cut it with his Swiss army knife. Both wrists. He walked around in back of me and bent over my shoulder to kiss me behind the ear. He taped my elbow to the back of the chair arm, and my upper arm near the shoulder to the vertical part of the back.
He knelt at my feet and gently separated my legs. He paused again.
He taped my ankles and knees to the legs and corners of the chair, opening and exposing me. Then he ran a band of tape across my breasts and around the back of the chair. It went right across my nipples and squeezed my breasts flat.
Standing beside me, he bent to kiss me and put his hand between my legs. He didn't try to stimulate me, just rested his hand there. My nipples had been erect since I sat down. They were trying to be erect under the tape. He slid his hand up to my breast. I pulled with my wrists against the tape.
He stopped and turned the chair to face the full length mirror. I could see myself, legs apart, exposed. I was grateful that the candle light was dim. He stood behind me and leaned over my shoulder. One hand went back to my sex, and he began gently to stroke and probe while kissing the side of my neck and nibbling on my ears. That really gets me going, the ears. It always does. I was still nervous, watching him, but I also responded to his hands and became wet.
He continued, and I realized that this was his idea of torture. In retrospect I know it's illogical, but somehow my mind concluded that this meant he wasn't Charles Manson. I got more and more turned on, and finally I was fighting the tape out of horny frustration rather than fear. He kept me going, teasing me, until I was right on the edge again and stopped. I just couldn't seem to come, but I was extremely turned on.
He cut the tape behind my back and released my breasts. He began peeling it off slowly from both sides while standing in front of me; he was watching my face closely, and as he pulled he made the two tugging, almost-painful points of detachment move symmetrically toward my nipples. My breath quickened as they zeroed in. I moaned and closed my eyes so that I wouldn't be embarrassed by him watching me. Funny how the mind works sometimes.
He kissed me again. He's a great kisser. The average guy seems to have a theory that putting his tongue down your throat proves he's a passionate lover. Not that I have anything against tongues, it's just that they don't automatically impress me. J does, though. Impress me, I mean.
"I guess you passed the test," he said. I don't know what test, but I suspect he wanted to know if I trusted him, and he wanted me to know I could trust him. At least I haven't been afraid since; if he were going to do something perverted to me he would have done it then, I figured.
Anyway, he cut me free of the chair. I was still pretty hot. Relieved and aroused. Excitement, apprehension and foreplay are a deadly combination. I will admit I was afraid, even though I trust him more than anyone else--afraid to be taped to the chair that way. He could have done anything to me. I would like to be able to say that my trust was stronger than my fear, but I don't know. My panic was held in check partly by my reluctance to offend him with mistrust. A midwesterner is the only animal that will allow a sense of etiquette to overcome the instinct for self preservation.
He told me to get into bed. I did, still turned extremely on.
He released the mosquito netting over the bed-alcove; I thought idly: no mosquitos in February. The netting formed a curtain so that the alcove became a warm, candle-lit, intimate, private and secure little world. But those eye-rings. I noticed four more on the corners of the bed, but it just didn't matter. Floating again. He took something from the bedside table, tossed it to me, and told me to put it on. I examined it. A blindfold.
Suddenly visions of a man wearing a Nazi SS uniform hat, with a leather jockstrap and black socks held up by garters flashed through my mind, and I laughed. Snorted, actually. J looked at me impassively, pausing with his shirt half unbuttoned. His mouth smiled a very small smile. His eyes didn't join in the fun.
I hadn't thought about it at the time we made up the List, but I was going to be one of Those People. It was just too, too ridiculous. True, as I had told J, I fantasize about being tied down and forced to have fantastic orgasms until I was too exhausted to cry for mercy, but somehow I didn't connect my fantasies with that ludicrous leather-scene reality.
He asked me what was going on in my head, and I explained, still suppressing giggles and snorts. He nodded thoughtfully, paused, and flipped the comforter off my nakedness. Instinctively, my hands flashed to cover myself again, but I couldn't stop laughing.
He took something out of the bedside table. Suddenly he rolled me over on my stomach and straddled my back. One at a time he pulled my arms to my sides and pinned them there with his legs. Still laughing, I twisted left and right to try and see what he was doing. I couldn't. Gently, he twined my hair in his hand and pulled my head back. He didn't try to hurt me, but I had to arch my neck back and lift my upper torso off the bed to relieve the pulling on my hair.
"Hey, come on..." I tried to say. Something was forced against my half-open mouth. He held it with one hand and pulled gently but insistently on my hair with the other.
"Open your mouth," he said, "all the way."
I tried to say `It is open,' but it just came out a garbled burble and the thing slipped in a little more. I couldn't shake him loose or force it out with my tongue, and he couldn't get it in any further unless I opened my mouth more. We remained at this impasse for a moment more, until I foolishly tried to say something else around the object and he forced it in a little more. Finally, still smiling to myself, I capitulated and relaxed my jaw as much as I could. I decided to go along with it and make the effort not to laugh. He compressed the object with his fingers and pushed--gently, but enough. It went in. It felt huge. Suddenly it wasn't such an effort to stop laughing. I couldn't even smile. Or even move my lips enough to make it look like I would have smiled if I could have. I had never seen--or even heard of--a ball-gag.
He took his hand away and it stayed in my mouth. I couldn't open my mouth wide enough to push it out with my tongue, and my hands were still held at my sides. It tasted slightly of rubber. Hey, I thought, beginning to wake up to what was going on. I felt him pull a strap behind my head; he buckled it in place. A click, and he got off me.
The moment my hands were free, I reached up to pull the thing out of my mouth, but the strap held it securely. Beginning to panic, I reached around in back of my head to undo the buckle and my scrabbling fingers found a miniature padlock. The strap wouldn't slide off over my head. Again my hands went to the thing in my mouth. It wouldn't budge. It felt like a rubber ball about the size of a racquet ball. The strap went through the middle of it. It didn't matter that my hands were free, I couldn't budge it. Pointlessly, I tried to say something, I don't remember what. He turned his back on me, threw the mosquito curtain aside, and walked out into the bedroom. I got up and ran after him and grabbed him by the arm. I ran around in front of him so I could make eye contact, and tried to say "I won't laugh," but I just made a muffled "Ah, Ah, Ah." Looking up at him, I tried to make my eyes talk since my mouth couldn't. Hey, come on, I was thinking. You didn't really mean to do this to me, did you? This is a mistake, right? Right?
"The answer is `no,'" he said. "This is lesson time." He walked out of the room, leaving the door open. I stood there bewildered for a moment, not knowing what to do next. Then I ran into the bathroom to look for scissors or a razor to cut the strap. When I turned the light on I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My face was grotesque. My mouth was held open--wide open--lips stretched around this thing and lipstick smeared. My eyes were round and frantic above it. My hair was wild, tangled around the strap. My shaking hands fluttered uselessly around the gag, feeling at the corners of my poor mouth and around the back of the strap. I banged medicine cabinet doors open and rummaged through the dressing table drawers, but there was nothing I could use to cut it. He knew there was nothing. That's why he'd left me alone.
I ran back out through the bedroom to the living room. He was sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, looking into the fire. He even didn't look up. I ran toward my bedroom where my toiletries were--I knew there were scissors there. The hall door was locked. So was the kitchen door. I just stood there not knowing what to do next. I walked back to the living room and stood in the doorway. Obviously, I wasn't going to get around this without his help. I needed to get control of myself. I went to the desk and scribbled on an envelope: 'PLEASE TAKE IT OUT!' and handed it to him. Without looking at it he said, "Sit down." I sat.
"Are you in serious pain?"
I thought a moment, took a long shaky breath (in through my nose: I could only exhale, mumble, and drool around that thing in my mouth). "Ah," I said, shaking my head 'no'.
"Is it on the List?"
"Ah," I nodded, wiping saliva from the side of my mouth with my hand and wiping it on my naked hip. Bound and gagged, it was there on the List.
"Then think about it until you know what to do," he said. "You don't have to be a rocket scientist." I sat on the sofa, knees together, hands folded in my lap, again the prim victorian except for… well, just about everything.
I was helpless. He already had complete control, so he couldn't want that. I knew it all started because of my laughing over the blindfold. Really, it was as much nervous laughter as humorous. I often react to unfamiliar situations with a nervous laugh. I have embarrassed myself several times by laughing at absolutely the exact wrong moment, like when someone said his dog was dead and I thought for some reason that he was kidding, and he really liked the dog. I could have died. I've never gotten over having said that. Sometimes I twitch with the sudden embarrassment when I remember it.
But it's not fair to punish someone for a nervous laugh. That's like punishing someone for a hiccough. Of course, I couldn't explain that to J. I couldn't explain anything.
I looked at him again. He was still looking at the fire. He wanted me to do something, not say something. That was obvious, even to a non-rocket scientist. I wiped more saliva from the side of my mouth. I was getting cold again, so I got up to go into the bedroom for the comforter. I looked at him to see if he objected. He didn't even look up. I was at liberty to do anything I wanted. Sort of.
While I was getting the comforter, I noticed the bedside table was open; it was where he had gotten the blindfold. The drawer had a heap of chains and leather and padlocks in it. I wrapped the comforter around myself and after another mournful glance in the mirror, went back out. God, I looked awful. He glanced up, but said nothing.
I sat down again. My jaw was starting to ache a little, and I needed to wipe my face. He wasn't going to let me back out of this gracefully. I had to apologize? Anything to get it off. I picked up the envelope from the floor where he dropped it and wrote: I'M SORRY. He didn't even look at it. I moaned in frustration. Obviously action was what he wanted. I had agreed to be his slave, so I had better start acting like one. So I got down on my knees by his chair and waited. He looked at me.
"Ah?" He had to know it was "Please?" He reached out and stroked my hair. He was remarkably tender for someone who had just done this to me. The bastard. For a moment I thought he was going to take it off, but he just stroked my hair again, and then stopped. I waited. That wasn't it, but I was getting warm.
Then I had a bright idea: the blindfold. Duh. I wish I could tell you my real name. It's derived from an old Sioux Indian word meaning "not-rocket-scientist."
I got up and went into the bedroom. The blindfold was on the pillow. I looked at the open drawer again, and lifted out some of the stuff in there. A jumble of light-weight chains and four short leather straps with buckles and rings. They looked like extra-small dog collars with those buckle tongues that have a hole for a dog tag. Or a lock. There were lots of little tiny padlocks, just like the one that I was sure was on the back of my neck. They were all open, but no keys were in the drawer. The chains didn't look particularly heavy duty, but I knew they would be stronger than most people. Stronger than me. There was one large strap like the others. A collar. Well, I was supposed to be a slave. It seemed like a good time to start acting like one.
I took the whole drawer out of the table and carried it into the living room. I got down on my knees again and laid the drawer on the floor in front of him. At least he was looking at me instead of the fire. One by one I took things out of the drawer and put them on the floor between us. He rewarded me with a faint smile, but didn't move.
I picked up the small straps, and put one on each wrist. Then one on each ankle, hurrying against the growing discomfort of the gag. I kept looking up at him and fumbling with the straps, looking to see if I was doing the right thing. I had to wipe my mouth again. Then I put on the collar and buckled it. My jaw was really beginning to ache. I looked up at him again. At that stage I would have begged sincerely if I could have spoken. He glanced down at the drawer. The locks. I snapped them through the tongues of the strap buckles. I had trouble with the collar. I couldn't see it and my hands were trembling. He helped me.
I sat back on my heels and waited. He motioned me to come closer. I moved over next to him, still kneeling on the comforter. He reached down again and stroked my hair, but didn't do anything about the gag. I was getting desperate. The ache had turned to real pain. I was starting to cry, which just made my jaw hurt more. I put my arms around his legs and through my tears tried once more to say "Please?" but I was crying and shaking from the cold and my nose was running, and my begging just came out as a kind of high-pitched whine. He reached down, picked up the blindfold, and handed it to me. With shaking hands, I put it on, at my absolute limit.
"Pick up the chains," he said. Kneeling there, I felt blindly for the drawer and gathered the chains into my hands, still squeaking, whining, and sniffing. It really hurt. I was feeling what cynical doctors call 'minor discomfort.' He picked me up and carried me into the bedroom and put me on the bed. The chains rattled and I felt him pull my legs apart and lock my ankle straps to the chains. I could think of nothing but my poor mouth. Then he chained my right wrist.
At last I felt him working the lock at the back of my neck. Then the buckle. The strap was loose. I reached to remove the gag, but he held my left wrist and forced it back, and locked it to the last chain. I still couldn't push the gag out of my mouth. I moaned, and remember thinking I probably sound--and look--just like those leather and bondage people. But I didn't feel like laughing this time. I was completely beaten. I would have given anything just to get that thing out of my mouth.
"I'm going to take it out now. Don't say anything for the rest of the night."
Gently, he took it out and let my mouth close. It hurt to close it after having it held open so far for so long. I had probably had that thing in my mouth for only ten or fifteen minutes, as I think back on it now, but it had seemed an eternity. The ache starts in your jaw and spreads to pain in your ears and throat. It hurts to swallow, like I were spraining something. My ears were ringing when he finally took it out.
I heard water running in the bathroom, then felt him wipe my nose and face with a warm, damp washcloth; he spread the comforter over me, and pulled it up to just below my breasts. Then he kissed me gently, taking care with my mouth, which despite the extremity of earlier pain, had almost stopped hurting. Certainly kissing didn't hurt. He kissed me again, through the blindfold, near the corners of my eyes. He can be so tender. When he wants to be.
I felt him sit on the bed beside me. He stroked my face gently with the backs of his knuckles. Chained the way I was, I should have felt exposed, helpless, and naked, especially with the blindfold and not being able to see what he was going to do next, but somehow I didn't feel the nakedness as acutely; oddly, that was because I was blindfolded. I wonder if ostriches really hide their heads in the sand to feel safe. Of course not. Silly. My first and middle names together 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. He had undressed sometime after I was blindfolded. His hand slid down my stomach to just below my navel. And ever so lightly, lower still, to where my skin becomes silk. My breath caught and the 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 hard to explain. As he continued to stroke and kiss me, I remained detached, but my body began to move without effort on my part. Sounds like I'm making this up, I know. It was as though I were 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 rhythmically. His hand left my sex and moved up to my body's breasts. A gentle stroke and their nipples wakened. They were erect, hardened. I felt his lips on my nipples, sucking and nibbling gently. 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 allowed.
I stopped, frozen and heard my body's breathing grow 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 floated 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 imperceptible. 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 tightened rhythmically 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!) with me, but he didn't notice. He used me until he was shudderingly, gaspingly, done 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 granddad 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 clothes 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. He'll be home in another hour, and tomorrow is Saturday.
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.
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 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 witticisms like "No man should plant more garden than his woman can hoe," and then guffaw. Then some buffoon so dim he hadn't heard that one before would laugh and spray beer out through his nose. That would be the evening's high point. 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? (Thank- you-so-much 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 flamboyant for a midwesterner. Someone might think I was trying to be different, God forbid.
So I'm just a midwestern farm girl--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 perceive to be other out-of-control imperfections. I suppose he means my hair. Or my nipples. They have been an embarrassment, but I don't think 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 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, embarrassment 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 behavioral 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 behavior (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 gorgeous 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 skier, 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 fascination with the List by inventing complex pseudo-psychological excuses. Publicly, 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 embarrassed 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....