He must have felt that I needed a bit more controlling after that episode. I kind of overdid it and took advantage, sort of, even though I remained submissive. Not that I actually liked having my head shaved. He had me shave myself the next morning without a mirror. I had to feel for the stubble with my hand and go over my head until I felt totally smooth. It is kind of an erotic feeling. My nipples were erect when I was through. Hmmm.
At this point, he started doing something new to me: putting an artificial tanning lotion all over my body. It's on the List, but I won't be able to leave the house until it wears off. Actually, he doesn't put it on me any more: he has ME do it every morning and every evening while he watches, and I'm under orders to do it once at midday as well, even when he's not at home.
But that morning, after I had shaved myself, he started this tanning routine without telling me what he was doing. The first thing he did was to put another one of his handyman specials on me: stocks. Simple, but well-crafted (varnished, sanded smooth, etc.) and functional. Two boards, hinged at one end, locked together at the other, held my hands and my neck. This he clipped to an overhead chain so I had to just stand there and wait.
He began by smearing this lotion all over my body: scalp to toes. He didn't tell me what it was; I assumed at first it was another skin conditioner. After I was completely covered, he brought out gauze bandages and dipped them in the stuff and began wrapping my body like a mummy. He really wants it to have a strong effect, because I was positively marinated in the stuff. He started at my ankles and worked his way up each leg independently, dipping the bandages, wringing out the excess lotion, and wrapping it tightly around me. God only knows what he spent on lotion and bandages, but he had emptied enough bottles of lotion to fill a largish casserole dish. I kept asking him what he was doing, and he just kept ignoring me, not even threatening a gag.
It took him a while to work out how to bandage my crotch and hips, but he managed. The bandages around my waist were tight enough to be a corset. He crisscrossed my chest, covering my breasts and finished off with only my hands, head, and feet uncovered. These, he just slathered in another dose of lotion.
Up to this point I just stood there docile and patient because I didn't know what he was doing to me. I began to get nervous, though, when he covered me with saran wrap.
This time, he wrapped me in true "mummy" style, with my legs held tightly together. When he released me from the stocks, I struggled weakly against him, but I was really quite helpless without the use of my legs, and gave in after only token resistance. He wrapped my arms and hands tightly against my sides. I had always thought of saran wrapping as rather flimsy stuff, but it is amazing how strong a couple of layers can be. I was cocooned and completely immobilized from the neck down. I could wriggle a little, but after he put me on my back on the bed I would have had real trouble even rolling myself over. He carried me into the living room and laid me out on a folding lounger that he brought in from the yard. A little duct tape, and I was there for the duration.
Only at this point did he tell me what he had done, by just showing me a bottle of the lotion. When it dawned on me that this wasn't just a new kind of skin conditioner, I began to struggle inside the wrappings.
"That's not fair," I whined. "The month is almost over and I will be stained by this stuff for weeks after!" I felt like when the month was over, everything should somehow magically go back to the way it was before. Silly of me, I know. My hair will be months growing back. But then, I wasn't really sure I wanted the month to be over quite yet. He explained the List to me once again. There is no fine print, no special clauses, no exceptions. Nothing about what I will look like after the term of the contract has expired. Just a list of what he can do during the month.
He took some more lotion and rubbed it into my face, neck, and scalp. Trussed up the way I was, I couldn't even wipe it off against the lounger: my shoulders were above the level of the back. I wiped a little off on my shoulder, but he just put more on.
He turned on the TV and left me there for hours. I tried to convince him that I had to pee, to no avail. He didn't believe me and told me to go right ahead. I didn't. After a while I began to feel pretty icky inside the wrappings. When I started to feel hot he just turned up the air conditioning.
When he finally decided to release me, he first made me take some tanning pills. Knowing him, it was the maximum dosage. I don't like taking pills, even though they are probably harmless (I think they are just carotene). I don't mind smoking a little grass now and then, but I don't like pills, for some reason. Even these. You would think a nurse would have more confidence in medical technology. I've seen a few doctors get in trouble over them, though.
Anyway, I have to keep up the pills until the last day. He has threatened me with a sunlamp in addition if he's not satisfied with the depth of my "tan", so he'll have me brown one way or another. I'm not going to fight it. On the last day, I intend asking if we can keep going with Column One. At least I feel that way right now.
At this writing, I'm a "nice deep" rich mahogany yellow-brown. It does NOT look natural, despite what they say about the new artificial tanning lotions. The second it starts to wear off, I just know I'll look blotchy and jaundiced. It's better for my skin than the sun, though. I think.
I learned something about myself, though. I don't know how to say this without sounding weird.
I like being "changed."
That summarizes it, but it's an oversimplified trivialization of my feelings. When I look in the mirror and see something, someone, different than what I expected something happens. The shock of seeing myself, I don't know, distorted, has an erotic (?) impact on me. I like being frightened in this way, sort of. Frightened is the wrong word. Horrified maybe? That's too strong a word.
I have been ... distorted ... by J in a number of ways since this month started. The most shocking transformation was when he shaved my head, but even seeing my face distorted by the ball gag gave me a secret thrill. The artificial tan, as I saw it gradually creeping toward darker and darker colors, made me realize what is going on in my head. Even my fanatical attitude toward makeup is symptomatic of this weirdness.
If I could experience more extreme changes--as long as they weren't irrevocable--I would do so. I'll let my mind wander through that psychological garden for a minute:
# I'd like to try having oriental eyes. I think the epicanthic fold is sexy.
# I'd like to be able to change my weight and height. I don't mean to "improve" myself, either. I'd like to turn myself into a Junoesque near-freak. How about measurements of 45-28-45 on my five foot two and a half frame?
# I'd like to try an all over body tattoo. Face and all. A pierced nostril is a must, someday, I think.
# If only cosmetic breast enhancement could be safe and reversible without surgery. I'd like to see what I could do to blow J's mind. There was a girl in my high school gym class with, well, very pointy breasts, prominent, swollen looking nipples. I thought they were attractive (she didn't). I wonder how big they could be and still look like breasts? Or how I'd look with none?
# I'd like to try being taller. Over six feet.
# I'd like to try being shorter. In a SF fantasy called "Something Wicked" by Ray Bradbury, a beautiful woman, transformed into a circus dwarf by the evil ringmaster, was "rescued" from her plight by the young hero of the story. I would like to be rescued like that. Over and over.
# I would like to try being a man, of course. Who wouldn't.
# I'd like to be covered with short soft catlike fur. And have a tail? Or snake scales. Or pupils with vertical slits like a cat. Imagine the look on the bank teller's face when I took off my sunglasses.
There was a circle in Dante's Inferno in which the punishment was having your head put on backwards. I'd like to have my upper torso put on backwards. Imagine having frontal anal sex. I would be horrified to look in the mirror, but it would be a delicious horror. If I knew it could be undone.
Am I weird, or what?
# What would it be like to have a switch that J could use to turn off all my voluntary motor functions? The ultimate bondage. What would sex be like? Total absolute submission....
# Sometimes I feel like I would like to scream during sex, it feels so good, but I am too midwestern to actually do it. What if I could be a mute, so it didn't matter if I tried my utmost to scream? I once read a Fu Manchu style mystery in which a young Chinese woman was made into a mute: the nerves to her vocal cords were severed to keep her from giving testimony. That would be erotic bondage if it could be temporary.
Are you getting the idea? Being CHANGED, voluntarily or involuntarily, is an erotically charged experience for me, and not necessarily changed for the better, either. I discussed this insight into my psyche with J at about this point. I think it might have influenced his subsequent behavior. He did things to me, erotically charged things.
At that point in time, though, the effects of this tanning regimen were still minimal. I still hadn't even seen what I looked like completely shaved, except for a weak and fleeting reflection in still water in my sink. He made sure I didn't try to use even a makeshift mirror (like the side of the toaster oven; I tried that).
After the first dose of tanning lotion I spent the afternoon in the black thong (with a wig on) and wearing chains locked around my wrists and ankles (no leather cuffs, just chains looped around and the links locked together with the little locks). I just lounged around reading. And clinking.
That afternoon as the sun was going down I went for a walk around the yard with him. We strolled and did a little weeding together, me in my thong and chains.
That evening he had me shave a second time to be sure I was smooth. He told me I was finally going to see what I looked like. Despite the fact that I was curious, I perversely told him I didn't want to see myself. Even now, days later, I feel alternately very sexy and more than a little weird about all this.
He began by telling me to prepare myself for the "other kind" of intercourse. Despite all we have been through, we both still did a kind of verbal dance around the concept.
"You remember saying how you could prepare yourself. In a special way..." he began.
I hadn't actually given him the details, but I knew what he meant. "You mean cleaning myself inside? Behind?" I said.
"Yes. I know that kind of- preparation isn't on the List, though."
"If it would please you, we can add it. Besides, if the alternative is no preparation, I would prefer to-"
"There is that to consider." My, my. So formal. Maybe we haven't left Kansas after all. No matter how disgustingly anatomical, no matter which--or how many--orifices are penetrated, no matter what glandular secretions or hidden perversions are involved, there is no situation that can't be sanitized by midwestern etiquette.
Anyway, our little exchange made it pretty clear what the choices were: I could prepare myself for what was to come or not, but it was finally going to happen. I only had control over the level of hygiene and nothing else.
So I prepared myself. J says I have to include this in the account, so I'll put it in, but I will try to describe this a delicately as possible. We're talking about colonic irrigation, here, folks. Several repeats of the procedure were necessary until I was voiding clear, clean water. Then another just to be sure. This is more than would be required by an examining physician, but then we weren't just looking, were we? I wanted to be clean. For me as well as for J. Enough said, especially for someone from the midwest. As, I've already mentioned, my mother, the archetypic midwesterner, doesn't have any bodily functions at all, as far as I can tell. My apologies to the folks back home, but I found out that in the real world people use words like `colon' sometimes. They even use their colons sometimes, Ma. Recreationally, even.
Meanwhile, back at the raunch, the next step was the obligatory ritual shower. I was clean inside and out, and as naked as it is possible to be--with the exception of a couple of chains. He had me put a matte makeup foundation on without the mirror, and a powder over that. Then, with the long tangled black wig in place, I was finished. I knew what was coming, so I put on the same "pained" eyebrows again. That look really turns me on--I think [know] it does him. Besides, it expressed how I expected to feel.
He led me out into the bedroom by the wrist chains and started with a little light foreplay and cuddling on the bed. As he got me warmed up, my mind kept focusing on what was about to happen (I was mostly worried that it would hurt) and I was caught a little by surprise when he slipped a new kind of device inside me. Another toy from chains-R-us in San Francisco; he must have spent a fortune that day. It was a vibrator, the kind with a flange at the outer end that pressed against my clitoris while the rest of it rested (later vibrated) inside me. He lifted me to my feet and had me kneel with my chest on a little bench (kind of a short piano bench) with red velvet upholstery on the top. He taped my wrists and knees to the legs of the stool with electrical tape and strapped a belt all the way around the stool and my waist so that I couldn't get up--or in fact move much at all except my head. I could wiggle my rear end a bit, though.
There was a full-length mirror right in front of my face, leaning against the wall. My breasts just peeked over the edge of the bench, and I could just barely lift my shoulders enough to see my little garnet nipple pendants. I looked pretty good in the long, shaggy wig. I could see the reflection of J's face and shoulders behind me.
I squirmed a little but the way they were taped I couldn't pull my legs together when he reached between my legs and turned on the vibrator. When he pressed it against me it was stunning. I pushed against the stool with my hips, which pressed the flange-thing against my important bits, and I could tell right away that this was a vibrator designed by a woman.
Immediately, though, I felt his fingers lubricating me for penetration. Once again, I found myself trying to concentrate on two things at once. The vibrator was doing very interesting things to me, but I could see him over my shoulder and feel him spreading and stretching me more and more. I really got into that part.
Being able to watch my own expression during this was a bit like making love to myself. Sounds narcissistic, I know. Well, it was. I make no excuses: for some reason I felt unabashedly and overtly narcissistic, and I gave in completely to the impulse. What the hell, I said. I had never watched myself in a mirror during sex before. (This is sex, isn't it?) Anyway, the looks I gave that mirror were directed as much at myself as at J.
The first look was one of pained surprise as he began to enter me. I gasped for real at the sensation and tried to push forward away from the pain.
"Wait!" I squeaked, "It's too big!" He was already being gentle, but he's a little bigger than the vibrator I had in there before. He had prepared me well with lots of lubricant, though, and was already partly inside. I can't describe the sensation of being parted and penetrated there. The anticipation when he held my cheeks apart was exquisite. I'm proud to report that I savored the anticipation and apprehension like a gourmand tasting a new dish for the first time, fully aware that there can be only one first time. I felt as though I were truly being violated, though--more so than when I lost my virginity. But it was a delicious violation. I remember a fleeting and unarticulated thought flashing through my mind:
"This time I will experience rather than endure." (Actually it was more like: "Ouch! Oops. I gotta try and enjoy it this time.")
After that I stopped thinking. I panted, taking my breath in short gasps as though a deep breath would have somehow hurt, and I cried out several times as he slipped incrementally deeper into me. He stopped and waited while I tried to relax more to accommodate his size. During the pauses he flexed (?). I don't know what the actual physiological basis for this is, but he kind of twitches and seems to grow momentarily larger inside me. It's not a motion of the hips, but of his actual organ. Anyway, I call it flexing for lack of a better description, even though I don't know of any muscles to explain it (I checked Gray's Anatomy. It was no help) and J doesn't know what he does either, but he's sure all males can do it. It is another delicious feeling--one that really helped as he continued to gently pulse his way into me.
It really is profoundly different from "normal" sex. It was a feeling of being filled up. That describes it best. It was all the more foreign and new because it is accompanied by sensations that I normally associate with being emptied. But I was being filled completely and couldn't escape it: I tried to wiggle away--and I savored not being able to escape.
Finally he was thoroughly in. I could feel his hips tight against my buttocks. I was dizzy with new sensations, but he waited until my breathing stabilized and I had adjusted to the feeling. Experimentally, I tried contracting around him, even though I was stretched to capacity and it was all I could do to keep myself big and relaxed enough to prevent it from hurting. He felt the contraction and "flexed" back at me.
I didn't think of it then, but the attitude I HAD to adopt is one that encapsulates the entire idea of bondage for me: Relax, submit to it, welcome it, and pain can become pleasure. Oddly the converse is not true: Fight it and the pleasure does not become pain. Rather, if you are clever, resistance brings you closer to the edge of pain so you can play there. Fighting it also takes away the guilt. I can still feel the guilt, you know, what with being from Indiana and all.
He let me be the first to begin moving, contracting around him and pushing with that (very interesting) new vibrator against the edge of the stool. At first I just made a few very tentative experimental movements, exploring my limits. I decided he was exactly the right size. If he had been even a fraction of an inch larger I would have been in serious pain, but he filled me completely and if I relaxed and didn't fight I could push against him and enjoy it. (Yes, I know, who could really enjoy that, you're thinking, but all it takes is a good vibrator and a very sensitive lover--one who can control his own instincts enough to help you through these critical moments. I didn't expect to do more than endure, but I ended up enjoying--sort of. I take that back. I enjoyed it, period. That doesn't mean it didn't hurt).
Don't get me wrong though: the orgasm was entirely caused by the vibrator. I could never have an orgasm from anal sex alone. Those sensations were mostly penetration, weirdness and occasional pain; it was the combination of the two with an orgasm that made it so, well, good.
I tried sort of pushing back against him and rubbing my front against the vibrator, and I began to get the hang of it. He began moving gently in response to my halting motions, but he changed the rhythm: rather than thrusting into me when I pushed back against him, he followed me as I thrust against the vibrator and helped me push against it as well, gently pinning me against the edge of the stool. As I pushed back, I tried to open and relax, drawing more of him into me as he first retreated and then followed my next thrust. So he began by moving with, rather than against me.
All the while I was watching my own face in the mirror. I have to admit that the expressions that semi-involuntarily crossed my face were a turn-on. Occasionally he would thrust a tad too hard and I would gasp and an expression of pain would cross my face (enhanced, of course, by the expressive eyebrows I had given myself). He watched for those signals and was very careful with me, but I was still completely in his hands. I would have had to accept whatever he wanted. I watched myself through half-closed eyes as my breathing quickened and I became more and more responsive. There was nothing making him be careful, but he was careful nonetheless, to perfection. He also kept me just on the edge of what I could take, now and then pushing me over by just the right amount to make me gasp again. More than once, my half-closed eyes sprang open with astonishment and a half-cry of pain escaped as the breath was driven out of me--but he had such control that it turned instantly to pleasure. He really walked the edge that time.
As I neared orgasm (it really was the vibrator rather than the other that brought me there) I wanted desperately to make great heaving motions against him and the vibrator, but every time I tried an extreme movement I caused myself instant pain. I was forced to control myself and limit my motions to little thrusting twitches which suddenly, and without my volition, became spasmodic and convulsive. I had been going slowly, not thinking about (or even hoping for) an orgasm when, without realizing it, I found myself in the middle of a big one.
My eyes widened and my mouth opened as though I were saying "Oh!" but no noise came out. The temptation of the orgasmic contractions was too great to resist, but every time I contracted, I felt pain. Even now, I don't know whether pleasure or pain was the dominant theme of that orgasm, but I do know the pain intensified the pleasure in a way that I had never experienced. I couldn't separate the two. As I say, he really walked the edge. I guess I did, too.
At that critical moment, just when I was watching my own face in the throes of pleasure/pain and thinking I looked really beautiful like this, he reached up and pulled my wig off and I saw my shaved head for the first time.
He timed this shock to come right smack in the middle of my orgasm. I couldn't stop my own powerful pelvic contractions even though each spasm caused me pain behind that forced increasingly loud gasps from my lips. I was completely incoherent from the ongoing orgasm and at the same time horrified by my appearance. I looked so bald and naked! My gasps became louder and I heard myself crying "No!" and "Don't!" and "Please!" and "Stop!" with each of his thrusts even though I wasn't thinking about uttering the safeword and that I was the one causing the pain more than he. And it wasn't only the sex and the pain I wanted to stop, it was the sight of me so naked and bald and awful. I was totally out of it, orgasmically, visually, psychologically, every way you can imagine. I reacted strongly and without inhibition to everything at once. It sounds silly to say this now, but that's how I felt, that's how I remember it.
My whole body stiffened and hardened as the orgasm peaked. I think every single muscle must have been tensed. Even my breathing was suspended. My eyes were wide and round, staring at my reflection with a kind of stupefied amazement. In fact, I really was astonished by the feelings I was experiencing. More than that, I was transfixed: my mouth was open in a surprised but silent "O" and I was straining against the bonds at my wrists and knees; I remember the tendons in my neck and forearms standing out. As the orgasm held me in its grip my body just seemed to take charge all on it's own and clench every muscle, leaving me with no voluntary control at all. I gripped him and the vibrator like a vise. I looked into my own eyes and had the distinct feeling that in some way I was making love to myself, a victim of my own needs. Even more, (it is embarrassing to admit this) that I was in love with myself. Does that make sense? I'm not bisexual, but narcissism really is a kind of homosexuality, isn't it? Hey, at least it's sex with someone I love....
Finally I realized I had been holding my breath. As I tipped over the edge and began sliding down the far side of the climax, a surprisingly loud cry escaped and I expelled the lungful of stale air I had been holding. I began breathing again in great gulps and gasps.
After we were through he inched his way out slowly and carefully. I was grateful for that. I was almost sorry to feel him finally leave. I felt emptied. Depleted. He turned off the vibrator, unbuckled the belt around my waist, and cut my wrists free, leaving the scissors for me to free myself the rest of the way. While he was in the shower, I just stared at myself in a daze.
I am normally in a daze after a "session", but this time I was dazed by the way I looked as much as by how I felt. I just stared mindlessly for quite a while. Finally, I shook myself out of it and cut my knees free. I sat on the stool for a few minutes, peeling electrician's tape off my skin and trying to get my head together before getting to my feet. I felt a bit wobbly. I was still wearing those chains, but other than that, when I stood in front of the mirror I was completely--and I mean completely--nude. It was quite a shocking sight.
I'm sorry to dwell on this, but it's the biggest thing that's happened to my body since I reached puberty and grew tits. I really look different. So very, very naked.
Words like nude, exposed, hairless, bald, shorn, and shaved all come to mind, and I know I keep saying this over and over, but these words just don't capture the feeling of being totally naked everywhere and from all angles. I don't know how to express it. It just wasn't me in the mirror. I turned to the side to see what I looked like. Still in disbelief over my appearance, my hand crept up to touch my scalp, half checking to make sure it was really true, still hoping it wasn't. With the hand mirror, I looked at the back of my head. It is so white and smooth and round--even paler than the rest of my skin, which was quite pale, even after the first treatment with tanning lotion. It isn't lumpy, like some bald men's heads are; it is a perfectly featureless dome, front, back, and sides. Somehow that makes it look even more naked. I usually think of my earrings as minor accessories, but without any hair they suddenly have become a major aspect of my facial appearance. They used to be hidden by my hair.
This may sound odd, but I looked at my nipple rings and thought, "Well, at least I still have those." Stupid, I know, but for some reason I was reassured by the thought of them as the last vestige of the "old me" even though I should logically regard them as the earliest symbols of the "new me." Maybe I just think of them the only part of me that hasn't been taken away. Jesus, I don't know. I don't know what to think.
J came out of the shower and stood behind me with his arms around me as I looked into the mirror. I asked him how he could possibly like the way I looked, and immediately felt an erection growing against my back. I guess I really don't need more of an answer than that. It turns him on. Even though I hate it, aspects of it turn me on, too. The embarrassment, for example. Every time he does something I think I hate, he reminds me that what I am feeling is, ultimately, embarrassment, and then he asks for it as a gift. He asks me to let myself feel it, let it come out. For some reason, that diverts my feelings of resentment into something that becomes erotic. Usually. I don't know.
Over the previous few days, I had come to assume that it was the simple visual impact of my hairlessness that turned J on, but it seems it's more complex than that. What was just as important was that he knew I was stunned by what he had done to me and would be shocked again when I saw myself for the first time. My mental state was at least as important to him as my physical appearance, and the expression on my face (frozen there during my orgasm) had expressed exactly the mental state that turned him on so.
During that session J had been holding back out of concern for the tenderness of my previously inviolate rear portal, but something about the way I looked in the mirror at the moment of my orgasm (he later said) caused him to lose control--although I wouldn't have known if he hadn't told me. As I came down from my orgasm I ended up just panting and staring at my face and head in the mirror. I still had kind of a shocked and surprised look on my face: after all, I had never seen myself with absolutely no hair before. Perhaps I shouldn't mince words. I was (am) bald. Absolutely naked bald. (I know, I know. I'm going on about it again...) Anyway, as I knelt there staring at myself, quivering and twitching slightly, I felt him grow larger and harder inside me. He began very slight but very powerful and restrained stroking inside me and came almost immediately. That was him "losing control" as he put it. What he means is he couldn't stop having an orgasm, not that he lost all regard for me.
Our "usual" frontal sex normally takes more effort than that on his part, but this time, it took almost no stimulation at all to bring him to a climax. I asked him about it later. He said it wasn't having sex "that way" that did it. It was the way I looked--the expression on my face--during and after my orgasm. I guess the brain is the real erogenous zone. It must be. How else could wet dreams happen?
This really interested me, so pay attention. I quizzed him (insofar as it is appropriate for a slave to quiz her master) on exactly what I looked like to him, and what it was that did it for him. He was turned on by a combination of things. First was the idea that I was so surprised and unable to control what was happening to me. I really was surprised, but I deliberately used my face to express that surprise far more explicitly than I normally would have. Somehow that's a really important lesson for me. Of course the feelings themselves are most important to us as human beings, but in the process of human communication, appearances are at least as important as the feelings they convey.
Actors watch themselves in the mirror to judge whether their faces do a good job of communicating what they pretend to feel. The average person doesn't bother to do this, and so doesn't communicate as well, even when the feelings are genuine. That's a stupid thing of me to say: of course, that's why they pay actors to do what they do.
The bottom line is this: I suppose you could regard my facial expressions as acting and therefore deceptive, but I was only playing around with really showing well what I was actually feeling. I MADE my face LOOK the way I FELT. In so doing, I realized that it normally doesn't reflect my feelings accurately. Doing this was a visual turn-on for ME, too.
Is it phony if you have to become an actor to show what you really feel? Uh Oh. I feel a quote coming on ...
"Truth and Myth are the same thing ... you have to simulate passion to feel it, ... man is a creature of ceremony."
Sartre, I think
I don't know what came over me that night after my first experience with this new kind of sex. I felt very odd. I was in an erotic mood but I didn't want to have more sex. I did something I normally would never have thought I would do: I went and got the plastic torso and put it on. I mean voluntarily. I don't know why, it's such an anti-erotic thing to wear.
I showered first, and conditioned my skin, and then got the torso and locked it in place, even though J had the only key. I put it on over charcoal sheer-to-the-waist pantyhose. I have to plan ahead when I put that carapace on: I had to put my boots on before the torso, because with the torso on I can't bend enough to put them on easily. Then I sat for what must have been an hour or more putting on my makeup. I know it would have made a lot more sense to put the torso on last, after the makeup, but I didn't want to. I really don't know why.
Putting on makeup is a reassuringly familiar occupation that I do without thinking; it is almost a kind of meditation. I made myself look as artificial as the plastic covering I was wearing. Kind of a doll-like, with crisply defined eyeliner and pencil-thin arched brows (totally unexpressive, as though I were a doll made up for a kabuki play) and lips painted to look like a cupid bow. I even put on false eyelashes, something I haven't done in ages. With coverup I made my skin flawless and smooth as the plastic, and I even redid my nails in black to match the torso. I finished myself off with the long, tangled black wig. The mirror over the sink opens out so you can see yourself from three sides. Seeing myself from the side, motionless, I looked like a department store mannequin, my makeup was so heavy.
Don't ask me why I did that; I don't know. J realized I was in a strange mood and left me to myself. In fact, he even cooked dinner, something he does rarely and only out of deliberate choice these days (that is, while we're doing Column One). Usually I cook.
We ate in silence. I wasn't mad at him, or anything, I just was in a quiet mood and I kind of retreated inside myself. He seemed entranced. I sat there with the erect posture that the torso enforces, eating like a cadet in the mess hall during hell month. He almost forgot to eat himself he was watching me with such fascination. It was a bit distracting for a moment, but I retreated to my own interior and forgot about him while I ate.
After dinner, I rose to do the dishes and he stopped me. He told me to relax and read a book or something--he said he felt like doing the dishes. Just to let him know I wasn't mad, I answered, "If you're sure it pleases you, Master." I noticed distantly--almost indifferently--that the M word slipped out naturally and with no vestige of giggly embarrassment on my part. It just seemed like the right thing to say. A part of me was faintly interested in the observation that this could happen to me, that I could refer to him that way without thinking about it.
I was in that detached, floating mood again. I felt that nothing could touch me unless I wanted it to. Maybe I was disassociating myself from reality, but I actually felt more in touch with everything--just less concerned about it. I wandered aimlessly through the house while J rattled dishes in the distance.
I was standing in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom when he finished the dishes and came to stand behind me. I was looking at myself the way one might look at a stranger, and wondering what I would think of that stranger if I saw her in public dressed this way. Face it, the only place would be in a floor show at a bar where they catered to the leather crowd. Freakish, but sexy.
I really do look ... well ... regal ... with my chin held up so high. I'm forced to have the posture of a queen. If I had that kind of posture naturally, people would think I was an incredible snob. I appear to be looking down on the world, and it doesn't really come up to my standards, and I haven't decided yet if I'm going to stay here. I don't feel that way, but if I look at myself objectively, that's what I see.
And the sleek black plastic is very flattering from the front. Whenever I move, the locks rattle against the sides of the torso; the lock dangling in the space between my legs is somehow especially sexy. Well, you'd have to see it to know what I mean.
I still can't tell you why I put on that particular outfit. I guess I just felt like throwing myself completely into ... this. Sort of an offhand, almost careless impulse.
It's hard to describe my feelings at that moment. I felt sorry for myself. My old life seemed so distant, and I had lost so much. Indiana seemed very far away. I wondered idly if I clicked my black leather heels together three times and said "There's no place like home... there's no place like home..."
Sorry, Auntie Em.
They all dress this way in the merry old land of Oz.
Normally I would have laughed at the thought, but for some reason I had this maudlin, self-indulgent certainty that I wasn't going home again. Metaphorically, I mean: not back to the way it used to be.
The thought penetrated my armor plate and a single tear plowed a furrow through the mask of my makeup. I wasn't feeling particularly strong or deep emotions--in fact, it felt as if someone else was feeling them for me, and I watched her in the mirror almost curiously. As I say, I don't know what came over me. Childish sentimentality, that's all it was. Here I was, with J, careening through the List and having the most profound sexual experience I could have hoped for, and I was feeling sorry for myself.
That one tear seemed to have an effect on J, though. It's not like I was crying or anything; it was just the one tear. My face remained unchanged--not even a quivering lip. (My lips really do quiver when I'm about to cry.) Still, he turned all solicitous and felt he had to do something, so he took off the torso. Crying means so much more to men than it does to women. They always feel they have to DO something. It's sweet, really. Totally clueless, they are.
It was a relief to get the torso off, actually, even though I had put it on myself. I can kind of settle into it and forget how much more comfortable it is possible to be without it. The relief is a surprise, in a way. He carried me into my bedroom and took off the pantyhose and boots and put me on the bed. He said to tell him if I wanted anything. It was sometime after ten, and I was feeling tired anyway, but I couldn't sleep. I could hear J getting ready for bed.
I got up and removed all my makeup, the wig, everything but the nipple rings (I don't want the holes to close up). I lit a candle rather than turn on lights (it just seemed appropriate) and went into J's bedroom and stood in the doorway. I said his name, faintly.
"Master?" Okay, so it's not his name, but that's what I said. And not in a subservient way, either. I said it naturally, as though it were his name, not a title.
He wasn't asleep. I couldn't see him in the darkness beyond my candle, but I know he could see me, standing there in the candle light as naked and bare as the day I was born. I felt like a little girl going into her daddy's room after a nightmare for reassurance. He told me to come to bed with him, and to close the mosquito netting over the bed's alcove.
The candle light made the bed a cozy nest. It was just nice...I don't know if I can even explain why I'm writing about this part. It just made an impression on me--almost as much of an impression as when he shaved my head. The feeling of security was something I needed very badly at the time. Of course that's what I went in there for, and J knew that instinctively. He almost always gives me what I need (not always what I want). I think he was expecting me to come in, though. I don't even know why I did. That day had been an interesting one. The sex was a completely new barrier we had broken through, and I am still inwardly proud that I got through it--and I will look forward to it when the time comes again. I don't think it was the very best sex ever, but it was so different as an experience that it's a matter of comparing apples and oranges anyway. It was good. Really good. I'm glad he made me do it.
The next day, J was gone for the morning. He left me alone at the house and I had the whole morning to myself. I gave myself the artificial tanning treatment (I was getting noticeably darker by the third treatment, but I think it is primarily the lotion; the pills shouldn't have kicked in yet, according to the directions.) and I worked on this account for three or four hours. I was (still am) several days behind. He had left me unchained, unconstrained physically in any way. Except that he had me pack my wigs and all my clothing except the harem outfit and the thong in a small bag for him to take with him. My credit cards, checkbook, and bankbook were with my other clothing. He left me my car keys, though. Nice touch, that. How far would a bald girl in a harem outfit (even with a black thong under it) get with no money? I suppose I could wear a bed sheet and chant Hare Krishna. I need a tambourine.
I have given my scalp extra applications of the tanning lotion to try and even out the color difference between my scalp and the rest of me. I also did a bit of very careful sunbathing (sunscreen assisted). As I have said, I normally avoid the sun, but my scalp has NEVER seen the sun and is still very white. I tan so easily, a couple of days at five or ten minutes a day should do it. I didn't really want a tan, but it's a nice experiment. I would have liked to just kind of neutralize the bluish color that very pale skin has, but I obviously got a tan, sun or not. Well, maybe not obviously to you, but from where I'm sitting today .... Actually, I look pretty good with a tan.
When he came home I was exercising on the weight bench in the garage, wearing the black thong and perspiring heavily. When his car pulled up I went out to meet him. There must have been something about seeing me all sweaty and pumped up that had an effect on him: he opened the bag on the spot and handed me a wig to put on. I got on my knees right there in the grass and asked if I could talk with him.
I don't like being free to leave, especially when I look the way I do. I used to ask myself a thousand times a day "why don't you just go?" and before I could always answer "because I'm chained here." Now the only answer I can give is that I am too embarrassed by my appearance, so I feel guilty for not leaving. Embarrassment isn't a dignified reason for staying.
Kneeling there, I presented him with a rather confused manifesto in which I told him I didn't like this new chainless arrangement. I thought he was giving me too much freedom, and suggested that he was trying to end the List and possibly our relationship and was he tired of me?
He explained that he didn't leave me unchained to give me freedom. He felt I was even more constrained than I had been before, even though it was fear of public embarrassment rather than chains that keep me here. He's right, too.
He brought me home some more of the sheer cotton material and told me to make a robe for myself. I later knocked together a kind of monk's habit (do monks have habits, or is it just nuns?) with a cowl and long sleeves with big cuffs. Transparent, so it's not quite as chaste as your average monk's habit. He didn't want anything to obscure the view, so I couldn't make it wrap around like a bathrobe. He wanted more of a button-up sheath. I only had four odd buttons in my sewing box, so I used those. Still, it's the most comfortable thing I have for around the house while he's gone. I feel dressed anyway, sort of.
That evening before dinner he gave me a present. He'd had them made by a jeweler in town. I don't know what to call them, really. Nipple cages? Imagine a conical cage made of silver wire. The base of the cone is a circle of wire the diameter of my areolas. There are wire struts supporting a tiny hook that hangs down inside the apex of the cone. There are bits of filigree where the struts are joined to the base. With the bases resting on my areolas, my nipple rings hook to the apexes of the cages so my nipples are held out in little points inside the conical cages. They are quite charming with the garnet pendants hanging from the tips, and the feeling is exquisite--in short doses. I worry that they will do some kind of damage if he leaves them on me too long. Perhaps make one of my nipples evert permanently. It would be wonderful if I could be sure both would evert, but I would rather be symmetrically inverted than have one "outie" and one "innie."
But they are sweet. He gave me some tiny bells, too. Actually, they're not so tiny, they just sound tiny. In fact, they are amazing and I have no idea at all how they work. They are small, very light- weight silver-colored spheres less than an inch in diameter. They emit a kind of tinkling chime when disturbed, even when you hold them between your fingers. That's the amazing thing: you can't dampen the chiming noise by touching the outside. There are no openings or seams. I can't figure them out, but he has superglued them to pearl pendants in place of the pearls and they can hang from my nipple rings. They are absolutely delightful. He says he got them in a flea market. They are a novelty called "faerie bells" or some such thing. So now I tinkle.
I wore the bells dangling from the ends of the nipple cages during dinner. Tinkle, tinkle.
After dinner, I tried something different--something I wanted to do before the routine with the tanning lotion changed me too much. Actually, I was probably unnaturally pale before, anyway, but whatever. I had about average coloration at that point.
I tried a new concept in makeup. I painted big artificial blue 'baby doll' eyes on my eyelids, with large false eyelashes glued on my upper eyelids, and painted-on lower lashes, with thirties-style eyebrows. I also painted on very artificial cupid-bow lips and over-rouged my cheeks. I covered my nipples and navel with round patches of surgical tape (the kind that looks a bit like tissue paper) and covered it with makeup blended into my skin. I made myself look as much like a department-store mannequin as possible. Nipple-less, navel-less, expressionless. Blonde wig.
When I came out of my bedroom he wasn't looking in my direction, so I stood stock still in a department store pose with my eyes shut and my hand on the back of the sofa for balance. I was completely nude. I don't know how he reacted, if he was startled, or what. I bet I looked like a mannequin, though. He didn't say anything.
But he did something. To me.
He led me into the bathroom and sat me down at my makeup table and removed the makeup from my face. Then he stood me in front of the full-length mirror with my wrists in straps over my head. I thought at first he didn't like what I had done and was going to punish me for it in some way, but I was wrong. He took more of the surgical tape and taped my nether lips together, covering my sex completely. He blended more makeup into the surrounding skin; I already was hairless down there, but he made it look as though I was sexless as well.
"What are you going to do to me?" I asked. This question has become almost a formula with us. No matter how nervous I am about what he's doing to me, I'm not supposed to ask it, and I always do anyway, and his response is always disciplinary.
This time, it was adhesive tape over my mouth. Securely over my mouth. I tried to open my lips after a while, and couldn't. I watched while he cut little ovals of tape and put them over my eyes, one at a time, taping them shut. He was thoughtful enough to protect my eye- lashes from the tape with a bit of kleenex, but my eyes were taped securely shut. Then he reapplied the makeup job on the outside of the tape (I figured this out later as I was taking it off and cleaning up): Cupid-bow lips, big baby-doll eyes with false lashes, the whole nine yards.
He put cotton in my ears, held in with beeswax. I had only two operating senses: touch and smell. He put a drop of sandalwood oil on each shoulder and somewhere on the tape on my face, and for the next few hours, that was all I could smell.
When he unhooked me from the ceiling, I was completely disoriented, and would have fallen if he hadn't supported me. I felt very odd. He put me on the bed with my wrists strapped together and held over my head at the headboard. I could have gotten the tape off my face if he weren't watching, but he had too much of an advantage. When I tried to reach my face with my hands, he pulled my ankles until my arms were extended above my head again.
Then he made love to me. I turned my face blindly from side to side, trying to figure out what he was going to do next, but he kept surprising me. During the foreplay he used partly-melted ice cubes, feathers, clothespins, a snap with a leather shoelace here and there. I screamed several times under the tape. Each time I was rewarded with a loving kiss on the offended spot, or a stroke of an ice cube.
He peeled the tape off my nipples. Slowly. That was excruciating. Then off my nether lips. Likewise. I was pretty excited by that time. I can only imagine how I looked. Later when I took off one eye patch, I realized I must have had a vapid, vacuous, and silly but expression- less appearance no matter what I was feeling behind that mask.
More foreplay with the ice cubes on my nipples and nether lips. During my second orgasm (almost always the best) he had me on top and he slipped an ice cube into my behind. I was too far gone at the time to even protest, but it was a terrific orgasm--the second became a plateau from which the third orgasm launched. I don't know how to put it, but it was like an orgasm on top of (added to?) an orgasm rather than two consecutive ones.
I know, ice cubes are probably tame stuff for you. It was new to me, though. I realize now that this entire List must seem like the inexperienced fumbling of a couple of virgins. I haven't really experienced any serious pain (except that gag is still a killer). Spanking is on the List, but I don't think J is any more interested in inflicting pain than I am in experiencing it. Besides, spanking isn't real pain either. I came close to some serious stuff yesterday, though. I was really afraid. I'm coming to that.