The List, Part 5 · Part 2 (2/2)
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as 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.
The List, Part 5 · Part 2 (2/2)
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