Archive-name: Bondage/njlist05.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List -  5 of 20


The List
     Column 1
       Item 9

     Monday again. The swelling has finally gone down on my nipple.
There was a slight infection but Neosporin antibacterial ointment took
care of it. I'm symmetrical again, but I'll keep treating them until I
don't feel any unusual sensitivity when the rings are disturbed. It's
probably not necessary, but I still cover them with band-aids. J can
even make a band-aid a sexual thing. Those round things that look like
nipples were too small, so he had me make larger circular ones of
flesh-colored "ouchless" plastic surgical tape with sterile gauze
stuck in the middle. They cover my nipples completely, and from a
distance he says it looks like I don't have any nipples at all. Like a
department store mannequin. Interesting concept. They don't bother me
any more, though.
     As I look back over this account, it appears that the only thing
we do is have sex. That's not true. Sex may be the only thing I write
about, but we do lots of other things together, and I have lots to do
during the days when he is at work. Cleaning up this gawdawful barn of
a house, for one thing. And I have made curtains for my room, done
some weeding, normal stuff like that. I sound terminally domestic, I
know, but I'm used to a long and busy work day. I'm still adjusting to
not having to eat over the sink or in my car. I get hyper and have to
do something, so I made curtains, okay?
     I exercise on his weight bench in the garage almost daily: he has
moved a big full-length mirror in there for me; one end of the garage
is like a little carpeted mini-spa. And of course I read--and write
this. And check out the usenet. It's nice to feel I have a pipeline to
the outside world.
     So after working at St. Hectic and living in a big city, the
restful pampered schedule is welcome, and the sex is pretty powerful.
Overwhelming, but in a good way. Well, maybe "good" doesn't describe
it. I don't feel like a good little girl anymore (small loss). Maybe
fantastic is the correct word, because I am living out a fantasy. I
could almost go for the life of a full-time "kept woman." Almost.
     But our slave/master relationship IS full-time, for now. We don't
turn it on and off, and it gets a little tiresome sometimes, even
though I asked for it to be real. He doesn't push it by making me
scrub floors or do degrading things. What I'm trying to say is he
doesn't use me for slave labor to do things he doesn't want to do. But
I do have to cook almost all the meals and wash the dishes. He says
that is my reminder of my (temporary) status. His turn will come, he
says. When we were both on tight schedules in Chicago, we shared the
household stuff 50/50, so I don't mind.
     We were a little ginger with sex right after I got pierced:
Either me on top being careful or rear entry. It wasn't really neces-
sary, but J thought it was, so we did. Being entered from the rear is
a position we had previously almost never used since I found it
relatively unsatisfying, but J has fixed that problem. First we tried
it with me on all fours. He had taken foreplay to his usual extreme
again, teasing me until I was a babbling nymphomaniacal bundle of
uncongealed nerve endings. I felt like a dog in heat; on my hands and
knees with my collar on, I even looked like one. When he penetrated
me, though, it still wasn't satisfying. I just couldn't climax. It
helps me to have an orgasm if I can straighten my legs and flex my
thigh muscles, and you can't do that on all fours. Also, my clitoris
isn't stimulated as much in that position.
     Then he tried a variation: with us both on our left sides, kind
of propped up by pillows, still penetrated from behind. I was able to
lift my right leg and spread myself open in front, so that he could
stroke and caress all of me (even my breasts, carefully), and more
importantly, so could I. In fact, he TOLD me to stroke myself while we
were making love this way. You can't do this in the missionary posi-
tion, so this was new to me. He took my hand in his and guided it to
my clitoris while he continued thrusting from behind.
     As I have said before, I am reluctant to masturbate in front of
anyone else, even J. I was still reluctant this time, and withdrew my
hand, but he whispered over my shoulder, "I can't force you to enjoy
this, but there are other things you can be made to do." He guided my
hand back. "If you don't..." A thinly veiled threat was all it took.
His control, my body. There was nothing I could do. The implied threat
of that gag is enough, and I'm sure his imagination isn't limited to
that particular "minor discomfort".
     So I did it. He continued stroking from behind and caressing in
front, but I was in complete control of my own orgasm; it was almost
as though I were in complete control of his lovemaking. I brought
myself to the edge and held myself there, and all the while he contin-
ued to plunge into me and caress my front. It was like having four
hands to caress myself with. This time I drove myself crazy, teasing
and hesitating on the very edge. My nipples became erect under the
bandages. They ached deliciously already from the excitement, and now
the ache was even more intense--almost a stinging sensation as they
hardened. Which made me even hornier. We'll have to try that position
again after my nipples heal.
      -*-
     Yesterday he had me pluck my eyebrows until they were pencil-
thin. I did this my last year in high-school and my first two years in
college, but fashions change and I let them grow out full again--until
yesterday. But I always preferred them thin. Anything goes these days
anyway, so I don't mind. I think I look better this way. I'll leave
the heavy eyebrows to Brooke Shields. I understand she is popular in
Russia. She probably reminds them of Brezhnev.
     I need depilatory again today, too. This will be the third or
fourth time. I know it sounds like I'm self-absorbed, but I have
always liked "working" on myself, whether it is with makeup, eyebrow
tweezers, shaving my legs, brushing my hair, exercising, or whatever.
You would think that after a while I would get tired of self-mainte-
nance, but I still get a kind of sensual pleasure out of it, even now.
     I don't think I'm narcissistic, because I enjoy the physical act
of doing these things rather than the results. Sounds like I'm justi-
fying something, I know, but the preparation is more important than
the finished product. Maybe a bit like a craftsman who likes his job.
I take a lot of time with it, and try out new and different variations
whenever I can. I have a tendency to make myself look too artificial,
although a little artificiality is attractive, I think. Needless to
say, I have about a ton of partly-used experimental makeup.
     Several times when things were slow on the night shift at the
hospital (a rare thing, believe me) I even removed some of my own
moles: I anesthetized the area with topical benzocaine, then injected
subcutaneous xylocaine and burned the little suckers right off. Did as
neat a job as any dermatologist, too. That's partly why I have such
perfect skin. I got nearly all of them.
     I guess the point is that I like "working" on myself, and don't
see decorating my nipples, depilating, and plucking my eyebrows as a
burden, but rather another aspect of self improvement and maintenance,
just like doing my nails; until I go back to work, I will have plenty
of time for this kind of thing, so why not indulge? Besides, it's a
turn-on knowing I'm getting ready for sex.
     It's not just polishing and perfecting myself that fascinates me,
though. I like being able to change myself, too. I have experimented
with just about everything about me that can be changed: my hair, my
makeup, my clothing styles, everything. It's almost like a compulsion
to try something--anything--else. I get a thrill out of being some-
thing different than I am, I guess. It's a good thing "do-it-yourself
plastic surgery" isn't a reality: I would probably do it. Really. It
doesn't sound like a very healthy self-image now that I write it down.
     When I got back from the spa the post office had left a note that
my sewing machine arrived at the local post office. I shipped it and
some other stuff from Chicago before I drove down here. I'm going to
pick it up myself tomorrow. I should have used U.P.S.
     I would have done a better job with the curtains if I had waited
for it to arrive, but I was antsy.
     -*-
     Tuesday. J has started on some kind of project. You're going to
think this is weird. Even I do. I didn't know what he was doing at
first: yesterday evening he tied me on the oak table again, the same
as before, but with my legs straight on the top of the table, ankles
tied at the edges, and with a plastic drop-cloth under me. He scotch-
taped saran-wrap over my sex and then covered me from just below my
breasts to my upper hips with petroleum jelly. That part was a little
sexy, but I was mostly mystified. Then with me craning my neck to
watch, he mixed plaster of paris in a big bucket on the floor by the
table. At that point I had figured out that he was going to make a
plaster cast of my front. I was half right. Anyway, tying me down was
just to keep my attention.
     When he smeared the plaster over my lubricated torso, it was kind
of an interesting feeling, cool and slippery at first but warmer as it
began to set. He had imbedded strips of cloth in the plaster partly to
strengthen it, and partly to tie it into the other sections of the
cast when he added them later. When he pulled it off it was an unbro-
ken and faithful copy of my lower body. He freed me then, and told me
to wash myself off. I had been dismissed.
     While I cooked dinner he sawed and filed the edges of the cast
smooth, and after we had eaten he told me to get my shower cap and
come to the garage. While I watched, he covered the edges of the mold
with wax and had me stand. He fitted the cast against my front.
Naturally, it was a perfect fit. He strapped it tightly in place with
old belts, and had me help support it with my hands.
     He covered my breasts, neck and shoulders with petroleum jelly,
band-aids and all, and mixed more plaster. He explained that he wanted
my breasts to hang naturally for this part of the cast, so I had to do
it standing up. The shower cap was to keep my hair up out of the
plaster. He built up the already-finished mold of the lower front of
my body by adding on to its upper edge until he had a mold of me from
my upper thighs to my uplifted chin. I kept asking him why he was
doing this, but he just told me I would find out. Finally, he said he
would use the gag if I didn't just stop asking questions. The mold was
quite heavy at this point, and it was only half done.
     He sawed and filed the rough edges until he had a complete
impression of the front half of my torso, and again he fitted it to
me. It required a little squirming, but it was still a perfect fit.
Then it was back to the oak table, where he put the mold with the
interior up and had me lie face down, fitting myself into it. He
supported me with pillows under my forehead and legs, and then plas-
tered my entire back then, neck to hips. After it had set, the two
plaster halves separated neatly where he had wax papered the edge of
the front half. The final product was a huge and cumbersome mold of my
torso. I can't figure out why he made it. He still hasn't told me. I
don't even know why he had me write about it in such detail. It wasn't
really an erotic experience. I told him it would have been much easier
if he had used the water-activated cast material they use for broken
bones. You can get it from any medical supply store.
     -*-
     Wednesday. My sewing machine arrived okay. I picked it up today.
He put my chain on again last night after he came home from work. I
don't mind, except that during week days when I'm not at the exercise
spa or out shopping I like to put on what few clothes I have (total
clothing: the knit dress, the black thong, my exercise outfit, and the
sheer cotton) and now the knit dress doesn't look good any more with
the chain under it. Besides, it's too nice for around the house. I can
slip the thong through the waistband of the chain and wear it under-
neath if I want, because it unsnaps at the crotch, but it's not very
comfortable; the dress and the pants present problems in topology if I
try to wear them under the chain.
     He didn't tie me down this time when he put the chain on. I
suppose I knew what was coming though, so it wouldn't have mattered
anyway. Certainly I didn't fight it. In fact I held the torch for him,
like an assisting nurse. If he would just leave the crotch chain
unlocked, I could wear those sheer cotton pants under the chain. The
waist would still be welded on. Oh well.
     Now that my sewing machine is here, maybe I can make some more
clothing. As it is, I have to wear my exercise leos with shorts and a
t-shirt everywhere I go, and pretend I just came from the spa. Anyway,
I got some material and patterns. I'll get started this afternoon.
      -*-
     As soon as he proofed this, J "forbade" me to make any clothing
without his approval.(!) Of course, he prefers it when I have to wear
sexy clothing--which is all I have (except the exercise stuff). I have
a really sexy short black knit dress in my luggage that I could wear
if he would unlock the crotch chain (yes, that's a hint).
     My period is due soon. I have to get him to unlock the chain for
it. I'm not sure he would if I just asked. After all, it would be for
convenience rather than necessity. I can perform all my bodily func-
tions by just pulling the waist chain down and the crotch piece to one
side. Listen to me. People in the midwest don't discuss bodily func-
tions; I don't think my mother even HAS any bodily functions, and here
I am discussing "feminine hygiene" on public (pubic?) TV. Monitor.
Whatever. I still have to learn computerese. At the hospital I really
just followed a cookbook when I learned the computer at the nurse's
station. But I'll learn more. Several times I've wanted to post
something on ASB and didn't really know how.
     Anyway, my period might be a problem with the chain. I have an
idea that might work. I have been saving it for when I really need
something from him. I'll tell you if it works.
     -*-
     Thursday. Well, it worked, sort of. I am not sure it was a great
idea, but I'll put it down here anyway. I have never been terrific at
oral sex. I am reluctant to do it in the first place (due to a vesti-
gial but typical midwestern conflation of hygiene and morality), and
have never been able to make it very satisfying for him. Plus I gag
reflexively if I hold even half of him in my mouth. So anyway, last
night I put on my black thong (under my chain), and some formal black
heels. I made myself as stereotypically sexy as I could. I couldn't
put pantyhose on with the chain and ankle cuffs, but I put body makeup
and powder on my legs and behind, right up to the thong, to make my
skin perfectly smooth and even. I fixed a great chicken dish with
desert and fruit; I gave him the works. I even ate by myself earlier
so I could wait on him hand and foot before and during the meal,
pouring his wine, bringing the courses one at a time, everything I
could think of from candle light and incense to little touches like
brushing my breast against him while serving his food.
     Afterwards, dishes cleared, with him sitting on the sofa by the
lit fireplace, I by his feet, I made my well-rehearsed pitch in that
same artificial style that marks all our master/slave conversations. I
guess it's role playing.
     "J, I have a favor to ask of you. Before I ask, I want to do
something for you that I haven't been able to do before. It isn't an
item on the List; well, it is, but I want to go beyond the List for
you in this.
     "You know I can't control my gag reflex when I try to take all of
you in my mouth," I continued (too embarrassed to look him in the
eye), "but I think I might be able to with your help and patience."
Actually, didn't need much help at all to do this, but his patience
was essential.
     Without telling him what I intended, I started undressing him.
When he was nude, I told him I had to go into my bathroom to prepare
myself. I had filled an old perfume atomizer with an OTC liquid
topical oral anesthetic, twenty percent benzocaine (which is a pretty
potent percentage). I looked myself in the mirror, calming myself for
a few seconds before I went ahead.
     I had practiced the day before, so I knew it worked. I just
didn't know if it would work well enough. I sprayed the back of my
throat while, with my mouth wide open and tongue depressed, I said the
magic vowel, "EE". Of course with your tongue depressed it doesn't
come out "EE", but your vocal cords are best positioned for exposure
to the spray, and if you take a deep breath first so you don't have to
inhale the vaporized anesthetic, and try not to swallow while your
salivary glands go into overdrive, the anesthetic will stay on your
throat lining long enough to numb it. You learn a few tricks working
ENT and internal medicine.
     After several applications, each time spitting out the residue
rather than swallowing, the back of my throat had that thick feeling
that accompanies numbness. The rest of my mouth was beginning to feel
tingly, too. Now I could apply the anesthetic directly to the back of
my throat with a cotton swab without triggering a gag reflex. I rinsed
my mouth well with water so I didn't reduce his sensitivity (that
would defeat the purpose for sure).
     Almost as an afterthought, I brought the hand mirror. I wanted to
see what I looked like while doing this for him. You have to under-
stand: this was a very daring thing for me to do. He is the only
person I have ever done oral sex for (no-one, not even J, has ever
done it to me. In case I didn't tell you, he's a midwesterner, too.)
and I have only done it a few times for him, and not well even then.
My heart wasn't in it. I have never really gotten over the feeling it
is unhygienic, and I've never given him an orgasm that way. But I'm
working on it.
     When I went back out to the living room and told him I was ready,
my voice was different, or maybe because I was excited it just felt
different, kind of husky and low. No... it definitely sounded differ-
ent.
     A single touch of my hand and he was ready. He didn't even know
what he was anticipating, but he obviously knew it was something. He
leaned back on the sofa and I knelt between his legs on the fleeced
rug. I took him into my mouth and sucked on the end of his penis,
rotating my head around and pressing my near-numb tongue against the
underside. With every heartbeat I could feel him pulse larger and
larger in my mouth.
     Tentatively, I slid forward. When he reached the back of my
mouth, I didn't gag. I almost did, but it was so easily controlled it
was forgotten in seconds. So far so good. I stroked back and pushed
forward again, this time a little deeper. He was in firm contact with
the very back of my mouth and I was still in control, so I went with
that for a while and experimented with trying to relax my throat and
get the feel of it. He felt larger than I had hoped he would, but not
too large that I couldn't slide forward a little more.
     Finally he was in contact with the back of my throat, and my
breath was shut off. I backed off, gagging slightly but unnecessarily.
I needed to learn to coordinate my breathing. I took a few deep
breaths, inhaled, and tried again. Again, I took him to the back of my
throat a few times experimentally, and tried contracting my throat
around him. He gave a slight moan. Good sign, but I had my own prob-
lems to concentrate on. I pushed a little more, getting the feel of
going even deeper. I could tell he wanted to push, but was keeping
strict control of himself. I kept this up for a while, getting accus-
tomed to the feeling. I was too slow and tentative to give him an
orgasm, but one step at a time. I even tried swallowing motions,
although I couldn't really complete the action. I actually had him all
the way in! I was secretly exultant.
     I had propped the mirror against the arm of the sofa so I could
reach it and look at myself while I had him inside. I had to open my
mouth very wide, and had to use my lips to keep my teeth from scraping
him, so I looked a little funny, but no more unattractive than with
that gag (I don't believe it, but J tells me I look beautiful with
that gag in). When I take him all the way in, though, my throat is
distorted: kind of distended like a croaking frog. It looks weird,
like I have an iodine deficiency or something. You can tell he's in
there even from the outside. Not to mention the inside.
     I continued experimenting until the anesthetic began to wear off.
It doesn't last long. But even then I was able to take him all the way
in. So I kept on. It's really just a knack. My gag reflex seemed to be
under control enough for me to continue, but my throat finally began
to feel weird, so I ended up stopping before he had an orgasm.
     J was pretty turned on, though. Basically I had worked him into
quite a state, but hadn't given him release. I could see he was almost
in pain. It gave me a secret feeling of power. And pride. I was
delighted with myself. He was delighted with me too: he recognized
that what I had done was quite an accomplishment for me, and made our
subsequent lovemaking particularly tender and special for me. He seems
to know all the right things to do, when to change the tempo, shift
positions, everything.
     This morning when I got up I was a little hoarse, and I'm afraid
I hammed it up a bit more than was necessary to get sympathy I didn't
really deserve. I think I could try it again, maybe this time with no
anesthetic. I discovered that caressing the end of his penis with my
lips and tongue, and only occasionally engulfing him completely has
the best effect. J says a mouth is not designed to be a substitute for
a vagina, but it can be very interesting nonetheless. The oral sex is
incredible, he says, but even so, it's not as fulfilling as normal
frontal sex. Whatever that is. I haven't had normal sex since we got
back together, although a lot of it has been frontal.
     Anyway, he unlocked the chain for me. Now it is just a belt with
the crotch piece hanging down, which I wear to the side. It looks kind
of pretty. I like gold. The link where he welded it is kind of burned
looking, though. I wish it could be re-plated. He told me I didn't
have to do the "deep throat" routine just to persuade him, though. He
would have unlocked it for my period if I had asked.
     -*-
     Friday. My period is here, and neither of us likes sex during
this time. I know some don't mind, but I do. Thank goodness he gave me
some panties from my suitcase, too.
     My nipples aren't healed yet, but now I can see how they will
look. I love them. While they are just resting, inverted, the little
rings half protrude from their hiding places. I haven't shown J yet.
I'm really excited about them. Can't wait until I can put other
jewelry on them. Small pendants and such. I wish I had thought to get
some while we were in the piercing clinic in San Francisco.
     -*-
     Saturday. I'm in big trouble. Or at least I will be when J reads
this. I bought a package of hacksaw blades on a shopping trip in town
after we got back from San Francisco. I don't know what possessed me,
I suppose I thought of them as insurance in case I really needed to
get out of this situation I'm in. My feelings oscillate between a
temptation/fear to explore bondage more deeply (at least I can call a
spade a spade now: Bondage. Bondagebondagebondage) and a feeling of
shame at what I have done and what he might make me do. I'm a sort of
combined midwestern fool and an angel, wanting to rush in and fearing
to tread at the same time. Anyway, I thought of the hacksaw blades as
insurance. And a personal proof that I have at least a vestigial
intention to resist this ... process. I was going to say experiment,
but it's more than an experiment.
     But I've decided to let J find them.
     (They are laid flat under the rug in the living room,
     J, behind the big sofa. There are three of them)
     I'm doing this because not betraying you is more
     important to me than insurance.
     Besides, the only times I have considered escaping were when it
was clearly impossible for me to use a hacksaw anyway...
     ++++ Note from the Future ++++
     This is a load of bull. I wanted to show J I was committed to
him. That's why I told him about the hacksaw blades. And I wanted to
give him cause to take the next step--to punish me. That's why I
bought the blades in the first place. I could have just buried the
blades in the woods while he was at work and he would never have
known. But I didn't. I was in a rush to descend to greater depths
without having to admit to myself that this was what I wanted. I've
got all that sorted out in my mind now. At least I know what I want.
     ++++ End of Note ++++ ... So tomorrow you will know, J, but
before you punish me I want you to remember why I told you this
voluntarily: I love you and am yours to do with as you please.
     I think my nipples are almost healed now. I can move the rings
with only a little tenderness, and they've stopped exuding fluids and
crusting up. One or two more days of antibacterial ointment should do
it.
     -*-
     Sunday. J didn't read yesterday's entry, so I have a reprieve.
I've been extra good. Last night I told him I wanted to make something
really sexy to wear for him. He told me to make a body stocking. What
he means is a unitard. It will be easiest to modify one from [store
name deleted] rather than make one from scratch. It has to be black,
and cover me completely. The instructions were detailed.
     I guess this is our week for arts and crafts. In addition to the
body stocking, J has been fitting me for something. I'm not sure what,
but he has measured my thighs, waist, hips, upper and lower arms in
several places, inseam, sleeve length, neck, everything. He then
disappears into the garage where I hear pounding and scraping noises.
And machines. I'm not allowed to watch. I think he's too preoccupied
to proofread my latest entries. Maybe he won't read them at all. I
wish he'd hurry up and finish his project, though. Actually, he says
it's three projects, all to do with me. Anyway, I miss using the
weight bench, since it's locked in the garage while he's at work.
     I've been practicing my exotic dancing religiously every day. I
even think I'm getting pretty good. I can make my stomach undulate in
a very interesting way, although it looks a lot sexier than it feels.
J has unlocked my chain so I have more freedom of movement, although
it wasn't really a hindrance. I loop the loose end and lock it at my
waist, letting it hang at my hip. It looks kind of nice that way. Of
course I can't get it off, since it is still welded (or whatever)
around my waist.
     -*-
     Monday: This morning I went out and bought a black unitard body
stocking and a yard of lycra. Finding black gloves was pretty diffi-
cult. They aren't lycra, and all of the black material I bought is in
different shades of black. It's surprisingly hard to match black. But
I will start on it later this afternoon. I am to be covered from my
toes to my fingertips, with a zipper from the middle of my back, down
between my legs, and up to my front neckline. The neckline will be a
rollover turtleneck that, when unrolled, has a zipper along the top
edge under my chin, zipping to a hood--a ski mask with no openings. It
will cover my head completely.
     He says to make it very tight, so I bought the body stocking a
size too small. All I really have to do is sew the gloves to the
sleeves and make some feet to attach to the ankles, then work on the
hood.
     -*-
     Tuesday. My period will be over tomorrow. He STILL hasn't read
the latest entries (about the hacksaw blades). Normally he sits at the
computer and proofs them while I cook dinner, but now he is working in
the garage every evening. Sometimes he lets me exercise while he's
working and I can watch what he is doing, but I can't really tell what
he is making. It involves leather, and I have a pretty good idea what
it is for. I'm not a complete idiot. But he also keeps two things
covered up with old sheets. One is three feet tall and sits on his
workbench. The other is on the floor. Sometimes the smell of leather
is strong on his hands and in the garage. Sometimes it is solvents of
some kind. I think the plaster mold of me, whatever it was for, was a
failure, though. I saw it all broken up in a cardboard box last night.
Today it is out by the garbage cans.
     I've been having trouble perfecting a design for the black hood.
It's a kind of Catch-22: It doesn't quite fit right, and I can't see
to correct it while I have it on. J said cut slits for the eyes and
sew them up last. He also said I should leave small holes for my
nostrils. I said that I can breathe through the material, but he said
to do it anyway: I might need to breathe more quickly, he said. Hmmm.
I also had to cut off the thumbs of the gloves and sew them up. And he
doesn't like the way the leotards squash my breasts. He wants me to
build shaped, conical cups into the front to cradle me like a bra.
I'll look like Darth Madonna. Won't be able to hitchhike, though....
     As one of the witches in Macbeth says, "By the pricking of my
thumbs, something wicked this way comes..." Wasn't that the title of a
good Ray Bradbury novel? Something about people made into sideshow
freaks by the circus owner. 'Something Wicked' was the title, I think.
Good yarn. Another one for you SF B&D fans on the net: 'The Real
Story' by Stephen R. Donaldson. I found it on the bookshelf here in
the house. The rest of his stuff seems to be rather dull dungeons and
dragons fantasy but this is about 80% B&D. Don't miss it if you can,
as Samuel Goldwyn didn't say.
     -*-
     Wednesday. Last night I told J that I thought my nipples were
healed completely and showed him. They really have healed perfectly; a
little sensitive, still, but healed. The tiny rings that pierce them
are barely bigger than the nipples themselves. When they aren't erect,
only half the ring protrudes from the little folds in my areolas. He
had been saving a small surprise for me, the dear. He'd bought a pair
of very small pendants for me. They are gold with tiny garnet tear-
drops at the ends. They are sweet. I remember them from the shop in
San Francisco. He put them on for me. They dangle and brush against my
areolas when I move; they make me feel sexy--more aware of myself. He
said he still thought the band-aids were sexy. Hmmmm.
     Then he put something else on me. It was a kind of a leather g-
string, but the strap between my legs was much wider than a string. It
smelled strongly of leather. Actually, it is neatsfoot oil and wax, he
says. It has two belt buckles in front, although it really doesn't
need more than one, with a central wide strap between my legs. Very
wide. The end of the strap buckles to the waistband behind my back. He
pulled the strap very tight between my legs. Very tight. I think he
was just trying it on for size, though, because he let me take it off
after a few minutes. We made love afterwards, and it was satisfying
(three orgasms, countthemthree) but not quite as fulfilling as the
first few times after I came here. I wonder if bondage can become
boring.
     He has all of next week off, and says he will spend it all with
me.
     Depilation time again.
     -*-
     Thursday. He proofread last night. My God. What have I done. I've
never seen him so remote. I wonder what he's going to do. I'm only
half looking forward to it. I mean, everything he has done to me so
far has been a turn-on. But I'm a little nervous now, the way he's
been acting. Usually there are hints that he's just kidding. Well, not
kidding, exactly, but playing a role. Not any more, though. He told me
to follow him out to the living room, where he made me pull back the
rug and give him the three hacksaw blades. He took them, then locked
me in my room.
     At bedtime he came back and told me to use the bathroom. Then he
relocked my chain, pulling it up so tight in back that he had eight
links left over beyond the lock. It was compressed tightly --not quite
painfully but certainly uncomfortably--between my labia, forcing them
apart and pushing them to the sides. The chain was held taut and
rigidly in the crevice of my behind; I could feel it against the hip
bones at my waist, it was pulling down so hard on them. I couldn't
even get a finger under it very easily in places. He locked another
length of chain to the leftover loose links at the center of my back
and with another lock, attached a some heavy weights from his weight
bench. A ball and chain. He left me that way all night. I barely
slept. I wonder if he really thinks I trust him so little I have to
keep hacksaw blades around. That's really not the reason.
     This morning he loosened the chain, but left the weights on. At
least I can move around, but I have to carry the weight with me
wherever I go. I haven't heard the last of this. He didn't say a word
to me this morning. I'll keep working on the body suit. All that is
left is the hood and the zippers at the neck. It's not going to be
easy working around my chains. I can put the bodysuit on over them,
but the chain will have to protrude from the neckline while I am
trying it on. Before he proofed the last entry I had asked if I could
make an exotic dancer's outfit. He said yes, but I don't have all I
need to finish it. At least I'll get started. Maybe he'll be pleased
if I dance well for him.
     Sorry if this is disjointed, but I'm a little preoccupied. I
don't know what he's going to do to me, but the tight chain isn't the
last of it.


The List
     Column 1
       Item 10

     Friday afternoon. Well, I knew he'd do something; now I'm a
platinum blonde. How's that for an opener? I don't believe I let this
happen. It's really my fault. I did it to myself.
     I objected, sort of. Well, I begged him not to make me do it. I
could have just put my foot down, and said no, but it would have
ruined everything. I knew deep down it was fruitless to try and change
his mind. Somehow, he persuaded me to go through with it. Besides,
it's an interesting change. I look really different.
     Changing my hair color is on the List, after all, and J is right
when he says that I can always dye it back. I guess I was mostly
worried about getting a job, which I'll have to do fairly soon.
Platinum blonde hair is not the conservative kind of image a nurse
should project. Would you let Madonna inject anything into your
bloodstream? Don't answer that. You probably would.
     I think patients feel more comfortable trusting their lives to
Florence Nightingale. Not that I look remotely like Madonna, but if it
weren't for having to get a job, it actually looks pretty good. Still
bushy, though. It's not the total disaster I thought it would be. My
hair is frizzy enough without being weakened by bleaching, though. Now
it's even frizzier.
     I thought at first that having my hair bleached was my punishment
for buying the hacksaw blades, but now that I think about it, it
couldn't have been, since J had made the appointment well ahead of
time, which means he had planned this--maybe from the beginning. He
told me that I might have to convince the hairdresser to make me a
blonde, since it was a big change, so I actually had to cooperate in
doing this to myself. I had agreed to it as part of the List, and he
has always been very persuasive, so I agreed to go along with it
(secretly, I've always wanted to try being a blonde, although not
necessarily a platinum blonde).
     As it turns out, it was a kind of avant garde place where all the
hairdressers are punk. The guy didn't even blink an eye when I told
him what I wanted. He would have given me a purple mohawk if I had
asked. They had scheduled nearly the whole morning for it when J
called, and it took that long to do. J had me go without my contact
lenses, and he told me not to look in the mirror while the hairdresser
worked, but I couldn't help it. I had to look when he asked me how I
liked it. So I had an out-of-focus glance at myself, but that's all.
     When we got home, the first thing he did was to pull out more
chains and small locks. The chains aren't particularly heavy--not like
the dramatic clanking iron ones you find in dungeons in the
movies--but there are no seams in the links and they are plenty strong
enough. I've tried to break them. And I am positively festooned with
chains. First he put real handcuffs on my wrists, but joined by a one-
foot length of chain with a ring in the middle. Then "handcuffs" (I
guess they are leg irons) on my ankles, joined by a slightly longer
chain. A length of chain joined the ring between my wrists to the
chain joining my leg irons, but it passed through a ring on the
waistband padlock of my ever-present chain g-string. I can take short
steps, and since the chain slides through the loose ring at my waist,
I can lift my hands as far as my face if I'm not walking. By crouching
I will be able to wash my hair. I don't know how long I'll have to
stay like this. The various cuffs chafe if I move around too much and
it's boring, sometimes, being in the house alone during the day.
     But other times my nipples go erect while I'm hobbling around the
place and I think about him coming home and I wonder what he's got
planned for the evening.
     He had taken time off from work for the hairdresser's appointment
and chaining me after. After putting these chains on, he left me like
this and went back to work. It's slow going, typing with chains
hanging from my wrists. I make a lot of mistakes, and it rattles
against the printer under the table. Before he left, he said that
neither the bleaching nor the chains were my punishment for the
hacksaw blade episode. They were just preventative. The punishment is
still to come. I can't even really practice my exotic dance routine in
this getup. At least I can sew and read.
     I can't see myself going to the exercise spa anytime soon, even
without the chains. I've gotten to know a few people there on a casual
basis, but not so casual that I could show up with platinum blonde
hair and not raise eyebrows. I know, Madonna has platinum blonde hair,
so what's the big problem anyway? What's so special about that look?
She puts her cones on one at a time just like the rest of us, right? I
don't know. I guess I'm just not Madonna. Maybe I could have gone out,
but I didn't get the chance, really. I certainly couldn't go out now.

--