The List - Part 10

Comment: Column Two of "The List" is a a collection of experiences and thoughts, and not in chronological order and as detailed as Column One.


I'm back. (in a deep, Schwartzenegger-esque voice, with sunglasses)

S.F. is a pretty neat place. Almost worth chucking it all for. I'm surprised everyone doesn't want to live there. I could probably get a job there easier than J could, given what I do. Maybe someday I'll go there and help them do the offbeat things they get away with while even managing to act as if it were all perfectly normal. Start an all-night yoga clinic or something. You laugh. There would be competition.

I'm NOT going back to Indiana. My home town is proof that Hell is full and the dead walk the earth. Besides, it's easier to be kinky a long way from home. Hmph. It's easier to be liberal when you're a long way from my home.

Even Chicago was better. At least there was something happening all the time. Most of it unsolved.

Anyway, I like the South almost as much as SF and a lot more than Chicago. You don't have to shovel water. And I like J a lot more than I thought I did when I left.

So anyway, I'm a top now. Sort of. I got my feet back on the ground over the last month, and decided that J wasn't so gawdawful weird after all. He's still adamant about me having a shot at topping, and I still don't really feel constitutionally suited to it, but I'm going to do it. When I decided to go back to J I called and told him I needed some money if I was going to top him. For toys. He sent it to me, so I'm back, and loaded for bear. As they say. In fact, we got started on Column Two when I got back, but we had to stop when I pulled a groin muscle, even though it wasn't mine.

... If you have just jumped in, this will seem like an extended non-sequitur to you. I'd better explain a little. To be very brief, I was a bottom for the very first time last Spring. Not that I had ever been a top. It lasted a month by prior agreement with J, and the things he did to me we also agreed upon by way of a negotiated two-column list (The List) broken down into paired items. If he did to me something listed in column one, I could do the corresponding thing in column two to him and vice versa. So I guess this is about to become an account of column two. Except that this time, I can write it my own way. He proofed, edited, and controlled what I wrote--or should I say what he had me write--for column one.

I left J because I thought he had gotten too weird; the things he was doing to me. Since then, I've thought about it a lot and decided I was just a little slow to adapt. He's okay, really. I hope I wasn't too hard on him when I left. I really do care about him.

So anyway, I went to San Francisco for a few months. We midwesterners don't change our attitudes very readily, but I can certainly say that I got my prejudices rearranged.


If you've read The List, Column One, you'll understand why I'm pleased to report that I don't have to wear a wig any more in polite society. My hair hasn't grown back completely yet, but I dressed a little punk for a while (although I'm really a little too old to carry it off. Okay, okay, I'm 28. But I read at the 35 year old level.)

And I didn't look too out of place in the better parts of San Francisco. I'll get a job any day now.

My pubic hair is a problem, though.

IMPORTANT SAFETY TIP: If you want your pubic hair to look normal, don't use depilatory. I used it regularly for that month, and it didn't grow back right. I almost might as well have had electrolysis. It was weeks before it started to grow back at all, and nearly three months later it is still so sparse you have to look twice to be sure I have any at all. If this is permanent, my next gynecologist is in for a treat.

Seriously. After three months. I have about 15 hairs down there, and they are thin and only 1/2 inch long. Thank God J didn't let me use it on my head.

I kept the nipple rings, though, and got a nostril pierced. So tell me: Am I an exhibitionist? I like the way I look, but I've been hit on a lot by guys lately. Is there something about a pierced nose that says, "Hey! Guys! Available broad here! Loose morals! Nymphomaniac!" or what? Men seem to think that it means I will automatically sleep with them or something.

So what changed? Is it the nose ring? Or do all men insist on treating the mons veneris as though it were Mount Everest, just because it's there? I lost some baby fat while I was traveling; maybe I look better thinner, (read more attractive to men), even with short hair. Although my tits lost weight, too, I'm gaining it back.

Having gotten back from SF, I decided to try topping. I take that back: I didn't decide exactly. I knew I would have to, so I did. I am not well suited to this at all, especially with Jay. I could bluff and play the tough broad with anyone else, but it's harder with Jay. I don't know how to say this in such a way that you will be able to understand: lots of folks talk so much about switching roles you make it sound easy. His role is as my protector. I don't want to dominate him. I want to care for and cherish him. Love, honor and obey. All that stuff. Which I vowed to do ceremoniously, intentionally, deliberately, at our wedding. The judge was surprised I wanted that obey part in there. But that's another story.

Anyway, I'm not going to go through Column Two in a hurry, like J did Column One. "Slave for a month" is on my List, but I'm just going to browse through the other Items one scene at a time, when I feel like it. Maybe I'll use my month a weekend at a time. Not knowing where to start, I thought about the overall problem of showing him what it's like to be a woman and decided I would do stuff that would head in that direction.

I try to keep him chained, locked up, etc., while doing this stuff to him, not because I can't control him--although I couldn't, if he were even half trying--but because I assuming he's like me. I kept my dignity largely by believing I had no control, so I was absolved of responsibility for anything that we did. "He made me do it." Maybe his mind doesn't work the same way. Whatever.

Meet The New Me:

So anyway, I'm back. That's what I said to him. I got back on a Saturday afternoon, and he came to the door when I knocked. I dropped my pack on the ground and just stood there for a minute in the sun, looking at him. It was dry and hot as hell and I had left Houston the previous morning. My car was dusty, I was dusty, my jeans were dusty. I was wearing a dirty white tank top and some very beat up down-at heel boots with duct tape on one. I'd lost weight and had developed some muscle definition in my arms. Haircut like a man, pierced nostril, sunglasses, suntan, and an attitude.

"I'm back," I said. He told me I looked pretty good. I did. "You my bottom now?" He nodded. "Run a bath," I said.

He looked at me for a second longer, picked up my pack. "Now," I said. He gave me a sharp glance, nodded, and turned to go into the house. That was as long as the Nouvelle Moi lasted. I screeched and jumped on him piggy-back and wrapped my legs around him and bit his ear.

I had planned on being a proper top, at least for a while, playing the same game with him that he had played with me, distant and aloof and tough. One minute. That's how long it lasted. But I was really hot for one minute. Then pfft. But I made him sit at the tap end of the tub.


When I finished, I had him shower; then I put ankle and wrist straps on him and locked them together. Wrists together, ankles together, naked on the bed. Candles all around, on the bedposts, on the bedside table, on the shelf, the floor even. I stretched him across the bed, hands chained loosely at the headboard, feet at the foot. I didn't think ahead: if I had I would have covered the bed with towels to avoid ruining the sheets. As it was, I had to kind of push a towel against him as I worked over him.

Then I put the ball gag in. This was the scariest (and the sweetest) part. And the part that, for some reason, it disturbs me the most to tell.

I wore just my black bimbo-boots with the four inch heels for this. Thought I'd give him a treat. I look pretty good in them. Well, I could tell he thought so, anyway.

I was very tender with him. Motherly, almost. As though he were a patient. I scooted up beside him on the bed and cradled his head in my arms and held him close, supporting him against my breast.

I placed the gag gently against his mouth. Jay looks up at me with this puppy-dog expression that says "Anything you want to do. Anything." Total trust. Suddenly I don't feel like a nurse anymore. I realize this is play: I can be what I want as long as I don't hurt him. I feel like a goddess dispensing a sacrament. Holding the gag against his lips, I might as well have said, "Take this and eat, in remembrance of me." That's the embarrassing part.

It was an ego thing. I was suddenly benevolent and forgiving, caring for a fragile mortal that worshiped me, looking down at him, holding him, controlling his destiny if I wanted. He was mine, all mine. I felt an unbecoming and certainly unladylike sense of power, maybe like those Hollywood socialites that kept a panther on a leash years ago. They controlled a powerful, dangerous animal, with gentleness and subtlety, and probably felt compassion for the animal that they had taken freedom from.

I tightened the chains so he was stretched out full length. Then I shaved him.


Intentionally, carefully, I avoided any hint of the sense of humiliation and embarrassment that I felt when he had shaved me months earlier. (Don't get me wrong. It was erotic humiliation when he shaved

me. And later, well ... in retrospect, if there wasn't such a long recovery period, and if I didn't want to keep my job, I'd do it for him again. Or let him do it to me. Whatever. But I'd have to think about it.)

I held myself against him while I did it, stroking his body with mine. I dangled my nipple pendants against him. I caressed him with the razor, using skin conditioner as shaving cream and working in little patches rather than covering him all at once. And I kissed every inch of him, testing with my lips for stubble as I worked him over. Over him. Whatever.

I sat astride his chest, my boots against his ribs and, pressing my--nether self?--against his abdomen, I shaved his face. He had just shaved in the shower anyway, but I did it again, just for the chance to be near his face, to work (and kiss) around the gag, and look into his eyes, searching for reassurance, giving it to him, showing my concern. Looking for the slightest hint of uncertainty. And I dispensed a little goddess-like compassion and tenderness as well.

Stroking his cheeks with the backs of my hands .... I wanted to show him how I would like to be treated. The next time. But I was still a goddess, in complete control and not about to relinquish it, no matter how sad and sympathetic I felt, no matter how sorry I was for what I was going to do to him.

It became an ego thing for me. That's the first shameful admission. I let myself go; I felt this sense of power so strongly and with such confidence that I could afford to be benevolent, compassionate, a benign goddess. But a hypocrite, because compassion should have made me release him, and I didn't. My eyes filled, I wanted to take care of him so much. And he saw my expression and looked at me like he was concerned for what I was feeling. He wanted the gag out to reassure me. He didn't know why I got teary and thought it might be something bad. I felt fine. I stroked his forehead and brushed his hair back and told him No, no, hush, it's alright, and kissed him some more. But I didn't take the gag out, didn't release him.

I shaved his chest, his underarms, the tops of his feet, the backs of his arms, even the backs of his hands--fingers too-- and his legs. I nicked one of his knuckles, just a tiny nick, and sucked on his finger until it stopped bleeding. I turned him over and shaved everything I had missed, his bum (Oh, his bum. Like an adorable ripe little apple...) and finally, (of course) I turned him back over to do his naughty bits. I (reluctantly, but firmly) had to pull his knees apart by tying them to the sides of the bed. Well, I didn't HAVE to, but I did. I don't know if he felt as embarrassed as I did, first time in that position, but I blindfolded him first, the way I would have wanted to be.

Tch, tch. The way my mind works. _I_ blindfolded HIM so HE wouldn't be embarrassed by what _I_ was seeing. I don't blame you. Trust me on the ostrich principle. If you think your midwestern bottom will be embarrassed right out of the mood, blindfold, blindfold, blindfold.

For me, though, by candle light, it was nice; I stood with hands on hips, considering him for a moment. In my imagination I was an ancient goddess (Jesus, this is embarrassing to admit) for whom a sacrificial victim had been ceremonially left, and I was ritually preparing him for my own pleasure. They seldom survived an evening with me, the poor things. Even though I knew I was role playing, I really felt that sense of power, just letting go.

Long before I started shaving his naughty bits he had an erection that looked ready to explode if I touched it. I went over him so slowly and carefully that there wasn't a single additional nick on his body, and I especially didn't want one Down There. I did him twice There, feeling carefully and thoroughly through the conditioner for stubble, not wanting any to scratch me. Maybe I felt a little too thoroughly for stubble. I teased him a little, I'm afraid. After all, he was mine.

Not one to waste such occasions, as soon as I finished shaving and damp-wiping him, I jumped on and had my way with him--still as lovingly as I could (with the tenderness that one should show toward a woman). I left my boots on, though.

And I whispered in his ear that he was under orders not to come until I did, or else, and he didn't. Or else what? I have no idea; he did what I wanted for some reason other than fear, obviously. What was I going to do? Strike him with lightening?

I used him to masturbate, slowly, as I like it. When I was through, I didn't tell him it was his turn. I never gave him permission. This was cruel of me (heh), but I tried to make him come even though he was trying not to. It didn't take long. I wish I could write this from his perspective, the way Column One was written from mine, but I can only really tell you how I felt. And I prefer to imagine how he felt anyway, because it makes it more erotic for me, and I'm the one that gets to be selfish in Column Two. This was good though, very good. Better than I thought it would be. And I started out shaving him because I really just didn't know what else to do. I started out nervous, hoping I could pull it off without ruining it, and ended up playing the part of a goddess and really getting shamefully immersed in it.

That is my shameful thing.

I try to be kind when I deal with people, but indulgent, benign, forgiving benevolence is different. It has always infuriated me in others. It assumes superiority. It presumes inferiority. It seems to say: "I Know I'm better than you. I Know I'm Right, and you, you poor dear thing, haven't a hope. I pity you, and I forgive you for being pitiful. And forgiveness is such a respectable sentiment you don't have the moral right to resent me."

The compassion, the teary eyes, the extreme godlike tenderness, it was all acting. The working out on myself of sentiments I didn't really have. I can't fake tears, and I didn't then: I really felt those emotions, but it was because I wanted to, not because they came spontaneously. The indulgent mother- superior benevolence was what was genuine. The compassionate sympathy wasn't. The feeling of power and control was genuine. So powerful I could afford to be kind and sweet and gentle as a throwaway emotion.

Anyway, by the time I was through, the only hair on him was on his head and eyebrows. He didn't even think of flinching when I went for his genetic future with a razor. If he had I would have stopped the whole scene. The whole column. That was one of my litmus tests of his trust.

We showered together afterwards. Before I go on, I should tell you, this evening's festivities were intended as an experiment as well as entertainment for me. As part of my overall strategy, I wanted to determine what his absolute limits were. How many orgasms could I force him to have? The reason is that if I eventually get it all together and create a female persona for him, I don't want her (HA! I got one of those in. IloveitIloveit!) getting an un-feminine erection part way through the process and ruining everything from his psyche to his panty line. So the plan was to sexually deplete him thoroughly, totally, and completely. By whatever means I could manage, bar none. Electrical stimulation by cattle prod if necessary.

When we were in the shower I decided I wanted sex with him with us both shaved, so I whisked off the three or four hairs on my pussy--not that they were noticeable anyway--which turned him on immediately and we had another go right there on the shower floor, both of us covered in skin conditioner. It was divine. I recommend it highly. Incredible, the slippery feeling, when it's both of you. Us.

So anyway, total sexual exhaustion was the goal. I just KNEW he had more than two orgasms in him. Time it right, push the right buttons, and four in one day was the standing record.

Why shave him? Women don't have a lot of body hair. And I will be taping his naughty bits tightly out of the way some day soon. Wouldn't want to pull hair out with the tape would I.

Would I?


Wax! I have hair wax somewhere. You know the stuff. Melts at a low temperature in a double boiler, sticky, and hardens HARD. Used to pull unwanted hair off at beauty salons. Heat it, spread small dollops on (maybe I'll drip it on?), yank it off. And I was having him keep himself shaved because it gets boring. I'll tell him to let it grow for a while in strategic areas, and ....


When we made up the List, J had commented that one unfulfillable fantasy he had was to know what it felt like to be me during that month. To be a woman, I mean (hence the female persona, I want to create for him). Actually, I would like to know what it's like to have a male body, what the male orgasm is like, too. He has this idea that the female orgasm is something mystical and special, much more profound than the male's. I don't know how anyone can ever prove that to be true, but it's an idee fixee with him.

That's why, fast forwarding, we have started to experiment with hypnosis and it's progressing. I know, I know, this is supposed to be something that only a qualified physician should do. Possibly so. I've asked around at the hospital as much as dare, and the verdict seems to be that no lasting psychological damage could be done, even by a malicious hypnotist. I won't argue, though, we could be taking a chance screwing around with his sexuality, but all the authoritative references emphasize that it is impossible to make someone do something they really don't want to do. I read one reference (by an MD, not a stage hypnotist) that said the mythology about the danger of hypnosis was started by psychologists as a turf-protective strategy.

We read and talked it over endlessly. I am more afraid than he is. I like my men to be men. Not Arnold Schwartzenegger or Rambo, but not swishy either. Some of the most masculine men I've known were S.F. gays, oddly enough, and I don't mean the leather set, either. I guess being confident enough of your masculinity that you don't feel obliged to demonstrate it 24 hours a day is my definition of a Real Man. Which makes _them_ more masculine than the scratch-n-burp types from back home. I like to feel protected and cared for though, and ... hell, I don't know what I like anymore San Francisco, and relearned it in the hospital cafeteria recently. But I might have tendencies....

I told him he would shave twice on Wednesday morning because his first shave wouldn't be close enough. I told him he wouldn't remember the session.

He did it. He says he didn't remember. This is really eerie. It gave me chills. Feet still cold.

My Plan:

The first step is to work on techniques to get him into a deep trance quickly. There are posthypnotic tricks that speed up the process. Right now, I spend all my time getting him into a trance deep enough to give me some influence. It seems we're always going down stairs and escalators, deeper and deeper, ad infinitum. The books say to gauge your success with tests like "You can't lift your arm," or "You can't open your eyes," etc. They work. I made his face numb and he couldn't feel pin pricks, even on his lips. Or kisses on the pin pricks.

But before all that we spent half a week trying to figure whether anything at all was happening beyond him getting a comfy lie-down while I droned on at him for an hour. Twice a day now, on weekends. Actually, I'm not really sure it worked, even still. It seems to have, but I have to take J's word for it. He could have been faking, but I don't think so. Besides I trust him. He believes it worked, I'm sure. Something happened on Wednesday, anyway.

It was weird, though, I'm tellin' ya.

The techniques are easy, but it's hard work. It just takes perseverance and trust and a little reading and a positive attitude.

And he trusts 1me completely: that's important. Equally important, he has to want me to do it.

Back to the Plan:

Hypnosis aside, I/we have to create an outwardly female appearance for him--all over--and he probably shouldn't be aware of the details of the process if he is going to believe it. He has to look in the mirror afterward and see a woman. Knowing how I did it would spoil that. It has to seem sudden and miraculous, even though there is a lot to do.

I'm going to do this from the ground up. Did I tell you I got a corset in SF? Did I mention I got one for him? He sent his measurements no extra fittings, so keep your fingers crossed. And I got shoes in his size.

I'm going to use a flesh-colored unitard, padded out to look feminine. I have scads of sterile cotton wadding from supply to make hips. I have a selection of pastel chalks to sketch on nipples, navel,

details like that.

Wig, makeup, fabulous fakes, false eyelashes, I've got tons of that stuff. He has the face for it. He'd be better looking than I if he were a woman.

I'm going to convince him his anus is his vagina, and then treat it like one. Make him a contralto. Make him walk the walk.

Keep the light dim, him under strict control, and my fingers crossed. But I can see that this is all a long way in the future. I have a lot of work to do. A lot to develop in his head.

And most of all, I have to make myself feel like I'm making him up for a play. Or a halloween party. Not changing him on the inside, not down deep. That way, maybe I won't lose my favorite top. He's got to go from being a definite man to a believable woman without me thinking of him as anything ambiguous or icky in between.


I found the wax. I'm trying to decide if this is a cruel thing to do to Jay. We're like two ships passing in the night, Jay and I. Mine is starting to grow back, his on the way out. Ha. I told him to let his grow back yesterday (he's been keeping it shaved on my "orders" for some time now.) Little does he know what's going to happen when it's long enough for the wax to grab hold. So I have a few days to decide whether to do it or have him go back to shaving.


I've been working on some important tricks, hypnosis-wise. I've worked out some key phrases that with post-hypnotic suggestion, help speed up the induction of trances. I spent a lot of time in the beginning just getting him into a deep trance before we discovered this shortcut. If I were to start over again, I would concentrate on developing this shortcut first.

And I can induce amnesia about the session, too. There are a number of things I need to try out. Most important: his voice. This is hard for me to tell about. While in the deepest trance I can induce, I actually had him up, eyes open, and walking around. The books said getting him to do that while in a trance would take a lot of work, and it did, but it's crucial to the plan. And it was a big shock for me.

During that session I had told him that every time I asked him to speak his voice would gradually become higher and more feminine, and it did. I began to feel a little nervous at that, for some reason. I don't like people changing on me, even though I may be the cause of the change. I stuck him with a rich, low contralto rather than a falsetto. But it was still eerie. I'm not sure if I should be grossed out or not.

I want to back off. I'm scared. Jay is really trying to persuade me to go on. I'll write about something else for a while.


When J wasn't home last week I tried out, on myself, some of the makeup tricks I would need to use on him. I erased my eyebrows with a blemish stick and covered them with latex from the costume and novelty shop. Makeup over that, and I had no eyebrows. I could sketch in whatever I wanted with eyeliner. Jay's eyebrows are coarser than mine. Maybe I should try it on him while he's under. And the padded hips. I packed cotton under panty hose until my own hips were seven or eight inches bigger. It came out all lumpy and took a lot of adjusting and four more pairs of pantyhose before it looked like I had oversized but smooth, natural-looking hips. Actually, I kind of liked seeing what I would look like with 42 inch hips. I don't know why, but it made me feel kind of sexy.


I've said before that I'm not constitutionally suited to being a top. As I read back over what I have written earlier, I realize that a motherly attitude toward the bottom is NOT one that translates well into this role. But it's what I've got. I'm not sure Jay got anything out of it. He says he did, but he was such a stoic that he clearly didn't get what I did. I was so timid and afraid of hurting him that I didn't really do my job.

Talk about a twisted relationship! I want to give up being a top, but my bottom won't let me. I'm supposed to be running the show, and I told him I was going to give him an order to top me, and he wouldn't. I said "Wait a minute. Who's in charge here anyway?"

"You are," he says.

"So top me," says I.

"Make me."

I'm not exactly a wilting violet, (more of a willing violet) but I don't like being a top. (Well, I do, I think, actually, but if I do it on my terms he won't enjoy it. It will seem like weak vanilla topping to him.)


I have plans, but I know I'll go all soft once I have him all trussed up again. My attitude is that I have to do these things to him but my main job is to help him get through it.

And he just seems to endure my timid fumbling as though he were waiting for a bus. None of the writhing histrionics that I went through. I don't know if I get through to him or not. He says I'm doing great. He says he knows what is going on in my mind and it turns him on. He says that when I put the gag in his mouth, he could see the changes of attitude on my face. I didn't think I was that obvious. He said he could see the feeling of empowerment. And he said he could see it, and feel it, when I turned all gooey compassionate, too.

So anyway, In case you forgot, I had been trying to totally sexually deplete J. He'd had two orgasms. I tried a number of what I thought were sexy tricks to give him a third, but the best I could manage was half-mast. There'd been four in one day, before, remember. Finally, I decided to take the plunge and spread-eagled him, standing up, arms chained to those overhead eye bolts. (I have the key to the little locks, now. Remember those?)

I put a vibrator in him. This was simple curiosity on my part. I was as gentle as could be, used tons of K-Y, and it still took me a while to even find... it. I watched his face, still blindfolded, as I pushed it in. He endured. He's such a stoic. I haven't gotten anywhere near a limit of his.

But his erection grew. I'm happy to report to all the females out there, that It Works. I mean, the prostate is really there, and it really is an erogenous zone. When I touched it, the reaction was immediate. He squirmed and his hips kind of moved as though we were having sex. I don't know if that was involuntary or not. I knew I had touched a very sensitive spot, though.

So naturally I turned on the vibrator and pushed a little more, still experimentally. Get this: he didn't have an erection, to speak of, the poor thing was exhausted. BUT he had an orgasm anyway. He ejaculated. Weakly, to be sure, and involuntarily. He couldn't control his reaction.

This is valuable data. I know that during a rectal exam a doctor will sometimes massage the prostate to get seminal fluid for a lab test, but this was a forced orgasm. I made him have it. I could do it again and make him have an orgasm exactly when I want him to. On cue. Perfect timing. I still haven't figured out a way to use this valuable information yet.

But I will.


I'm getting pretty good at hypnosis. Or maybe Jay is just very susceptible to induction; he seems to get more so as we work at it. I can get him into a trance in just a few minutes now, having planted posthypnotic suggestions that help. In fact, I have had him following posthypnotic suggestions for a week now, just harmless ones, but increasing in complexity. For example I tried giving him a complicated sequence for shaving his face in the morning, for example. It worked fine. I did that so I could watch him to see if it worked: I'm usually in the bathroom putting on my face while he's shaving.

I'm even getting time compression to work. The last two times I gave him complicated instructions, I had him repeat them silently to himself eight times in thirty seconds real time, an hour experiental time, and he did. He took all the time he needed to do it, and it saved hours of repetition on my part.

I think we're ready to "do" him. It's still me that I'm worried about, but not as much. Jay is working on that, also through hypnosis, and it seems to be working. I must be an easier subject than he is. One of the books we have said that might be the case. I'm a bit of an exhibitionist, and don't feel as defensive as Jay about "letting myself go" in front of him. Anyway, I'm beginning to accept the idea. Jay isn't going to be changed, or a different person. There is this tiny, silent, female voice inside him. It is there in most men, overwhelmed and vestigial. She will have her moment in the sun, and Jay will watch from the inside and learn what he wants to know about himself, experience what he wants to experience. I will be preparing him like a makeup artist would an actor for a part. While she's here, I'll have a few hours to make a new friend, get to know that side of Jay, however briefly. I think what's important is that I need a mission. A few months ago, I would have thought revenge to be mission enough. Bring her out, send her back. LET him walk the walk.


What I did when we tried hypnosis last time was that I gave him a posthypnotic suggestion that put him back into a trance while we were making love, triggered by key words again. That worked. I wasn't sure if it would, because of the situation, but it did. I was on top when I whispered the trigger in his ear. We stopped moving, and he concentrated while I did a sex change on him. I told him I was developing a penis and he a vagina, breasts, etc., all the while moving my hips just enough to create the impression that things were changing down there. I told him that when he awoke he would be female while we made love and that then I would put him under again.

When he opened his eyes, he didn't say anything, he just looked at me and began moving his hips experimentally. He spread his legs and pulled me to him, the way I do when I'm on the bottom. I kind of wish I had been hypnotized too. I often fantasize that I have a penis when I'm on top, but I'd like to know what it's like to believe it. It was actually a very tender moment. His orgasm was much less, um, athletic (?) than usual. I didn't even have an orgasm. I was working. I put him back under immediately after his, though, and reversed everything. But he remembers it all.

While I had him under I asked him to tell me why he wanted me to top him, what he wanted out of it. He really thought about his answers, concentrated on organizing his thoughts. I had asked him to do this after I put him under, and he was very straightforward and organized about it. When he spoke, he gave me a prepared-sounding statement, told me there were 7 reasons (he had even counted them):

1. He wanted me to know how I would feel as a top so I would know what he was experiencing, what I was giving him, and
2. So I would be able to experience the feelings I already had, the feelings I was so ashamed of, that earth-mother-god-like benevolent control. He didn't know specifically that that's what I would feel, but he's glad that was it, because
3. He liked seeing me feel those emotions and he liked being the recipient of them.
4. He said he wanted me to show him how I wanted to be treated as a bottom. And how I liked to be treated as a woman.
5. He wanted the experience of being a woman like I was during The List.
6. He wouldn't feel entitled to the experiences of Column One until he had paid his dues. Besides, looking to the future,
7. He won't feel he has the right to go back to the way it was, with me as bottom, until after he's been there.

1 and 2 were for me.
3, 4, and 5 were selfish, for him.
6 and 7 were guilt for the past, justification for the future. His words, not mine.

All this makes it seem so complex and psychological, but it's more important to me to understand this now that I find it so hard. When I was the bottom I didn't want to think about motivations because I liked it and didn't want to think about why. I don't like being a top as much, and I'm looking for reasons; I guess I'm really just fishing for a reason to stop being the top.


I'm supposed to be the top now, and I haven't been doing a great job of being dominant. It's funny, but our experiments in hypnosis haven't spilled over into our bondage play, although our actual lovemaking has become very deeply intertwined with hypnosis. But that's another story.

When you have to be propped up by your bottom in order to Do The Job you aren't really a proper top. Or I'm not, anyway. I'm doing something else instead, which I am beginning to admit (to myself) is what I want. It isn't exactly topping, but I am in control and I get what I want out of it. Maybe that IS topping, but it's different from what Jay did to me.

As I look back over The List, Column One, I realize that Jay orchestrated an experience for me -- and himself -- in which my experiences and reactions were of paramount importance, even to Jay. Remember when I was worried about being considered weird? I read back over The List, then, trying to take an objective look at myself, and one thing I realized was that time after time I wrote hints into the diary; Jay read them and later acted upon my hints. I don't think I was even consciously aware of it at the time.

I feel as though I was the selfish one, in a way. I wanted to be pushed as far as I could be, and it became a kind of month-long erotic dance along the edges of my desires. I would peek in the direction I wanted to go, and then Jay would know which way to lead the dance. Fortunately, Jay had the courage to pull me a little bit over the edge now and then. I guess that's what you call exploring the limits. But it was MY limits.

Now, as top, I'm being selfish. I don't have what it takes to bring Jay to his limits. I can't give him what he gave me.

I was a selfish bottom, and now I'm a selfish top.

I haven't really been writing about this, but in the background, we are continuing to experiment. Even though I am a novice top, a pattern is emerging. Each time, each "scene," I indulge myself, without much regard to Jay's needs. When Jay topped me, my needs came first with him. When I use the bondage toys we have, I deliberately put him in some kind of predicament, telling myself that by doing this I am trying to be a good top, but then I go all motherly, caring for him and torturing (well, teasing) him at the same time.

I become almost schizophrenic: I keep him tied up, I "do things to him," the kind of things a top should do, I guess, but the moment he shows a reaction, the moment it starts to hurt, I turn into Florence Nightengale and (without releasing him, mind you, or even backing off sometimes) I treat him like a handsome young soldier who was wounded in the trenches and may not live to see his girl back home, so I'm going to make his last hours, painful though they may be, as comfortable as possible.

I take on the attitudes of the romantic version of a model nurse that every school girl aspires to. I sympathize, I listen, and I tell him I understand; I stroke his brow, I kiss it where it hurts, (once I even lifted his head and gave him sips of water) then I get carefully into bed with him and screw myself silly, being careful not to hurt whatever part of him happens to be, um, undergoing treatment. When he can't have an orgasm because I won't let him, I'm still deeply concerned and sympathetic over his problem, ("Oh, I know, I know...") and he becomes my "poor baby" and I cuddle and stroke his fevered brow. "Just try, just a few more minutes," I whisper in his ear, even as I continue to tease and torture him with the other hand and tell him "It'll all be over soon and then everything will be all right...").

Talk about ambidextrous. Mentally, I mean.

It sounds hypocritical to be making the wound with one hand and putting on the bandage with the other, I know. Or maybe schizophrenic is a better word. I'm not trying to justify myself. I don't think. I'm very loving and sympathetic, and the emotions are genuine, and he responds to them. But I'm doing him at the same time.

I don't actually fantasize that I'm a nurse while we're doing a scene, though. It's just the nurse/god attitude. In fact, nursing is the last thing on my mind. I'm more of a goddess. Or a high priestess. A slightly cruel and hypocritical one, but I do have the interests of my "subject" at heart. I like the control, and I like to relieve the pain, but I don't much like to cause it. Except that causing it puts me in a position to relieve it.

Funny, it seems okay to me when I hear about tops causing pain for it's own sake, or because the bottom wants it. But it seems a little sick to cause it in order to relieve it. So I'm a little sick. So what.

Trouble is, I think he can stand a lot more than I subject him to. I just imagine he's in dire straits for my own sake. That's what I mean by selfish.

Of course, I don't exactly dress the part of Florence Nightengale, either. I use my body to tease him, and I can hardly do that in a white uniform. Black is best. What a dual existence I lead. White at work, black at home, in uniform and in spirit.