Archive-name: Bondage/njlist06.txt
Archive-author: Nurse Jones
Archive-title: The List -  6 of 20


The List
     Column 1
       Item 11

     It has been a long time since my last entry. I hope I can remem-
ber it all. I'm not even sure what day it is. I'm way behind in
keeping this up to date, but I was busy during the week that J had
off. Really busy. I don't believe what he's done to me. All in good
time.
     When J came home last Friday, he wanted to talk. It would have
looked to anyone like a typical casual evening at home for an average
couple, except that I was wearing nothing but chains and had to take
short little steps to keep up with him. And of course I was a platinum
blonde with no pubic hair. He told me to fix drinks for us and to
follow him into the yard. He was sitting on a low brick retaining wall
by the garden; I joined him and we chatted. I crossed my legs and
sipped my drink as though I were at a cocktail party. The air was
still warm, even though it was near sunset in March; Spring smells and
gentle breezes. I could really love the South. For some reason I felt
perfectly safe being nude outdoors; I guess it is the feeling of
isolation, being surrounded by the woods. It also helps to have J
there. All this notwithstanding, feeling safe isn't the same as
feeling relaxed: I was not completely at ease having a relaxed conver-
sation under these circumstances. Besides, the bricks were cold and
gritty. And an ant bit me.
     The conversation opened with inconsequential remarks like "How
was your day?" and "The breezes are beautiful after winter," and "Have
you finished the harem outfit?" My God, I thought, we're talking about
the weather and I have to lift both hands to sip my vodka and orange
juice because they are chained together.
     "You are beautiful, you know," he says out of the blue. He
doesn't talk much at all, and as a rule he says even less about my
appearance. "Really beautiful. Have you looked at yourself in the
mirror lately?"
     Of course I had, continuously. I had changed my makeup twice that
day. I look like a different person, and I'm still getting used to it.
I do like my eyebrows thin, though. I shaped them into high arches
like the show girls of the 1920's. They look kind of artificial, I
know, but still I like them. And my nipples. I have really become
proud of them. I want to show them off, at least in private and for J.
That sounds like an oxymoron, I know, like "locally famous", but
showing off in private is all I could handle comfortably. I am nearly
convinced, though, that J really does like my body. All of it, even my
nipples. Maybe especially my nipples. Actually, I have a pretty good
body. It's just the nipples. Of course my hair is a trip: a fluffy
platinum blonde near-afro. The color looks intensely artificial, too,
but for some reason the artificiality is a turn-on for me, like badge
that I wear that says to J, "See what I will do for you." And to
others, "See what I will do for him. I'm his. Nyah, nyah, nyah."
Although only a few strangers saw me that way. More on that later.
     My entire appearance is a constant symbolic reminder of the fact
that he has done something to me, put his stamp of ownership on me,
and that I like--want--to be owned this way. I would call it a kind of
inverted (reverse? involuted?) "pride of ownership", but it is not a
pride that I can yet show comfortably in public. I would be embar-
rassed; but even that potential public embarrassment is a gift, a
symbolic measure of what I will do for him. I guess that is what he
meant when he asked for my embarrassment as a gift.
     I think too much about this stuff. I can barely go into public as
it is, and not at all in these chains. Again, why should you be
embarrassed, you say? I think it's because I know what's going on, why
I look the way I do, even though people on the outside wouldn't know.
     Or it could be because I'm from Indiana, where they secretly
don't even approve of natural blondes. And I nearly look like an
albino.
     Why should I even care if someone else knew? The idea of other
people--people I don't know--reacting to the revelation that I am J's
willing slave is somehow exciting; I'll admit that much. But if anyone
I actually knew found out it would be awful. If a stranger knew, I
would be embarrassed too, but I could get into that kind of embarrass-
ment. Maybe.
     Anyway, he took special pains to tell me how beautiful he thought
I was--especially in chains. I go all squirmy sometimes. And I like
being constrained if it is by him; I'm not just writing that because
he'll read this either. There was genuine admiration and warmth in his
eyes when he spoke; I believed him, and, well, sometimes he just makes
me go all squirmy, that's all. The things he says. He told me he
wanted me to belong to him--even more than I already did. But he also
told me I hadn't paid for the hacksaw blades yet, and there was a
sudden remoteness in him then, a remoteness that made him hard to
read. A bit like a parent that I had disappointed but that still loved
me. There was something he wasn't telling me, though. I also think he
was a bit pleased I had broken the rules, too. I didn't know what to
expect as punishment.
     I wish to God I had known, but at the time I just felt a flush of
warmth and nervous anticipation at the implications of what he said.
Okay, so I'm a traitor to the midwest.... But if I had known. Jesus. I
still can't believe what he did to me.
     When he asked if my sewing was finished, I explained that I
needed a few things from the fabric store for the exotic dancer outfit
and a few hours work, but that I knew he would like it when I finished
it. The other, the bodysuit, was done and I would be glad to model it
for him. I was being as careful as I could to not remind him of the
hacksaw blades, but he was still holding himself distant. The warmth
left his eyes when he lapsed into his formal 'master mode' and said
"Stand up. This discussion is over. Step back, I want to look at you."
     And look at me he did. I stood in front of him, my chained wrists
hanging in front of my thighs. I have gotten used to these sudden
changes during our conversations, and have learned to change my
attitude and react instantly. His eyes travelled over my body, linger-
ing on my pierced nipples. I was wearing the tiny garnet pendants. My
nipples became erect as he looked; I embarrass so easily, even now.
But then embarrassment has become a sexual thing for me; somehow I
enjoy it. Perhaps enjoy is the wrong word, but if you don't understand
by now you might as well stop reading. I can't explain it any better
than I have.
     -*-
     Saturday morning we went to the fabric store. I literally haven't
left the house since (nearly a week, I think). Nor have I since had a
single moment when I wasn't hopelessly trapped by chains, those damned
little locks, etc. Not a single moment. Except for once, briefly.
     Since he gave me my car keys (did I tell you that? He has since
taken them away again. It's so hard to keep you consistently filled in
on the relevant stuff), I wore my exercise leotards nearly everywhere,
and I wore them that Saturday to the fabric store, except that he put
that ...device... inside me again, held in with the chain under my
shorts.
     He drove me to the store, and we went in together. I was so
embarrassed by the way I looked that I wore sunglasses as a disguise.
Stupid, I know, but I felt protected by them, somehow. I had to walk
slowly, like an invalid, and it was almost impossible for me to
concentrate on buying the elastic and stuff that I needed. I had to
pretend I was dawdling along, looking at everything on display so that
no-one would notice how slowly I had to walk. I stupidly asked the
shop assistant to help me find what I needed, and she went dashing off
to some far corner to find it. When she came back she must have been
wondering why I was tottering after her like an old woman.
     "Where did you go?" she says, "I thought you were right behind
me."
     "Uh," I quipped. We hoosiers are widely known for our rapier
wits.
     It was bad enough having platinum blonde hair. I felt like
everyone was looking at me. Of course they weren't, but I still don't
know if they were just being polite. Especially the shop assistant. I
think she suspected that maybe I had forgotten to take my medication
or something. Finally, I had what I needed, and we left.
     I thought we would go home then, but he made me sit through lunch
at a yuppie health food brass-and-fern-bar. Sit is the operative word.
Over lunch he told me my chain was coming off soon, for good. My
feelings were mixed. At that particular moment I would have been glad
to get it off for even a few minutes, but permanently? Did that mean J
was ending our relationship? Over the hacksaw blades? I asked him. He
didn't answer, he just smiled in a way that said "Of course not,
silly."
     When we got home, he cuffed my hands in front of me and had me
lie down on the bed while he cut the chain from my waist. Slowly, he
removed the device that was inside me. He told me to run a shower.
     In the shower, he washed me all over, my hair, everywhere. His
fingers probed everywhere, slithering into every crevice. I got
extremely turned on within minutes, and pressed against him, sending
body-language signals at every opportunity. He rinsed me and went over
me again with the conditioner. I don't think I'll ever be able to
smell that conditioner (even unscented, it has a smell) without
getting a little turned on. If you'll forgive the pun, I guess I was
being conditioned. Sorry. Does the name Pavlov ring a bell? Sorry,
sorry.
     He deliberately excited me as much as is possible short of
orgasm. He inserted his fingers into both my openings at once, stimu-
lating until my legs gave out and I sank to my knees. He supported me
and sank to the floor with me. When I say I was gasping, it sounds
like cheap pornography, but I was--and rather theatrically, too. Still
he continued, and I collapsed back, sitting on my heels, my pelvis
squirming against his probing hands. I wanted him inside me so much.
     "Do you want me to beg?" I said, "I will if you want...." No
answer. "Please stop. I can't stand any more!" No answer. He contin-
ued. Soon I was making animal noises as I pushed against his hands,
grasping with both orifices at once. I began to shudder into my first
orgasm and suddenly he stopped. My hands went to my front to finish
the job, but he caught the chain between the cuffs and held them away.
I was squirming and twisting, rubbing my legs together to no avail. He
stood, holding the chain at my wrists, and pulled me to my feet. He
led me into the bedroom, leaving the shower running, and locked my
handcuffs to a chain attached to one of those overhead rings. My hands
hung loosely just above my head.
     He turned off the shower and began to dry me with a hair dryer,
pausing to kiss, caress, and otherwise tease me with his fingers.
Under the hair dryer, my hair frizzed into an total mess, while I
continued to squirm, trying to masturbate myself with my thighs. It
doesn't work, no matter how motivated you are. I was motivated.
     He reached into the trunk and pulled out the boots I had tried on
in San Francisco. They came up to my knees, and were the tight black
leather ones with zippers on the sides and four inch stiletto heels. I
remember they were enormously expensive, but then we're not starving
graduate students anymore, so why not indulge? He put them on me,
pausing between boots to caress me again, keeping me at the edge.
After he zipped the boots, under each instep he passed a small chrome
chain, crossing it over the top of my foot and pulling it behind my
ankle, where he yanked it snug and padlocked it. Those boots weren't
coming off without the key.
     He freed my wrists from the overhead chain, leaving the cuffs on,
and put my hands behind my head. With my arms in this position, elbows
bent as much as they would, he passed electrician's black plastic tape
around and around my bent arms, binding my wrists to my upper arms so
I couldn't straighten my elbows at all. He took off the cuffs then,
but I could touch only the lower part of my face and head and my
breasts. He pushed me back onto the bed and, one at a time, he did the
same thing to my ankles, bundling them against my upper thighs so my
heels were held tight against my buttocks. I couldn't straighten my
legs or my arms. I suppose I could have crawled with difficulty on my
elbows and knees, but I would have had problems even getting off the
bed without falling.
     He continued to stimulate me. I was frantic, panting and begging
for release. He rolled me over and lifted me to my knees, letting me
sit back on my heels, legs spread, while he continued to stimulate me.
I would have had difficulty coming with my legs bound like that, even
if he had been trying to bring me to a full orgasm, which he wasn't.
He was just teasing. He went to the garage, leaving me kneeling on the
bed and panting with need again but unable to satisfy myself. I
actually tried masturbating with my elbow. Almost got off, too.
     When he came back he was carrying what looked like a full-size
model of my torso. It was (is) made of polished black fiberglass. He
has done body work on his own cars (he even built his own kayak), and
had used the same techniques to make a mold from the plaster cast he
had of my body. It is actually quite beautifully made. Almost a work
of art. It is shaped a bit like a thong-bottomed turtle-necked sleeve-
less leotard except it is smooth and polished (inside and out) with
steel rings hanging from it in various places and lockable latches all
around the edges, under the crotch, everywhere, holding together the
two halves, front and back.
     I was still practically vibrating from the earlier stimulation
and wondered if this contraption was somehow designed to give me
release since I couldn't.
     He leaned the body suit(?)--I don't really know what to call
it--against the mirror in front of me at the foot of the bed. It isn't
an exact model of me: the stomach muscles have more of a washboard
appearance than my own. The nipples aren't inverted--quite spectacu-
larly the opposite: they are sculpted to look erect and tumescent. It
is an idealized torso, like the ancient Roman armor you see in the
movies, but female. The inside is shaped exactly like me.
     He unlatched it and fitted the front half against me, moving it
about until my breasts slipped into the cavities in the front. I had
to straighten my posture, spread my legs, and lift my chin over the
high collar. It was especially tight in the waist and crotch. Although
my thighs are naturally wide-set, the piece that goes between my legs
is too wide to fit comfortably; and when he fitted the back on, it was
far too tight between my buttocks. I had to squirm and draw in my
stomach and wiggle to avoid being pinched in several places and he
even had to use conditioner as a lubricant in spots to slip it shut. I
almost didn't fit into it; he barely got the latches to shut without
pinching me. After my upper body was encased in this hard black
plastic shell, he snapped those tiny padlocks at every latch.
     He cut the black tape and freed my arms and legs. It actually
hurt to straighten my legs after having them cramped in that position
for so long. Electrician's tape doesn't hurt to pull off, though. He
threw my wrist cuffs on the bed with two padlocks and told me to put
them on. He left the room without checking to see whether I obeyed.
     Jesus. It took me a minute just to figure out how to sit up. You
have no idea how awkward it is to try to do simple things like get out
of a bed and walk when you can't bend your back or even turn your head
much. The collar of this thing (he wanted me to be wearing it while I
typed this part, so I am) is so high that I can't look up or down, I
can only turn a little to the side. I'm looking down my nose now, just
to see the monitor.
     I teetered to the mirror on the four inch heels. I have small
feet, and four inches puts me very nearly on tiptoes. Strangely enough
I thought I was beautiful. In a campy Barbarellaesque sort of way. The
sleek black plastic is highly polished, and shaped to flatter my every
curve. My face was flushed with the stimulation and excitement of a
near-orgasm. I was still extremely aroused, and seeing myself in the
mirror made me more so. The high, almost orthopedic collar held my
chin tilted into the air in a kind of regal but unnatural posture. My
hair was a huge white curly cloud around my head and behind the black
collar. It held me in tightly at the hipline, pressing against me just
above my hips and compressing my waist, a bit like a corset. It
pinched a bit until I had moved and wriggled about a bit and settled
into it. It never actually got comfortable, though.
     As I have already said, my legs are wide-set, so there is a space
between them as I stand naturally, unless I squeeze them together. The
plastic between my legs widens and accentuates that space unnaturally,
almost grotesquely; a small padlock dangles in the gap.
     I felt round the rim of the torso. I could (can) just barely get
my fingers under it at the crotch, but not enough to touch myself
there. With my hands, I felt my buttocks bulging on either side of the
crotch piece in back. Heels clicking on the tile, I teetered to the
bathroom and got the hand mirror to look over my shoulder. My buttocks
were separated and pushed far apart by the black plastic. In fact,
they are made to positively bulge out, even though I don't have a
large behind, I am squeezed so tightly by it. I haven't decided if
that is attractive or not. The crotch strap is wide and it presses
very deeply into my rear cleft. J likes it, though. He tells me I am
thoroughly stunning all over, and getting more so at every step. He
says this even after what he did to me later in the week. Jesus. Just
thinking about it makes me feel ... oh hell. I feel like I should just
cut to the chase and tell you what he did to me. Later. First things
first. I'm not sure I can even write about it yet. On with the show. I
want to finish this part so I can take off the torso thing.
     Before going out to him, I put on my makeup. I can sit at the
vanity, but sitting is not comfortable in this thing. In fact nothing
is comfortable in this thing. It pinches now and then, and constrains
always. The worst part, other than being unable to touch my own body,
and having to wait to pee, is not being able to turn my head or bend
my back. It's not easy to keep my balance. I have posture worthy of a
queen, though.
     He was seated in his armchair by the empty fireplace as I came
out of the bedroom; he looked at me appreciatively, and nodded slowly
to himself as though he were satisfied with what he saw. I didn't say
anything, just stood at the end of the hallway and tried to sense what
he wanted. I sometimes feel like a small and vulnerable nocturnal
animal that relies on subtle smells and tiny night noises for surviv-
al. At that moment, all my antennae were out and testing the air.
     Hoping my instincts were right, I turned slowly, holding my arms
away from my sides so he could see all of me. The scrape of shoes on
the tile floor echoed in the near-empty room. I paused when I had my
back turned, and after a moment ran my hands over the exposed parts of
my buttocks where they bulged, compressed by the fiberglass carapace.
I was feeling extremely sexy, and hoped I looked as seductive as I
felt (I still wasn't sure about the back view). Goose flesh rose where
I touched myself.
     I sensed him close behind me. He took my hands and held them by
my sides, leaning over my shoulder to whisper in my ear, "Touching
like that is my prerogative. Remember you are my property." He didn't
want me to touch myself, although I could tell by the suppressed
emotion in his voice that he was turned on by what I had done.
     I let him unlock the leather cuffs on my wrists. He relocked them
to a ring set in the center of my back between my shoulder blades. He
turned me around and kissed me deeply and tenderly, hands exploring my
buttocks, the only exposed part of me that even remotely resembled an
erogenous zone. I trembled; it had been only minutes since he'd had me
on the edge of an orgasm. It takes me a long time to cool down when I
am that close. I felt shaky, swollen, engorged, oversensitive, and
tender--almost bruised--and frustrated.
     He sat back down. Still trying to sense his mood, I walked over
to him and, with serious difficulty, tried to kneel on one knee in
front of him. I ended up doing a clumsy curtsey and he had to catch me
when I fell against him. He asked what it was I wanted, as if he
didn't know. I thought to myself that the one thing I wanted was to
have him inside of me. But he obviously knew that.
     "Would you like me to try on the black lycra bodysuit for you?
It's finished, hood and all," I said, thinking that the first step to
orgasm would be to get out of this torso. No matter how sexy it looks,
it is ultimately erotic only for the observer, not for the wearer.
Thinking objectively, almost everything else he has done to me is more
erotic than wearing this damn thing. But it does look sexy. And for
short periods it feels sexy. Sometimes. Like now. A moment ago I was
just miserable, and I will be again. It comes and goes.
     But then I had to go to the bathroom. Not a sexy motive for
getting the thing off, but there it is. He made me wait, though. Not
that he was torturing me or anything, I just didn't tell him I had to
go. I think he just wanted to keep me on the edge a little longer. He
helped me teeter out to the garage, gently holding my upper arm and
guiding me as though he were politely ushering me into a posh restau-
rant (that image flashed through my mind for some reason)--except that
my wrists were pinioned in the center of my back and my posture was
unnaturally perfect. And of course I wasn't exactly dressed for formal
dining. I had to roll my eyes and turn my entire torso to the side
just to watch him as we walked side by side.
     Standing on the workbench in the garage was a white plaster model
of my body. He told me how he made the fiberglass torso. I think he
enjoyed explaining the technical details. He had waxed the interior of
the two halves of the mold he made of my body, reassembled them, and
filled them with plaster, leaving a core of styrofoam to save weight
and plaster. After it hardened, he broke away the outer mold and
discarded it (I had thought those discarded pieces meant the project
was a failure).
     The remaining torso was an exact copy of my body. He sculpted
away parts of the plaster to shape the interior (that's why it is
smaller in the waist and crotch than an exact cast would have been)
judging how much he could remove by the fit of the tight leather g-
string (g-strap?) when he put it on and pulled it so tight in back.
Remember that? He just sculpted the lower part of the plaster torso
until the leather fit it. Later, he knew the torso would compress me
the same way.
     I really had to pee.
     He went on and on explaining how he had sanded it smooth and
sealed the pores in the plaster so he could build up something called
a gel coat, blah, blah, blah. Whoopie, I thought. Three layers of
epoxy-impregnated fiberglass with the latches and d-rings and steel
reinforcing imbedded, and he could cut it off and shape the edges by
adding an interlocking flange. Swell. I still had to pee. Several
additional finish coats on the outside with sanding between, polish-
ing, and I still had to pee.
     Frankly, I think it was too much work for what you get. I may
have missed some steps: my mind was on my bladder, and my attention
had wandered to the other object in the room, still covered with a
sheet.
     "You'll learn about that some other time," he said. He led me
back to the house. "Besides, it's time to finish you off," he said.
"This is really for later," he said, tapping one plastic-coated
breast, "think of this as the first fitting." As we went back to the
house, he commented that he was going to save the plaster cast of me.
He had more ideas for it. Hmmm.
     So anyway, he led me into the bedroom again, unlocked my arms and
taped them the same as before. I finally had to tell him before he
taped my legs that I HAD to pee. He unlatched the torso, telling me
that he's not into that particular form of torture, and that I should
have told him sooner. But he left my arms taped, and I couldn't wipe
myself. He knew that, and when I was through he came in and did it for
me. Slowly. It was demeaning and I looked away while he did it, but I
think it put my attention back where he wanted it.
     He led me to the bed and taped my legs. Once again, I was help-
less: I could straighten neither arms nor legs. He stripped off his
clothes as I watched, and got into bed beside me. Stroking and teas-
ing, he brought me to a near climax again, but again my inability to
straighten my legs held me back. I was groaning and pleading for him
to cut my legs free, but he wouldn't. Finally, kneeling between my
legs, he spread my upraised knees and slowly, with maddeningly great
control, penetrated me. Within moments I was flapping my pathetic,
folded up limbs and crying in frustration. He began thrusting quickly
and powerfully. At that rate it would normally have been a quickie for
him and left me twisting in the wind, but I was so close to climaxing
that he drove me over the edge. My dam burst, releasing a full day's
worth of pent-up sexual frustration. I made pitiful efforts to grasp
and hold him with my bound arms and legs, but it was hopeless. My
pelvis contract and spasmed of its own accord. I was ready for more:
at least two more orgasms were waiting in there somewhere, and he knew
it. But he didn't let me have them. Just almost.
     He left me there, twitching and moaning, and got a damp towel to
clean me with. Tenderly (he is so gentle afterward) he lifted me to my
knees and damp-towelled my still-vibrating body, soothing me into a
marginally relaxed state as you might an excited horse. But my frus-
tration wasn't at an end.
     He slathered my torso, neck to crotch, with conditioner. I
thought he was going to make love to me again--I was sure (knowing
what I know now, I'm absolutely sure) he would have been able to--but
just as I was getting excited he put the plastic carapace back on me.
I whimpered in frustration when I saw what he was going to do, and
begged him not to put it on, but he didn't listen.
     I had to cook dinner that way, marinating in gooey body condi-
tioner inside this damned plastic torso and feeling extremely...
ready.
     All during the romantic candle lit dinner that followed, he
ignored my rather eloquent body language--body language that, if it
were braille, a one-armed blind man in a dark room could have read
through a concrete wall. I was reduced to squirming in my seat, (the
padlock between my legs gouged the wood--the torso sits directly on
it) stroking my encased body sensuously (but pointlessly: as though I
could feel it through the plastic) and casting what I hoped were
smoldering, lust-filled looks his way. I could see I was having some
kind of effect, and I hammed it up a bit. I know he was aware that I
was excruciatingly horny, (I was only half kidding when I was hamming
it up) but he just ate his dinner as though we were in a formal
restaurant. He kept up a cheery but subdued banter, refilling my wine
glass, deflecting my heavy-handed innuendos and turning them into
jokes. He seems to delight in the incongruity of putting me in an
outrageous predicament under the most ordinary of circumstances.
     He kept me "conditioning" in the torso all that evening, finally
releasing me just before bed. He watched me dry off with a towel and,
after I had one last pee, cuffed my hands together and chained them to
my neck up under my chin so I couldn't reach my sex to masturbate.
Just to make sure, he made me sleep next to him in his bed for the
first time since I had arrived.

     The next morning I woke still horny. No relief, though. I usually
wake up feeling sexy anyway. I guess I've conditioned myself to feel
sexy in the morning: I like to fantasize when I'm half-awake. J often
wakes up horny, too, but I think that's more common in men. He thinks
it is caused by a full bladder pushing against his prostate. He also
tells me he can't urinate with an erection, which makes a lot of sense
biologically. I've never worked for a urologist, but I'd be interested
to know: When a man wakes up with a full bladder and an erection, how
the hell does he solve this problem? Can't piss until the erection
goes away, erection won't go away until the bladder is empty.... J
says the erection just goes away if he doesn't use it for anything.
Which of course he does, now and then.
     Anyway, he kept strict control over me until breakfast was over.
Then, after admonishing me not to touch myself below the waist at all,
he went out to the garage. By then I was out of the mood anyway. I
went back to finishing the harem/slave girl outfit while he fiddled
around in the garage.
     Are all men hobbyists? Jeez. Couldn't he have worked on me a
little? Even in the garage?
     Of course, I was chained, wrists and ankles connected as before,
like those convicts you see being led out of courtrooms on the news
but with a little more freedom of movement. I actually hurried the
costume in the hope that I would have time to impress him with my
dance routine before he decided to punish me for the hacksaw incident.
No such luck. After lunch he told me my punishment would begin that
day.
     I'm still not over the shock. No kidding. Look: I'm not a racon-
teur; I'm not a writer; this isn't literature. So far I've tried to
make this more than a "What I Did on my Summer Vacation". Call it
"attempted literature"; I'll be the first to admit my success has been
limited. Partly because I was constrained to tell it as it happened,
and it didn't happen in a way convenient for fiction. I've romanti-
cized. I've glossed over the boring parts. Sometimes my inept attempts
to be a writer have gotten in the way of even basic communication.
     BUT. I have NOT gotten over what comes next. It may come out a
bit muddled. I still feel bitter about it. I alternate between anger,
frustration, horniness, and a feeling of "What in God's name have I
gotten myself into?" Several times I have stopped typing just to go
and look in the mirror and I don't believe it. But it is right there
on the List. I don't know how I could have been so God. Damned.
Stupid.
     Okay, here goes.


The List
     Column 1
       Item 12

     Late that afternoon he took off all the chains. He told me to put
on the black bodysuit and bring the hood to his bedroom. I had looked
at myself many times in the mirror while making the suit. It shows off
my figure well, especially my breasts, although it changes their shape
by making them unnaturally pointy. And it is TIGHT. So tight there
isn't a wrinkle or fold anywhere in the material. It pulls up into my
crotch quite uncomfortably. Exactly what he wanted.
     He had me take out my contact lenses, too, and put on the stilet-
to boots again, with the chains that hold them on. And my wrist cuffs.
He had me bend over and hang my hair down into the hood while he
pulled it on over my head and zipped it from my chin to the base of my
throat. He zipped the hood to the collar, too. I was completely
enclosed in the suit. I could breathe and speak, but I couldn't see a
thing. Of course I know what it looks like, since I had tried it on
before sewing up the eye holes. I will leave it to your imagination.
     He had me stand. I was disoriented, on four inch heels and unable
to see, but he rectified my inability to balance by chaining my wrists
overhead at the foot of the bed and my ankles apart at the ends of a
three-foot pole, a spreader bar, if my understanding of ASBese is
accurate.
     Although spread-eagled, I could stand fairly easily, even on four
inch heels. I wasn't hanging by my wrists or anything drastic like
that; in fact, I might have fallen if my wrists hadn't been chained
above my head. He left me standing there for a moment while he left
the room. I didn't know it at that particular moment, but shortly I
would learn that he had gotten his heavy oak armchair and put it in
the bathroom.
     God, I still can't BELIEVE what he's done to me, even now, a week
later. And that morning was only the beginning. But one thing at a
time. I have to tell it as it happened.
     He unzipped the front of the bodysuit then, from neck to crotch
and up to my lower back. His hands were inside the suit, stroking me,
arousing me. I couldn't see what he would do next, but I was listening
intently for any clue. I was still on edge from the previous night's
unresolved teasing. He stood beside me. I felt chilly and exposed
where the zipper was undone, and I felt the lubricated fingers of one
hand working into my rear portal while his other hand stimulated my
front. First one finger, then two went in, loosening me for three. I
tried to relax and help him. Usually, being nervous is a hindrance,
but this time it made me wet in seconds, very ready, and very horny.
     Of course, I didn't know what was coming; so far it was just
another exciting and mysterious bit of bondage. I grasped and squeezed
with both openings, my thighs quivering with the tension and my hips
grinding in both directions at once. I guess gyrating is the word. A
few more minutes and he had me on the edge of an orgasm again, and he
stopped.
     I heard a buzzing noise. Then two buzzing noises. I could feel
vibration against both sides of me and knew instantly he had two
vibrators. I squirmed halfheartedly, and tried to clench both open-
ings, but I knew I couldn't have stopped him.
     [...and I didn't want to stop him, either, but was ashamed to
admit it ... Note from the Future]
     He continued to penetrate me from both sides at once, until both
vibrators were buried deep inside me. Each of them had some kind of
stop or flange on the end to prevent them from disappearing completely
inside, but he pushed until they were pressed tight against me. I
thought he was going to use them to bring me to orgasm, but instead,
he held them in me with one hand while he zipped the body suit back up
my front to my chin.
     He put the plastic torso over the bodysuit. I had to wiggle and
squirm again to keep from being pinched. He latched it into place, and
I heard the familiar rattle of tiny locks. I was getting frantic. The
bodysuit gave me something to thrust against, but the critical vibra-
tor, the front one, wouldn't touch the right spot no matter how I
squirmed. I was being stimulated constantly, but the vibrators could-
n't make me climax. Sometimes, I could make it touch my nasty bits,
but the vibrators buzzed against the fiberglass like a sounding board.
I know he could hear what I was doing.
     Dimly I became aware that he was unlocking my legs. I could bring
them together as much as the torso would allow, but it really didn't
help. Then he freed my arms. I nearly fell, but he was ready and
caught me and half-carried me into the bathroom where he sat me on the
armchair. I helped ease myself down onto the seat, supporting myself
by my arms while I tried to settle onto that rear vibrator, not
knowing what was going on.
     By the time I was able to sit I was distantly, through the haze
of the building stimulation, aware of him working at my wrists with
tape (more electrician's tape), wrapping around and around both my
wrists and the chair arms. The same with my elbows, my upper arms,
everything. My ankles and my shins were taped to the legs of the
chair, a chain locked to both sides of the chair and to the rings on
the torso. Something--a belt I think--went around my thighs and the
seat of the chair. I was frantic over the vibrators, and almost
unaware of what he was doing. I had to partly lift myself with my arms
to keep the rear vibrator from becoming uncomfortable, but at the same
time I was squirming against the front of the carapace with my sex. He
must have worked very quickly. I was completely immobilized in what
must have been less than two minutes. The torso kept me from even
turning my head. But I was rubbing myself harder and harder against
the inside of the torso.
     Off came the hood. I was strapped into the chair, sitting looking
at my out-of focus reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of
the bathroom door. He stepped in front of me. He was holding the gag.
THAT gag. It barely registered, I was so disoriented. I rolled my eyes
up at him, tilting my head as much as I could. I was panting, my
breath coming in short gasps, my face flushed.
     "Wha- What are you doing to me?" I asked, trying to gather my
wits. I was becoming more disoriented as the sensations continued to
build inside me; without my contact lenses the room looked fuzzy and I
felt like I was under water, everything moving in slow motion, but
still out of control. He held the gag against my mouth, saying noth-
ing. I couldn't think. I just opened up and he put it in. He didn't
even bother to buckle it in back. He stepped to the side, revealing my
reflection: eyes wild and wide over a mouth held open by the gag in a
soundless scream, face framed by a white mane-cloud of platinum hair.
     The rest of me was a study in textures and shades of black:
polished black plastic, black lycra, black leather boots, my upper
arms compressed by bands of black electrician's tape. Even my mascara
and eyeliner were black against my pale skin. Only my lips were red.
My chin was held high in that rigid, regal pose, my neck unnaturally
long. Black tape was around my plastic-encased neck, too, holding me
immobile against the top of the armchair's back.
     I was an absolute total knockout.
     A slight pulsating movement of my thighs and a slight straining
of my neck against the high collar and the occasional squeezing shut
or fluttering of my eyelids were the only outward signs of the tempest
raging inside the torso. And the puffing noises escaping around the
gag and through my nostrils.
     I rolled my eyes to follow his motions. I blinked and tried to
focus my myopic attention on him despite what the vibrators were doing
to me. I was starting to slide into an orgasm. He stepped behind me; I
could see him in the mirror. He smiled in a way that I can only
describe as compassionate, and fluffed my hair out with his hands like
a hairdresser might have, but he was looking straight into my eyes,
gauging how close to orgasm I was. He didn't say anything. He just
nodded to himself as though he had made a personal decision when he
saw I was ready. He should have said something. I had a right to some
explanation, some words, something. My orgasm started even as he was
making his decision.
     There was a pair of scissors in his hand.

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