The List - Part 9

We made love the following night after what must be the strangest conversation on record. I'll try to reconstruct it.

On his instructions, I had prepared myself with the usual shower, shave, conditioner, makeup, wig, etc., leather cuffs and collar, too.

Now, don't get the wrong idea when I tell you this, because I still hate having my head shaved, but it's done and can't be undone except by many months of waiting. Shaving my own head now just delays regrowing it one more day, so it's not a big deal. If that seems I'm being too logical and unemotional, that's not true. I do feel emotional about it. If I could have my hair back right now, I'd do it, List or not. But I can't, so I am experimenting with this new look--just for a few days--before Column One is over and I can start growing it back. So what I'm trying to tell you is that when I shaved, it was an erotic experience. It still is. After a shower, I shaved my underarms and legs (I didn't need depilating). Then I covered my scalp with his fluffy white shaving cream so it looked like I had short, white hair. I "revealed" myself with the razor. Don't ask. I can't explain. When I read over that last paragraph it doesn't capture the eroticism of becoming so extremely naked, but for me it is an erotic process.

Anyway. Back to the tale.

He had lit two candles in the bed alcove and was waiting for me. He just started right in with the foreplay. I was unable to get into it, even though preparing myself for sex is always a turn-on for me. Anticipation is half the game for me. I don't like spontaneity. Surprises, yes, but I have to know that he has thought them out well in advance and planned the things he does to me. I like my spontaneity to be well planned.

But I just couldn't get into the foreplay. The worst part was that he knew it--and he seemed to be expecting me to have trouble, too. He was even pleased, I think.

"What's the problem," he said. He had that smug smile that says "I already know the answer to this question." I hate that smile.

"I don't know, Master," I said, knowing perfectly well.

"I think you do," he said, knowing perfectly well I knew.

"No, really..." I said, pretending I didn't know anyone knew anything.

"Why did you put on the cuffs and collar?" he asked. Good question.

"I thought you might have wanted to use them ...?" Stupid answer.

He just looked at me.

"Would it please you if I put on something else?" I asked, trying to change the subject. Stupid question.

He just looked at me some more. I was floundering. I could see he didn't believe me.

"You wanted to be bound. Admit it."

"No! Really! I don't know what it is with me tonight," I protested. "... Master," I added. "I just can't seem to ..."

"You can't seem to get into it because this is 'vanilla sex,'" he said. "Admit it."

Of course it was true, but I couldn't admit it. I thought it would spoil it if I admitted I liked something that I was supposed to be fighting every step of the way. It takes away an essential ingredient of bondage if you don't fight it, and you can't fight it if you admit you want it--especially to yourself. Can you?

"We've reached another milestone here and you just haven't realized it yet," he said. "The illusion that you are resisting me is your last fig leaf. I'm not going to allow you even that shred of dignity. Tonight I'm going to make you admit you want everything I do to you. I'll even make you beg for more. You'll voluntarily give up even the illusion of resistance.

Drawing on my fine command of the English language, I said nothing.

He got out that wonderful little vibrator and put it in me and chained my wrists to the bedposts. While I was squirming on the bed he ran ropes through the eyes in the ceiling and pulled my ankles high in the air and wide apart. My rear end was nearly pulled off the bed. He went to work on my rear opening with another lubricated vibrator, beginning by working his fingers into my opening until I was relaxed enough to accept it. With nothing to press against, it was hard for me to stimulate myself. My squirming became more and more frantic. I remember thinking that this isn't exactly going to wrench a confession from me. I just got hotter and hotter. He pressed against the front of the vibrator, helping to bring me closer to a climax. He watched me very closely, alternately pressing and waiting, pressing and waiting. I came to the very edge of an orgasm. I was teetering at the very top, panting and heaving. I held my legs straight. My thighs were quivering, I flexed them so hard trying to come.

"I'm not going to let you have an orgasm until you beg for it," he said. He took out a small bottle and held it up. "This is an oral anesthetic. It is benzocaine--not clove oil. It lasts just a few minutes. Every time you get close to an orgasm, I will put a little more on." It was the same anesthetic I had used earlier (ages ago) to suppress my gag reflex. I knew it would work perfectly on sensitive membranes--that's what it's intended for.

I watched in dismay as he took out the vibrator and put a dab of it on my clitoris. He massaged it in, and put a liberal dose on my labia. After a couple of applications, I could barely feel him touching me at all. By lifting my head I could just see the tops of my nether lips. They get kind of swollen when I am turned on. In fact, they were engorged and dripping. I could literally feel moisture trickle between my legs. But I couldn't feel my clitoris; I couldn't feel anything. I watched him put the vibrator back between my numbed lips. He pressed it solidly against me, and I felt the vibration in my hips, but I was too numb to feel the vibrator itself. He kept watching. I was still panting, still very turned on, but groaning with disappointment every time I strained to recapture that edge.... After a few minutes he took a washcloth and wiped my clitoris free of the anesthetic, but I was still numb.

"I can keep this up all night," he said. "Or, I could wash off the anesthetic, gag and blindfold you, and tie you suspended from the ceiling. Which would you rather?"

"Ceiling?" I said.

"Look up. See the extra rings?"

I did. there were several new eye-rings in the ceiling. I had noticed them already.

"I will put a harness on you--one you haven't seen yet, and suspend you from the ceiling by it. You will be floating above the bed, blindfolded, gagged, and spread-eagled. And you won't be able to stop having orgasms.

"But you'll have to beg me for it. You'll have to convince me that you want it."

He was still pressing on the front of the vibrator. I was beginning to feel it again. I tried to keep from reacting: maybe I could steal a secret orgasm. I wasn't exactly on the edge, but I could just barely see the beginning of an orgasm peeking around the corner when he took it out again, suddenly. It was almost a shock for the vibration to stop. Then he put it back in. He took nearly a half hour of teasing to bring me to the edge again. With the control over me the anesthetic gave him, it was much easier for him to keep me on the edge. He kept me quivering for another fifteen minutes, letting me rest just enough to keep me from exhaustion, but not enough to let me cool off.

"Alright!" I said, finally, just as he was opening the bottle again for a second dose. I'd had enough.

"Alright what?" he said.

"You win," I said sullenly, "you were (pant) right."

"About what?"

"Me," I said. Pant, pant.

"Say it."

(Pant-pant, calming a little) "I want to be tied up," I said flatly. "I get off on it." I didn't sound convincing even to myself. Its easier to tell an unconvincing truth than it is to tell a convincing lie. Did you ever tell a truth in an unconvincing way because you didn't want it to be believed? Even though it was true, I couldn't make myself reveal the truth, so my answer sounded like a recitation read from cue-cards. I didn't mind him knowing I liked bondage, I just thought it was degrading for me to have to tell him.

"Not good enough."

"Please! What more do you want? I've admitted it!"

"Admitting it's not enough."

"But this is torture," I wailed.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes! No! I don't know what you want!"

"I want to be convinced. If it's true, convince me. If it's not, say so and I'll stop, untie you and put you in a nice comfortable bed."

"But I said it's true! What more do....Oh No....!" My protest dissolved into a wail as he put more of the stuff on me.

"Now we'll wait for it to take effect," he said.

[Editorial insert: Actually, he didn't put more on me, he just pretended to. He told me after reading this account that instead of waiting for it to take effect he was waiting for me to cool down a bit. We went through several cycles of this, with the pretense that he was anesthetizing me: sometimes he really did, sometimes not (I think); he won't tell me if he really used it again or not. It was really the power of suggestion that did it to me. That, and a little Anbesol. I guess this is Just another mindfuck. Well, the brain is my second favorite organ.]

So I squirmed and cried in frustration while I became numb for the second time. And a third, and a fourth. Each time, using both vibrators alternately and in concert, he brought me to the edge of a climax--and each time he pulled me back again. The last time, I was covered in perspiration. The bed was soaked, and my wig had come off. My eyes were stinging from the salt and makeup. I can't remember what my exact words were that finally convinced him, but they WERE heartfelt in the end. I literally begged. If I could have gotten to my hands and knees and kissed his feet to show my sincerity, I would have. I wanted release from the torture. I wanted it to stop and I wanted that orgasm. I had earned it. As I say, this may not be an exact transcript:

"Please! No more!" I wailed. I thought I was exhausted after the first dose, but by now I had been through four. "I'll do anything! You're right! I want to be tied up! I have to! I want to be used--I want to be filled to overflowing! I don't even WANT an orgasm unless you force me to have it. I can't- I need it that way. I need to be gagged and blindfolded! Please! I'm begging!" And so on, with lots of crying and panting in between. Actually, even though I wouldn't want you to think I wasn't incoherent (say what?), I can't really remember what I said. Whatever it was, it convinced him that I was sincere: either I had gotten to the point where I sincerely wanted him to stop even without giving me an orgasm, or I wanted one so badly I would say anything, or I really was telling the truth about preferring bondage to straight sex. He had no way of knowing. Actually, it was all three.

Anyway, he freed me. Rather than suspending me like he had promised or giving me my promised orgasm, he told me to get on my knees on the bed while he stripped (the vibrators were still inside me) and take him in my mouth. After just a few false starts, I was able to take him all the way down my throat without gagging. I'm getting pretty good at that. The vibrator in my rear tended to gradually slip out as I worked on him, and he told me to hold them both in while I brought him closer and closer to an orgasm. I still can't have an orgasm easily while kneeling. It helps to flex my legs and straighten them, but I couldn't.

He came in my mouth. He had before, over the last month but not when he was actually down my throat. The first spurt went deep down my throat and I swallowed it reflexively. I caught the rest in my mouth. He hasn't ever told me I have to swallow it, but over the last few weeks I have gotten used to the taste--and the idea. I looked up at him to see his reaction, (looking up was a deliberate infraction of the rules, but what did I have to lose?) and swallowed. He didn't say anything, but I know he knew. I lowered my eyes again. I figured that ought to win me a few points with him.

I was incredulous at the time, but he actually made me wait until the NEXT DAY for an orgasm. He could have made love again in a few minutes, or even have used the vibrator on me, but he made me wait until the morning. I was kneeling in front of him after I had swallowed, and he bent me over and took the rear vibrator out. He told me to roll over on my back, and he took out the other one. I was SO sure he was going to finally give me my orgasm then ... but he didn't. He told me I would have to wait until tomorrow. My nether lips were swollen and my entire pelvis felt congested and uncomfortable. He waited--and watched--while I got ready for sleep; then he locked me to his bed, both hands to a long chain at the head, one ankle at the foot. I could almost (but not quite) bring my arms down to my waist if I straightened my leg and scooted up to the headboard. I tried after he was asleep. I spent a fairly miserable night, although we went to bed early and I did finally sleep. The next morning he got me up before dawn.


I had cooled down by the next day, but he left instructions before he went to work for me to prepare myself for him. You know the routine. Shower, shave, conditioner, makeup, etc. This time, though, no clothing. Not a stitch. Starting at 5:30, I waited, reading, in the living room.

He took me into the bedroom practically the minute he got home and started right in putting straps and belts and constraints all over me. He put a strap around each arm above the elbow and locked my right wrist to my left elbow behind my back, and vice versa. What followed was a bewildering array of straps around my ankles (held three feet apart by a stiff pole locked to my ankle straps), thighs (upper and lower), and neck (a stiff, high collar that had three buckles to close it in back). There were straps around my chest above and below my breasts, a very wide one around my waist, and two straps that went from the front of the waistband (leaving my sex exposed) under my crotch to join a single wide strap that buckled to the back of the waistband--but only after he had put another device in my rear. This one was a surprise. It was a while before I figured out what it was.

Before buckling the back of the belt, he told me to sit on the bed. He rolled me over and lifted me to a kneeling position with my face and shoulders resting on the bed and my rear in the air, legs held apart by the pole between my ankles. With my arms behind me, there wasn't much I could do to resist. There was no foreplay. He just lubricated his fingers and started loosening me, preparing me for something. When I saw it, I was nonplussed.

"What's that?! What are you going to do to me?" Contraptions make me nervous, especially when I don't know what they're for.

"It's on the List," he said. "Trust me." Well, it is on the List, but only technically.

The 'horse' had been on the List, too: two dildos at once. That was stretching the intent of the List to the limit. I couldn't make head nor tail of this, though. It looked like a very large condom on the end of a small-diameter rubber hose.

"But Master, if it pleases you, I don't remember anything like..."

He gagged me. This time it wasn't that horrible rubber ball, but it was still a gag. It was a kind of ring that went in my mouth, held in with a neck strap. The ring just held my mouth open--that's all, just held it open. Sounds simple, but I couldn't make an intelligible sound to save my life. It was humiliating. And I know I must have looked like a drooling idiot with my mouth hanging open.

I relaxed a little, though. He wouldn't gag me if he was doing something that required feedback to avoid hurting me. He inserted the condom-thing into my rear, poking it gently but fully inside me with his fingers--I was left with a rubber tube hanging out of me. He buckled the crotch strap of the 'chastity belt' (unchastity belt?) in back, holding IT (I'll tell you what IT was in a minute) inside me.

Then he blindfolded me and started the real show. I was already trussed up pretty securely just lying there on the bed, but he was tying ropes to the rings on the various bits of leather harness that held me. Soon, I felt myself being hoisted: at first it was just my feet being lifted. Then my shoulders and waistband. Step by step, he hoisted different parts of me up over the bed until I was hanging, suspended, like a kind of horizontal puppet. I was very disoriented, but I'm sure my head was higher than my feet, and I know my legs were held spread apart even after he took off the pole that held my ankles.

I was well supported everywhere. There weren't any real pressure points, and my circulation was fine. It was like sitting in a swing, sort of.

But something was happening inside me. The device he had put in my rear portal was doing something, seemingly on it's own.

I twisted my head blindly from side to side. "Ah ah oh oh!" I said. Ha-ha. Very funny, I know, but you try saying "What are you doing?" without being able to close your mouth. I was feeling VERY strange down there. The sensation was one of being filled, but from the inside. It was a warm feeling, but oddly familiar. When I finally figured it out, I realized he was filling the condom inside me with warm water through the rubber tubing. The sensation of being filled increased (and increased and increased). I felt much fuller than I ever had with anything else that had been in there. Packed, in fact. Not stretched the way a dildo would have done, just full. My breathing and heart rate began to increase. I guess that technically it was a water-filled dildo?

Meanwhile, I could feel him putting on my nipple cages. That feeling really is exquisite.

Then he entered me. I could feel his hands on my hips, steadying me. He was standing on the futon between my legs. I felt a slow stroking motion--I think it was me swinging back and forth rather than him thrusting. Maybe both. I really felt I was floating above the bed, though. Floating and full. (Will she resist the temptation, you ask yourself.) I think not:

Floating, full, and f****d. Heh heh.

Is that the first time I've used the F word? Shame on me.

I won't bore you with the rest. I had a few orgasms and lost all sense of orientation in the process. I might have been weightless for all I knew. The most interesting thing was that I was free to try to move in any direction but still constrained. Hanging free, unable to touch anything, but still completely trapped. I couldn't have hurt myself no matter what I did. Like a fly in a spider web. And I like the feeling of being filled--but this way is a little kinky for me. He drained me, freed me, and that was that. Sorry to be so brief about it, but I don't want to dwell on it and you are probably tired of gratuitous sex anyway.

We talked about it afterward, and I found out he had considered leaving the condom inside me. At first I was horrified--didn't he know sea turtles die that way? Digestive systems plugged with party balloons? He had put a rubber band around the condom to hold it onto the tubing, but as a safety measure he had passed a piece of string under the band and knotted it around so the condom wouldn't be lost inside me even if it slipped off the tubing.

Then it occurred to him that if the tubing was slipped out deliberately, the rubber band would close the condom and I would still be filled by the condom but unable to expel it; a simple tug on the rubber band would expose enough of the condom that he could burst it with a pin. Which I wouldn't be able to do unless my hands were free. Clever, clever. A little technical for my taste. I'm glad he didn't do it. I think he (correctly) figured what he had done to me was weird enough, even though the newspaper, coincidentally enough, said it was National Condom Week.

Now there's a parade you don't want to miss....

But I had told him (under duress) that I wanted to be filled up, so I can hardly blame him for being weird. Still, it was weird. But who am I to criticize anyone for unnatural practices. And no, it would not have felt more "natural" if it had been a sheep intestine condom. Despite what the ad on the package says. More natural, hah. For certain guys in certain parts of Tennessee and West Virginia, maybe. Give me artificial any day.

Less than a week to go and the month allotted for his turn at Master and mine as slave will be over.


It started raining heavily while I wrote down the preceding entry. I went outside and stood in the rain for no good reason. You know, one of those tropical downpours where it just pours down vertically and the trees bend under the weight of water on their leaves. My muslin robe was plastered to my skin. Good excuse for a hot shower and some conditioner, followed by a nice cup of tea in my robe, fresh out of the dryer. Luxury.

There has been a lot of rain this Spring. The plants in the garden are loving it.


I'm still catching up on these entries. He was on holiday last week, so we spent a lot of time together and I couldn't write. Since he went back to work on Monday, I've been able to write up the events of last week. It's Wednesday now, and tomorrow evening is the end of my month. Or his month, depending on how you look at it.

Yesterday (Tuesday) I asked him if we could continue for a while longer. I have been "bottoming" for a month now, and I have thought a great deal about Column Two. I have decided I am not temperamentally equipped to "top." (Will ya listen to me? A few weeks ago I had never heard the term "bottom" and now I are one.)

He turned me down flat. He thinks that the List should be sacred--if we start bending the rules, the bottom won't know what he/she can depend on anymore. I suppose that's true, but still, if both agree... He also thinks that a month straight (perhaps 'continuous' is a better word) is enough. Maybe he's right there. I think I would like to do this on special occasions rather than continuously. But I don't want to stop just quite yet. The month has been delicious. Still, I think if both agree, it ought to be alright. He just won't agree, so I guess we won't go on.


J told me to prepare a special meal for Tuesday night. And to take special care in preparing myself. He wanted to be surprised. I must have a pretty poor imagination, because the only thing I could think of to do was to try out the harem costume I had made. I am almost ashamed of it now. When I decided to make it, it seemed so appropriate to what we were doing, but it seems like such a juvenile fantasy by comparison with the things we did subsequently that it was a cliche before I had a chance to try it out.

But I went through with it, so I'll put it down here. I think that the only two ideas I have contributed--the harem dance and the raggedy-anne eye makeup--were imaginative failures on my part. J rescued the makeup idea and made it interesting by taking charge; he is too kind to say so, but even I find my ideas mundane by comparison with what J has done. I take that back. Suppressing my own gag reflex with an anesthetic was a stroke of genius. It was also the product of a twisted mind, but genius nonetheless. And the forest goddess--that was my idea too. Maybe I'm not so dull witted. Anyway, I would rather be the one that is entertained, rather than vice versa.

I intended to treat J like a king that night. I cooked food that I could feed him by hand, a morsel at a time, and I dressed the part of a harem girl. To go with the outfit I had made, I had bought a cheap Indian silver belt that kind of drooped down in a kind of decorative v-shaped chain mesh loincloth, and a necklace of the same mesh. I had wrist and ankle bangles and rings on my toes and fingers and a (fake) ring in my nose. I was looking pretty dark and Persian by then anyway, thanks to the tanning lotion. My makeup was perfect and elaborate: slanting Persian eyes, rouged nipples, a jewelled navel, a beauty spot, a veil, obscenely long, fake nails, a black wig like a huge wild mane, jewel hanging in the middle of my forehead, sandalwood perfume, da woiks.

I waited on him hand and foot from the moment he walked in the door. I bathed him, put conditioner on his skin, rubbed his back, served him drinks and stuffed him with hors d'oeuvres. I lit incense. I lit candles all over the house. I turned on exotic music and danced and wriggled (and jiggled) circles around him. I stripped as I wriggled, removing everything but my pendants. The wig came off last during the grand finale. When the music finished I prostrated myself at his feet (well, next to the sofa since that was where he was reclining, sultanesque) and asked to beg a favor of him, in the approved slave-like manner.

I asked quite seriously to be excused from column two. I offered to let him do anything to me if only we could go on a little more with column one instead. I offered to let him put a ring in my nose--through the nostril or (even more kinky) through the septum. He hasn't done anything that is permanent to mark me as his. Tattoos were on the List, but he didn't make me get one. I offered. I had prepared a long mental list of things he might want to do to me, and as I babbled my way through this list, he sat in complete silence. When I finally ran out of words and faltered to a halt he remained silent. Finally, I told him he could do anything to me that he wanted. Anything. Still no response.

I really don't know what else I could have said or done.

I think I may have irritated him a bit by going on about wanting him to continue "topping." Finally, he told me to stop trying to discuss it, and that Column One would be over on schedule as agreed.

I protested that I had been begging abjectly like a good slave should and it wasn't fair to stop me. That was dumb of me. Obviously a good slave would have shut up when told to do so. He told me he was going to punish me for mouthing off, and he did.

I think he did this to make me WANT Column One to be over.

He locked the ball gag on me and led me into the bedroom where he told me to sit in a half-lotus position. We took a yoga course together (one night a week for nine months) and we are both pretty limber, although not as limber as the teacher. She was incredibly flexible but a little too much into eastern mysticism for our taste. It's hard to find a yoga teacher that doesn't debase the discipline by mixing it with some mystical cosmic theory involving universal truth, beauty, peace, harmony, virtue, and vegetarianism. Yoga could be defined as exercise corrupted by morality. That's not why we quit, though. We enjoyed it despite the incense and ceremony. Maybe I'm too midwestern. I hate to keep blaming everything on my upbringing. Maybe this time it was good old-fashioned narrow-mindedness. But just because I'm narrow-minded doesn't mean the mysticism wasn't bullshit.

So anyway. There I was in a half-lotus and J strapped my shins together so I was stuck that way: right ankle on top of left knee, left ankle beneath right knee, two belts wrapped around several times and buckled. Then, in some kind of weird symmetry, he strapped my forearms in a similar position behind my back.

I guess you could call it the corruption of yoga by immorality?

He left the bedroom to get something; I thought he was going to leave me that way for a while but he came right back. He flipped me over on my face so that I was "kneeling" with my rear end in the air at one end and resting on my chest, shoulders, and the side of my face at the other end. Talk about awkward and degrading verging on painful. He got the hot water bottle and a collection of rubber hoses out of the bathroom. I figured he was going to give me a repeat routine like he did before with the water-filled condom, except this time he inserted two hoses into me, one with a condom, one without.

"You said I could do anything to you. Anything at all," he said. "Lets see if you still feel that way tomorrow."

He sat me back on my hips again and began filling the condom inside me just as before. I could feel it expanding.

When it was full, he tipped me over onto my chest again and removed the tube from the condom, just as he had considered doing the last time. The water-filled condom was inside me, acting as a kind of plug. It was held closed by a rubber band with a string tied to it so it could be pierced and drained later. For now I was plugged. There was no way I could expel anything that large. He tipped me back again so I was sitting on my rear in this enforced half-lotus position, and began filling me through the second tube. As I became fuller and fuller I eventually became unable to hold my stomach in any more. I had to relax and let my abdomen distend under the water pressure. My stomach protruded and filled my lap. The hot water bottle was suspended four feet overhead and I couldn't prevent the flow by pushing back; neither could I stop the flow by clenching my rear opening: the tube would not collapse.

Before I became uncomfortable he stopped the flow, took out the gag and unstrapped my legs. It took me several moments of intense pain and whimpering to straighten my legs after being in that position for so long. I thought he was through with me, that this was all he was going to do, but I was wrong.

He stood me up, strapped my ankles close together so I could only take the tiniest of steps, and locked my arms to an overhead chain. I watched while he taped a loop of the water tube to the flange of a vibrator and put it inside my sex with the tube between my clitoris and the flange. He taped it in place. Then he moved a chest of drawers nearby. I didn't know what the hell he was doing. Then he started the flow and turned on the vibrator.

"What are you doing to me?" I asked.

"You can stop the flow by pressing the vibrator against the edge of the chest of drawers," he said. He put the ring gag in my mouth. At least it wasn't the ball gag again. I began filling up.

After a while I began to feel uncomfortable and pressed against the tube, which transmitted the vibrations directly to my clitoris, but it stopped the flow. Something gurgled in my abdomen and the discomfort disappeared, but I continued to press lest it return.

As I pressed against the tube I tried to ignore the vibrations. I discovered I had to press quite hard to stop the flow. After about ten minutes I was unable to stop the orgasm and while I tried to regain control of myself I began filling up again. I went back to pressing but had another orgasm after a few minutes. That was the last one I had that night. After a while the vibrations just got so tiresome I had to step away and let the flow continue unhindered.

I watched my stomach slowly distend to become a belly. It grew until I began to look pregnant. I kept looking from my stomach to J, trying to ask with my eyes when he would stop it. >From time to time I made little incomprehensible mewling noises, not really trying to talk, but expressing my growing discomfort. Several more times I began to feel uncomfortable but each time my stomach gurgled, the discomfort passed, and the flow continued.

I know that the length of the tube was too short for the water pressure to do any damage, but I finally felt so big and heavy I had to let out a moan. He let it go a little longer. I couldn't tell if the water pressure had equilibrated with the pressure inside me or if I was still expanding, but he finally stopped it and took out the tube. I had been clenching to prevent any leakage around the tube, and after he had removed it I still tried to stop the humiliation of the water leaking out and running down my legs. But I needn't have worried. I couldn't have expelled the water if I had tried to, plugged the way I was.

He took off the gag, freed my ankles and released me from the overhead chain. With my arms still strapped behind my back I couldn't reach the string between my legs, but I was free to walk wherever I wanted. Immediately, I went to the bathroom, but I couldn't expel the condom or the water. Not a drop. I had a pee, though. It didn't help. In the mirror I looked like I was about four or five months pregnant. I felt incredibly distended and all I could think about was getting the water out of me; of course I was powerless to do so. I felt so ungainly and bloated. I couldn't even walk naturally with my abdomen distended that way. I waddled back out of the bathroom to confront him.

"My God," I whimpered, "what have you done to me!?"

I started begging him to let the water out. He left me that way, though, and actually made love to me in that condition. I suppose I should say he used me to satisfy himself: I didn't get much out of it. He just sat me on the edge of the table in the living room and penetrated me while he stood between my legs and I lay back on the table waiting for it to be over. At least he didn't put his weight on my abdomen. I didn't have an orgasm, and he didn't seem to care.

When he was through with me he freed my arms. I cradled my stomach in my hands and started to rush to the bathroom.

"Wait," he said. I stopped, but didn't turn to face him. I just stood there shifting from foot to foot, wishing I could get back to normal. "You're beautiful when you're worried, too," he said. I tried to regain a measure of composure, steadied myself, and turned to face him. I still held my abdomen in my hands as though it were fragile enough to burst. "Okay," he said, releasing me.

In the bathroom, I pulled gently on the string until I could puncture the condom with a nail scissors. The condom emptied quickly and so did I. I'm sorry if I can't dress this up and make it sexy and entertaining, but I didn't feel very sexy or entertained myself. I had told him he could do anything he wanted to me, but I think (hope) he chose to do this to me in order to get me to change my mind about continuing with him as top. Or maybe J has better associations with this sort of thing than I do because he has a prostate to be stimulated. Maybe a pretty nurse gave him an enema once. Ask Freud. I was not turned on by it.

Okay. I endured it, I wrote about it. I consider myself to be pretty liberal on most issues. I don't think anything is so obscene that it justifies censorship but this, to me, was pretty gross. I felt ... well, defiled.

I define obscenity as whatever produces an erection in a judge. At least I felt that way up to now.

I'm not so sure I feel that way any more. Maybe what J did to me was obscene. Maybe he meant it to be. I concluded that if he were to continue as top, I wouldn't want to explore that particular avenue any further. Maybe that's why he did it. I probably gave him the idea anyway when I cleaned myself out for anal sex. But I don't want to do that scene again. I don't.


He made it up to me the next day, though. I guess he wanted me to know how good it could be if we followed the rules. When I say good, I mean it was the best ever, and the scariest. Earlier I said he brought me to the edge of serious pain. Well, this is it.

By Wednesday evening I had started to turn a quite dark shade of brown from the tanning lotion. Quite dark. He still had me putting it everywhere. My scalp, my face, in my ears, everywhere. I think the pills are starting to kick in, too. It is starting to stain the bed sheets. They'll be ruined unless it washes out. Those in his room were a disaster after the scene I am about to describe.

I had just finished rubbing in my third dose when he had me sit on the edge of the bed and buckle on the waistband of the leather (un)chastity belt while he put on knee and ankle straps with a pole to separate my ankles. Then he locked my wrists to the back of my collar and doubled me over by chaining my knee straps to the front of the collar. This exposed my nakedness completely. He arranged me face down on the bed on my elbows and knees with my rear end in the air and then chained my collar to the head of the bed and my ankles to the foot.

[NFTF: I still can't believe I'm writing down what we did, sometimes. Sorry to interrupt, but the thought just hits me from time to time.]

Then he spread my knees and tied them to the sideboards. I was unable to move in any direction, couldn't roll over, couldn't do anything but kneel there with my bum in the air and wonder what would come next. He began loosening my rear end, this time with a massage oil.

I really get into it now when he manipulates me with his hands. He knows exactly what to do. He is able to masturbate me as well as I can myself when my hands are free. Of course he teases me instead, but he is as familiar with my body as a violinist is with his instrument. He can be almost casual about the way he turns me on.

I don't know if you've been able to tell, but over the last month I've become pretty docile about what I will let him do to me. Sure, I fight it, but my struggles have become a matter of ritual--on occasion fueled by real apprehension, but the List really has protected me from anything approaching serious damage. This night was different. I was straining to see what he was doing behind me, twisting my head left and right as he prepared his latest entertainment. When I saw, my apprehension became fear.

Several times in the past, I was punished for some infraction of a trivial rule that was made up for no other reason than as an excuse to punish me. Sometimes I was little rebellious, too. Now, he does these things to me without feeling the slightest need for a pretense. It isn't punishment anymore, it is just for his own pleasure. Or fascination. I can accept that, too. Except this time he was stretching the point--literally and figuratively.

Finally, I saw what he had been preparing me for.

"You're not going to put that in me are you?" I squeaked. "Master?" I added hastily. It was an enormous dildo. Or it looked enormous to me. Up to now, he was the biggest thing that'd been inside me there, and he isn't made of hard unyielding plastic. This- this thing- was appreciably bigger than he. Words like monumental spring to mind. Heroic. Legendary.

I began struggling and protesting, but even when I threw my weight against the straps it did nothing but tip me from side to side a bit. I couldn't even fall over, and I certainly couldn't straighten up.

He loosened me some more, but I was finding it difficult to cooperate. I continued my futile struggles. The SIZE of that thing was all I could think of. When he started it in, I knew I would have to cooperate as much as I could, and I tried, I really did. I stopped struggling and tried to relax. He spread my cheeks and I relaxed enough for it to get started, and at first I thought I could stand it. It was tapered a little. But just as I thought I had taken the whole diameter, he edged it in a little further and I gasped a real gasp.

"Its too big," I cried, "I can't take it! It's stretching me!" I strained forward away from it, renewing my ineffectual rebellion, but the way I was tied caused me to just lift my rear in the air more. I couldn't wriggle away. I kept begging him to stop, but he just waited until I settled down and adjusted to the sensation, and then he continued to insert it. I cried out again. I was being stretched open to the point that I almost wondered if I would be damaged. I know intellectually that the human body is very resilient. People have checked into the ER with much bigger (and more interesting) objects than that inside them (a small bust of Mozart, for example, but that's another story. You can imagine the bad puns about music lovers gone bust, etc.), but I wasn't able to intellectualize this. All I knew was that I was being invaded, it was too big, I couldn't expel it, and I couldn't stop it.

When it was finally in all the way to its flange, I felt extremely fragile, stretched to the absolute breaking point, and very, very full. He buckled the crotch strap in back, holding it securely inside me. I couldn't do anything about it with my hands locked to my neck. He unchained and untied me from the bed so I could straighten out. I couldn't sit up. It would have damaged me. Probably not really, but it certainly felt that way.

Well, some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust within them.

[Note from the Future--but not very far in the future: he told me a few days later that he had showed me one dildo and inserted another smaller one. Still, the one he DID use was as big as he is--and quite a bit less forgiving. I guess this was what some folks call a mindfuck.]

He took off the separator pole but left my wrists locked to the back of my neck. It took some slow and ginger creeping about on my part before I was able to stand up, and even then I could walk only with great difficulty, slightly doubled over. He put the tiny chain between my nipple rings and led me by it into the walk-in shower in his bathroom He didn't turn on the water; he massaged more oil into every crevice of my body. He even worked it under the belt that held in the dildo.

In the bathroom mirror my completely hairless, brown, oiled body was quite a sight.

He attached a fine chain--actually a necklace--to the chain between my nipples and used it as a leash to lead me out of the house. It took only the slightest tug to lead me wherever he wanted to take me. For one panicked moment I thought he was taking me to the car (I would have had to go), but he just led me on a stroll around the yard like a pet being taken for a walk. I walked--almost hobbled--haltingly behind him. I was doubled over slightly, trying to keep from being stretched unmercifully by the dildo. And the nipple leash.

It was sunset after a light rain and the atmosphere in the yard had that luminous greenish-yellow cast that sometimes comes for a few minutes when the air is clear and fresh and the sun is near the horizon behind the trees. The grass was wet under my feet and glowed with the intense green of new spring growth; the woods around us were dark and smelled of wet leaves. The air was still and comfortably warm, and it was too early in the year for mosquitos. We smelled the flowers and he picked two purple azalea blossoms and tucked one into each nipple ring: in the twilight and against my golden-brown skin they seemed to have a fluorescent glow.

All these sights and smells were just as intense as the emotional uncertainty, the apprehension, and the full, stretched physical sensations I experienced as he led me around the yard. I gasped sharply from time to time as my nipples and my distended rear portal alternately claimed my attention.

There is a small grassy path that leads down to a little azalea-bordered glade in the woods. It really is lovely: the azalea bushes are as old as the house (more than fifty years) and are monstrous. Earlier, without telling me, he had spread a big blanket on the ground in the clearing, and it was there that he led me.

While I stood in the middle of the clearing, he took off the tiny leash. He knelt in front of me and took off the ankle and knee straps, and then stood to release my wrists from the ring at back of my neck. My hand went to the strap between my legs that held in the dildo, but he took my hand in his and guided it to his sex. I could feel he was rigid inside his pants. He told me to undress him. I did, kneeling as gracefully as the device inside me would permit, and taking off his sandals and pants.

When he was naked he knelt beside me and helped me to lie back on the rough wool blanket where he unbuckled the belt from my hips and pulled it gently away. I was wearing nothing but the collar and the enormous device inside me.

Gently, he lifted and parted my legs, and with excruciating slowness, he entered me. I spread myself further, welcoming him. His lovemaking was particularly tender, perhaps because these are the last nights of our scheduled month, perhaps out of consideration for the device inside me. Perhaps it was just the mood set by the azaleas surrounding us and the glow of the sunset.

Together we climbed lazily from plateau to plateau, seeming to wander aimlessly from one sensation to another without searching for a climax. It was a languid and unhurried journey. We built to the slowest, sweetest, most tantalizing crescendo. At some point he rolled us gently and put me on top so he could manipulate the thing inside me.

It was as though he were leading me at exactly the pace he wanted, waiting, hesitating on the edge of a precipice, approaching the abyss from every angle without plunging in. Normally an orgasm is something I strive for; this one we both knew we could have together any time we chose, so we delayed, teasing ourselves, looking into the depths and pulling back again and again, staying near the edge longer and longer with each visit. Finally, we looked into each others' eyes and knew it was time. We both smiled secret little smiles with just our eyes and then turned inward together to look down into the depths and wait hand in hand on the very edge for it to come to us and take us together.

We both knew that if either of us so much as twitched it would set off a landslide and carry us over the edge together. Still we waited, looking into each others eyes and knowing together about this secret interior world we shared. Finally a little surprised gasp escaped me and I went out of focus, falling away from him into the depths, but that tiny gasp pulled him over the edge with me and we were falling together. We didn't lose control, we just didn't bother keeping it. Instead we just fell together forever. Somewhere far above me I could hear someone crying out. It might have been me.


Okay, so I got carried away writing that, but it was the best orgasm I have ever had, bar none, so I'm entitled. I didn't do it justice, but that's still the general idea of what it was like. I can see why the french call it the little death. I remember thinking fleetingly how foolish it is to TRY to have an orgasm. They're so much better if you just let them happen. Imagine if a symphony orchestra's objective was to reach the end of the music rather than to concentrate on playing the other bits. Kind of defeats the purpose, and yet sex has been so goal- oriented for me. "Achieving" an orgasm is subtly ingrained in the way I think and it is a hard attitude to change. Obviously, I'm working on it.

Afterward, we were a long time recovering. Or maybe we were just enjoying the floating sensation that comes after. See? There I go again. It wasn't really over, was it? We had just passed a crescendo in the music, but the music was still going on. IS! IS still going on. Sheesh! You could miss your whole life just by not paying attention.

The sky, the azaleas, the treetops, everything seemed to be bathed in the same afterglow I was experiencing. Eventually, I wobbled to my hands and knees and after a while stretched languidly the way a dog does on all fours. He ran his hand down my back to the end of the device and touched it lightly, moving it just enough to make me react again.

Eyes closed, I waited on my hands and knees with him lying next to me on his side, head propped on one hand; he watched my face closely while he slowly removed the thing from me. I concentrated intently on enjoying/experiencing everything as he inched it out, fully aware that he was watching me. I savored every millimeter of it, and rather than just taking it out he helped me, reading every gasp and shudder, every bitten lip and arched back, every sudden breath, every movement. He has always known that the journey is far more important than the destination. I shuddered through several aftershocks and when he came to the end, the suddenness of it slipping completely out left me twitching and contracting on my own with no stimulation other than that of my own mind. I was so far gone I wasn't sure if it was even out of me.

I collapsed onto the blanket and he cuddled and stroked me while I settled back down to earth. I ended up sprawled face up on the blanket looking up at the stars coming out in the evening sky. After a while he clipped the tiny necklace-leash to my nipple-ring chain again and we got to our feet.

After he led me back into the house he told me to dress for him while he cooked a light dinner. I held everything I have up in front of me in the mirror, and nothing looked right with my dark brown skin. The white cotton outfits (the robe and the tight-fitting one) looked wrong. The thong was too artificial. A moment of inspiration and I had made a g-string-like loincloth out of twisted scraps left over from the cotton robe. The white looked great against my darkened skin. He thought so, too. Eating dinner at the oak table with candles and formal silverware while dressed that way was a turn-on, for some reason. I almost wished we could do it at a formal restaurant just to see the look on the other's faces when J led me in on a leash. Of course I wouldn't really... unless I could be sure we wouldn't get arrested. I wonder how I would look in a fig leaf? There is a fig tree in the yard. I ate with my fingers, just for effect.


This will be my last entry. When we were making love yesterday (Thursday) evening, it was vanilla sex and, although I didn't realize it, it was exactly (to the hour), four Thursdays ago that we started Column One. He rolled us over so I was on top and said, "Time to start column two," and that was that. I mean, we went on to have our vanilla orgasms and they were all very nice, I'm sure, but it was clear that it was over at that moment.

I wish the final episode in this little drama could have been an erotic Gotterdämmerung, but it didn't work out that way. If you want an orgasmic Ride of the Valkuries, read the last part again and try to imagine how it was for me.

I suppose that I don't have to even make any more entries, since the chains are off now, as it were, but I'll finish this one. After that, I suppose J will be the one making the entries if I can bring myself to do it to him.

Now I can safely admit that I skipped the last two days of tanning lotion (okay, so I lied in my last entry), and I have been scrubbing my skin raw to get it off, but I still look brown-yellow. I haven't even started to look blotchy yet. It'll be a while before I can go out of the house, even with a wig. It'll be a week before I even look like Sinead O'Connor.

I am still not ready for this topping business. I'm afraid I'll ruin J's image as my Master. Or my image of him as my Master. Also, after J's little trick with the condom, I'm not sure I want to continue as bottom either, unless we work out a new List and stick to it.

I feel like I should say something profound at this point, but I'm not a profound person. Mostly I feel pretty silly. I know myself a little better now, but maybe it is only the shallow that can truly know themselves anyway.

I could quote someone ELSE profound if I could just remember who said it: "Young girls already know all about love--it's only their capacity to suffer for it that grows." Except that this hasn't really been suffering for me.

I don't know if I have lost J--or the person I thought was J, or what. I think I might leave him if he doesn't have the strength to keep me. I also might leave him if that last little condom trick of his was a glimpse of the real J rather than a mindfuck. I haven't figured that out yet. If he did it because of himself rather than in spite of himself, I'm history.


Note from J:

I found this note on the kitchen table yesterday. I have added it to the end of this document because it explains itself. Two weeks have passed since we finished "Column One". Shit.




I am leaving for a while. It isn't because of the last month. I liked it--almost every minute--probably more than was healthy for me. It was the two weeks after we finished that got to me. I guess I just need a dose of reality. Funny, but the last two weeks have been the unreal part. That scares me a little. I feel like I am convalescing from a disease that I would rather not have had cured. There is an empty place in me and I haven't decided whether it is best left empty.

I'm going to visit Connie and see her kids. After that I don't know, but I'll try to call. I took a wig and two suitcases. The rest of my stuff is in my bedroom. Will you keep it for a while?

I should have gotten a job at the hospital. If I come back I will have to, no arguments.

Love, M




End of the List - Column One, but not the end of the journey.