The List - Part 5

Friday afternoon. Well, I knew he'd do something; now I'm a platinum blonde. How's that for an opener? I don't believe I let this happen. It's really my fault. I did it to myself.

I objected, sort of. Well, I begged him not to make me do it. I could have just put my foot down, and said no, but it would have ruined everything. I knew deep down it was fruitless to try and change his mind. Somehow, he persuaded me to go through with it. Besides, it's an interesting change. I look really different.

Changing my hair color is on the List, after all, and J is right when he says that I can always dye it back. I guess I was mostly worried about getting a job, which I'll have to do fairly soon. Platinum blonde hair is not the conservative kind of image a nurse should project. Would you let Madonna inject anything into your bloodstream? Don't answer that. You probably would.

I think patients feel more comfortable trusting their lives to Florence Nightingale. Not that I look remotely like Madonna, but if it weren't for having to get a job, it actually looks pretty good. Still bushy, though. It's not the total disaster I thought it would be. My hair is frizzy enough without being weakened by bleaching, though. Now it's even frizzier.

I thought at first that having my hair bleached was my punishment for buying the hacksaw blades, but now that I think about it, it couldn't have been, since J had made the appointment well ahead of time, which means he had planned this--maybe from the beginning. He told me that I might have to convince the hairdresser to make me a blonde, since it was a big change, so I actually had to cooperate in doing this to myself. I had agreed to it as part of the List, and he has always been very persuasive, so I agreed to go along with it (secretly, I've always wanted to try being a blonde, although not necessarily a platinum blonde).

As it turns out, it was a kind of avant garde place. The guy didn't even blink an eye when I told him what I wanted. He would have given me a purple mohawk if I had asked. They had scheduled nearly the whole morning for it when J called, and it took that long to do. J had me go without my contact lenses, and he told me not to look in the mirror while the hairdresser worked, but I couldn't help it. I had to look when he asked me how I liked it. So I had an out-of-focus glance at myself, but that's all.

When we got home, the first thing he did was to pull out more chains and small locks. The chains aren't particularly heavy--not like the dramatic clanking iron ones you find in dungeons in the movies--but there are no seams in the links and they are plenty strong enough. I've tried to break them. And I am positively festooned with chains. First he put real handcuffs on my wrists, but joined by a one-foot length of chain with a ring in the middle. Then "handcuffs" (I guess they are leg irons) on my ankles, joined by a slightly longer chain. A length of chain joined the ring between my wrists to the chain joining my leg irons, but it passed through a ring on the waistband padlock of my ever-present chain g-string. I can take short steps, and since the chain slides through the loose ring at my waist, I can lift my hands as far as my face if I'm not walking. By crouching I will be able to wash my hair. I don't know how long I'll have to stay like this. The various cuffs chafe if I move around too much and it's boring, sometimes, being in the house alone during the day.

But other times my nipples go erect while I'm hobbling around the place and I think about him coming home and I wonder what he's got planned for the evening.

He had taken time off from work for the hairdresser's appointment and chaining me after. After putting these chains on, he left me like this and went back to work. It's slow going, typing with chains hanging from my wrists. Before he left, he said that neither the bleaching nor the chains were my punishment for the hacksaw blade episode. They were just preventative. The punishment is still to come. I can't even really practice my exotic dance routine in this setup. At least I can sew and read.

I can't see myself going to the exercise spa anytime soon, even without the chains. I've gotten to know a few people there on a casual basis, but not so casual that I could show up with platinum blonde hair and not raise eyebrows. I know, lots of people have platinum blonde hair, so what's the big problem anyway? What's so special about that look? I don't know. I guess I'm just not used to it. Maybe I could have gone out, but I didn't get the chance, really. I certainly couldn't go out now.

-*-

It has been a long time since my last entry. I hope I can remember it all. I'm not even sure what day it is. I'm way behind in keeping this up to date, but I was busy during the week that J had off. Really busy. I don't believe what he's done to me. All in good time.

When J came home last Friday, he wanted to talk. It would have looked to anyone like a typical casual evening at home for an average couple, except that I was wearing nothing but chains and had to take short little steps to keep up with him. And of course I was a platinum blonde with no pubic hair. He told me to fix drinks for us and to follow him into the yard. He was sitting on a low brick retaining wall by the garden; I joined him and we chatted. I crossed my legs and sipped my drink as though I were at a cocktail party. The air was still warm, even though it was near sunset in March; Spring smells and gentle breezes. I could really love the South. For some reason I felt perfectly safe being nude outdoors; I guess it is the feeling of isolation, being surrounded by the woods. It also helps to have J there. All this notwithstanding, feeling safe isn't the same as feeling relaxed: I was not completely at ease having a relaxed conversation under these circumstances. Besides, the bricks were cold and gritty. And an ant bit me.

The conversation opened with inconsequential remarks like "How was your day?" and "The breezes are beautiful after winter," and "Have you finished the harem outfit?" My God, I thought, we're talking about the weather and I have to lift both hands to sip my vodka and orange juice because they are chained together.

"You are beautiful, you know," he says out of the blue. He doesn't talk much at all, and as a rule he says even less about my appearance. "Really beautiful. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?"

Of course I had, continuously. I had changed my makeup twice that day. I look like a different person, and I'm still getting used to it. I do like my eyebrows thin, though. I shaped them into high arches like the show girls of the 1920's. They look kind of artificial, I know, but still I like them. And my nipples. I have really become proud of them. I want to show them off, at least in private and for J. That sounds like an oxymoron, I know, like "locally famous", but showing off in private is all I could handle comfortably. I am nearly convinced, though, that J really does like my body. All of it, even my nipples. Maybe especially my nipples. Actually, I have a pretty good body. It's just the nipples. Of course my hair is a trip: a fluffy platinum blonde mess. The color looks intensely artificial, too, but for some reason the artificiality is a turn-on for me, like badge that I wear that says to J, "See what I will do for you." And to others, "See what I will do for him. I'm his. Nyah, nyah, nyah." Although only a few strangers saw me that way. More on that later.

My entire appearance is a constant symbolic reminder of the fact that he has done something to me, put his stamp of ownership on me, and that I like--want--to be owned this way. I would call it a kind of inverted (reverse? involuted?) "pride of ownership", but it is not a pride that I can yet show comfortably in public. I would be embarrassed; but even that potential public embarrassment is a gift, a symbolic measure of what I will do for him. I guess that is what he meant when he asked for my embarrassment as a gift.

I think too much about this stuff. I can barely go into public as it is, and not at all in these chains. Again, why should you be embarrassed, you say? I think it's because I know what's going on, why

I look the way I do, even though people on the outside wouldn't know.

Or it could be because I'm from Indiana, where they secretly don't even approve of natural blondes.

Why should I even care if someone else knew? The idea of other people--people I don't know--reacting to the revelation that I am J's willing slave is somehow exciting; I'll admit that much. But if anyone I actually knew found out it would be awful. If a stranger knew, I would be embarrassed too, but I could get into that kind of embarrassment. Maybe.

Anyway, he took special pains to tell me how beautiful he thought I was--especially in chains. I go all squirmy sometimes. And I like being constrained if it is by him; I'm not just writing that because he'll read this either. There was genuine admiration and warmth in his eyes when he spoke; I believed him, and, well, sometimes he just makes me go all squirmy, that's all. The things he says. He told me he wanted me to belong to him--even more than I already did. But he also told me I hadn't paid for the hacksaw blades yet, and there was a sudden remoteness in him then, a remoteness that made him hard to read. A bit like a parent that I had disappointed but that still loved me. There was something he wasn't telling me, though. I also think he was a bit pleased I had broken the rules, too. I didn't know what to expect as punishment.

I wish to God I had known, but at the time I just felt a flush of warmth and nervous anticipation at the implications of what he said. Okay, so I'm a traitor to the midwest.... But if I had known. Jesus. I still can't believe what he did to me.

When he asked if my sewing was finished, I explained that I needed a few things from the fabric store for the exotic dancer outfit and a few hours work, but that I knew he would like it when I finished it. The other, the bodysuit, was done and I would be glad to model it for him. I was being as careful as I could to not remind him of the hacksaw blades, but he was still holding himself distant. The warmth left his eyes when he lapsed into his formal 'master mode' and said "Stand up. This discussion is over. Step back, I want to look at you."

And look at me he did. I stood in front of him, my chained wrists hanging in front of my thighs. I have gotten used to these sudden changes during our conversations, and have learned to change my attitude and react instantly. His eyes travelled over my body, lingering on my pierced nipples. I was wearing the tiny garnet pendants. My nipples became erect as he looked; I embarrass so easily, even now. But then embarrassment has become a sexual thing for me; somehow I enjoy it. Perhaps enjoy is the wrong word, but if you don't understand by now you might as well stop reading. I can't explain it any better than I have.

-*-

Saturday morning we went to the fabric store. I literally haven't left the house since (nearly a week, I think). Nor have I since had a single moment when I wasn't hopelessly trapped by chains, those damned little locks, etc. Not a single moment. Except for once, briefly.

Since he gave me my car keys (did I tell you that? He has since taken them away again. It's so hard to keep you consistently filled in on the relevant stuff), I wore my exercise leotards nearly everywhere, and I wore them that Saturday to the fabric store, except that he put that ...device... inside me again, held in with the chain under my shorts.

He drove me to the store, and we went in together. I was so embarrassed by the way I looked that I wore sunglasses as a disguise. Stupid, I know, but I felt protected by them, somehow. I had to walk slowly, like an invalid, and it was almost impossible for me to concentrate on buying the elastic and stuff that I needed. I had to pretend I was dawdling along, looking at everything on display so that no-one would notice how slowly I had to walk. I stupidly asked the shop assistant to help me find what I needed, and she went dashing off to some far corner to find it. When she came back she must have been wondering why I was tottering after her like an old woman.

"Where did you go?" she says, "I thought you were right behind me."

"Uh," I quipped. We hoosiers are widely known for our rapier wits.

It was bad enough having platinum blonde hair. I felt like everyone was looking at me. Of course they weren't, but I still don't know if they were just being polite. Especially the shop assistant. I think she suspected that maybe I had forgotten to take my medication or something. Finally, I had what I needed, and we left.

I thought we would go home then, but he made me sit through lunch at some kind of health food brass-and-fern-bar. Sit is the operative word. Over lunch he told me my chain was coming off soon, for good. My feelings were mixed. At that particular moment I would have been glad to get it off for even a few minutes, but permanently? Did that mean J was ending our relationship? Over the hacksaw blades? I asked him. He didn't answer, he just smiled in a way that said "Of course not, silly."

When we got home, he cuffed my hands in front of me and had me lie down on the bed while he cut the chain from my waist. Slowly, he removed the device that was inside me. He told me to run a shower.

In the shower, he washed me all over, my hair, everywhere. His fingers probed everywhere, slithering into every crevice. I got extremely turned on within minutes, and pressed against him, sending body-language signals at every opportunity. He rinsed me and went over me again with the conditioner. I don't think I'll ever be able to smell that conditioner (even unscented, it has a smell) without getting a little turned on. If you'll forgive the pun, I guess I was being conditioned. Sorry. Does the name Pavlov ring a bell? Sorry, sorry.

He deliberately excited me as much as is possible short of orgasm. He inserted his fingers into both my openings at once, stimulating until my legs gave out and I sank to my knees. He supported me and sank to the floor with me. When I say I was gasping, it sounds like cheap pornography, but I was--and rather theatrically, too. Still he continued, and I collapsed back, sitting on my heels, my pelvis squirming against his probing hands. I wanted him inside me so much.

"Do you want me to beg?" I said, "I will if you want...." No answer. "Please stop. I can't stand any more!" No answer. He continued. Soon I was making animal noises as I pushed against his hands, grasping with both orifices at once. I began to shudder into my first orgasm and suddenly he stopped. My hands went to my front to finish the job, but he caught the chain between the cuffs and held them away. I was squirming and twisting, rubbing my legs together to no avail. He stood, holding the chain at my wrists, and pulled me to my feet. He led me into the bedroom, leaving the shower running, and locked my handcuffs to a chain attached to one of those overhead rings. My hands hung loosely just above my head.

He turned off the shower and began to dry me with a hair dryer, pausing to kiss, caress, and otherwise tease me with his fingers. Under the hair dryer, my hair frizzed into a total mess, while I continued to squirm, trying to masturbate myself with my thighs. It doesn't work, no matter how motivated you are. I was motivated.

He reached into the trunk and pulled out the boots I had tried on in San Francisco. They came up to my knees, and were the tight black leather ones with zippers on the sides and four inch stiletto heels. I remember they were enormously expensive, but then we're not starving graduate students anymore, so why not indulge? He put them on me, pausing between boots to caress me again, keeping me at the edge. After he zipped the boots, under each instep he passed a small chrome chain, crossing it over the top of my foot and pulling it behind my ankle, where he yanked it snug and padlocked it. Those boots weren't coming off without the key.

He freed my wrists from the overhead chain, leaving the cuffs on, and put my hands behind my head. With my arms in this position, elbows bent as much as they would, he passed electrician's black plastic tape around and around my bent arms, binding my wrists to my upper arms so I couldn't straighten my elbows at all. He took off the cuffs then, but I could touch only the lower part of my face and head and my breasts. He pushed me back onto the bed and, one at a time, he did the same thing to my ankles, bundling them against my upper thighs so my heels were held tight against my buttocks. I couldn't straighten my legs or my arms. I suppose I could have crawled with difficulty on my elbows and knees, but I would have had problems even getting off the bed without falling.

He continued to stimulate me. I was frantic, panting and begging for release. He rolled me over and lifted me to my knees, letting me sit back on my heels, legs spread, while he continued to stimulate me. I would have had difficulty coming with my legs bound like that, even if he had been trying to bring me to a full orgasm, which he wasn't. He was just teasing. He went to the garage, leaving me kneeling on the bed and panting with need again but unable to satisfy myself. I actually tried masturbating with my elbow. Almost got off, too.

When he came back he was carrying what looked like a full-size model of my torso. It was (is) made of polished black fiberglass. He has done body work on his own cars (he even built his own kayak), and had used the same techniques to make a mold from the plaster cast he had of my body. It is actually quite beautifully made. Almost a work of art. It is shaped a bit like a thong-bottomed turtle-necked sleeveless leotard except it is smooth and polished (inside and out) with steel rings hanging from it in various places and lockable latches all around the edges, under the crotch, everywhere, holding together the two halves, front and back.

I was still practically vibrating from the earlier stimulation and wondered if this contraption was somehow designed to give me release since I couldn't.

He leaned the body suit(?)--I don't really know what to call it--against the mirror in front of me at the foot of the bed. It isn't an exact model of me: the stomach muscles have more of a washboard appearance than my own. The nipples aren't inverted--quite spectacularly the opposite: they are sculpted to look erect and tumescent. It is an idealized torso, like the ancient Roman armor you see in the movies, but female. The inside is shaped exactly like me.

He unlatched it and fitted the front half against me, moving it about until my breasts slipped into the cavities in the front. I had to straighten my posture, spread my legs, and lift my chin over the high collar. It was especially tight in the waist and crotch. Although my thighs are naturally wide-set, the piece that goes between my legs is too wide to fit comfortably; and when he fitted the back on, it was far too tight between my buttocks. I had to squirm and draw in my stomach and wiggle to avoid being pinched in several places and he even had to use conditioner as a lubricant in spots to slip it shut. I almost didn't fit into it; he barely got the latches to shut without pinching me. After my upper body was encased in this hard black plastic shell, he snapped those tiny padlocks at every latch.

He cut the black tape and freed my arms and legs. It actually hurt to straighten my legs after having them cramped in that position for so long. Electrician's tape doesn't hurt to pull off, though. He threw my wrist cuffs on the bed with two padlocks and told me to put them on. He left the room without checking to see whether I obeyed.

Jesus. It took me a minute just to figure out how to sit up. You have no idea how awkward it is to try to do simple things like get out of a bed and walk when you can't bend your back or even turn your head much. The collar of this thing (he wanted me to be wearing it while I typed this part, so I am) is so high that I can't look up or down, I can only turn a little to the side. I'm looking down my nose now, just to see the monitor.

I teetered to the mirror on the four inch heels. I have small feet, and four inches puts me very nearly on tiptoes. Strangely enough I thought I was beautiful. In a campy Barbarellaesque sort of way. The sleek black plastic is highly polished, and shaped to flatter my every curve. My face was flushed with the stimulation and excitement of a near-orgasm. I was still extremely aroused, and seeing myself in the mirror made me more so. The high, almost orthopedic collar held my chin tilted into the air in a kind of regal but unnatural posture. My hair was a huge white curly cloud around my head and behind the black collar. It held me in tightly at the hipline, pressing against me just above my hips and compressing my waist, a bit like a corset. It pinched a bit until I had moved and wriggled about a bit and settled into it. It never actually got comfortable, though.

As I have already said, my legs are wide-set, so there is a space between them as I stand naturally, unless I squeeze them together. The plastic between my legs widens and accentuates that space unnaturally, almost grotesquely; a small padlock dangles in the gap.

I felt round the rim of the torso. I could (can) just barely get my fingers under it at the crotch, but not enough to touch myself there. With my hands, I felt my buttocks bulging on either side of the crotch piece in back. Heels clicking on the tile, I teetered to the bathroom and got the hand mirror to look over my shoulder. My buttocks were separated and pushed far apart by the black plastic. In fact, they are made to positively bulge out, even though I don't have a large behind, I am squeezed so tightly by it. I haven't decided if that is attractive or not. The crotch strap is wide and it presses very deeply into my rear cleft. J likes it, though. He tells me I am thoroughly stunning all over, and getting more so at every step. He says this even after what he did to me later in the week. Jesus. Just thinking about it makes me feel ... oh hell. I feel like I should just cut to the chase and tell you what he did to me. Later. First things first. I'm not sure I can even write about it yet. On with the show. I want to finish this part so I can take off the torso thing.

Before going out to him, I put on my makeup. I can sit at the vanity, but sitting is not comfortable in this thing. In fact nothing is comfortable in this thing. It pinches now and then, and constrains always. The worst part, other than being unable to touch my own body, and having to wait to pee, is not being able to turn my head or bend my back. It's not easy to keep my balance. I have posture worthy of a queen, though.

He was seated in his armchair by the empty fireplace as I came out of the bedroom; he looked at me appreciatively, and nodded slowly to himself as though he were satisfied with what he saw. I didn't say anything, just stood at the end of the hallway and tried to sense what he wanted. I sometimes feel like a small and vulnerable nocturnal animal that relies on subtle smells and tiny night noises for survival. At that moment, all my antennae were out and testing the air.

Hoping my instincts were right, I turned slowly, holding my arms away from my sides so he could see all of me. The scrape of shoes on the tile floor echoed in the near-empty room. I paused when I had my back turned, and after a moment ran my hands over the exposed parts of my buttocks where they bulged, compressed by the fiberglass carapace. I was feeling extremely sexy, and hoped I looked as seductive as I felt (I still wasn't sure about the back view). Goose flesh rose where I touched myself.

I sensed him close behind me. He took my hands and held them by my sides, leaning over my shoulder to whisper in my ear, "Touching like that is my prerogative. Remember you are my property." He didn't want me to touch myself, although I could tell by the suppressed emotion in his voice that he was turned on by what I had done.

I let him unlock the leather cuffs on my wrists. He relocked them to a ring set in the center of my back between my shoulder blades. He turned me around and kissed me deeply and tenderly, hands exploring my buttocks, the only exposed part of me that even remotely resembled an erogenous zone. I trembled; it had been only minutes since he'd had me on the edge of an orgasm. It takes me a long time to cool down when I am that close. I felt shaky, swollen, engorged, oversensitive, and tender--almost bruised--and frustrated.

He sat back down. Still trying to sense his mood, I walked over to him and, with serious difficulty, tried to kneel on one knee in front of him. I ended up doing a clumsy curtsey and he had to catch me when I fell against him. He asked what it was I wanted, as if he didn't know. I thought to myself that the one thing I wanted was to have him inside of me. But he obviously knew that.

"Would you like me to try on the black lycra bodysuit for you? It's finished, hood and all," I said, thinking that the first step to orgasm would be to get out of this torso. No matter how sexy it looks, it is ultimately erotic only for the observer, not for the wearer. Thinking objectively, almost everything else he has done to me is more erotic than wearing this damn thing. But it does look sexy. And for short periods it feels sexy. Sometimes. Like now. A moment ago I was just miserable, and I will be again. It comes and goes.

But then I had to go to the bathroom. Not a sexy motive for getting the thing off, but there it is. He made me wait, though. Not that he was torturing me or anything, I just didn't tell him I had to go. I think he just wanted to keep me on the edge a little longer. He helped me teeter out to the garage, gently holding my upper arm and guiding me as though he were politely ushering me into a posh restaurant (that image flashed through my mind for some reason)--except that my wrists were pinioned in the center of my back and my posture was unnaturally perfect. And of course I wasn't exactly dressed for formal dining. I had to roll my eyes and turn my entire torso to the side just to watch him as we walked side by side.

Standing on the workbench in the garage was a white plaster model of my body. He told me how he made the fiberglass torso. I think he enjoyed explaining the technical details. He had waxed the interior of the two halves of the mold he made of my body, reassembled them, and filled them with plaster, leaving a core of styrofoam to save weight and plaster. After it hardened, he broke away the outer mold and discarded it (I had thought those discarded pieces meant the project was a failure).

The remaining torso was an exact copy of my body. He sculpted away parts of the plaster to shape the interior (that's why it is smaller in the waist and crotch than an exact cast would have been) judging how much he could remove by the fit of the tight leather g-string (g-strap?) when he put it on and pulled it so tight in back. Remember that? He just sculpted the lower part of the plaster torso until the leather fit it. Later, he knew the torso would compress me the same way.

I really had to pee.

He went on and on explaining how he had sanded it smooth and sealed the pores in the plaster so he could build up something called a gel coat, blah, blah, blah. Whoopie, I thought. Three layers of epoxy-impregnated fiberglass with the latches and d-rings and steel reinforcing imbedded, and he could cut it off and shape the edges by adding an interlocking flange. Swell. I still had to pee. Several additional finish coats on the outside with sanding between, polishing, and I still had to pee.

Frankly, I think it was too much work for what you get. I may have missed some steps: my mind was on my bladder, and my attention had wandered to the other object in the room, still covered with a sheet.

"You'll learn about that some other time," he said. He led me back to the house. "Besides, it's time to finish you off," he said. "This is really for later," he said, tapping one plastic-coated breast, "think of this as the first fitting." As we went back to the house, he commented that he was going to save the plaster cast of me. He had more ideas for it. Hmmm.

So anyway, he led me into the bedroom again, unlocked my arms and taped them the same as before. I finally had to tell him before he taped my legs that I HAD to pee. He unlatched the torso, telling me that he's not into that particular form of torture, and that I should have told him sooner. But he left my arms taped, and I couldn't wipe myself. He knew that, and when I was through he came in and did it for me. Slowly. It was demeaning and I looked away while he did it, but I think it put my attention back where he wanted it.

He led me to the bed and taped my legs. Once again, I was helpless: I could straighten neither arms nor legs. He stripped off his clothes as I watched, and got into bed beside me. Stroking and teasing, he brought me to a near climax again, but again my inability to straighten my legs held me back. I was groaning and pleading for him to cut my legs free, but he wouldn't. Finally, kneeling between my legs, he spread my upraised knees and slowly, with maddeningly great control, penetrated me. Within moments I was flapping my pathetic, folded up limbs and crying in frustration. He began thrusting quickly and powerfully. At that rate it would normally have been a quickie for him and left me twisting in the wind, but I was so close to climaxing that he drove me over the edge. My dam burst, releasing a full day's worth of pent-up sexual frustration. I made pitiful efforts to grasp and hold him with my bound arms and legs, but it was hopeless. My pelvis contract and spasmed of its own accord. I was ready for more: at least two more orgasms were waiting in there somewhere, and he knew it. But he didn't let me have them. Just almost.

He left me there, twitching and moaning, and got a damp towel to clean me with. Tenderly (he is so gentle afterward) he lifted me to my knees and damp-towelled my still-vibrating body, soothing me into a marginally relaxed state as you might an excited horse. But my frustration wasn't at an end.

He slathered my torso, neck to crotch, with conditioner. I thought he was going to make love to me again--I was sure (knowing what I know now, I'm absolutely sure) he would have been able to--but just as I was getting excited he put the plastic carapace back on me. I whimpered in frustration when I saw what he was going to do, and begged him not to put it on, but he didn't listen.

I had to cook dinner that way, marinating in gooey body conditioner inside this damned plastic torso and feeling extremely... ready.

All during the romantic candle lit dinner that followed, he ignored my rather eloquent body language--body language that, if it were braille, a one-armed blind man in a dark room could have read through a concrete wall. I was reduced to squirming in my seat, (the padlock between my legs gouged the wood--the torso sits directly on it) stroking my encased body sensuously (but pointlessly: as though I could feel it through the plastic) and casting what I hoped were smoldering, lust-filled looks his way. I could see I was having some kind of effect, and I hammed it up a bit. I know he was aware that I was excruciatingly horny, (I was only half kidding when I was hamming it up) but he just ate his dinner as though we were in a formal restaurant. He kept up a cheery but subdued banter, refilling my wine glass, deflecting my heavy-handed innuendos and turning them into jokes. He seems to delight in the incongruity of putting me in an outrageous predicament under the most ordinary of circumstances.

He kept me "conditioning" in the torso all that evening, finally releasing me just before bed. He watched me dry off with a towel and, after I had one last pee, cuffed my hands together and chained them to my neck up under my chin so I couldn't reach my sex to masturbate. Just to make sure, he made me sleep next to him in his bed for the first time since I had arrived.

-*-

The next morning I woke still horny. No relief, though. I usually wake up feeling sexy anyway. I guess I've conditioned myself to feel sexy in the morning: I like to fantasize when I'm half-awake. J often wakes up horny, too, but I think that's more common in men. He thinks it is caused by a full bladder pushing against his prostate. He also tells me he can't urinate with an erection, which makes a lot of sense biologically. I've never worked for a urologist, but I'd be interested to know: When a man wakes up with a full bladder and an erection, how the hell does he solve this problem? Can't piss until the erection goes away, erection won't go away until the bladder is empty.... J says the erection just goes away if he doesn't use it for anything. Which of course he does, now and then.

Anyway, he kept strict control over me until breakfast was over. Then, after admonishing me not to touch myself below the waist at all, he went out to the garage. By then I was out of the mood anyway. I went back to finishing the harem/slave girl outfit while he fiddled around in the garage.

Are all men hobbyists? Jeez. Couldn't he have worked on me a little? Even in the garage?

Of course, I was chained, wrists and ankles connected as before, like those convicts you see being led out of courtrooms on the news but with a little more freedom of movement. I actually hurried the costume in the hope that I would have time to impress him with my dance routine before he decided to punish me for the hacksaw incident. No such luck. After lunch he told me my punishment would begin that day.

I'm still not over the shock. No kidding. Look: I'm not a raconteur; I'm not a writer; this isn't literature. So far I've tried to make this more than a "What I Did on my Summer Vacation". Call it "attempted literature"; I'll be the first to admit my success has been limited. Partly because I was constrained to tell it as it happened, and it didn't happen in a way convenient for fiction. I've romanticized. I've glossed over the boring parts. Sometimes my inept attempts to be a writer have gotten in the way of even basic communication.

BUT. I have NOT gotten over what comes next. It may come out a bit muddled. I still feel bitter about it. I alternate between anger, frustration, horniness, and a feeling of "What in God's name have I gotten myself into?" Several times I have stopped typing just to go and look in the mirror and I don't believe it. But it is right there on the List. I don't know how I could have been so God. Damned. Stupid.

Okay, here goes.

-*-

Late that afternoon he took off all the chains. He told me to put on the black bodysuit and bring the hood to his bedroom. I had looked at myself many times in the mirror while making the suit. It shows off my figure well, especially my breasts, although it changes their shape by making them unnaturally pointy. And it is TIGHT. So tight there isn't a wrinkle or fold anywhere in the material. It pulls up into my crotch quite uncomfortably. Exactly what he wanted.

He had me take out my contact lenses, too, and put on the stiletto boots again, with the chains that hold them on. And my wrist cuffs. He had me bend over and hang my hair down into the hood while he pulled it on over my head and zipped it from my chin to the base of my throat. He zipped the hood to the collar, too. I was completely enclosed in the suit. I could breathe and speak, but I couldn't see a thing. Of course I know what it looks like, since I had tried it on before sewing up the eye holes. I will leave it to your imagination.

He had me stand. I was disoriented, on four inch heels and unable to see, but he rectified my inability to balance by chaining my wrists overhead at the foot of the bed and my ankles apart at the ends of a three-foot pole, a spreader bar, I think that's the accurate term.

Although spread-eagled, I could stand fairly easily, even on four inch heels. I wasn't hanging by my wrists or anything drastic like that; in fact, I might have fallen if my wrists hadn't been chained above my head. He left me standing there for a moment while he left the room. I didn't know it at that particular moment, but shortly I would learn that he had gotten his heavy oak armchair and put it in the bathroom.

God, I still can't BELIEVE what he's done to me, even now, a week later. And that morning was only the beginning. But one thing at a time. I have to tell it as it happened.

He unzipped the front of the bodysuit then, from neck to crotch and up to my lower back. His hands were inside the suit, stroking me, arousing me. I couldn't see what he would do next, but I was listening intently for any clue. I was still on edge from the previous night's unresolved teasing. He stood beside me. I felt chilly and exposed where the zipper was undone, and I felt the lubricated fingers of one hand working into my rear portal while his other hand stimulated my front. First one finger, then two went in, loosening me for three. I tried to relax and help him. Usually, being nervous is a hindrance, but this time it made me wet in seconds, very ready, and very horny.

Of course, I didn't know what was coming; so far it was just another exciting and mysterious bit of bondage. I grasped and squeezed with both openings, my thighs quivering with the tension and my hips grinding in both directions at once. I guess gyrating is the word. A few more minutes and he had me on the edge of an orgasm again, and he stopped.

I heard a buzzing noise. Then two buzzing noises. I could feel vibration against both sides of me and knew instantly he had two vibrators. I squirmed halfheartedly, and tried to clench both openings, but I knew I couldn't have stopped him.

[...and I didn't want to stop him, either, but was ashamed to admit it ... Note from the Future]

He continued to penetrate me from both sides at once, until both vibrators were buried deep inside me. Each of them had some kind of stop or flange on the end to prevent them from disappearing completely inside, but he pushed until they were pressed tight against me. I thought he was going to use them to bring me to orgasm, but instead, he held them in me with one hand while he zipped the body suit back up my front to my chin.

He put the plastic torso over the bodysuit. I had to wiggle and squirm again to keep from being pinched. He latched it into place, and I heard the familiar rattle of tiny locks. I was getting frantic. The bodysuit gave me something to thrust against, but the critical vibrator, the front one, wouldn't touch the right spot no matter how I squirmed. I was being stimulated constantly, but the vibrators couldn't make me climax. Sometimes, I could make it touch my nasty bits, but the vibrators buzzed against the fiberglass like a sounding board. I know he could hear what I was doing.

Dimly I became aware that he was unlocking my legs. I could bring them together as much as the torso would allow, but it really didn't help. Then he freed my arms. I nearly fell, but he was ready and caught me and half-carried me into the bathroom where he sat me on the armchair. I helped ease myself down onto the seat, supporting myself by my arms while I tried to settle onto that rear vibrator, not knowing what was going on.

By the time I was able to sit I was distantly, through the haze of the building stimulation, aware of him working at my wrists with tape (more electrician's tape), wrapping around and around both my wrists and the chair arms. The same with my elbows, my upper arms, everything. My ankles and my shins were taped to the legs of the chair, a chain locked to both sides of the chair and to the rings on the torso. Something--a belt I think--went around my thighs and the seat of the chair. I was frantic over the vibrators, and almost unaware of what he was doing. I had to partly lift myself with my arms to keep the rear vibrator from becoming uncomfortable, but at the same time I was squirming against the front of the carapace with my sex. He must have worked very quickly. I was completely immobilized in what must have been less than two minutes. The torso kept me from even turning my head. But I was rubbing myself harder and harder against the inside of the torso.

Off came the hood. I was strapped into the chair, sitting looking at my out-of focus reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. He stepped in front of me. He was holding the gag. THAT gag. I barely registered, I was so disoriented. I rolled my eyes up at him, tilting my head as much as I could. I was panting, my breath coming in short gasps, my face flushed.

"Wha- What are you doing to me?" I asked, trying to gather my wits. I was becoming more disoriented as the sensations continued to build inside me; without my contact lenses the room looked fuzzy and I felt like I was under water, everything moving in slow motion, but still out of control. He held the gag against my mouth, saying nothing. I couldn't think. I just opened up and he put it in. He didn't even bother to buckle it in back. He stepped to the side, revealing my reflection: eyes wild and wide over a mouth held open by the gag in a soundless scream, face framed by a white mane-cloud of platinum hair.

The rest of me was a study in textures and shades of black: polished black plastic, black lycra, black leather boots, my upper arms compressed by bands of black electrician's tape. Even my mascara and eyeliner were black against my pale skin. Only my lips were red. My chin was held high in that rigid, regal pose, my neck unnaturally long. Black tape was around my plastic-encased neck, too, holding me immobile against the top of the armchair's back.

I was an absolute total knockout.

A slight pulsating movement of my thighs and a slight straining of my neck against the high collar and the occasional squeezing shut or fluttering of my eyelids were the only outward signs of the tempest raging inside the torso. And the puffing noises escaping around the gag and through my nostrils.

I rolled my eyes to follow his motions. I blinked and tried to focus my myopic attention on him despite what the vibrators were doing to me. I was starting to slide into an orgasm. He stepped behind me; I could see him in the mirror. He smiled in a way that I can only describe as compassionate, and fluffed my hair out with his hands like a hairdresser might have, but he was looking straight into my eyes, gauging how close to orgasm I was. He didn't say anything. He just nodded to himself as though he had made a personal decision when he saw I was ready. He should have said something. I had a right to some explanation, some words, something. My orgasm started even as he was making his decision.

There was a pair of scissors in his hand.

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