The List - Part 7

The next evening we were getting ready to go out for dinner again and talking about this slave/master thing we are doing. He had bought a white dress and some sandals for me and I was trying them on while I told him that I was getting into this bondage thing but that there were still some aspects that I couldn't handle, the main thing (after my hair) was that we walk the edge of the ridiculous. I fantasize about really calling him "Master" and taking an even more seriously submissive role, but don't think I could handle the reality without laughing. J had a solution.

"We need a new protocol," he said, and began to remove the dress I had just put on. "You can start now just by NOT calling me by my first name, and by making a habit of keeping your eyes lowered. Whenever you speak or answer a question you will preface your words with a phrase like: 'If it pleases you ....' We'll start with that for a while and see how it goes. Of course, I'll punish you for mistakes. You will have to figure out what forms of address you can use without laughing, because the biggest mistake you can make is laughing. Once the habit is established, it won't be a cause for nervous laughter. Do you think you can handle that?"

I thought about it, not paying attention while he got a paper bag out of the closet. Three rules: No first names, lower the eyes, and say 'If it pleases you.' And the fourth rule: no laughing about the first three.

"I think so."

"So?" He was looking at me, waiting.

I realized what he meant and after a moment of confusion I lowered my eyes. There was a pause while he continued to wait. "If it pleases you," I said. I don't know why, but lowering the eyes is a great help. Maybe it is easier for the imagination to work without eye contact. We know each other too well, and not having eye contact puts some distance between us. I might have laughed out of embarrassment then if I hadn't had my eyes lowered. Well, it was a start.

The dress he had gotten me was several layers of sheer white cotton, midi length with long sleeves and a high neckline, lots of buttons in front. But after I had put it on, he had taken it off again.

"Just stand there," he said. He took a roll of white plastic cord out of a paper bag and knelt by my ankles. Finally I noticed we were doing more than getting me dressed.

"What are you doing? I mean, if it pleases you, what ...?"

"Just stand there," he repeated.

I stood. He untied the straps of my new sandals. They are the kind that wrap around the ankle several times in a crisscross pattern and then tie further up the calf. He tightened them until they were cutting into my skin, and tied the loose end of the roll of white plastic cord to the top. It is that colored plastic leather substitute that boy scouts use when doing crafts, weaving key rings and belts and such. I think they call it gimp, or gymp or something. He began wrapping the stuff tightly around my leg in a spiral. He spiraled up my body and out one arm, where he tied it off and then did the same thing on the other side. Then he spiraled up the first leg in the opposite direction, making a crisscross pattern. It was very tight.

He continued, wrapping me over and over, until my entire body was covered in a tight webbing of the stuff. Every time a roll ran out he pulled out another, white again, and tied them together. He was careful to keep the arrangement symmetrical, left side a mirror image of the right.

He wrapped a flanged vibrator into my vagina. The webbing slipped off when I moved so he superglued it back onto the vibrator. He didn't turn it on, though. After a while I began to feel very weird. I was free to move, but I felt ... contained. No matter what I did, moving or not, I could feel the pull of the webbing. I felt awkward, as though every movement I made was being opposed or deflected by something. Like being under water with currents or something. He worked around my breasts so that when he was through they were flattened and crisscrossed and held against my chest. Only my nipples protruded, bulging out between the strands, pendants dangling.

Then he put my dress back on and took me out to dinner. From the outside I looked pretty good: A blonde (I was wearing the long honey blonde wig) in a semi-diaphanous cotton dress. No boobs at all to speak of. White leather sandals. The wrapping didn't show anywhere. A close observer might have noticed that my sandal straps were tight, but there were no close observers.

We went to an Italian restaurant, but an expensive one. I walked slowly, sat carefully, and ate sparingly. Even so, I spilled wine, water, and food all over the place. I wish it hadn't been Italian food and red wine. It was a new dress. The waiter didn't say anything, but I really made a mess.

Back at home, he cut away the strands holding the vibrator in. He had used separate strands for the vibrator so that cutting them didn't loosen the rest. He made love to me. I'm not going to tell you it was the best lovemaking I had ever had, but it was definitely an interesting experience. I never would have thought it would be. I imagine that you probably are wondering what was the point? I don't know, but he does good things to me, and I don't need a point. It is a little like art, I guess. It was just there. Because.

I kind of like being a blank canvas.

After, as I lay panting on the bed, spread out flat on my back and feeling as though I had fallen from a great height, he took some bandage scissors and cut the strings one at a time, slowly. Then he untied my sandals.

All in all, a very satisfactory evening. I have no idea why, but there it is.


The next day we were showering and J was 'preparing' me for sex again the way he almost always does when we are showering together, by covering me with skin conditioner and exploring every orifice until I was eager to have him inside me in any way he chose.

Without actually saying so, I have signaled in every nonverbal way possible that I was prepared to have sex in the one way we have never had it. When his fingers were deep between my buttocks, inside me, I would squirm against him, trying to push his fingers deeper. I actually feel pleasure when he does this to me, and the responsive noises I make indicate my sensations clearly, but he has never penetrated me ... that way.

I have arrived at the conclusion he was toying with the idea but that it repelled him somewhat. I must admit that my fascination with the idea was tempered with a certain amount of apprehension: I had never had anything that big inside me there. Also, I am perhaps overly hygienic in my approach to sex. I like to be clean before and to wash after. The preparation and the postcoital rituals are important to me: he almost always leaves me a little excited afterward, no matter how sated I was during, so cleaning up afterwards is an erotic experience. The odor of soap evokes a more erotic response in me than the various secretions our bodies make. It's conditioning, I guess.

Anyway, I think the hygienic aspect might still be what bothers us both most, even now. So while we were showering I made a tentative suggestion. It was very difficult to bring up this subject for the first time.

"You must know that I get tremendously turned on when you do that," I said, trying to approach the subject obliquely. Which was difficult, considering that I was near orgasm and he had a number of fingers deep inside various parts of me. He didn't answer.

"If you want me ... that way ... I could clean myself. Inside, I mean." He still didn't answer. "If it would please you," I added. We both got more interested in other things at that point and further discussion had to wait until later.

I have worked in internal medicine, and prepped patients for rectals before. I explained. Not all the gory details, but enough so that he knew that I knew what to do.

"I hadn't even thought-" he said.

But the thought had obviously taken root. For the rest of the week, in the back of my mind was the thought of what would come later.


I took a chance making that suggestion. You see, this whole thing is something of a game. I can't seem too forward when I suggest an innovation like that. He must take the lead and I must follow. Reluctantly. And it is best for me when I can resist what he does to me, even though I may secretly want it. That way the responsibility is his. He has to believe that I am going along against my will, at least to some extent--which has always been true up to now. He gets me so turned on that I want to go forward despite a certain amount of trepidation about what he will do to me. I am always afraid, but ready to do the next item on the List, even though I don't know what it is. It is only after he has started that I sometimes chicken out, even though I agreed to it when we made up the List. But by then it is too late. Still rushing in and fearing to tread. In fact, today, having settled down a bit, I can even look back on when he shaved my forehead with an equanimity that borders on sensuality.

He must know by now that I have come to like what he is doing to me. I am becoming addicted to him. But I have to walk a tightrope for both of us. He would lose interest if I gave in too easily. I have to fight it all the way. So we have these three silly rules just so I can break them so I can be punished. Except that when he thinks I have transgressed deliberately the punishment is much worse. He always makes me regret it. Like this last time. He walks a tightrope too: he always makes a time come when I myself don't know if I want him to stop. If he did though, I would be disappointed afterward. I knew when we made up the List there would be some things that I would want to stop, but I also knew intellectually that nothing on the List could actually hurt me. He stays within the limits of the List, but takes liberties insofar as the List and common sense let him.

I have a sneaking suspicion that my presumptuous suggestion in the shower is what earned me the rest of my punishment, even though he later acted on the suggestion. If I get too forward, he takes control again by doing something else awful to me. Remember the "rest of the punishment?" Shaving my forehead was just the beginning? Well, it would have come eventually anyway.


The smell of neatsfoot oil has become a turn-on for me. My next punishment began with the leather straps. I don't need to describe again how he immobilized me, except this time he left the strap between my knees off so I could take normal-sized steps. My arms and shoulders were still strapped back so that my breasts were unnaturally prominent; strapped so far back that the chain between my nipple rings was taut.

He told me to follow him out to the garage, where he showed me the contraption that he had kept covered with a sheet. It looked like a wooden sawhorse--in fact he called it a horse--except that there were two horizontal parts side-by-side instead of the usual one, and they were separated by a space. And in the middle, on either side of these pieces, were two blocks of wood shaped to form a tiny, smooth, wooden saddle, also split down the middle by that same space. The whole was sanded and varnished quite expertly.

He let me see it. That was all. Then he took me back to the bedroom, put the hood on me, and locked my collar to a chain attached to the bedpost. I had to sit on the edge of the bed and wait, listening to him move around the house, wondering what he was doing, and what the "horse" gizmo was for.

Finally, he led me into the living room where he hooked the shoulder straps to something overhead, and my ankles to something that held them apart; blindfolded, I couldn't tell what. I also couldn't fall, and I couldn't bring my legs together. He unbuckled the crotch strap and I felt him begin to insert something into me. I squirmed against it, but it was only a token squirm. I knew he had control. Besides, it wasn't particularly large and didn't hurt, although I could feel it was hard. It was well lubricated and completely painless. I assumed it was a dildo. He did the same to my rear opening. I squirmed harder against this second intrusion, but I was already getting turned on by the first and ended up voluntarily relaxing enough to accept the second device. He pushed the two deep into me and held them, and I stood there, hooded, docile.

I felt something heavy brush between my legs. I didn't know for sure, but from the noise and the prelude, I expected it to be the horse. He told me to sit. Slowly. As I did so he manipulated the dildos inside me into position. I didn't know what he was doing at the time, but I soon learned that he had slipped the ends of the dildos into the slot in the seat of the horse and clamped them tightly (with a wrench) into place with bolts that pulled the two parallel horizontal pieces together to hold the dildos immobile. Once he began removing the hood and the other restraints, I also found that the two dildos were nearly touching deep inside me, separated only by the floor of my vagina and the anterior wall of my rectal cavity.

When he was through I was completely unfettered: not a scrap of leather anywhere on my body. Even my hands were free, for what good it did me. The dildos were rounded and smoothed wooden dowels, each covered with a condom to make it comfortable (and splinter-free, thank God). They were clamped into position so that even if I tried to stand up they wouldn't slip out. No matter how I moved, I couldn't get off the horse without causing myself pain, maybe even damage. Yet there were no visible restraints.

"What have you done to me?!" I asked in an unsteady voice. I looked around me, twisting as far as I could to see what he had done, becoming increasingly nervous and uncertain. I felt over the device that held me seated. The bolts were far too tight for my fingers to budge them. I ran my shaking hands over both places where the dildos disappeared into me; they were far too firm to be shifted. I wasn't uncomfortable so long as I didn't try to move, but I had no choice about getting free of the thing. I had to sit there and wait for what came next.

He told me he wouldn't free me until I had an orgasm while he watched. With my hands free, I was able to masturbate, but it was really embarrassing, sitting there in the middle of the room. To the casual observer I would have looked like a naked woman sitting astride a simple wooden sawhorse. Admittedly, a naked platinum blonde woman with no pubic hair and a chain connecting her nipples, but even so, you wouldn't have known that I couldn't get up.

I really tried masturbating, but I just couldn't get into it. On the horse, I just couldn't make it work. He stood in front of me, hooked his finger under the chain between my nipples and pulled me gently but firmly toward him. The horse would let me lean just so far. My nipples stretched out to points in front of me.

"Try again," he said, "harder." I was in too delicate a position to resist him, and he knew it. I tried again, harder. I still couldn't.

He put the hood back on me, and strapped my wrists to my thighs again, and my shoulders back in that unnatural position. I waited. When he took the hood off again, there was a small end table in front of me. On it were a pair of scissors, a basin of water, shaving cream, a towel, and a razor.

"Oh no, please!" I said. "I will do anything! Not the rest of my hair!"

He didn't answer.

"I'm sure I could climax if you just let me try again..." No response. "Master! I can call you Master now," I babbled. "I was waiting to tell you! Truly! I can really do it! No problem!" He knew I would have said anything to stop him, although my last plea caught his attention, I could tell. He gave me an appraising look and shook his head almost sadly as he picked up the scissors.

It's no good begging when he's like that. I let out one last whimpering cry as he stepped forward to begin.

"Please? Master?" I whined, my voice breaking and dissolving into a kind of hiccuping crying sob. He kissed me gently on the forehead and started cutting right away, with no nonsense or teasing. I let out a cry that sounded like I was in pain when he took the first cut. I was crying openly, just saying "No, please, no, please, please, please, don't, please..." over and over. I could see my hair falling on the floor around me as he cut it away, but I didn't even try to resist. I suppose I could have twisted my head from side to side or something, but he would have won in the end.

This time there was no mirror for me to see myself in, and I was grateful.

He lathered my entire scalp with the shaving cream and went to work shaving my head while I whined and blubbered in frustration and tugged ineffectually against the straps holding my wrists to my thighs. I had figured that maybe my bangs didn't need to grow out to the same length as the rest of my hair in order for me to be presentable in public. I had figured maybe I could do something with a bandanna. Now it will be half a year before I can go without a wig.

He damp-toweled my scalp and kissed me on the mouth, muffling my near-hysterical whimpering.

"My God but you're beautiful," he said. "Now for the finishing touch..."

That focused my attention and stopped my crying immediately. "Finishing touch?" I thought, "what's left to do to me?"



He mixed some of my cream bleach--the kind for bleaching facial hair-- and put it on my eyebrows. I had forgotten about them.

They were plucked thin enough as it was. They will be invisible now, I thought. I was right. They are invisible. Which, of course, is what he wanted. At least he didn't shave them off: I could dye them back later. He left me sitting there while the bleach did its work. When he came back and wiped off the bleach it was near dusk. He cleaned away some runny mascara and dried tears too. I had stopped crying and had time to think about what he had done to me. Somehow, it wasn't as traumatic as the first time.

I will have to wear a wig. So big deal, I had to wear a wig before. I can dye my eyebrows back or even just darken them with mascara. Otherwise no-one need know that my body is completely hairless. I am really no worse off than when he had shaved just my forehead: I had to wear a wig then, I still have to wear a wig. Shaving my forehead was really the big step. Everything after that was inconsequential--just finishing an unfinished item on the List. I guess what really bothers me now is not that I have to wear a wig to go out in public. It is that I am now completely bald. I felt (still feel) so NAKED without a wig or anything to cover me. I think that really was the last shred of my dignity. While he left me sitting on the horse I just stared into space as I thought these thoughts. No, that's not true. I wasn't even thinking, just staring.

He used a wrench to loosen the bolts that clamped the dildos in place. I continued to sit and stare, and he gently slipped out the two devices that had held me to the horse. When he helped me stand I instinctively wouldn't look up at him--not because I was still playing the slave role, but because I was ashamed of the way I knew I looked. Remember, I didn't even have any eyebrows anymore. You don't get any more naked than that.

He took me by the elbow and led me through his bedroom to the bathroom. On the way through I glanced at the full-length mirror, but he had covered it with a sheet. The bathroom mirror was covered too. He started a shower and we stepped in.

He was gentle with me--although he didn't unlock the cuffs that held my wrists to my thighs. I wanted so much to cover myself; I tried to turn my face to the side as though I could hide. He washed all the makeup off my face and soaped me from head to toe. When I rinsed off, the sensation of the shower on my bald scalp was a surprise. Tingly; it's a nice sensation, but I was in no mood to enjoy nice sensations. I still couldn't make myself look at him, nor could I imagine he could enjoy looking at me, but he was obviously--prominently--interested. He covered me with handfuls of conditioner, again from head to toe, and told me to do the same to him. I couldn't understand what he meant, since he knew my hands were cuffed to my thighs.

"How?" I asked. Long pause. "I mean, would it please you to unlock my hands?" I had almost forgotten. Shaving my head had kind of shocked me out of my role.

"Your body is completely covered with conditioner. Use your body."

So I did, rubbing myself against his front, sliding my legs between his, sliding my backside against him, and asking him several times, "Would it please you to put more conditioner on me?" As I rubbed my breasts against his back and then his erection I could tell he was extremely ... ready. I know you probably think this was disgustingly servile groveling, rubbing myself all over him, especially after what he had just done to me. At this point I felt I had crossed the line between dignified slavery and genuine degradation. I didn't care.

Suddenly he spun me around and held me to him and kissed me. He was really turned on and poured a lot of barely-controlled emotion into those kisses. He guided me out of the shower, and instead of drying us off, he led me straight into the bedroom and literally threw me onto the bed, soaking wet and still dripping with body conditioner. Without preamble he was on top of me and inside. No foreplay, no nothing. He ravished me. It sounds old-fashioned, I know, but there's no other way to describe it. It's not that he was out of control, but my appearance was driving him wild. At one moment I sensed that he tried to slow down and exert his usually excellent control over the timing of our orgasms, but he failed utterly. We slithered and slipped against each other, and it felt like the smooth sensitive skin around my depilated mons extended over my whole body to form one big erogenous zone. In just a couple of minutes--long before I was ready--he came uncontrollably in huge thrusting shuddering gasps. He collapsed onto me, his face slithering into the hollow between my neck and shoulder.

To tell the truth, despite the embarrassment at my appearance, even despite not having an orgasm, I derived a genuine sense of warmth (power?) from the fact that I could make him lose control that way, and I knew that it was my totally hairless appearance that did it to him. I had to imagine how I looked: practically featureless. He had made me into a doll, an undressed department store mannequin, with no hair anywhere. Except that mannequins at least have makeup painted on.

Perhaps rather than a mannequin, I looked like an unfinished prototype for a female android (gynoid?). I flashed an image of myself as a kind of sex object/appliance. A sort of real-live plastic inflatable love-doll, designed for only one function: to satisfy my owner.

I dreaded looking in a mirror, but was nonetheless curious. I was just beginning to get turned on by this sense of power and the really sexy feeling of our slippery bodies against each other when I realized his breathing had returned to normal and he was shrinking inside me. I remember thinking that two thousand years ago, real slaves probably got used like appliances too.

He lifted up his head and looked me in the eyes. "What are you feeling?" he asked.

"If it pleases you, I was thinking I would like you to hold me and touch me and tell me that I'm not ugly."

[Note from the future: I couldn't write this at the time because J would have read it and known he was being manipulated, but: getting him to touch my bald head was a deliberate exertion of the power I knew my appearance gave me over him.]

"But I'm touching you all over right now--as much as it's possible to touch," he said.

"I meant ... my head. I'm so ashamed of the way I look ... I'm scared by all this."

He touched my head while I kept my eyes carefully lowered. He didn't have to tell me he thought I was beautiful: I felt him stirring within me almost immediately. Within a minute I was on my way to a terrific orgasm, made all the more terrific by this sudden vision of myself as a kind of sex-machine that felt nothing, but drove him wild. I kept my face immobile and hid all outward expression of emotion while I squeezed him tightly and ground my hips against him the way I imagined such an appliance/being would. All the while, though, I was secretly building to one humdinger of a climax. I really tried to suppress the first one, and I think I was successful: I kept up the rhythm in my hips right through it without making a sound.

I lost control on the second one, though. It was as though he made me have an orgasm despite myself. Although I am almost never noisy during sex, my breathing grew hoarse and merged with involuntary moans that got louder and louder until there was this other person in the room panting and crying out in near hysteria and it was me. I rolled my head back and forth and spread myself extra wide to pull him deeply inside me. He lifted my legs up onto his shoulders and plunged into me, filling me up.

Right in the middle of his orgasm, I reached the peak of mine and for some daft reason I threw my legs apart, my feet in the air. I don't know why, because it didn't feel any better, just different. I just kept going and going, and so did he. I was moaning and babbling incoherently, nearly having convulsions. I planted my feet on the bed and pushed up, lifting him with my hips and opening myself as fully as I could for him. Finally the exertion drove the breath out of me and I could no longer make any sound beyond faint squeaks every time he thrust. I went passive and limp, no longer capable of any action at all. Finally, he came to a shuddering halt and collapsed onto me a second time.

It wasn't the very best sex I had ever had, but it was in the top ten and it certainly was the most exhausting. I was absolutely destroyed. It seems it is always different. This time, I simply couldn't move. I felt I had been used. And used up. "Rode hard and put up wet" as the Indiana farm boys say. Somehow, being used by J didn't bother me. He isn't insensitive, and he doesn't "use" me like that as a habit. In fact, I got kind of a thrill out of being used without regard to my own needs. That's not the way I would want it all the time, but now and then it can ... do things to me.

Anyway, it was a long time before either of us could do anything other than breathe like steam engines. After he rolled off of me we both drifted off to a near-sleep. I roused myself first and took another shower. The shower knob is chest-high for me. Fortunately, it is started with a lever you have to push up on--otherwise I wouldn't have been able to reach it with my wrists bound to my thighs. I just stood there soaking under the water until he joined me. We stood together under the stream of water for a while; he went and got the key to my wrists and the leather straps fell to the floor of the shower. I think the water and conditioner had stretched them anyway. They had stained my wrists yellow-brown.

When we started toweling off, I remembered my head. He had bound my wrists and covered the mirrors to stop me from seeing or even touching my scalp, so I asked for permission.

"If it pleases you, could I touch my head now?"

He thought about it and said yes, but I still couldn't look at myself in the mirror.

I was almost afraid to touch myself there. I ran my hand over the top of my scalp. I was (am) smooth as the proverbial baby's bottom. I didn't have a mirror, but I looked into his face as I felt my head. You may find it hard to believe (I did), but after that one gesture, just touching my head, he wanted me again. I could see him rising and neither of us really even wanted sex again. It's almost like an aphrodisiac with him. I knelt and took him in my mouth, and within seconds he was rock- hard and ready for a third round. I would almost have preferred to give him a third orgasm orally, I was so exhausted, but I'm not sure I would have had the strength for that either. Fortunately, before we really got started again he stopped me.

"Wait," he said, "lets give it a few more minutes..."

I stopped, but he was seriously horny again. I think his psychology is stronger than his physiology. I sprinkled talcum powder on both of us and spread it around. His erection didn't subside. When I put talc on my naked scalp he went and got my wig--the long black one--from his bedroom and told me to put it on. I don't think he could take the sight of me like that any more.

This is a new thing for me, and will take some getting used to: the right kind of submission can bring a new kind of power. By paying very close attention to his reactions and needs, I can learn by experiment the kind of submissive behavior that he wants. It is clear that the control I can exert on him by behaving in just the right way is subtle, but nonetheless nearly as great as the control he exerts over me. Perhaps this is something that I should not be writing, since he will read it, but it is something I think will bring us closer if he understands it.

[Note from the future: the next few paragraphs are edited and expanded heavily from the original. My manipulation of his reactions, had he understood them completely at the time, would have interfered with our relationship. Now that we are finished with Column 1 and I'm in control, I can make these changes.]

The next few moments taught me the value of not over-using that control.

"If it would please you, I could put my makeup on now," I said. I think he saw the interruption as a welcome distraction from an impending (but premature and exhausting) third session of lovemaking. That was what I wanted him to think. With appropriately downcast eyes, I promised not to remove my wig or try to look at myself in a mirror if he would allow me to bring my makeup into his bathroom. I have to use a small mirror to put on my makeup, I said, but he could watch me and make sure I didn't sneak a peek at my head. Besides, I had my wig on.

There is a small table in his bathroom. I put my makeup box on it and looked in it for my small hand mirror. He had removed it. The mirrors in my bathroom had been covered, too. He is thorough.

But he gave me a small mirror to use. My face looks just plain weird without eyebrows. Well, not totally without, but you have to look very closely to see that they are there. Without any makeup I really looked like a blank canvas. I thought I would look like I was on chemotherapy, but my face was flushed from the shower, so I looked wholesome, healthy and pink. Except ....

While he put on some clothes in the next room, I put on a foundation and a very pale coverup with the faintest touch of blush. Next, heavy eyeshadow and mascara (I know he likes that). Then I put a shot across his bow, as they say in the movies.

"There's more of me to cover with makeup now. I can continue without the mirror if you will help me. If it would please you," I said, turning the mirror face down. I didn't look up--I just waited for him to react.

"Okay," he said.

"May I take the wig off now?"


"Tell me if I miss anywhere."

I put foundation over my entire scalp and followed it with the same pale makeup while he watched. Just a touch of the same blusher high up on my forehead. I could see his erection was still going strong, straining against his pants. Maybe stronger, it was hard to tell.

"Would you put some more blusher on? This is new to me and I can't tell where it would look good. Maybe some on my temples or the top of my head?" I said. "If it would please you," I added. I knew it would. Another shot to take the wind out of his tops'l, me hearties. Arrrrh.

When he had finished, I put the wig back on as if nothing had happened, but something had: he had to adjust himself inside his pants, and I knew I was touching some very sensitive nerves. Perhaps not wisely, I pushed it even further.

Instead of my usual lip gloss, I put on a flesh-colored blemish cover that comes in a twist-out tube like a lipstick. I thought that was kind of in keeping with my new "featureless" look, since it is almost the same color as my skin. He was watching, and despite the unusual look it gave me, he didn't tell me to change it. He seemed mesmerized. I was loving it.

So I gave my face the piece de resistance. My invisible eyebrows gave me the liberty to put my eyebrows wherever I wanted. I sketched in razor-thin eyebrows that had those high arches like movie stars from the 1930's, but with an inspired touch: where they neared the bridge of my nose, I turned them upward slightly instead of down. This gave me a very interesting look--as though I were either very worried or possibly even in pain. It's amazing how expressive eyebrows are. And pants, too.

I stood and walked into the bedroom with my eyes carefully down, but with as much sensuality as I could squeeze into four or five steps. He followed me. I gave him another broadside.

I knelt in front of him and, keeping my eyes down, asked in an almost inaudible whisper, "Would it please ... my Master ... if I wore my boots tonight?"

He cleared his throat and said, "Yes," also in a (rather hoarse) whisper.

I put them on and walked over to the bedside table with my back to him. I know that my behind looks great when I walk in heels. He has told me so a hundred times. It has something to do with those little creases under my cheeks and the way they shift with each step. Of course I exaggerated that for his benefit as I walked. His masts were shot away and he was ready for boarding. As it were. Avast me hearties.

I'll never understand men. Back in Indiana a pair of well filled short shorts would cause an entire room full of male eyes to turn as one, and after she had passed there would be unanimous hooting, foot stomping, and table pounding. The simplest and most predictable things turn them on, but if you asked me what it is about J that turns me on, I couldn't tell you. Well, I could, but it's so complex and personal it wouldn't mean anything to you. His eyes maybe. I can go all soft and squirmy sometimes when he just looks at me with those icy blue nordic eyes. But then I've seen more beautiful eyes on guys that did nothing for me. I guess it's the whole package that attracts me. The point being, it's too complex to reduce to a formula.

On the other hand, I would be willing to bet that almost all men would be turned on by the way I walked then, not just the Indiana Clampetts. I'm like most women, and I complain about how hard it is to find a good man, how we have to wait for them to come to us rather than going out and hog-tying the one we want, so it's going to sound odd when I say this: Gals, in some ways we have it easy when it comes to attracting men.

It is something you could learn from a three-page instruction book even if you were from another planet. If they only knew how predictable they are. High heels, tight short skirts, dark eye makeup, all that kind of stuff. Sounds sleazy, I know, but it comes with a 100% guarantee.

But, you say, that kind of look attracts the wrong kind of man. You're half right: it attracts all kinds of men, right kind or wrong. It's up to us to sort 'em out.

Their tastes are simple: they like either slinky black or virginal white--but virginal white with no underwear, at least metaphorically. You see, the most important part is that the poor dear has to KNOW it's just for him and him alone. Their little egos need that most of all. And their capacity for believing that is infinite.

Even better: they like to believe that most men would overlook you because you are shy and that they alone were discerning enough to have "discovered" you. The poor dears are so pathetically eager to believe this that once they have got the idea in their heads, no amount of evidence to the contrary will dislodge it.

You're going to think I'm a cynic. I'm not. I love men. They're easily the best aphrodisiac. And just because they're easy to understand (some parts) doesn't mean you can't love 'em. We might be initially attracted to them for all kinds of complex reasons: because they are good looking, because they are powerful, because they are mysterious, smart, talented, whatever. All these are strengths, and we respect them because they are strong, but we love them because they are weak, and love makes the choice.

And when you get right down to it, their major weakness is how easy they are to please. The old Sampson and Delilah routine. Just push the right buttons. I could almost write a how-to manual; it could be full of simple step-by-step instructions.

But what does your man have to do to please you? It's a lot more complex, isn't it? And the poor things are without a clue. I almost pity them. But then on the other hand they don't have to put up with our monthly friend, do they? And they run the world, by the way. Ah, but that way lies madness. I like being a woman, but I can't think for too long about how unfair it is. Being around doctors all day drives the point home too often as it is: they have egos the size of small planets, some of them. The modest ones. Large planets, the rest of them.

Most of the time, I can live my day-to-day existence and not think about it at all, and then some subtle realization will hit me. I was listening to a call-in talk-radio program featuring a family psychologist and a thought occurred to me: have you ever heard a MAN ask for advice on how to combine a career and marriage? Ever? Even once? We women write books about it. Books! What does that imply? Don't think about it.

It just isn't very healthy to step back and look at the overall picture too often. Aldous Huxley once gave some advice on that; I can't remember which of his novels it was in. He said that if you are ever sitting at your desk, doing whatever it is you do for a living, and you begin to wonder if this particular activity is what nature or God had intended as the culmination of three and a half billion years of biological evolution, then you must be very careful, because you will sense a bottomless pit opening beneath your desk and you will feel your chair tilting forward and yourself sliding into it. The only cure is to immediately put aside all such thoughts and concentrate on alphabetizing the papers in front of you.

I feel that way if I think too long about the monumental unfairness that being a woman imposes. And I feel that way almost daily, now, as I slip deeper and deeper into this thing J and I are doing. Not the unfairness, the panicky sliding out-of-control sensation.

If I step back and look at what I have done to myself by letting this happen, I feel a growing sense of panic. And an urge to alphabetize my life; get it back in order, even though it's simpler now than it has ever been. Let's say I actually put on a wig and dye my eyebrows back and get a job at the hospital. I have a good C.V.; it wouldn't be a problem to do that. But every day at work, I would be masquerading as a normal person, and every time I came home I would have this totally different life. I am completely isolated from the world I used to know at home, and from the "real" world here. And I know nobody other than J that I can discuss this with.

Maybe Huxley was wrong, though. It may not be fair to look back on your life and ask 'is this what it was all leading toward?' Maybe a life can't be judged by the present moment any more than a piece of music can be judged by the final note. He was right about the cure, though: Don't think about it. Forget the big picture; think moment to moment, since that's the way you have to live it anyway. In any case, I feel more comfortable alphabetizing than philosophizing, so I'll forget the big picture and go back to writing about the bedroom. Sorry about the soliloquy.


I was starting to feel pretty sexy again, especially since I knew for an absolute undeniable fact that even though we'd had sex twice in the last hour, I knew exactly what to do to MAKE him give me another orgasm if I wanted one (or two). Which I did. And I had no inhibitions whatsoever about asking for exactly what I wanted. All I had to do was ask in the right way.

From the bedside table I took the K/Y jelly and the vibrator that he had used on my rear. Still keeping my eyes down, I slunk over and knelt in front of him and said, "If it would please my Master, we could make love with this inside me, and you might feel the vibration and enjoy... using me more." (Good touch, that `using' huh?) The best sex yet was when I was on top in the shower with the dildo in my rear. I wanted to try it with the vibrator.

Funny. I made the transition to being able to address him as "Master" in the most ironic way. I was willing to do anything (ANYTHING) to keep him from shaving my head. I called him "Master" for the first time when he was beginning to shave me, and once it was over, I was too proud to stop. He might have thought I had only started calling him Master to stop the shaving. And now I'm stuck with it. How's that for twisted? Too proud to NOT humiliate myself?

[ NFTF: That's the end of my editorial changes. The rest is as I first wrote it.]

I knelt on the bed with shoulders on the mattress and my rear up in the air toward him, ready to accept the vibrator. I was feeling pretty horny myself at that moment. I was also being a little daring, and I felt excited and exhilarated by it. Without turning it on, he began inserting it. He insinuated it into me with much more care and sensitivity than your average gynecologist. Of course a vibrator has a little more erotic content than a speculum. Carefully, I rolled over on my back and settled myself in the appropriate position: spreadeagled, but this time voluntarily.

But as soon as he had entered me, he rolled us over so I was on top. He held the vibrator in and moved it in time with our lovemaking, but he didn't turn it on until my first orgasm started. I was trying to hold back and play the ice-queen like I had before, but my body just started kind of fluttering inside all by itself. It's kind of special to have your body do something all by itself without your help--I don't know why. Just as I finished, he started. I love to watch his face as he climaxes. His eyes go all unfocused and he becomes completely withdrawn, self absorbed, and vulnerable. Non-simultaneous orgasms have their strong points: you get to watch.

Afterwards, with me still on top and the vibrator off (but still in), we were just floating there on the bed. I was still wearing my wig, and I was in a really mischievous mood. It's not a slave's place to torture her master, but I don't get the chance very often. I shifted to sit astride his hips; he had gone limp and he almost slipped out at the motion. He likes looking up at me --especially at my breasts--in that position. I began stroking myself. A little gentle persuasion and my nipples were erect. I slipped my other hand down and began stroking between my legs. I hammed it up a bit, biting my lip and moaning--aided I'm sure by the worried/pained/surprised expression of my painted-on eyebrows (I look like I'm in pain if my face is relaxed; pleasure/pain if I open my mouth and gasp a little; pained surprise if I open my eyes all the way. I've been practicing in front of the mirror; these are expressions that don't come naturally to me, yet they better reflect my actual feelings than my natural facial expressions would. Is that really so deceitful?) I could feel him stirring weakly inside me, but not enough. In a "moment of ecstacy" I brushed my hand back over my face and accidentally-on-purpose knocked off the wig.

"I'm sorry, Master, it was an accident." I said, and scrabbled to reach it and put it back on. After I had replaced it he reached up and took it off again. I felt him growing quickly inside me. What a feeling of power. He tells me that four times in one day is a record that he hasn't equaled since he was a little boy just learning about sex.

On the whole, though, I don't think four times in as many hours--or even four times in one day (or three, even)--is enjoyable for either of us. He was enthusiastic, but even with the vibrator it was more an exercise in total exhaustion than eroticism. I discovered that my new ability to force arousal in him should not be squandered on private ego trips unless there is some physical return—otherwise it is just overkill for both of us. Maybe we're getting old. I'm twenty-eight. But I read at the thirty-two year old level.

Still, the feeling of utter depletion was delicious that evening. I'll definitely keep the wig on whenever he's home, though, unless he tells me to take it off.

"It's those pesky hormones...." Thanks, Ma.

I still haven't seen myself in the mirror. That night he had me sleep with him so I didn't try to steal a peek at myself. I slept without the wig, though: I took it off after he turned the lights out, and snuggled into the crook of his arm, putting my bald head on his shoulder. As I drifted off to sleep, he had another erection.... ( ;-)