Archive-name: Bondage/njlist01.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List -  1 of 20


The List
Prologue

Dear Michael Who Has Great Puns,

     Thanks again for offering to post this for me. Nobody else even
offered. In fact, all I got was a flood of E-wannafucks from people
with nurse fetishes. Some of them were pretty icky. It was nice to get
a letter from someone that seems normal. So you get the dubious honor
of handling my tale ;-) Of being IN it even :) because this is the
beginning of it.
     Yours gratefully,
     Nurse Jones


Dear Everybody Else On ASB,

     I imagine that most prologues are the last part written. This one
was. I wrote it at the last minute before sending this to Michael. If
I can make this thing work, the next 12 files will contain a nearly
true account of what happened to me during the Spring of 1991. I say
"nearly true" because I have changed details that might identify us.
I'll just be "M". Our physical descriptions are accurate. And I am
really a nurse from Indiana, but everything else that might identify
us is false. Please, as a favor to me, don't take it as a challenge to
try and trace it back to me. I'm not ready to come out of the closet
yet. I don't think J (I'll call him that) is either.
     Feel free to copy it (except for profit), but hey: give credit
where it's due. Besides, I made a notarized copy last April. Then I
sent it (on diskette by anonymoUS mail) to some ASB regulars that give
real names in their sigs. I asked that they post it for me. It never
appeared. Then came wizvax. I reread and rewrote it just for the hell
of it and here it is. I don't have a spelling checker. J tells me I
misspelled "embarrassment" all the way through.
     At the end of the diary, it appears that I left J to get my head
back together. I'm back, and we're married now, so it has a happy
ending even if it doesn't look that way.
     It is called "The List" and it is in two columns. This is Column
One. We started Column Two before we got married. If you like column
one I'll post column two. Sorry if this doesn't make sense. You'll
have to read it to have any idea at all what I'm talking about.
     I tried to make it as readable as possible, recreating dialogue
and putting in my own thoughts as I went along. You're probably tired
of the undiluted screwing you read on rec.arts.erotica and
alt.sex.bondage anyway. And since what follows really happened, maybe
you'll forgive me for writing about what went on inside my head as
well as inside the rest of my anatomy. Also, mistakenly believing that
hindsight improved the clarity of my vision, I couldn't resist going
back and screwing up the spontaneity of the first writing.
     If I tell you it's a true story, you'll think, "Yeah, sure,
right. Where have I heard that before." But it is. So there. If I tell
you my top "made" me write it, you'll say, "that's how they all
start," but he did. It was kind of a bargain that we made, J and I,
before I even knew the news net existed.
     Before I knew a lot of things.



The List
     Column One
       Item 1

     He's at work now, but he told me to start writing this while he
is gone. So here I sit, not knowing where to begin. So I made the big
"H" at the beginning just for something to do. I want you to under-
stand that I am doing this because J told me to, not because I think
anyone should know what happened last night. He says I am to write it
in the first person, just like I were telling it to a stranger, rather
than to him. It is, ultimately, part of the bargain we made.
     Okay, I said that. What next? I just don't know where to start.
Earnest Hemingway said always start with the first true thing. I guess
I'll begin at the beginning, and when I come to the end, I'll stop.
Hey, it worked for Alice in Wonderland, someone I have a lot in common
with at the moment.
     Six months ago, we were living together in Chicago where I was
working as a nurse. He got a terrific job offer and had to move. I
didn't want to give up the security of my job, so we split up. We said
it would somehow only be temporary, and I stayed behind in the windy
city.
     Neither of us was particularly happy with the separation, and we
wrote to each other almost daily. The letters got pretty steamy, and
we began trading fantasies--fantasies we had never discussed when we
lived together. We started with pretty tame stuff like being on a
tropical island together, or in a snowbound cabin, but gradually we
escalated to fantasies of being each other's slaves, B&D, and so
forth.
     Every letter I wrote included comments on his last letter and a
new fantasy of my own. He did the same. We became a two-person liter-
ary critics circle. I think it was easier to write about these things
than to talk about them face to face, maybe because broaching a
subject like this for the first time requires such delicacy. You have
to be absolutely sure you get the words right before you say them. You
can't go back and edit a conversation the way you can a letter.
     The months wore on; he became assured of success at his new job
and bought a house, while I began to feel more and more isolated and
left behind. I was working three 12-hour night shifts a week, sleeping
days, exercising less and less, reading his letters, and doing little
else. I saw no-one, didn't even go to the movies. Our fantasy life--in
letters--grew until, as I became more and more lonely, it occupied
most of my waking thoughts and I came to want to act out those fanta-
sies. I wanted desperately to get back together with him. Move in with
him and live with him again. I could quit my job--I would be able to
get a nursing job anywhere. But he didn't ask me to, and I couldn't
bring myself to ask him. Midwestern pride, I guess.
     After we had explored our fantasy life pretty thoroughly he wrote
a fantasy in which he came to visit me and we arranged to get back
together and live out the fantasies we had written about. In my next
letter I commented that I thought that was the one I liked best, and
we began to write seriously about actually doing it, planning explic-
itly to get back together. The character of our letters changed: we
wrote more practical fantasies, things that we could actually do, and
how we would do them. And we planned for the future. I was to quit my
job and get a job where he lived. Nurses are in demand everywhere,
although salaries are lower in the South. I was getting pretty tired
of Winter in Chicago anyway. You could freeze to death on the way to
stand in line to sort out the phone bill the company screwed up if it
wasn't for the muggers being so tightly crowded onto the streets that
you didn't have room to freeze in the first place.
     Besides, I was tired of being lonely. Once I had made the deci-
sion, my mood changed dramatically. Suddenly, instead of being lonely,
sexually frustrated, and obsessive about getting and writing letters,
I was optimistic, lonely, sexually frustrated, and obsessive.
     We got together briefly before I left Chicago. J had written a
letter telling me he would visit. Our last few letters had carried a
long list of fantasies back and forth between us. We added to the list
every time it changed hands. Ultimately it contained nearly everything
we had written about and some new things we hadn't. In his final
letter he told me he had a chance to come back to Chicago on a job-
related trip and wanted to see me. About that list.
     Below is a part of the letter, copied verbatim (so I keep let-
ters.):

       "I want you to understand something clearly before I arrive. We
     have been very close, but the last four months have put a dis-
     tance between us that our letters have only partly bridged. When
     you come [down here] we will be trying something neither of us
     has done before. The newness will perhaps be the best and most
     exciting part of it. We may be starting something new for us in a
     larger sense, too. When you come, I want you to feel that you are
     coming to something new, and I want to feel anticipation--maybe
     even a little apprehension?
       "For this reason, even though I will be visiting you in a few
     days, I don't want to just start up where we left off. I don't
     know if I can adequately explain this, but I don't want my visit
     to act as a transition from our old relationship to the new.
     Instead it should be a break. A point of demarcation. I don't
     want my visit to be 'business as usual' for us.
       "The fantasies we have written about are part of what is
     pulling us back together. I don't know if an active fantasy life
     is a sound basis for a relationship, but if we are going to do
     this, I want to do it right. Fantasies are killed by reality;
     fortunately the time we have spent apart has removed some of the
     reality from our relationship. Fundamentally, I know you are the
     person I love and trust. That is still the most important reali-
     ty. But almost as important: we have learned new things about
     each other through our letters, things that make each of us, to a
     certain extent, strangers. I want to meet you for the first time
     again, now that I realize you're not exactly the person I thought
     I knew. Can you understand that? And if I believe there is a
     large and mysterious territory to be explored inside your
     head--which I am beginning to suspect is the case--so much the
     better. Fantasies take root in the unknown, not the commonplace.
       "So I'm not going to throw you across the bed the minute I walk
     in the door, though we have both waited a long time and I will
     want to. We will take care of our plans, sleep apart, and I will
     come back here to wait for you. Can you stand that? Can you stand
     me being a stranger?"

     There was more, but that is the relevant part. When he arrived I
forgot completely, of course, and went to kiss him. He pulled away
from me. It was an interesting evening. We both knew we were horny as
hell, and we covered some of the sexiest topics of conversation I have
ever heard, but we didn't have sex. We barely touched. I was not happy
about it.
     Instead, we got out paper and went over the list of fantasies and
scenarios that we had accumulated. We cut the items out with scissors
so each was on a separate slip of paper. It became a kind of game. We
added to the list. Anything we had written about or read about--
anything. From feathers and g-strings to piercing, tatoos and bondage.
Even hypnosis, although neither of us knew any more about it than we
had read in a popular book on self-hypnosis. Things we wanted to do to
each other, things we wanted done.
     Then there followed an hour of negotiation during which we paired
up our slips of paper. If you wanted to do that to me, then I would
get to do this to you; if I do that for you, then you do have to do
this for me. The price of column 1 is column 2. The result was a two-
column list of equal and opposite (re)actions.
     The deal was this: if one of us does something on the List, that
automatically gives the other the right to do the corresponding thing
from the other column. Fair is fair. His list ended up longer than
mine: I wasn't able to come up with as many ideas as he did, so some
things got left off. Still, it was a long list. There were things I
really didn't want to do and things I really didn't want him to do on
the List, but they were paired with fair retaliations and things I
wanted bad enough that I would agree to his wants. Eventually it
became clear that some things had no single equivalent, and that
sometimes several scenarios had to be added together to achieve a
balance. Any later changes were to be agreed on by both parties and
balanced just the way the list was. Is.

       [Note from the Future: Writing and posting this on electronic
     mail was one of the things on the List, by the way. In my column,
     that is. At the time I had only a hazy idea what E-mail was.]

     We both got excited making up the List, but still he wouldn't
make love. He took me out to dinner instead, and we talked. We had a
booth, fortunately, because that conversation was a very intimate one.
I told him in very general terms what turned me on, and he did the
same; we kind of danced around, getting more and more honest with each
other. We traded admissions that neither of us had ever thought we
would voice aloud. It was by far the most open verbal discussion I had
ever had about my inner desires. We told each other of fantasies that
were so unrealistic they could never be made reality, but they did
give us insights into each other's motivations. Things like experienc-
ing what it would be like to be the opposite sex, or stupid little
fantasies like mine about being an alien that is able to change the
shape of my body and his in interesting ways and that comes to earth
and has sex with him, captivating him with my alien biology. Our
conversation got steamier and steamier, but still we acted, on the
surface, like we had just met. We didn't even touch. It was actually
very erotic, especially with all those people around us that didn't
know what we were talking about.
     Imagine the excitement of a mysterious, sexy stranger abouth
whose safety you don't have to worry (i.e. not a pervert or HIV
positive) and whom you know you will eventually bed. Yet he is still
mysterious. Safe danger.
     We made plans for the future. It would take me a while to quit my
job and find a sublet for the apartment. Our part of Chicago is full
of student rental property and the demand for apartments is seasonal.
In the end, there were two more months of letters and frustration
while I tried to sublet.
     But our plans, at least, were finalized that night. On a flip of
a coin, while we were waiting for desert, he won first choice on the
List, and he chose that I would be his slave for a month, to start the
day I arrived at his place in [deleted].
     Over desert, I asked what he wanted to get out of that month; I
got some very interesting answers. So interesting that we sat there
until the restaurant closed, talking about it. Actually I was trying
to get him so turned on he would change his mind about waiting until I
came south. Anyway, it was an education to learn what he wanted. I am
tempted to say that there were layers upon layers of psychology to
peel away, but it was really just very complex and convoluted.
     He wanted to control me--at least for a while, the month's
duration of the List. But he doesn't want simple submission. I am
supposed to resist, but it must be more than resistance against him;
he seems to want me to resist something in myself as well. If possi-
ble, I should discover that part of me that likes to be controlled and
I should fight against that as well as against the more superficial
physical control permitted by the list. As I say, it is convoluted.
     He wants me to search my own mind to look for these tendencies
and see if I can bring them out, almost the way an actress looks
within her own experience to find something to make a performance more
convincing. It was clear from the turn our letters had taken that
there is something there to find; he was sure of it. So am I, but I
don't know what, exactly.
     (I have an inkling after last night.)
     But he didn't want acting; if what he was looking for just wasn't
there, he didn't want me to pretend it was.
     Another convolution: Knowing that I was willing to do this for
him became a kind of a second layer, a hidden backdrop to the more
superficial physical aspects.
     Letting him know that I was doing this willingly--despite my
superficial (but real) resistance (I told you it was convoluted)--
became another undercurrent. More than a second kind of submission, it
was something akin to a gift that proved my love and trust, because it
would necessarily be something voluntary that he could neither force
nor control.
     Remember: all these psychological undercurrents are not reality;
this is what he wants reality to be. I have no idea what it actually
is. Maybe they are the same. Sort of.
     And of course, it has to be for him alone. He wants to know that.
This is an ironic twist. My mother--and all my friends, too--always
told me that the best way to keep a man is to make him think he might
lose you: let him know that you can get another man any time you want.
But I have learned something from J that he didn't mean to teach me.
What he wants in our relationship can't be very easy to find; I mean,
even bringing up the subject of bondage was an almost insurmountable
obstacle in itself. It would be almost impossible for him to find
anyone else that could be the kind of person he wants. If I can be
that person, I will be irreplaceable. He'd never find another one like
me, never. If, somewhere inside, I'm really like that, I'll have him
trapped, tied (bound?) to me by the fact that I'm the only one that he
will ever find that can give him what he needs.
     Maybe I am that kind of person. I certainly feel that way right
now, after the first day. If I could feel this excited about our
relationship forever, I guess I'd become that kind of person.
     So anyway, there we were in the restaurant. After all that
talking, I felt like a little applied theory, so I asked him what he
would do first when we started. I looked him straight in the eye and
gave him my most brazenly innocent look across the table. I can wear
my innocence at such a rakish angle it makes me seem positively
debauched. He got the message.
     He told me he would wait until we were in a public place, like a
restaurant (thrill), and would reach into his jacket pocket and take
out a manila envelope. He paused significantly and looked me straight
in the eye right back again.
     Then he reached into his jacket pocket (chills, excitement) and
took out a manila envelope. My heart started thudding and my breath
became short. He was going to do something right then, I realized. I
don't know if he improvised this or not. Now that I think about it, he
must have, because he took some papers out of the envelope before he
gave it to me.
     "Go into the ladies room and put all your underwear in this," he
said.
     I did. Bra, panties, pantyhose. I gave him the envelope.
     As I sat there, feeling increasingly sexy, he gave me detailed
instructions for several outfits I was to make during the next few
weeks while I was waiting to come to him. I know it's not a very good
career move to be good with a sewing machine, but I am. And I am NOT a
housewife type, as will become clear after you read about last night.
First I have to fill you in on the rest.
     By the way, he kept his promise: he never touched me that night;
the bit with the underwear was just him being him.

     It is a comfortable two-day drive from Chicago to his new house,
though I could have made it in one. I arrived about four in the
afternoon. Actually, it is not a new house: it is old. I can't tell
you exactly where it is, but it is a really luscious house. [He also
won't let me use the clinical names for parts of the body that nurses
know so well, so if I seem a little victorian in my language, now you
know the reason why. In fact, he gives a lot of instructions about
everything, not just how to write this.]
     I can say we live in a very warm climate--almost Mediterranean.
The house has high ceilings (twelve feet in the living room), tile
floors, a red tile roof, and lots of stucco arches. And a fireplace
with a magnificent mantle. It's one of those pseudo-Spanish houses
that were so popular in the 1930's. It's still nearly unfurnished,
even though he's been living here six months. Men are hopeless.
     There is a rather cavernous living/dining room, with two sofas
(one large, one small) and an armchair clustered around the fire
place, and a big oak table with two chairs in the middle of the room.
There is a deep fluffy white rug in front of the hearth. No curtains,
almost no other rugs, no pictures on the walls except in the (ahem)
master bedroom.
     He carried my suitcases into the house; our footsteps on the tile
floors echoed in the near-empty rooms. Half the light switches don't
work and the place needed (still needs) sweeping: sand had been
tracked into the house and made a scratching noise underfoot against
the tile floors. In fact, with the exception of my bedroom, the whole
place is only superficially clean. There are quite a few cobwebs and
the windows are dusty. Dead roaches the size of small mammals.
     He put my luggage in the spare bedroom. My bedroom. It is spot-
lessly clean and furnished completely in white. The bed is an old-
fashioned single, iron, in a sort of early-hospital style, painted in
white enamel. Walls: white, chest of drawers: white; simple chair and
bedside table: both white. No rug, no curtains, no pictures on the
wall, and nothing in the closet. A bright overhead light and a small
nondescript reading light on the bedside table. That is the total
contents of the room. I could feel like a nun if it weren't for last
night.
     Somehow, it bothers me a little that he went to all that trouble
to prepare my room for me. All in white, I mean. It's just a little
odd.
     Normally, separate bedrooms would be something you would associ-
ate with elderly conservative couples or people on the verge of
divorce, but we weren't even married. We were SUPPOSED to be living
together, so this was verging on weird and I wanted an explanation.
Which I got. It was nothing more than an enforced continuation of the
newly distant relationship he had written about and that we had
formally started during his visit to Chicago. We had grown apart
somewhat, he said, and he wanted to keep it that way for a while
longer. Somehow it was nicer in theory than in practice. I guess the
bedroom had made me feel a little alienated.
     "Besides," he said, "you are my slave now, and not supposed to
ask questions." I had almost forgotten. Well, not forgotten, but I
wasn't in the habit of thinking that way. It definitely made him feel
a bit like a stranger. He said it like I was one.
     [Note from the Future: Near the end I was spending most nights in
his bedroom, but we kept separate bedrooms to the very end. Somehow
this made our relationship more exciting rather than less intimate. It
had a special significance when one of us went to the other's room.]
     As I said, he had won first choice on the List. I am to be his
slave for the first month. During this month he will do many of the
other items on the List. By agreeing to the List two months earlier, I
suppose I had already agreed to this, even though at the time I hadn't
considered that the choice of one month of slavery would allow him to
work through quite a few of the other items on the List before I even
got my first turn. But it is enough that my turn would come.
     He must have wanted to put me off balance from the beginning.
When my car was unloaded, he told me to change from my jeans and
sweatshirt to a blouse and skirt with heels, nothing underneath. The
act of changing my clothing, even in the privacy of my room, was
somehow charged with erotic anticipation. I felt small and defense-
less--almost like I was a prisoner in Dracula's castle. I know it
sounds melodramatic, but the house seems so big after the studio
apartment in Chicago. Even as I sit typing this in broad daylight the
echoes make it seem a bit empty and spooky. And chilly. There is a
desiccated bird corpse on the floor of one of the screened porches. At
least I swept up the dust and roaches.
     Yesterday evening, when I came out of my bedroom it was getting
darker; there was a shaft of late-afternoon sunlight slanting through
the cavernous living room. He was waiting on the armchair; he told me
to pour myself a glass of wine and sit on the sofa. There were even
little sandwiches. He had never made little sandwiches before. Little
formal ones. I was famished, but puzzled over the sandwiches. They
were so uncharacteristic.
     "How do you feel?" he asked.
     "Okay," I said, "maybe a little chilly." A little attempted
underwear-less humor there. Very little. He sipped his wine and
watched me eat without expression.
     Between mouthfuls, I couldn't seem to stop talking. "So, when do
we start?" I asked, in a cheerful, businesslike voice, as though we
were going to paint the living room or something.
     "Now," he said in a neutral tone, still expressionless.
     I suddenly became aware that he was looking at me. I mean really
looking at me. Most men are surreptitious when looking at women. They
pretend they aren't looking and then sneak a peek when they think you
aren't going to notice. This was different. His gaze was travelling
over my body without regard to what I might think, as though he didn't
care. I was abruptly aware of my lack of underwear; I crossed my legs
and tugged at my skirt as though such adjustments could make my
discomfort go away. He let his eyes rest on my chest and I crossed my
arm in front of myself.
     "Don't," he said.
     "Sorry," I blathered unnecessarily. I unfolded myself and tried
to appear casual. My damned nipples were erect, though. "So, what'll
we do first?" I said brightly, now a summer camp counsellor. I just
couldn't stop my mouth. He didn't answer right away. I don't know if
he was considering what he would do or just letting the suspense
build, but he waited until the silence stretched to its (my) limit. I
stuffed another sandwich in my mouth to give it something else to do.
     Finally, he told me which item on the List would be first. He
just told me the number, though. I hadn't memorized the List and
didn't know what he was referring to; obviously, I hadn't done my
homework.
     "You have your copy of the list, don't you?" he said.
     "Yeah, somewhere in my luggage."
     Then he gave me instructions on what to wear, and told me that I
would find everything I needed in my bathroom, but he kept me in
suspense as to what the list actually said I was to do.
     "Take your wine with you, he said. Suddenly I realized he meant
"Now." Right now. I went to my room and tore through my luggage to
find my copy of the List. The numbers on the List were only for
reference; the order didn't mean anything. The item he chose, there-
fore, by default, became Item One in this account. So here it is, Item
One.
     As I said, he really did intend to put me off balance. Sort of
like pushing me in at the deep end. After all the time we had spent
apart I felt we were nearly strangers and needed to get reacquainted.
Perhaps that's why he did subtle little things that put me off bal-
ance, like make little finger sandwiches. Perhaps that is why he
wanted me to come to him feeling exposed and near naked, but naked in
a new way. A way that would make me feel naked, as though in front of
a stranger.
     He wanted me to remove my pubic hair.
     I know many men think this is sexy, but I've never understood
why. As a nurse I had seen nearly everything, but I never thought
there was anything particularly erotic about shaving there, especially
with the itchy stubble I knew would come later. Maybe I associate it
with pre-op, too. Did I tell you I was a R.N.? But there was no razor
in the bathroom. Just a tube of depilatory and scissors.
     At this point he has begun exercising editorial control over what
I write. I wrote--and twice had to rewrite and expand--the next
paragraphs until he was satisfied. I wouldn't otherwise have put in
such detail.
     I had to be extremely careful, as the directions have all kinds
of warnings about burning delicate membranes. I sat in the bathroom
for a few minutes just looking at myself in the mirror, thinking: what
am I getting myself into? But it was too late to change my mind, and
anyway I didn't want to. So here goes, I thought. I pinched a curl of
hair between my fingers and snipped it off close. Starting at the top,
I worked my way down, not thinking about it, just snipping away until
I ended up with one foot up on the edge of the bathtub and my head
between my legs. When I finished and came up for air, the remaining
stubble was almost invisible; I looked quite naked. I stood for a
moment and looked in the mirror, wondering if this was really what J
was expecting--hairless nakedness.
     The depilatory comes in a tube like toothpaste and is pink. It
smells slightly reminiscent of the chemicals they put in a home
permanent. I put the stuff on very carefully, using the round end of
my nail file like a butter knife. I followed the directions and waited
the requisite time with my legs held apart to avoid burning myself.
Then I scraped it off with the nail file; if you are patient enough to
wait for it to work, it really does the job. For some reason there
were a few hairs that just wouldn't dissolve, so I plucked them with
tweezers. At last I was done. I'm glad he didn't watch, because I had
to get into some pretty embarrassing positions to do all this without
being burned by the stuff.
     I went straight into the shower without looking at myself again.
The faint but icky depilatory smell definitely required a shower and
soap to get rid of, followed by a body conditioner all over (Even
though he didn't tell me what the List item actually said, he was very
detailed in his instructions as to how I should prepare myself for
him). Unscented "Unicure" hair and body conditioner was already there
in the shower. I was me not to rinse it off--just rub it in and towel
dry. As I rubbed the creme over my skin, I began to see that maybe
there was a point to this preoccupation with hairlessness. It felt
like a whole new erogenous zone down there, so slick and silky and,
well ...
     After I towelled myself dry, I felt really smooth and soft all
over, especially Down There. When I finally pulled on the outfit I had
made (on his instructions weeks before), I felt like a velvet hand
slipping into a velvet glove.
     It was of a soft, sheer, muslin-like white cotton from India. It
fit very tightly and it took a lot of tailoring to get it to fit
right, since the material has no stretch. The bust is tailored to fit
my breasts exactly, and "underwired" with elastic. I stick out. Long
sleeves are just barely loose enough to squeeze my hands through and
get my arms in; the front zips from the waist to a high lace collar
that would look very demure on a top that wasn't skin-tight and
practically transparent. The pants are also skin-tight, except below
the knee, where they flare to bell-bottoms. Very 60's. The legs are so
long that I have to wear heels--high ones--to keep from tripping over
the cuffs. White open-toed high-heeled sandals go with it nicely.
Nicely? Somehow "nice" doesn't seem to apply after last night.
     Last night, the crotch was the really embarrassing part. There's
not even a seam in front to help conceal my sex. It's just tight,
sheer and thin. A very tight g-string-like elastic in back holds the
muslin close over my newly hairless sex and pulls the back of the
pants tight against my cheeks and deeply into the cleavage of my
buttocks. When I made the outfit I thought there'd at least be pubic
hair to cover me, but last night I was so... visible.
     Still following instructions, I brushed my hair out and put on
makeup. I was procrastinating: taking unnecessary care with my face
and adjusting the outfit; examining myself in the mirror--anything to
avoid going out into the living room where he was waiting. I really
didn't want him to see me like this. We hadn't seen each other naked
for six months, and he would see a lot more of me than I'd ever shown
anyone before.
     Again, I have to add something here. He told me to. I wouldn't
have written this at all, because I have always been a little ashamed
of this, but as I said, he makes me put in details-- details I would
rather omit, in this case. But here goes. Real soon now. (If you
haven't noticed, I am procrastinating again.) There's another reason I
didn't want to go out there and let him see me dressed like that. It's
irrational, I know, because he had seen me completely naked before,
but there it is. I have unusual nipples. They have always been a
source of acute embarrassment to me.
     They are inverted.
     You have no idea how long it took me to type those three words;
every time I have to deal with this I look for all kinds of ways to
say it without actually saying it, but in the end I just had to type
it and the hell with it. They're inverted. This is silly, because I'm
used to them. It's not a big deal, really. The tips of my nipples are
turned inward so that all that is visible externally is the areola,
with just a little horizontal slit across the middle where the nipple
should be. It's not all that uncommon; I have seen girls in P.E.
classes that have the same condition on one or the other of her tits.
It's just that both of mine are that way.
     It's not like they're repulsive or anything, and they would be
perfectly functional if I had children. They even look normal when
erect, it's just that when they aren't, I don't have nipples, just
areolas. I haven't known very many men, partly because of shyness over
this problem, and all of them have been surprised, and I think slight-
ly repelled, by my breasts. All, that is, except J. Other men have
made me feel like a freak, with questions like "What's wrong with
them?"
     One even asked me, "Is there anything else you haven't told me
about?" Asshole. Assholeassholeasshole.
     Sorry, I don't normally use language like that, but he was an
asshole. Like maybe my day job is in a sideshow, or something? A real
Mr. Sensitivity, huh? Before I walked out on that evening's entertain-
ment, I told him to be fruitful and multiply, only not in exactly
those words. He was a jerk anyway. In high school I was young and
stupid enough to be impressed that he (at 20) owned (well, had a
mortgage on) his own house (well, double-wide trailer).
     Imagine, at that age boasting he was a self-made man. He was an
example of what can happen when you don't follow the directions.
     Sorry, I went off on a tangent.
     Anyway, J has never commented on my nipples except to say that I
have the most beautiful breasts he has ever seen, all the more so
because they are special that way.
     Special like the special olympics, but never mind.
     Still, I was reluctant to enter the living room, embarrassed for
no good reason, trying to cover myself, one hand casually fiddling
with my lace collar (and incidentally covering my breasts with my
arm), while the other draped casually (I hoped) over my southern
overexposure. The room was nearly dark, and his armchair was in
shadow. I could tell he was fully dressed, but couldn't see his face
or judge his reaction. I was feeling awfully exposed, and really
needed some reassuring words right then. I didn't get any.
     There was a small sofa sitting under a recessed light in the
ceiling. He didn't get up; he just told me to stand in front of the
little sofa, under this very bright light. Like a spotlight.
     I couldn't see much of anything outside that little pool of
light, and I felt awkward, as though my legs were different lengths.
He told me to put my arms at my sides and stand up straight. Hesitant-
ly, I did as he told me, uncovering myself. I was nearly shaking with
nervousness. That afternoon I had been cruising along the Interstate,
and now I was in a totally different world.
     "Hold your shoulders back and stop slouching," he said. I took a
deep breath and tried to relax and regain some composure, some digni-
ty.
     "Turn around. Bend over and lean on the seat with your elbows.
Legs apart." I tried to lean on my hands.
     "Your elbows," he repeated. So much for dignity. My rear was up
in the air for all to see.
     "Straighten up. Pull your waistband up so your pants are tighter
in the crotch; smooth the front so I can see all of you better. Good.
Now tell me how you feel right now."
     "Embarrassed," I whispered. My voice wasn't working. I cleared my
throat and tried again.
     "Embarrassed," too loudly. I couldn't look up from the floor; I
was not handling this well. It seemed a long time before he answered.
     "Tell me why."
     "Its these clothes," I answered.
     "I've seen you with less than that on before."
     "I know, but-  not like this. I mean, not having any hair-
there." I stammered, all the while thinking: dammit I should have more
composure than this--nurses aren't supposed to be ashamed of the human
body. Nurses are supposed to be cool and professional--in charge. I
straightened my shoulders again.
     "No, the hair isn't it either, but never mind. Come over here."
     I walked over to him and stood by his chair. I tried to keep from
slouching to show that I had kept my dignity, and I ended up feeling
(and looking) like an army recruit trying to look military on her
first day at boot camp.
     He ran his hand up the inside of my thigh. I couldn't help
shivering. He slipped his hand lightly back and forth over the thin
cloth that was held so tightly against my nether lips. His fingers
became more insistent, and I could feel myself and the cloth of my
pants becoming wet. I was still shivering with nervousness. I was,
throughout the evening, acutely aware that I had no pubic hair. For
some reason, whatever else I was feeling, that was on my mind. I just
hadn't gotten used to it, I guess. I still haven't.
     I felt shaky and nervous. Not afraid, exactly, but terribly aware
of my nakedness and uncertain of what was coming next. I knew he
wouldn't depart from the List, but there was an awful lot on that
list, and after all, I hadn't even kissed him for six months--had only
seen him once in all that time--and he was practically bringing me to
a climax in a strange house under very weird circumstances. I think he
meant it to be that way, but I was not comfortable.
     He stood and kissed me. Finally. He must have sensed that I
needed some reassurance. I could feel his stiffness as he pressed
against me. This is what I wanted, I thought, feeling myself on surer
ground. I ground my hips against him, suddenly getting more deeply
into the scene. His kiss became more passionate, our tongues probing.
     Abruptly, holding my shoulders in his hands, he separated himself
from me. Although he is slender, he is at least eight or nine inches
taller than I and quite strong; I could sense a shudder of suppressed
emotion despite the firmness of his grip on my upper arms. I stood
there breathing unsteadily, my eyes shut. God, I was horny. He told me
to go back and stand under the light. I could feel the wetness between
my legs; I was sure it showed as a patch on my front. Again, I tried
to cover myself with my hand.
     "No," he said. "Dont. You have nothing to be ashamed of with me,
and you know it." He paused. "You do know that, don't you?"
     "Yes, I know," I whispered, looking down, determinedly ashamed.
     "Then why are you?"
     "It's the spotlight."
     "No, its not. Try again. I've seen you nude in full daylight
before, and I've seen more of your body than I can see now, even
without hair. And from closer up. Think about what's bothering you,
and tell me."
     He waited silently while I thought; I finally came out with what
it was I didn't want to tell him. "I don't just feel nude. I feel
naked. I- I think it's because I haven't seen you for so long. It's a
little like being in front of a stranger." He waited. And waited. "And
because you're dressed and I'm not," I rushed ahead, "its not fair and
its humiliating and I feel vulnerable and it's not like I imagined it
would be." I covered myself with my hands again as if to say `so Yet I
remained under the light, trying not to appear awkward, looking out at
where I thought him to be, still unable to see him.
     Again the silence. Finally from the darkness he said, "Good. Sit
down." My ears told me he had moved from the armchair to stand by the
unlit fireplace, but I still couldn't see his face.
     I sat, relieved. At least I could hold my legs together while
sitting and hide myself a little that way. With my prim little lace
collar, my legs held tightly together, and my hands folded neatly in
my lap, I must have looked like a caricature of the proper victorian
virgin. Except that I was blushing through transparent clothing and my
nipples were erect and positively aching. Sounds like material for a
romance novel, I know, but they were.
     "I don't want you to feel humiliated. Believe that. But your
embarrassment is something else. That I do want. As a kind of gift to
me," he said. "Can you understand that? As a gift?" I'm not sure how,
but I seemed to sense him in the darkness, staring at me, very intent
on my answer. Maybe it was something in his voice.
     I hadn't considered the fine line between embarrassment and
humiliation. Somehow, though, I could understand the idea of embar-
rassment as a gift. Don't ask me how or why.
     "Alright," I said, and suddenly it really was alright. My embar-
rassment surfaced; I stopped trying to suppress it, it all came out,
but it was okay: I could show it. He wanted--even valued it. I lowered
my eyes to the floor, blushing furiously, making no effort to hide my
discomfiture. I took my hands out of my lap and let my legs part a
fraction of an inch, deliberately letting myself feel more embar-
rassed, really acting the part--only not acting, because I really was
feeling exactly what I was acting out. Or at least acting out what I
was feeling. Well, it was more honest than whatever I had been doing,
anyway.
     "Now," he said, "what are you feeling? Do you like this?"
     "No. I don't," I said, truthfully, I think. I'm not sure.
     "Do you feel... excited?"
     "Yes." I realized that was definitely true, whether I liked it or
not.
     "Do you want it to stop?"
     Another pause. "No," I said, "... no."
     "Remember, you're my slave. I'm going to tell you to do something
now that you might find funny, but I don't want you to laugh. Take it
seriously. While sitting there, I want you to do something--anything
--that you think I will find sexy." As he said this he turned to the
fireplace and lit the fire that was laid there. His back was to me.
     Act sexy? He made it sound so much like a homework assignment, I
almost did laugh. I had no idea what to do. Pretend to be a porn star?
Blow kisses? Pout and squirm seductively like they do in bad x-rated
movies?
     I raised tentative hands to my breasts and fingered my nipples.
They were already erect from the coolness of the evening and the
excitement. I didn't know where to go from there, so I kept rubbing,
even though the tips of my breasts were already sensitive, even though
the areolae were puckered and hard, aching. I was still aroused, but
didn't know what to do next. Then I had an idea. I would take off my
top: do a strip tease. Yeah, that's it. My hands went to the zipper at
my throat and pulled it halfway it down.
     "Stop." I froze. "Lean back against the arm of the sofa and close
your eyes." I did. "Stroke yourself again." I did. I found it was a
lot easier to follow instructions than to make it up on my own. I
really wouldn't make a good stripper anyway. I don't know the moves.
     "Put your hand lower." What did he want me to do? My hand crept
down to my waistband. "Lower." Did he want me to masturbate? I wasn't
ready for that. I wouldn't. Not with him watching me. It was just too
kinky. "Lower," he repeated, more insistently.
     I put my hand down, more to cover my nakedness than to do what I
thought he wanted. I could feel the wetness from when he had caressed
me, and for some reason was acutely aware of the hand resting on my
sex. But I wouldn't masturbate, I just couldn't, not in front of him.
And as I sat there, neither of us saying anything, I began to think
maybe he wouldn't ask me to. He had pushed me right to the edge of
what I would do, and seemed to know it. He let me sit there, covering
myself, extremely aware of how insecure and exposed I was, wishing I
hadn't gone as far as I had, wishing I hadn't removed my pubic hair,
feeling, not exactly frightened, but very uncertain that this was
something I wanted. And just a moment before, when he kissed and
caressed me, I was at the edge of a climax. It was a real roller
coaster ride.
     "I know this has been hard for you," he began, "but I have a
reason. You remember the evening we made the List. We also discussed
our motivations. I told you things about myself that I have never told
anyone. And will never. And you told me some things too. Do you
remember?" I nodded, uncertain where he was headed, but I said noth-
ing. He flipped a wall switch and the spotlight went off. His face was
lit from below by the firelight. I didn't move. My hand stayed where
it was, my attention split between what he was saying and the focal
point of my hand.
     "You said that one of the things that you sometimes wanted was to
have someone else take charge. That sometimes you got tired of con-
stantly having to deal with everything. I'm sure it was partly the
daily pressure of your job that made you feel that way. You sometimes
wanted to be the one who was cared for and protected. You wanted to
belong to someone, to have someone you could depend on, someone you
could be sure of. At this moment, you don't feel that way, I know. But
I want you to. I want to make you mine. Completely. This is my way of
doing that. I know you well enough to be sure you would be far too
embarrassed to let anyone else see you with no pubic hair. When you
removed it for me you took a step toward becoming mine."
     I was concentrating on my hand. You talk too much, I thought. He
went on.
     "That's why your embarrassment is a special gift to me. It's
something I know you wouldn't give anyone else. I don't want you to
even be able to give to anyone else. I want you totally for myself, 
completely committed to me. Everything I do over the next few weeks
will help make you into that person. I want to possess you totally."
     Something like that. I wasn't concentrating fully, but I got the
gist. He seems to adopt a formal mode of speech when he talks about
the psychology of our relationship. Almost as though he had rehearsed
what he said.
     Still, I was beginning to see. It did give me a warm feeling to
know that he wanted for me to belong to him. Belong with a capital
`B'. Like a slave. I was beginning to realize that there were layers
beneath the surface of this game--things he had thought about more
than I. As he continued to talk, I began to understand exactly where
we were going, what was happening. At least I began to relax a little
and feel comfortable. Everything started to fall into place. When he
said he wanted me to be his slave he didn't mean as a servant; he
meant someone with unreserved and absolute commitment. I dismissed the
thought that this had been in his mind from the beginning, six months
ago, even before we started writing those steamy letters. As he droned
on in the same vein (he does tend to over-explain things sometimes) my
mind wandered off on a tangent.
     Ironically, what he wanted would give me a kind of power over
him: it would be hard for him to find anyone else that would be
willing to commit so deeply to him: the List contained some pretty
personal stuff; not many women would go that far. And whatever he did
to me, it was a measure of his commitment, because the List gave me
license to respond in kind. However much he made me open up to him, he
made himself just as vulnerable if I choose to exercise my rights.
Vulnerable to me. My last coherent thought of the evening was:
     The List is my safety net. He would not go beyond its limits. It
is also a direct and tangible gauge of our commitment to each other.
     I wasn't thinking with the clarity those words imply, but the
ideas were there, and I gained comfort from the thought.
     I became abruptly aware of my hand, still resting There, where he
had told me to put it, and I stopped thinking altogether. I couldn't
concentrate on anything else he was saying. I could only feel the
weight and warmth of my hand resting on my smooth, hairless mons,
through the damp, sheer cloth. I could feel every thread of the
material. I became aware of the tightness of the elastic between my
buttocks, the tautness of my breasts.... The temptation was irresist-
ible to press down slightly with my hand. My eyes drifted shut and my
hips moved, seemingly on their own.
     Suddenly I was jerked to my feet. I found myself facing the
fireplace; he was behind me holding my wrists tightly by my sides. I
struggled feebly against him, to cover myself, but I couldn't move.
     "We could stop now if you say the word. Once again: do you want
to go on?" he said. "Total commitment?"
     I understood what he was asking, but still I couldn't think. I
didn't even understand why he was asking. It seemed so unnecessary to
say anything. I know one should avoid cliches (like the plague?), but
time really did seem to stand still. The fire crackled and flickered.
I could feel the warmth on my front through the filmy cloth, his
breath on my neck. I stared down into the fire, not moving, not
breathing, suddenly at peace, serene, and, oddly, more in control of
myself than he was.
     It's funny how such an important decision can be made with so
little effort. I felt as if I had been fighting a war all my life and
in the middle I simply decided to give up and wander off the battle-
field. I wanted so much to give up. So, idly, almost carelessly, with
a single word, I abandoned the fortress I had unknowingly defended for
a lifetime.
     "Yes."

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