The List, Part 5 · Part 1

The List, Part 5 · Part 1 (1/2)
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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 w

The List, Part 5 · Part 1 (1/2)
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