The List - Part 6

Exactly in the middle of my orgasm he took a handful the hair on my forehead and snipped it off. I screamed against the gag. He was cutting my hair off!

I strained against everything that was holding me. I heaved against the chair, trying to tip it, the vibrators forgotten in my fear, but I could barely move. I twisted frantically inside the torso, my movements made uncoordinated and spasmodic by the ongoing orgasm. I couldn't even stretch the tape. I could turn my head a few inches to the side, but that was all. I tried to jerk my head away from his hands, but he easily took another snip, again from my forehead. And another. In my panic, I actually forgot about the gag and continued futilely to scream at him to stop, even though I could hear I was just making squealing noises. My heart was racing. How could he do this to me? My orgasm wound down rapidly, leaving behind a near-hysteria. I hadn't really meant this to happen. At all.

He worked across my forehead, from my ears forward. I stopped fighting it for a few breaths to try and catch his eye. If he could just see the expression on my face, I thought, he would have to stop. I looked at my forehead in the mirror and went back to futile hysterical struggling when I realized it was too late to stop him. My scalp was showing through; for a distance of three or four inches back from my hairline, my hair was less than a half-inch long. Over my entire forehead, in a line from the fronts of my ears to the top of my head in front, I had a crewcut.

He stopped snipping and I tore my eyes from what he was doing long enough to look at the rest of me in the mirror. I was crying. Mascara streaks ran to my chin. Air was hissing through my nostrils like a steam engine, cheeks puffing out, nostrils dilating; my nose was running down to my lips and over the gag, mouth leaking saliva that dripped on the black plastic neck and breasts of the torso. My breath was ragged, my eyes red-rimmed and round. I was making little whining noises through the corners of my mouth around the gag.

He smeared shaving cream on my forehead --my new forehead-- and began shaving me with a disposable razor. Funny, the scraping noise of the razor was the only sound I could hear--even my labored breathing faded into the background of my awareness.

In shock, I thought, stupidly: "At least it isn't all of my hair," as if it mattered. I can't go out in public the way I am now. It will be months and months growing back. As the razor scraped over my forehead, I became aware again of the vibrators inside me. It had been less than ten minutes since he had put them in, but it seemed so long ago I had nearly forgotten them. I shuddered involuntarily. They didn't feel sexy any more. I just wanted them out. I didn't want another orgasm. I just wanted it to stop, to be undone.

He was through. He damp-wiped my forehead and face and fluffed out what was left of my hair. Through a film of tears I could see a totally different person. My forehead was incredibly, impossibly high. Like those old portraits of Elizabeth I of England. My head was completely bare in front of my ears.

He removed my gag. I said nothing. There was nothing to say. It was too late. I just stared at myself in the mirror, horrified and quaking, a jumble of conflicting emotions and sensations. He must have cut away the tape, but I just stared at myself, seeing nothing but my forehead. He helped me to my feet and half-carried me to the bed, where he tenderly took off the torso, unzipped the bodysuit, and gently removed the vibrators. They were still going strong. I was in a daze. I didn't even help him when he rolled me over to remove the second vibrator. I don't think I even blinked.

I felt ruined. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. The only thing I could think about was my hair. Without the vibrators in me I continued to experience a kind of visceral nervous tremor, like when you get off a lawnmower or a tractor you have been riding all day. My body was thrumming with the sudden absence of vibration. But that didn't matter. Nothing did.

"Look at me," he said. I couldn't. I just stared dully at the ceiling, the bodysuit open, my feet in the boots hanging over the foot of the bed. He sat on the bed beside me and turned my chin with his hand. My eyes met his.

"I love you," he said. Suddenly my emotions all boiled to the surface.

"My God!!! How could you do this to me!!?" I wailed, rolling over and burying my face in the pillows. While I was face-down sobbing hysterically, I felt his hand on my shoulder. "Don't!" I said, jerking away as if I had been shocked. I rolled away from him to the side of the bed and got up, unsteady on the hooker-heels with my legs still strapped together.

"Look at what you've done to me!!" I cried, dissolving into tears again as I hobbled to the mirror and turned to face him, fists clenched at my sides. He looked so dismayed at the vehemence of my reaction, I realized he was expecting something completely different from me.

"You're beautiful to me. And I'm not going to apologize. I did it because I love you and I am going to make you mine."

Strange way of showing it, I thought.

"I don't believe this is happening!"

"I want to own you. Now I do, more than before. Try to understand that I care more about you than anything else in the world. You are a treasure to me." Right, I thought. Sure. His voice told me he was beginning to worry that he had gone too far. Or too fast.

"Yeah, well you just disfigured your treasure," I said bitterly, turning away and looking in the mirror again. I was quite a sight: with the unitard flopping open, I was a slash of white nakedness from the crown of my head to my hairless sex.

"No," he said quietly but forcefully. I have never heard him so intense and adamant. "No..." he said again, gently, turning my face to him and looking me in the eyes. "I stripped away more of your dignity." Oh great, I thought. Now I get pop philosophy to make it all better. As I said, I was feeling a little bitter.

"Doing this makes it easier for you," he went on.

"What the hell are you talking about?!"

"Dignity and pride obscure our relationship and our sexuality the way a fire is obscured by its own smoke. I didn't disfigure you. I took away some dignity. To me you are more beautiful than ever, because you are almost completely mine. If you want public dignity you can go out in public with a wig. I even have one for you, but you will wear it when I allow it. You will have no private dignity.

"You are not disfigured. You are changed. It is important that you understand .... "

"I don't believe this," I interrupted. But he went on and on. There was more, but he wasn't connecting with me. It sounded rehearsed. I didn't even listen to most of it, and I wasn't buying it, but on the other hand, now, I can see what he had intended, what he wanted to happen.

J has always preferred subtlety as a way of getting what he wants. I know that shaving me doesn't sound subtle, but he would prefer to give me the superficial appearance of freedom if there were hidden chains holding me. Best would be no restraints other than my own fear of embarrassment. Up to now I've had complete freedom to walk around the house and yard, but total inability to go out in public, whether it was chains, weights, lack of clothing, or the plastic torso that kept me home. Now it is my appearance that chains me. In public, my wig chains me, since he can always take it from me.

While we lived in Chicago he studied martial arts. He drove an extra hour every Tuesday night to study judo rather than take karate within walking distance. He explained he prefers the "soft way" to force. Somehow it is more satisfying, he says. He is strong enough to overpower me easily, but he would prefer not to use strength and chains except as a temporary technical means to an unfettered but rigidly confined end. Invisible chains may or may not be the strongest, but J thinks they are the best, for some reason.

Even as I write this down, the words sound unconvincing, and at the time I thought it was a line of bull. I'm still not sure. It was definitely hard to take at face value. I thought he was merely justifying what he had done, and that he had in fact done it simply in order to exert control over me. A power trip.

But in this regard he has always been something of a mystery to me. He has been in a position to control other people a number of times, [partial professional record deleted] but even then, whenever possible without shirking his responsibilities, he refused to use the authority inherent in his position. He is genuinely more interested in personal self-understanding than in the public trappings of success. His desire for control has always been directed toward himself. So his desire to exert control over me has been a mystery. Unless he regards me as so much a part of him that I fall into a different category than the public. No, that's not it. I don't know.

Anyway, his "will to power" (if you read your Nietzsche) is inwardly directed. So calling this a "power trip" for him may be a little unfair. Maybe.

And of course it IS on the List. Still, this was one thing I just didn't think he would do. When he suggested it I just laughed and said, "Sure, if I can do the same to you." I was simply thinking of this in a different way than he was. He actually intended to DO this to me; but I, instead of thinking of something I really wanted (enough to trade my hair for), I just thought of a fair retaliation for such a terrible thing. I thought: He wouldn't do that to me because he wouldn't want me to do it to him. The key point I had missed was this: I didn't want to do this to him. But he did want to do it to me. Why? Who knows?

In the end I came to the conclusion that he might just mean what he says. He always has in the past. And I like having him in control. It makes me feel safe. But God. My hair! Even just this morning, a week later, I don't know how many times I have thought to myself: "What in God's name have I gotten myself into?!"

I've been round and round with myself trying to figure out why he would want to do such a thing, and I have no answer. The only thing I am sure of is that there's a lot more psychology than philosophy behind what he did. I just hope there's no pathology. I sometimes think the inside of his mind must look like a painting by Heironymus Bosch (for that matter, mine does, too). Why he did it wasn't uppermost in my mind at the time, though. My hair was.

In fact, at that particular moment I wasn't thinking about anything, just feeling pretty goddamn miserable. Listlessly, I stared at myself in the full length mirror. He stepped in front of me, still holding the damp washcloth. Tenderly, he wiped a smudge of mascara from below an eye and even kissed me.

"You are beautiful," he said, "Half a century ago you would have been a great beauty exactly as you are, so don't dismiss your appearance just because it is different. If you can't see your beauty, then see this as a new kind of nakedness: a new source of that embarrassment that I value so much as a gift." I wanted so much to believe in him, to believe he wasn't crazy. I just wasn't sure. How could he want me like this? The only thing that really touched a part of me was the idea that he wanted to make me his completely. He stepped aside and let me look in the mirror.

It was hard to look without bursting into tears again. I looked at my feet in the boots, still chained. The chained wrists rested on my thighs, hands trembling. He reached behind me and rezipped the bodysuit, down my back and between my legs, up my front almost to the top. There was a wet patch between my legs. My eyes followed the zipper to my chin. I looked at my face again. It was genuinely shocking to see myself that way. I couldn't help it. Tears flowed and ran down my face again, and my lower lip began to quiver. A pathetic specimen. I turned and looked up at his face. I saw admiration, love, and concern there. I looked back at my shaved forehead. Back at his face.

"You can't.... I look so...." I said in a tiny voice. I wanted to believe him so much, but when I looked in the mirror it was so awful. He took me by the shoulders and turned me to face him.

"Really," he said, looking straight into my eyes. "To me you are beautiful, and not just because you are mine, but also because you are just plain beautiful."

I stood there, still in a daze, my eyes unfocused, my thoughts turned inward. I just wanted reassurance. I wanted to be sure he wasn't weird. At least not pathologically weird. I wanted to know he loved me. I reached up and zipped the front of the bodysuit back down to my waist. It took both hands with my thumbs inside the gloves.

"Show me....?" I said, resentful and uncertain.

He looked into my eyes and nodded.

He picked me up, carried me back to the bed, and sat, holding me in his lap. He took the key from around his neck and unlocked my wrists and kissed each one. He stood me on my feet and knelt to unlock the leg straps and the chains that held on the boots. When he stood and kissed me again, I could feel a tremor of suppressed emotion in his arms. He held me by the shoulders at arm's length and stepped back, just looking at me. I was still ashamed and resentful and wouldn't look up at him. It was approaching sunset and we hadn't turned on any lights yet. The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows, casting shifting leaf-shadows on the wall in the dim light. It was very quiet.

He held out the hood.

I took it and put it on, bending to tuck the remainder of my hair inside. At least the hood covers my forehead, I thought, and with it on he couldn't cut off any more hair. But I still felt sick inside. A wave of near-nausea swept over me whenever I thought about what he had done to me.

He zipped the bodysuit the rest of the way up, and zipped the neck of the bodysuit to the neckline of the bodysuit. He knelt and undid my boots; while I steadied myself on his shoulder he helped me out of them. He stood and did something under my chin to the three zippers where they came together. I could feel with my gloved fingertips that something joined the zipper of the bodysuit with the neckline zipper and the one that closed the hood under my chin. (That, I realized, was why he had me get zippers with holes in them, so he could join them somehow). I was enclosed completely except for my nostrils, and I could do nothing to release myself without scissors. The gloves were too clumsy to figure out what held the zippers together (it wasn't a lock), and I didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that in the game of "find the scissors first", having to use the thumbless braille method would not give me a very big advantage. I didn't even try. I heard him sit on the bed and felt my way to him.

He kissed me through the bodysuit and said "I can give you what you ask, but that doesn't mean I will relinquish control of you."

He kissed me again, lingering over the mask between our lips. I held my face blindly out toward his kisses. There were still tears leaking out inside the hood. He stroked my body in a way that wasn't exactly nonsexual, but wasn't foreplay either. We leaned on pillows propped against the headboard, his arms around me. I felt safe, protected. As we cuddled in the darkening room, I could tell his attention was completely focused on me, and I felt as though I was enfolded in the center of a private little world, like I was a little kid again, sharing secrets under a blanket. Or an embryo in the womb. But every time I began to relax I would think of my hair. It kept coming back. He made me feel secure and safe, but it was always there at the back of my mind that something was wrong, and back it would come and I would feel sick all over again. I would think: "Why did it have to be my hair?" And then I would start crying again under the hood.

"I think I'll keep you like this for a few hours. As a pet," he whispered into my ear. As he stroked me through the lycra, his caresses became more overtly sexual. There is something especially sexy about the way his fingernails slide over the fabric; when he strokes my sex that way, sliding down my stomach to between my legs, I can't help catching my breath. It's like the good part of being tickled without the bad part that makes me laugh uncontrollably. It drives my breath out and my stomach muscles contract involuntarily. But he stopped.

I couldn't read or watch T.V., it was too early to sleep, I couldn't cook, eat, or even walk around very easily. There was nothing I could do in that getup but try and seduce him into taking it off. So what the hell, I tried. I could feel him getting hard as I rubbed my body against him, and I was getting pretty steamy too. But I still hadn't forgiven him. This was the only thing he had ever done to me for which I felt resentment that lasted more than a few minutes. Up to then, anyway.

He pushed me back, and said, "I think I'll take a shower." He got up and left me on the bed, and I heard the shower start running. I was still turned on, and I knew he was, too. I felt my way into the bathroom and sat on the closed seat of the john while he took his shower. I had a plan: get the suit wet and he'll let me take it off to dry it. I went and stood at the entrance to the shower.

"Hi." he said.

"The bodysuit needs washing here," I said, indicating my sex. "And when I cried my nose ran inside this hood. Can I come in?"


He gave me the soap and I began washing, getting the bodysuit thoroughly soaped and soaked. Thumbless, I had to hold it with both hands. I switched to the shampoo. The hot water made the bodysuit relax and stretch; it felt as though it were melting and loosening on my body. In seconds it wasn't tight at all. Wet, it was a perfect and comfortable fit. I must be a very sensual person, but despite my abysmal mood I got a kind of erotic pleasure out of the feeling of the wet bodysuit moving and relaxing against my skin as I stood soaking under the shower. When I was through, I asked if I could still be his "pet" without the bodysuit. He said no, and gave me a towel. I dried myself as best I could, and he turned on the hair dryer for me to finish after he left. It took forever to get dry. I had to hold it with both hands again, and my hair was still wet under the hood when I finished, but the bodysuit had become a perfect fit, exactly snug and even all over.

He had left me there alone in the bathroom, so I felt my way through the bedroom and hall to the living room where I could hear him moving about. Still unused to my hair, I wanted to get the bodysuit off to look at myself again. I was fascinated and shocked by my appearance, the same way I would have been had I seen an Elizabethan hairstyle on someone else. Even more shocked, because it was on me. I wanted to look and I didn't want to look. Fools and angels rushing in and fearing to tread again.

I wasn't in pain, though; the bodysuit isn't at all like the gag. It's just disconcerting not to know anything that's going on. And frankly, after a while, the enforced inactivity gets boring. I asked if I could put on something else instead. He said no, but he'd think about it.

I didn't really feel desperate enough to beg; besides, I was still resentful enough over what he had done to me that I wasn't going to humiliate myself willingly. On the other hand, the only two things I could do were listen to the headphones and snuggle with J, and I couldn't find the headphones blindfolded. I must have been quite a sight, creeping slowly around the house, holding onto furniture to keep my balance and trying not to break anything while I felt for the headphones. Finally, I tried stretching the hood until I could see through a nostril hole. That was a mistake. He saw me.

"I can see the hood isn't tight enough," he said. He went out to the garage. When he came back he took me by the arm and led me into the bedroom. He said "You are going to get what you asked for. The body suit comes off."


He did something at my throat and unzipped the collar, separating the hood from the bodysuit. He unzipped the bodysuit from my throat to the center of my back and pulled it down to my ankles in one motion. I was naked except for the hood. I felt him buckle something around my upper thighs one at a time. Then my wrists; he locked my wrists to the sides of my thighs. I know the sound those little locks make by now. I would be able to walk, but I couldn't see and I couldn't reach anything with my hands.

I was already worse off than before--but he wasn't through. He buckled a collar around my neck. He didn't bother to lock it: I couldn't reach it. Another strap around each leg just above the knee, those connected so I could take only tiny steps--another strap around each ankle--still another at each elbow--yet another around my waist with a wide strap between my legs, forcing my buttocks apart. I remembered that one: he had put it on me once before. This time, though, my elbows were locked to the waistband.

A strap across my back, under each arm and over each shoulder, holding my shoulders back and making my breasts jut out unnaturally--more than they ever would have even if I were deliberately trying to make them seem big. He snapped still another strap to the back of my collar and buckled it to the back of my waistband, pulling it tight and forcing me to arch my back even more.

Strap after strap after strap, and I was constrained more and more. The last clipped to my collar in front, passed between my breasts and through a ring on my waistband, was pulled tight and buckled, pressing the crotch cruelly against my labia, forcing them apart. I almost couldn't move: I couldn't bend over; I couldn't move my arms at all, even my elbows; I couldn't see. But I wasn't in pain. Well, not exactly.

I could walk slowly, talk, and sit. Carefully. I didn't even feel safe walking. What if I had lost my balance? I asked just that question and instantly he put a gag in my mouth, a simple cloth band tied tightly right over the hood, forcing my mouth open. I had never felt so trapped and constrained before. Even begging for a little relief was impossible. But still, I was not in pain.

Being locked up and helpless that way was actually extremely erotic for me. It would have been more so if the image of my shaved forehead hadn't continued to wash through my consciousness. Erotic feelings in these circumstances are not something your average midwesterner will admit, I know. I remember thinking that if only he had bound me this way instead of what he had done to my hair. Always my thoughts returned to my hair. Whenever I thought directly about it my mind shied away, but at the same time my thoughts were drawn toward my forehead like a bird hypnotized by a snake (I know that is an old wife's tale, but it describes what I felt). I still can't think directly about the idea but neither can I ignore it. I am drawn inexorably toward something I try desperately to avoid confronting. It helps to write about it, I guess.

Mostly, though, I concentrated on not losing my balance. If I had fallen with my arms locked at my sides ....

But J was watching over me. He guided me to the foot of the bed and clipped the front of my collar to something hanging from the ceiling--I couldn't tell what. If I bent my knees, my weight rested on the crotch of my leather "g-string" rather than my neck. Even if I fainted, I would not fall, could not hurt myself.

All I could do was stand there.

"When I come back, I will remove one restraint. Think about what you will do to get me to remove the next," he said. He left me standing there in the bedroom for what seemed like hours; it may have been only fifteen minutes. I heard him moving around in the kitchen, and I thought. About basics. Is this weird? Yes. Did I still love him? Yes. Did I care if he loved me? Yes. Did I want to end the List? Depends on how bad it was going to get. On the cost of ending it. It couldn't get any worse. There was nothing else he could do that mattered. I knew what was on the List, and was sure none of it was worse than what he had already done to my hair. As long as he stuck to the List.

He had forced me to take this latest step, this hair thing. I was gagged and couldn't speak to protest. I would have stopped the List then if I could have. I really would have, even though I had agreed to it. (I actually got an erotic charge out of the act of agreeing to it. I was being daring and sexy when I should have been thinking with something other than my glands.) After, it was too late. It isn't completely my fault; there is some solace to be found in that. And how was he to know that my written fantasies about him shaving me were just fantasies? After all, I agreed to the List. But I was wrong in one thing: it did get worse.

The only conclusion I came to was that in the short term I wouldn't think about it. I would go along with what he wanted, and then I would take it from there. That meant the first step was to please him, or at least make him believe I wanted to please him. Hell, I didn't want to please him, I wanted him to own me. Double hell. I don't know what I wanted.

When he came back the first thing he did was not to remove a restraint, but to kiss me right through the gag. Gently, he tugged on the pendants dangling from my jutting breasts. I knew from personal experimentation that my nipples readily everted, even though I couldn't see what was going on. He tugged a little more. The feeling was exquisite: intense pleasure coupled with a sensation of not-quite-pain. They were still tender, but fully healed, I think. Before, Iwould have said that pulling, even the gentlest pulling (he is gentle when it's important) on my nipple rings would have been absolutely verboten. Now, I'm not so sure.

He increased the tension on my nipples until my breath quickened: each sharp exhalation/inhalation was separated by a momentary pause, a holding of my breath, a waiting, suspended with no thought except of the tips of my nipples.

For some reason, it is important to me that you understand that last paragraph. Exhale. Inhale. Pause with lungs full. Concentrate on nipples. It was a very intense sensation. Try it. Exhale inhale. It hurt more to exhale, so I tried to keep my lungs full. But I had to breathe. Use your imagination. It was intense.

Inhaling eased some of the tension on my nipples. The sensation seems somehow to extend deep inside my breasts and to tug directly at my womb. I know there's no physiological basis for this sensation, but it is real. I am sorry J isn't sensitive that way and will never experience that sensation.

No, I'm not sorry. Well, yes, I am.

I could feel myself getting wet beneath the leather crotch.

He took off the gag and kissed me through the hood again. I returned the kiss, pressing my immobilized body against him as best I could. My nipples remained erect and hard.

He unhooked my neck from the hanging chain. I fell against him, pressing my body against him deliberately. He caught and held me. I held my face blindly toward his; again he kissed me through the mask. I told myself I was only doing this to get free, but I knew it wasn't true even at the time. I was loving it. I even like writing about it.

He eased me back onto the bed where he kissed me again and tugged--a little less gently--on the pendants on my hard, erect nipples. You can't imagine the excruciatingly exquisite feeling of a tug on the very tip your already pebble-hard nipples, a tug that seems to reach into the center of you and send a kind of a lazy electric jolt through your body, stopping your breath and causing an instant flood of warmth and moisture inside you. Or maybe you can imagine. Until then I never had felt it that intensely. Nipple rings are great.

He unhooked the strap connecting the back of my collar to the waistband, making the unnatural back-arching posture no longer necessary. My shoulders remained strapped together, though and my breasts were still thrust outward. My nipples ached with excitement; they were so stiff the pendants were held out at the very tips: they no longer dangled against my breasts; didn't even touch them when I was standing. My breath became ragged.

He lifted me into the center of the bed and laid me on my back. He removed the strap between my knees. He strapped my ankles to the bedposts, my legs held quite far apart, although not to the point of actual discomfort. Then he attached something to my knee-straps that pulled my knees even further toward the edges of the bed. I had never been spread so wide before. I could feel the muscles between my thighs straining under the tension.

He knelt between my knees, unbuckled the waistband buckles in front and opened the leather belt, exposing my already-wet sex. He unhooked my elbows from the waistband and unbuckled the strap that ran from the front of my collar to the front of the waistband. Lifting my buttocks, he slid the waistband from underneath me. I was as exposed to him as it is possible to be, my legs spread wide, my breasts jutting, my wrists still locked to my thighs.

Carefully, he let his weight settle gently on top of me; he felt like a warm, heavy snowfall blanketing me. I was panting, partly from the near-pain caused by the position of my legs, partly from excitement. He unzipped the bottom of the hood and peeled it back to the bridge of my nose, uncovering my mouth. I felt his breath on my face, near-kisses teasing my blind, searching lips.

With excruciating slowness, he penetrated me simultaneously, my mouth with his tongue and my sex with his maleness. I was already spasming toward an orgasm. It was hard to reach up to pull him in while in that position, but still I tried to the limits of the strain on my poor suffering inner thighs.

He thrust into me, teasing. Deeply into me and out. Long pause. In-out. Pause. Every time he penetrated me my breath rushed out in a sharp exhalation and rushed back as he withdrew. When he paused, my breath held suspended, waiting expectantly for the next penetration. He increased the tempo until my breath was coming in uncontrollable pants that he nonetheless kept timed with his thrusts. My pants merged with ragged moans, the moans with soft cries, the cries becoming louder and louder until our dams burst, together. Timing is all. I subsided into a quivering exhaustion. Gradually, he became limp inside me.

It was after a few moments that the most wonderful thing happened. The thing that convinced me that I actually was still attractive--maybe more attractive--to him with my hair that way. He reached up and slipped the hood the rest of the way off, exposing my naked forehead. All thought evaporated from my head. All that was left was the humiliation. I was totally, utterly embarrassed. Even though the evening light was very dim and he couldn't really see me, I turned my head to the side, trying to hide myself.

I struggled impotently against the straps holding my wrists to my thighs. But he held my head between his hands and turned me to face him. Tenderly, he kissed my shaved forehead. As he did, I felt him begin to grow again inside me. The feeling was wonderful. To have him already in me, and growing bigger and bigger, until he was stiff and hard again, filling me completely. In those moments I realized that the sight of my shaved forehead was the cause of his wonderful resurrection. I realized he really did, at an involuntary level and in a way that can't be faked, like the way I now looked. Which was good. At least some small part of this whole scene was good.

So I had my third orgasm of the day after all, and all the while, in the back of my mind, was the thought that my new appearance, even though I hated (still hate) it, gave me power. Power over him.


Afterward he washed me, unlocked my legs, and left me on the bed, a jumble of conflicting emotions.

He liked--in a deep psychological way--how I looked, I hate it; I wanted him to love me as much as he could be made to, maybe even at the cost I had paid, but if he was as weird as the evening's events indicated, maybe I didn't want him as much as I thought; he had opened a previously unknown (to me) dark inner closet and made himself vulnerable to me in a way that gave me power over him in an odd way (what if I told people what he did to me?). I had wanted to be closer; now I am, but closer to what? To whom? Also, I had given him something no one else would have. It will be hard for him to find anyone else that would give him what he wants, if this is any indication of what he wants. That makes me sort of special, doesn't it? Sort of?

I was hungry, though, and in a few minutes I followed him into the living room, my hands still locked to my thighs. On the way I looked in the full length mirror. My hair had dried while it was pressed against my head under the hood. It was slicked straight back on my head; I looked insane; from the front it looked almost like I didn't have any hair at all. I couldn't do anything about it with my hands locked where they were.

I wandered into the living room where he had already laid a fire. It turned out he had prepared a light microwave meal while he left me hanging from (well, not really hanging, but attached to) the bedroom ceiling. He lit the fire he had laid, and we sat side by side on the sofa while he fed me dinner in little bite-sized pieces. He caressed me as he fed me, creating a second appetite and teasing me with both the food and his fingers.

When we had finished eating, he took out a present for me. It was a thin gold chain that had a clasp on each end. He attached an end to each of my nipple rings; the center hung in a gentle curve between my out-thrust breasts. We both went into the bedroom to admire it in the mirror, and he removed the strap that held my shoulders back, letting my breasts and shoulders assume a more natural posture. The chain was nice, but I still couldn't help thinking about my hair and feeling sick inside. What has he done to me?

He had more presents. He took me by the shoulders and stood me facing the mirror, and told me to wait there. My shaved forehead and slicked-back helmet of platinum hair was even less attractive than it had been before I showered in the bodysuit. I wanted to fluff it up or wet it and put curlers in it, or something. Anything.

From behind me he produced a wig. It was a huge tangled mane of black hair that reached to the center of my back. Suddenly I looked great. Better, in fact, than I had ever looked in either my natural color or as a blonde. The texture of the hair on the wig was much nicer than mine had ever been, and it was much longer. While I was checking myself in the mirror, turning this way and that, trying to decide if I could pass for normal in public, he came back with another wig, this time a blonde one in the same tangled mane style. Not platinum blonde this time, but a more natural honey blonde. And he had yet another: it was short and nearly matched my original color. I could restyle it until it matched my real hair, he said.

Finally, he put leather cuffs back on just above my knees and locked the strap between them that forced me to take small steps; then he unlocked my wrists and told me to shower, wash and dry my hair, and put on my makeup. Afterwards, I was to put on just the stiletto-heeled bimbo boots.

Too much was happening at once that evening. He had shaved my forehead. I hated that. I had learned for an absolute certainty that my new appearance turned him on in a way that was nearly beyond his ability to control. I didn't know how I felt about that revelation. Still don't. There were wigs that I could wear so all was not lost: I could still go out in public. But would I fool anyone? Would they be able to tell? The wigs didn't look natural to me, even the one that matched my old hair. The others were just too gorgeously magnificent to be real hair. But then, no one here knows me except a few casual acquaintances at the exercise spa.

And most important: did this mean J was weird in the head? Worse, am I weird? What would I be if I found it within myself to tolerate--even like--my appearance? Remember, I HAD agreed to it originally, so there must be something there inside me. In fact, while we were separated he had written about a slave fantasy in which he had shaved my head for some minor infraction of the imagined rules of the scenario, and I had responded with a similar fantasy in which I had submitted willingly to this treatment, and more.

I had originally started to write that letter just because I could see it was something that intrigued J, but as I wrote I found I actually got into the idea of total unconditional submission. But that was as far as it went. It was only on paper and seemed attractive only in an abstract theoretical sort of way. The practical reality was something else. How could I get a job and go to work now? Exercise at the spa? Even go shopping? And in the back of my mind was the ever-present thought that he had said this was the beginning of my punishment. What, exactly, did that mean, the beginning...?

I wanted to discuss all this with him after I showered, but that had to wait. When I came out of the bedroom, I had dried my hair and put on the boots as he told me. His reaction was instantaneous and unmistakable. He carried me back into the bedroom, unlocked my knees, and made love to me with a renewed urgency. I don't suppose I'll ever know what would have happened if I could have resisted him. I think he would have stopped, but I can't say for sure. He wasn't really violent, but I felt completely helpless when confronted with the intensity of his need. Just seeing me this way had done this to him. I chalked up another orgasm for that day. So did he.

Afterward, in bed together, we discussed my feelings about what had happened that day. He is very persuasive. It was clear that while he was satisfied with our relationship before, he was becoming addicted to it now. He didn't put in so many words, but I was somehow in the process of trapping him. I admitted some of the same feelings to him, although that day's events had almost cured my addiction. The practical aspects of my hair could easily be dealt with by using a wig, even at a job and while exercising. I could stick with the stair and other exercise machines rather than the aerobics until it grew back. I could wear a short-haired wig and grow my hair into the same style so there would be no conspicuous transition.

And he wanted to have me as his own, as his possession, so that there was no question that I belonged to him alone and absolutely. Emotionally, for me, that was a strong argument in his favor. I finally came to the conclusion that my real reservations all stemmed from gut-level emotional reactions to being "different" and the nagging fear that down deep he might be a little weird. But there was also a kind of excitement at being different and having no-one know. And weird or not, he loved me and I thought I could even love him weird. I decided to reserve judgment until we had tried the wig out in public. But I still hated what he had done to me.


The next day, we did just that. At the exercise spa, the guy who runs the front desk complimented me on my hair. He thought I'd had it done. The brown wig was shorter and slightly different in color and texture from my old hair. No-one else even commented on the change. That evening, he got out my white knit dress (nothing underneath, naturally, but a pair of bandaids to hide my nipple rings) and I wore the brown wig again. We went to an intimate restaurant. He made me change into the long dark wig in the car before going into the restaurant.

I could get to like being wined and dined. It's great, having a real income and living like people for a change. I have always insisted that money isn't important to me, but having dinner at a good restaurant and being pampered is a nice change from years of graduate school for J while I worked nights at the hospital, and a house in the country is a definite improvement over a studio apartment in Chicago. At dinner, we talked about the List and how I felt about it. He drove home the point that he felt "joined" to me by all this, more so than before.

As he talked about it, I realized we were doing things together that set us apart from all the other people around us in the restaurant. I looked around at them and suddenly J and I had a wonderful private very special secret together, and these people around us were going to go home and be ordinary for the rest of their lives. But at our table.... At our table there was something scandalous, wicked and sexy just under the surface; I wasn't wearing a thing under my dress but bandaids and nipple rings. If they only knew, I thought. All this was hidden from them only by the thinnest facade; a fraction of an inch of material. I felt I was living dangerously. I felt I should brighten up their lives a little. Maybe take off my wig and leave it as a tip. Didn't someone say that scandal is merely a compassionate allowance which the gay make to the humdrum? I think it was Oscar Wilde. (Hey, you should see the video version of "Salome." You know it was that play that got him in very hot water with victorian England? It is pretty raunchy, but fun when you think of the furor it must have caused.)

Still, (back at the restaurant) I had misgivings. At least he understood them, and the further we went despite them was a measure of the strength of our joining. Talking about it that way in public was a kind of a turn-on, too, in a funny way. It made me feel that we were so very different from the people around us, except for the thinnest veneer of behavior and dress-- just enough that they hadn't quite noticed yet. I know, I'm repeating myself, but it is a new feeling to me, and I like it. I never felt daring before. It was almost as if we were doing something outrageous right there among the other patrons.

By the time we had gotten home that night, I had decided. J had said that when he shaved my forehead it was the watershed of this thing we were doing, but for me, that evening at dinner was the moment when I made my first conscious decision to plunge in headfirst and voluntarily begin the descent into this other side of my sexuality. Fuck 'em I thought. And fuck Indiana, too. It wasn't even really a decision, rather a voluntary relaxation of resistance, a letting go. What the hell, why not? Where have I heard that before?

Not that I haven't resisted--even rebelled--since, but after that evening I fought against him as a matter of form, almost as a ritual. My resistance lacks sincerity, and I rebel only by deliberately feeding my own fears and letting them show, giving J my fear and embarrassment as gifts rather than letting them rule me. It is a strangely liberating experience to use and even enjoy my own fears; to be afraid and still plunge ahead recklessly, always secure in the knowledge that J is there and will keep me safe even though he is the ultimate cause of my fears. There is a fundamental contradiction here somewhere, I know. Again, if (despite the contradiction) you think I'm not making sense, just remember that nothing makes sense. Where is it written that anything has to make sense? Wouldn't it be awfully boring if everything made sense?

When we got home, we went into the living room, flopped down on the sofa, and kicked off our shoes. He put his arm around me and sat looking into the ashes in the fireplace. The time had come for me to tell him my answer to his unasked question. I got up and went into the kitchen. I ran some warm water in a basin and brought it back, putting it on the floor in front of him. I could see a question on his face, but I put a finger on his lips to silence him and went into my bedroom. There, I stripped, fixed my makeup, and put on my leather collar, ankle, and wrist cuffs. As a last touch, I put on my nipple pendants and the thin gold chain connecting them. Then I smeared my forehead with shaving cream and brought a towel, razor, and mirror into the living room, where I settled on my knees in front of him.

I began shaving the stubble off my forehead. When I was through, I didn't look up at him: I kept my eyes lowered and waited with my hands in my lap. He took my hands and stood, lifting me to my feet. Together we went into the bedroom. I'm going to leave the rest of this one to the imagination. He likes the Elizabethan look, though. I'm convinced.


I decided to wear a wig all the time after that. Of course he takes it off when he wants it off. But it's best if he doesn't grow accustomed to (read bored with) my new appearance. The visual impact is an important asset for me: it buys an instant and almost involuntary erection from him. I like that.

He has told me to keep my forehead shaved, just like I keep my pubic hair depilated. He told me not to use depilatory on my head since he didn't know what the cumulative effect on hair follicles was. That gave me pause to consider: the time between depilation has been increasing. Am I damaging my hair follicles Down There? Anyway, every day I brush my hair back out of the way and shave my forehead along with my legs and underarms. More daily maintenance.

The following day I wanted to give him a special surprise. First thing in the morning, I asked him to lock my chain back on (the one around my waist and between my legs), and he let me have the car keys to go into town. I went to the local costume rental place in town, where I bought some body paint and other stuff, and to an oriental import house that sells cheap Indian body jewelry: silver plated necklaces, belts, toe rings, bell earrings, etc. They will go with the harem outfit.

That afternoon, I fulfilled another fantasy. I spent the hours after lunch preparing myself. One of the fantasies that I had written to him about involved me as a kind of forest goddess (sounds hokey, I know) that has green skin and tattoos of vines growing all over her body. I covered myself (hair, too, blow-dried) with green food coloring (quite a job, that) and finished up with body-painting honeysuckle vines growing up both legs, wrapping around my body, twining in spirals on my bum cheeks and breasts, encircling my nipples and growing around my neck and in tendrils around my arms, completely covering me. I even had vines winding up the sides of my face to merge with my eyebrows. It took me over two hours to get myself ready. I finished at sunset and turned on some of the exotic dance music.

Wearing nothing but my garnet pendants, I danced for him. I did a kind of hip-grinding combination of exotic dance and strip-tease moves, but there was nothing to strip off. It won't do any good to try and describe the way I danced. Suffice it to say that I shook a lot more than my pendants at him, and finished up taking his clothes almost completely off while I danced. He was turned on enough that he didn't mind helping me a bit there at the end. I ended up with him deep in my mouth and we both lost track of exactly when we made the transition from dancing to lovemaking. J had two orgasms again. All I had to do was bring up the subject of my forehead and how embarrassed I was over it and how I wasn't sure he would like my forest goddess idea with a shaved forehead and all. Downcast eyes and an embarrassed hand over my forehead and he was off and running again.

Afterward, the bed was a total mess (so were we). Green food coloring and body paint and various precious bodily fluids were all over the sheets. When we showered together to wash off the mess we ended up making love again on the shower floor, both of us all covered with soap. I think three in one evening for J is a record of some sort. I know I set a "personal best" record.

We sat up and rinsed while seated/sated in the steamy shower, too exhausted to get up. Finally he turned off the water. We sat in a delicious kind of daze for what must have been five or ten minutes, the only noise was the water dripping from the shower head and our own breathing. I mustered the strength to kneel, and I covered him with body conditioner; I like the feeling of tending to him. Then I covered myself in the most entertaining way I could manage. When we got out of the shower I helped him to towel off the excess conditioner; he was ready for an encore, and we could probably have gone again it we had put our minds to it. But neither of us wanted to. I think the quality declines after that many orgasms. I don't exactly know how many I had--some of them kind of merged together and who's counting anyway. There are only two possible numbers where orgasms are concerned: Not enough, and enough. We'd had enough.

I got his bathrobe and slippers for him and then put on the fitted white muslin outfit. We sat and cuddled for the rest of the evening, cooking and eating two of those great prepared microwave dinners between cuddles. They're probably 98% cholesterol and 2% preservatives, but they taste great. We fell into bed at 9:30 we were so tired.