The List - Part 3

It's Monday. I'm sitting 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, the 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 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 clothes.

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 embarrassed. '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 embarrassed 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. 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 terrific body. One of the world's great asses. No, he's not hiding his body: he wants to prolong my embarrassment 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 embarrassment 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 who can. 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 fascinate and repel 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 readiness. 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 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 titillating 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 every- one 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 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.

"May I take your coat?"

Oh God. "No, thank you," I said, praying. Fervently.

"Well, just 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?"

"Uh," 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, 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 restaurant doors comes to mind: "No Bare Feet."

I have an okay body, and I have gone without a bra before. What 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 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.

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 leather work as a hobby. In fact, he's quite a handyman: he can do electronics, cabinetwork, carpentry, plumbing, body work (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 trying to buckle a cuff around my ankle and convince him at the same time. It didn't work; he ignored me.

He told me to take out my contact lenses and lie down on the dining room table and wait for him. The table is a heavy oak refectory table. The top is three inches thick and made from a single piece of wood from the trunk of a large tree. Long and narrow, it weighs a ton, and is a beautiful antique. It was also cold on my back. I laid myself out on it, legs together, fingers intertwined on my stomach, and waited, like in a doctor's office, staring at the ceiling. He came back with a tool box from the garage, and a soft nylon rope. He tied my wrist cuffs together under the table with my elbows hooked over the edge. My legs hung over either side of the table and were similarly tied, my feet pulled nearly together under the table by a rope tied to each ankle.

It was a very awkward and ungraceful position to be in. Despite my newfound inner 'coolness' (read cockiness), I was becoming very embarrassed again. By lifting my head and looking down the length of my body, I could see my badly out-of-focus reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. The table was wide enough to hold my legs well apart, and with my knees hooked over the edges of the table, I really couldn't get into a position to pull them together--which I really wanted to do: even though I am nearly legally blind without glasses, I knew the view was grossly, GROSSLY embarrassing, and I was grossly embarrassed. I have felt far less exposed and vulnerable in front of my gynecologist.

He was standing behind my head, so I had to watch him in the mirror or try to lift my shoulders and twist to the side to see what he was doing. Rattling noises. Metallic scraping and a hissing noise. In the mirror, I could see well enough to tell he was lighting a blowtorch!! [After he read this, he told me to correct it to propane torch, as if such details would have made any difference to the way I felt.]

"What are you going to do to me!?" I cried, my voice cracking, suddenly on the edge of hysteria. I wasn't absolutely sure if I should actually BE hysterical or not, but I was not going to pretend to be cooler than I felt.

He looked at me impassively, a look I had seen before. "You haven't learned yet, have you? You're going to have to learn to trust me," he said, and left the room.

I DO trust him, but Jesus, a BLOWTORCH! That's REAL scary stuff. I was entitled to some kind of reassurance, wasn't I? Some explanation? Well, I had already had all the explanation I was going to get: "You have to trust me." I clung to the fact that he seemed to care whether I trusted him, since in my position he could have done whatever he wanted regardless.

He came back with the gag and stood beside me at the head of the table. He put his hand on my chin, holding my lower jaw.

"Open up," as though he were about to give me a tablespoon of castor oil.

"Please don't. I won't talk." I was scared.

"Open up."

"But I-"

Gently, he put the gag against my lips and waited, patient but implacable. What did it matter? No one could hear me anyway. I couldn't get loose, so I could either go along with this gagged, or could just go along. I looked into his eyes for a long moment, trying to find reassurance, feeling a little scared again. Imagine Bambi caught in your headlights: that's how I felt. I stretched my mouth open, keeping my eyes on his. My lips would have quivered if the gag hadn't been pressing against them. In it went. He didn't even bother with the strap this time. I couldn't get it out without a free hand.

A small, heavy bag plopped onto the table next to my head. I twisted and rolled my eyes to get a look at it, loose ends of the gag strap flopping. He folded a wet towel and laid it on my abdomen (Josef Mengele/operations/scalpels/Charles Manson/body-parts-found-in-the- woods-by-hysterical-campers flashed through my head. I have an unfortunate imagination.), and out of the bag poured a small heap of gold-colored chain. (I asked later: It is only gold-plated steel; otherwise I would be worth a small fortune right now.) The chain was "Y" shaped, the three pieces joined in the middle to a ring about an inch in diameter. He lifted my lower back up and passed the chain under me, adjusting the ring under the center of my back.

I wasn't thinking very clearly or I would have been relieved at the sight of chains. It could have been plastic garbage bags and a meat cleaver. Well, knowing J it couldn't have been, but my imagination was in overdrive.

He pulled the ends of the chain together. They overlapped and he adjusted them until there was no slack at all, fastening them with an open link of the same chain. With some large pliers, he bent the open link back into shape, and went back to lighting the torch. I twisted my head this way and that, watching everything, bug-eyed.

The noise was what startled me. I had never been that close to a blowtorch before, and loud noises scare me. It popped and made a kind of hissing roar. Actually, it wasn't that loud, but the fact that the roar was made by a very hot flame was not a reassuring thought, believe me. You can imagine what I thought. Oh, he doesn't need a meat cleaver, he's got a blow torch. I'm such an idiot. I can say that now.... Then I was hanging by a thread from the fact that he cared whether I trusted him even though I was totally helpless and he didn't need to pretend to care. Somehow, that meant he wouldn't betray my trust.

He propped the torch up in his tool box and put a couple of blocks of wood between the chain and my abdomen, lifting the chain away from me over the towel. He brushed some gooey stuff on the open link. Up to this point, I was watching every detail with a great deal of interest. Believe me, I was paying attention. But when he bent over me with the torch, I couldn't make myself look, I was so afraid I would get burned. I just sucked in my stomach and prayed. I was also relieved that it was the chain and not me.

It must have taken less than a minute for him to finish. Suddenly the noise from the torch stopped. For a moment the only noise was my own rapid breathing hissing noisily in and out through my nostrils. But I couldn't even feel any warmth, not to mention heat. I looked down; J was fanning away an acrid smoke with a magazine. He took a corner of the wet towel and dabbed at the link. Pssssst. More swipes with the towel and the hissing stopped.

Soon he was able to gingerly touch, and then hold the link. I was getting tired holding my head up to watch, but I couldn't control my horrified fascination. I tried to follow him with my eyes as he put away the blowtorch and came back into view with some enormous plier-like things. He clipped away the spare links of the chain as easily as if he were pruning a plant. I had a seamless belt with no buckle.

"Lift your backside," he said. I did.

He reached between my legs and pulled the third length of chain down from in back. As he pulled on it, I could feel it tugging against the belt at the center of the back.

Again he left the room. He came back with something in his hand, but again he was standing behind my head and I couldn't see what it was.

Still hiding the object below the edge of the table, he walked to the side of the table and stood there. Straining to lift my shoulders, I could see him doing something between my legs. He was inserting something into my vagina! Straining, I glimpsed white plastic. I could feel it was lubricated and smooth, but he was definitely inserting something! I tried to resist by clenching my muscles and squirming, but it was too slippery and my legs were too far apart and he was too insistent. It was past my portals. I made noises behind the gag. I couldn't stop it from going in. He continued, sliding it deeper, until it was as far in as it would go. It wasn't impossibly big, probably smaller than he is, but it was so hard and unyielding it felt like an enormous intrusion.

He moved it out again, a little, and back in. And out. Of course, it was a dildo. Something that my midwestern little mind has had some trouble adjusting to. I had, of course heard of them, but believe it or not I had never actually touched one until that Saturday. Where would I have bought one in my home town? People drive to the next town to buy condoms. People in the next town drive to ours for them, too. That's not a joke, by the way. It's an invitation to think about where I'm coming from.

He pushed it back in, watching my face. He could see that I wasn't reacting sexually. I wasn't. It was too artificial, too perverted for my midwestern mind. Sorry, if that isn't the sex-vixen reaction you had in mind, but that's the way it was. He did something with the chain, and locked the end of it to my waist with another miniature lock, this one small and gold-colored. But functional. Where does he get this stuff?

He went back to my head, lifted it gently, and locked the gag in place. As soon as he let go of the device, I squirmed, trying to expel it. No dice. Then he untied my legs. I lifted them onto the table and gingerly brought them together. I had more freedom of movement, but still couldn't get rid of it. Then he freed my arms. Instantly my hands were between my legs, pulling. Again, no dice. I went to jump down from the table, but quickly realized I had to be very careful of how I moved. It was awful. My only thought was: What has he done to me? But I already knew, really. Gingerly, I got down from the table, and with trembling fingers felt myself to see if there was anything I could do to get it out. The chain went through a ring in the end of the ... device. Sorry, but the word 'dildo' sounds so perverted to me. Nazis in dirty socks and all that.

Experimentally, I took a step. I could walk, but not quickly or gracefully. I crept gingerly to the bedroom to get a close look in the mirror. Again the grotesque face, the stretched lips, mascara running. I didn't know which end to worry about most. The thing was a g-string made of chain. I turned my back and looked over my shoulder. The waist band joined a seamless ring in the center of my lower back. The crotch piece was joined to the same ring. The chain was tight in my rear cleft: I could feel it against my ... orifice. [He's really strict about this. Asshole and anus are right out. He makes me change this kind of stuff every time].

By pulling down on the waistband, I could loosen the chain enough to push it aside for ... bodily functions ... but not nearly enough to get the device out. Pissing could be messy. The chain itself is unassailable without the right tools. And of course ... they're locked in the garage ... do I have to explain?

My jaw was beginning to ache again, so I went out to look for J. He was coming in the side door after putting away the tools and said, as though everything was completely normal, "Put on your shoes and clear away the lunch dishes."

Was he kidding? Wash the dishes? In the state I was in? I stared after him, and started crying again, which, again, only made my jaw hurt more. But I did as he said: put on my heels, tottered unsteadily into the kitchen, and stood there over the sink, sniffing, with mascara running down my cheeks and saliva leaking down my chin again. There wasn't any way to argue. I finished the dishes--there weren't many anyway--and wobbled back out to the living room. He was standing, looking out the picture window. He turned to face me.

I stood there in front of him, eyes down, every inch the obedient slave, doing my very best to play the part as he wanted.

"Are you beginning to understand?" he said.

"Ah," I nodded enthusiastically, not beginning to understand.

"We'll see," he said, glancing at his watch. He turned back to the window.

I went to put on my collar, thinking that might help convince him. Of course it didn't. I had to wait. I just stood there, trying to focus my mind on not letting my jaw hurt. The other device in me wasn't really a bother if I didn't move around much. I hadn't had to piss yet. He went to the armchair and sat. I just stood where I was in front of the window, legs apart, looking down at the floor, waiting.

Despite my best efforts, the gag still got to me. It is the worst. I gave up trying to stop the saliva from leaking around it, and let it drip on me and the floor. It's so hard to swallow with that thing in; I feel like I'll sprain something. I controlled myself for as long as I could, but finally a sob escaped me. Well, it started as a sob, but came out as a squeak and a sniff. I looked at him, imploring with my eyes. Gingerly, I walked over again and carefully knelt at his feet, holding the sides of my jaw between my hands, and not just for effect. Again he stroked my hair. Tenderly.

"Turn around," he said. Painfully, still on my knees, I did. I felt him take the lock out. My hands went to the buckle at the back of my head and hesitated. He didn't say anything. I put them back at my sides, making fists to help control the pain. After waiting a moment, just long enough to acknowledge that I had learned another lesson, he said, "Take it out." I did. Relief.

"Stand up," he said.

I wobbled unsteadily to my feet, my back still to him. I thought he was going to take out the other, but he didn't even tell me to turn around. Instead, he went into the bedroom. I followed silently, not knowing what else to do. I passed the full-length mirror in the bedroom and stopped. I was a sight. Mascara and eyeliner mixed with saliva were smeared all over my face from my eyes to my chin, even drops on my chest and thighs. My lipstick was smeared; on my stomach was a smear of that gooey brown stuff he used while putting the chain on, and my hair was an explosion of straw, partly matted with more miscellaneous goo. I stood with my legs apart in a most unladylike position. My hand strayed to the chain; I gave it a desultory tug. Hopeless. My shoulders sagged. As I say, a mess. And that thing in me. In the mirror, over my own shoulder, I caught sight of him looking at me. He had his shirt off. With both hands, I covered my ... self ... and the thing.

"The chain is silver-soldered around your waist. It's as strong as a weld. It won't come off." As if I might think it would. My hand dropped to my side again. "Come and undress me," he said.

This was something new. Remember, I hadn't even seen him naked yet. I hobbled over to him, still holding both hands in front of myself (don't ask me why, after what he had just seen). He had a small gold key on a chain around his neck. I knelt, undid his belt, and unzipped his pants. He stroked my hair gently, then left me kneeling there and sat on the bed. I knee-walked to him and went to work on his shoes while he lay back on the bed. When I was through, I sat back carefully on my heels with my hands covering my lap. Without rising, he said "Start the shower."

Despite the age of the house, his bathroom is a large modern one, I think added to the house recently. It is much larger than the other (my) bathroom. There are two windows and a third one inside the walk-in shower. The shower is huge, tiled, with a glass door. The walls of the bathroom are tiled part way up and stucco the rest; there is an old cast-iron claw-foot tub, a modern john and sink, and a small table and chair. I ran the water until it was warm, and told him it was ready. He walked in, past me. I waited. He said, "Take off your shoes and come in here." I did, still covering my front. Gently, he washed my face, chest, and stomach. I didn't think anything would ever make me forgive him for putting that thing inside me, no matter how gentle he was afterward. Mostly I was befuddled, but there was a residual core of resentment.

I kept myself covered until he gave me shampoo and I had to use my hands to wash my hair. With the glass door shut, the shower enclosure became like a steam bath: it was almost hard to breathe. He told me to wash him, but really we washed each other. Then we put on the same all-purpose unscented hair/body conditioner I had used before. You're going to think I own stock in the company. It's great stuff, though. We kissed under the shower with the water, soap, and conditioner running between us, and I could feel him hard against me. I began to melt a bit myself, but that THING was still uppermost in my mind. I wasn't going to forgive him. My eyes stayed on the key around his neck. I wanted it out of me.

He edged me away from the showerhead and began spreading conditioner over the front of my body. All over, even around the device in me. Having him feel me there when I was like that was degrading. Embarrassing. And exciting. My heart began to race, partly from the excitement, partly from the stifling steam. I felt almost faint. He turned me around and I leaned with my hands against the tile wall with my legs spread as though I was being searched by a policeman. He covered my back and legs with the conditioner. Then he went to work on me from both sides, like he had before with the talcum powder. His left hand on my hairless and still- violated front, the other exploring every millimeter of my rear, slipping under the chain, closer and closer, teasing. Every time he pulled the chain or moved the device, I felt a delicious shock that drove the breath from me, and I made a little "hunh!" noise. His right hand slithered under the chain at my rear, pulling against the device. As before, I wanted him to penetrate me there. Anywhere. I grasped at his finger with my buttocks.

He pulled me upright away from the wall and held my trembling body against his, his erection pressing against my rear cleft. Over my shoulder, into my ear he said, "Do you like that?"

"Mmmm," I said, not wanting to admit it, unable to say no. He returned me to my stance against the wall. While he slowly manipulated the device with his left hand, a finger from his right caressed my rear, on the very edge of penetration. He asked again.

"Oh," I said, squirming against his hand, hoping he would get the message. That in itself is a very risque thing for a midwesterner.

"Say it," he said, "tell me what you want," penetrating perhaps a half inch and continuing to manipulate me.

"Can't you tell?" I whined.

"Say it," he repeated, withdrawing the half inch again.

"Yes," I whispered, hanging my head between my arms. Looking down, I could see his left hand caressing between my legs, feel his right poised to enter my rear.

"Louder," he said, "Tell me what you want. You'll have to tell me." He continued to tease, stroke, and manipulate. My knees were near buckling.

"I want you inside me," I cried. "I want you to fill me up." My voice broke. With all the water, steam, sweat, and conditioner, he couldn't see that I was crying. I'm not sure I actually was, but I wanted to. Or at least I was trying to. I felt like I should be.

"Where?" he said, insistent.

"Anywhere," I sobbed. "Anywhere you want. Please!"

"Cover me with the conditioner." Hands shaking, I did. I covered his chest. The key was gone. In his hand? When I got to his legs, I got on my knees and caressed his erect member, underneath, even in back where he had just (almost) penetrated me. I'd never done that before. I covered him everywhere. He guided my mouth to him. The conditioner tasted awful. I rinsed it off and tried to take all of him in; I began sliding back and forth. I had never done this for anyone else. I never really wanted to do it even for J, although I did. But I always thought it was so ... well ... unhygienic.

Somehow the cleanliness of the shower made it all right this time. I continued to caress him with one hand, but my other hand slipped down to the device in me. I began to masturbate in someone else's presence for the first time in my life, although the device in me was a bit of a hindrance. I guess it's a male myth that penetration is somehow essential to the female orgasm. It's not. But it's kind of nice to be penetrated while having one. Anyway, he was too engrossed to notice what I was doing. I think the first time he knows will be when he reads this. Unknowingly, he stopped me before I brought myself to orgasm by telling me to get up.

He turned down the water to a gentle fine spray, as hot as was comfortable, and the steam abated enough for us both to catch our breath. He unlocked the chain at my waist, and keeping the tension on the free end with one hand, slowly pulled on the chain from the rear with the other hand until it was free of the ring on the device, link by jarring link, rubbing against both openings at once. It pinched me a few times, enough that I gasped, but he was watching my face so closely and pulling on the chain so slowly and carefully that he controlled every pinch, every nuance of sensation I felt. Every time it pinched, he slowed and let the pain become almost-pleasure.

By the time the chain was out, I was panting, nearly hyperventilating. He let the chain dangle from the waistband, but held the device in me with his hand. Slowly, he inched it out.

"Hurry," I whined. "Please!" I wanted to reach down and take it out myself.

But he continued to manipulate and stroke both of my openings. His other hand, lubricated by the conditioner, worked at my rear, penetrating slightly, loosening, penetrating again, more each time, while the device continued its work in front. Finally he took the device out altogether and went to work with his hand. I was about to have an orgasm, and could not continue to stand. I sagged a little; he supported me by holding both sides of my slippery and hairless crotch cradled between his hands as I slid to my knees.

Still leaning with my arms up against the wall, I was on my knees, and his fingers resumed their work. At last, one of his fingers penetrated my rear fully. I contracted against it, but it was insistent, continuing to probe and stimulate. I couldn't stand it any more, and began contracting both openings against his fingers. I couldn't come. I got more and more frantic, squirming. I was so close. His rear finger left me. Then it was back, but it wasn't his finger.

It was warm; I thought it was his erect member at first, and I tried to relax for him. But it wasn't. He was inserting the device, still warm from my body heat, into me, this time searching gently for my rear opening, and God help me, I relaxed and spread wider to help him even though I knew what it was. I am admitting this now, but then I pretended--half believed--that at first I thought it was he that was entering me instead of that ... thing. Once it was started in, though, I rebelled. It was stretching me too much. I tried to avoid it, tried expelling it, anything to just get rid of it. But I couldn't. He held the chain around my waist as I tried to crawl away, and forced me face down onto the shower floor. I slithered forward on my stomach, trying to squirm away, but I came to the end of the shower; with my face turned to the side and my cheek pressed against the tile, I could go no further.

Slowly, gently, inexorably, he continued.

It felt huge. I don't know if you've ever had this done to you, but the first time was a bit of a shock for me. I knew by the way it had felt in my vagina that it was smaller than he was, but it was so unyielding, so hard. It stretched me terribly, and it felt so much bigger than it had before in my other opening. The conditioner continued to lubricate it, but I had never done anything even remotely like this.

It was forcing me open, violating me, filling me even after I felt full. This was pushing me close to the edge. I begged him to stop. I don't know if he would have if I had been more sincere. I felt pretty sincere. There was still a small part of me that was curious and excited, but it was a very small part. But I didn't trigger the safeword.

I told him I would do anything if he would just please take it out, but eventually, rather than continuing to fight it, I found it hurt less--or felt better, I'm not sure which--if I relaxed and helped him. Still it continued. Suddenly, by relaxing, the feeling became one of simply being penetrated and filled up. I found I was able to accept it, and, I realized, able to almost get into the sensation--if not exactly enjoy it. He was so gentle that it got better, though. Much better. Ultimately, I was rubbing my front against the shower floor, trying desperately to climax.

"Up on your knees," he said. I could barely do even that, but once I did, the device continued its penetration until it was complete. My hand went to my crotch briefly, perhaps to masturbate again, perhaps to feel what he had done to me, I'm not sure which. A little of both. He told me to keep my hands on the floor. I felt him slip the chain through the ring in the end.

"Straddle me," he said, lying on his back on the shower floor and sliding under me. He held the end of the chain underneath, holding the device fully in me while I lifted my leg over his hips and sat astride him, but without his erection inside me. Once again, slowly, he pulled the chain out, letting the entire length of it slide between my swollen lips, each link tapping the ring in the device. At the same time, he was stroking me in front, masturbating me. I was wild. When the chain was once again out, I could wait no longer, and I slid down on him, enveloping him, thrusting him deeply into me in one smooth motion.

I lay prone on top of him, plunging him into me frantically, grinding against him. He was letting me do all the work. The water from the shower head was falling on us from my shoulders to my knees, and the end of my chain dangled between my legs and rattled on the tiles. He grasped the ring on the end of the protruding device, and began to pump it gently in time with my own movements. He gradually picked up the tempo, thrusting with his own hips. I'm normally not very noisy, but my pants and whimpers echoed in the shower, and at first I was tempted to ham it up a bit, but by the time I approached my first orgasm, which was almost as soon as he started moving his hips, I was crying out genuinely. The tiles in the shower made my cries seem louder.

My second orgasm came almost immediately, a long, shuddering continuation of the first. Being penetrated twice that way is indescribable. When he had his orgasm, and I my third, I think I had one in each opening. Is it possible to have a triple simultaneous orgasm? Sounds like one of those moves that figure skaters or olympic divers do. Well, I don't know what the doctors say, but I think we got all 10's....

After my third orgasm, I lay there unable to move, panting, the sound of hissing water in my ears. He began to remove the device. Immediately I gasped and reacted with a fourth convulsive orgasm, beyond my ability to control. It kept on as he continued to slide it out. He was torturing me. He would pull a little and twitch his hips a little, and I couldn't help myself; I just kept spasming and convulsing every time he moved. I was utterly exhausted, unable even to flex my thighs as I normally do during an orgasm. Weakly, I tied to say "No more," but I was too weak to even get that out in the face of the continuing spasms. It just came out "Unh."

Finally, thankfully, I felt the last of the thing slide out of me. I felt myself contract again to normal size, and, too weak even to twitch in response to this final stimulation, I came to the end of the last orgasm.

When I had recovered enough to stand being moved, he helped me to roll onto my side where, once more, he washed me. He turned off the water and knelt by my side. I was flat on my back as the last of the water gurgled down the drain beside me. The shower was silent except for dripping water. I swear I couldn't move. I lay like a puddle of pink pudding while he spread still more conditioner on my flushed skin. Again he covered me, missing nothing, not the tiniest crevice, hairline to toes. Finally, he helped me into a sitting position. The steam cleared a bit when he opened the shower door; cold air replaced the warm, but I still couldn't move. I sat, eyes shut, head back and leaning against the shower wall, unable to stand. Hands under my armpits, he lifted me to my feet. I couldn't support myself. Well, I probably could have, but I was really wobbly. He propped me against the shower wall; my chain had slipped to the side, and the underneath part dangled on my hip. Letting me collapse into his arms, he carried me into the bedroom and sat me on the edge of the bed. I immediately flopped to my back.

As I lay there on the bed, he dried me--not with a towel, but with a hair dryer. I remember vaguely thinking it odd, but said nothing. As he worked over me the noise of hair dryer droned, cutting off all other sound, and I drifted off to sleep. The last thing I remember was being gently rolled over, and feeling his fingers in my hair as he began drying it.

When I awoke it was dark. I really just drifted back awake: I can't sleep very deeply when I nap in the afternoon. He had covered me with a comforter, and I was nude under the soft cotton. My skin was unbelievably soft: I felt like satin all over. Drying me with the hair dryer had left me coated in the softening conditioner. I can't describe the luxurious feeling of awakening this way, completely squeaky clean all over, warm, dry, satiny sleek-smooth, muscles a little sore, as though I'd had a good workout at the spa ... heaven.

I spent more time than I needed to wake up, pampering myself just soaking in the soft luxury of the bed and remembering the preceding hours. I began to feel a tingle of excitement as my mind wandered sleepily over what he had done to me. No. I couldn't again, I thought. Not tonight anyway. No way. Absolutely, positively ... probably ... not.

I got up gradually, first stretching, then sitting on the edge of the bed and focusing my thoughts. I could hear kitchen noises. He was fixing something to eat.

He had reduced me to a mindless puddle of overstimulated protoplasm, degraded me, embarrassed me, and made me admit I wanted it. And then he did an equally expert job of putting me back together again afterwards. The only thing he makes better than the wound is the bandage.

I got up and looked in the mirror. I looked pretty good. A little pale, maybe. I looked (and felt) like one of Dracula's victims: pale, weak, used, kind of ethereal, but I didn't look tired. And my hair was a huge frizzy cloud around my head; drying it without brushing and conditioning creates an unmanageable mess. Still, I looked great. Even without makeup. He had relocked my chain, this time without anything inside me. That looked great too.

The form-fitting white cotton outfit was laid out on the bed. I put it on over my chain, put on some sandals, and checked myself in the mirror again. I strolled, almost dreamily, to my bedroom to get my thin gold necklace, and the feel of the clean, soft cotton against my satiny skin was distractingly luxurious. Seriously--this body conditioner is great stuff if it is overused properly.

-*-

A Note From the Future:

Through the miracle of word processing, you are now looking forward in time to the end of this account; it has been a month, although it seems like a lifetime. After reading this over, I can see now that this was a turning point. I unknowingly (maybe not so unknowingly) decided, in the moments you have just read about, that I wanted ...well... more. We continued, from time to time, to have sex in ways that I used to describe as "normal". But I do know now that those times of normal sex were unsatisfying for me. There'd been two years of normal sex before we left Chicago. I thought I enjoyed it. I did. I'm sure I did. He was a sensitive and thoughtful lover, and a wonderful day-to-day companion. Really, I had several orgasms almost every time we made love. Not a record to sneer at if the women's magazines are to be believed.

But if I were to relive those days now, it would be like a diet of rice pudding after acquiring a taste for raw steak. J had started me on a path that I now know is one-way, although at the time I was sure I could--would --stop and go back. Gradually, and in carefully choreographed steps, he forced (led?) me to first acknowledge that I was fascinated and titillated like a dirty-minded schoolgirl by the things he was doing to me, and later to like it so that I had to justify myself by pretending it was just sophisticated sex. But I ended up way beyond all that. I acknowledge a need akin to addiction. I fought it, to be sure, but I fought because resisting is participation in the process rather than an attempt to end it. A few days ago I was willing to give him my absolute and utter voluntary acceptance of his control over me. At least until further notice.

That weekend a month ago was only the first tottering step of a babe in the woods. A babe with a long way to go.

The word 'slave' sounds so theatrical and phony, and most of the literature I have since read about B/D, S/M etc., make it sound so lurid and juvenile and, well ... pornographic, and as much as I don't want to be identified with that kind of lifestyle, I have to tell you: If I wasn't a slave in the literal sense of the word (that is, a servant, which I'm not), I was at least a voluntary, self-confessed, incurable Addict. I want(ed) to dive in headfirst, forget caution, and be owned. I wanted to know what it would be like to give everything up for it. Isn't there a kind of freedom in giving everything up?

And yet there was a worm slumbering at the root of my addiction, and as that addiction metamorphosed into a way of life, the worm began to waken, and a duality developed in my personality. I reacted to the events you have just been reading (and others like them) in two mutually inconsistent ways: I wanted revenge, and I wanted to submit. I wanted more of the degrading treatment I had been getting; I resented the fact that it wouldn't continue since J has--and does--steadfastly hold to the one month time limit. Since the List was a contract that entitled me to eventual repayment in kind, the more I got, the sweeter I thought my revenge would be. But I wanted the treatment I was getting, too. I actually ended up begging for more, and at the last, revenge was not necessarily uppermost in my mind. It might never have been if J hadn't stopped Column One himself. I would have exceeded the List, and gone on exceeding it as long as J did. Ultimately I wanted to go further than he did. I think he found it unsettling, as if he had created a monster.

And he had. I had told myself that my motive for revenge was repayment for what he had done to me. I was kidding myself. It ended up with me, like a spoiled child, wanting to punish him for stopping, in effect, for holding to the contract. If I actually go through with it (Column Two) I will punish him as much for having stopped as for what he actually did to me before stopping Column One.

As I write these words I have arrived at the moment when I must decide whether to go on or not; I've come back to read the earlier parts of this account to help me decide (also because it turns me on to read over it), but I'm taking the opportunity to fill you in a bit so you will understand some of what follows, insofar as I can understand it myself. Most of the justification, excuses, and explanation you will read will be a load of bull: the shallow self justification of a silly prude from southern Indiana with less understanding of her own motivations than a dog in heat. You will recognize the self deception. (You've probably been there before). Oh, the facts are accurate enough; what you are reading is not fiction: it happened as it is written. Embellished dramatically, to be sure, and the dialogue may not be verbatim, but it is basically true, nonetheless. But the psychological interpretations are, for the most part, nothing but the pathetic self-deception of a schoolgirl mentality that felt it far safer to keep a firm anchor in adolescent nonsense than to put out on the troubled seas of growth and introspection. As though I was entitled to stop growing when I graduated from college.

But then, I have an advantage: I am a different person now, looking back from the end of this little tale, so I know how it comes out, or at least how Column One ends. This duality that developed in me means there are two bottom lines: They may seem inconsistent, but believe: I was, and am, his. He possesses me completely. BUT. Since he insists on ending his turn, I want my turn. I'm tempted. I'm sure I would be good at 'topping' in a technical sense. Maybe better than J.

After all, I'm a registered nurse.

It's quite a dilemma: I don't want to change either my status or his. Switching roles might destroy my image of him as the dominant one--I'm not sure I want to do that. But I have the option because of our agreement over the List.

Anyway, this moment in the narrative was the fulcrum on which all subsequent events turned, and the crossroads that led to my present indecision. After that point, as near as I can estimate, I didn't want to go back, I didn't want to undo my new psyche. Another cliche, but I guess I discovered myself. I hate it when I can be reduced to a formula and the formula turns out to be a cliche.

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